Memorial(77)

Strike’s over, says Ahmad. You’re late.

Well, I say, at least you finally got a haircut.

It looks good on me, says Ahmad.

One hundred percent, I say.

Daliah recommended it.

Daliah.

She’s this girl at my school.

Well. Five points for Daliah.

She’s the smartest person I know, says Ahmad. Mostly.

Mostly? I say.

Yeah, says Ahmad, biting his lip, really thinking about it.

He adds, Ximena’s pretty smart, too.

Look, he says, and then Ahmad shows me what he’s been drawing, folding the sketchbook across my knee.

There’s a green planet on the page, strung together by a loose assortment of stars. Two men are drawn in the center of it. One of them is very obviously his brother. The other one desperately needs a haircut.

Can I ask what it is, I say.

You don’t see it?

It’s generally polite to ask.

The universe, says Ahmad, matter-of-factly.

And also, he says, waving at the two men. You know.



* * *





Omar finally comes to pick up his brother, and he’s changed out of his scrubs, into a hoodie and shorts.

We still getting dinner? he says.

Ahmad lets his brother run his hand over his head. The two of them don’t look anything alike, but they look like they fit with each other.

People said the same thing about me and my father, and my father and my sister.

The same is true for Mitsuko and Mike.

The same was true for Mike and me, too.

Yeah, I say, unless you’ve changed your mind.

Nah, says Omar, tapping my shoulder, I can take it.



* * *





On our way out, I catch sight of Ximena and Barry watching us—they’re grinding on each other, tongues out and laughing at me. I start to wave them off, but Ahmad catches my gaze, so I don’t.

The kid doesn’t say anything though. He just rolls his eyes.



* * *





Omar drives the three of us down Montrose, catapulting toward the Burger Shack’s parking lot. A slurring Beyoncé booms over the speakers, until Ahmad snatches his brother’s phone and switches the track to some sort of K-pop, something entirely too synth-heavy. He turns around to ask if I know it. I tell him that I don’t.

The lyrics are easy, says Ahmad. You’ll learn.

I start to say something, but Omar catches my eye in the rearview mirror—and I, again, keep my words to myself.



* * *





When we spot him, Mike’s already sipping on a water bottle. He’s got on shades and shorts. It’s fucking hot, the beginning of the Southwest’s hellish season, and the patio’s fans strain toward the cluster of bodies beneath them. Omar tiptoes toward the table, and when he stutters a greeting, I touch the small of his back, which, somehow, inadvertently, turns into something like a caress. Ahmad doesn’t even blink at us, thumbing the cash Omar handed him for our burgers.

Mike pats the bench beside him. When I start to sit, he waves me away.

This one’s for our new friend, says Mike.

You don’t even know each other, I say.

Hence this little meeting, says Mike. Come on.

Omar takes the bait. I slide beside Ahmad, who’s returned with a tray holding four cuts of beef.

Facing these two men, they could be the A-and B-sides of my life.

What I say to Mike is, No beer?

No beer, he says, shaking his head.

So, says Omar, how’d your day go?

You know, says Mike. Making moves. Settling accounts.

Benson told me you’re leaving town soon.

Go figure. Ben’s doing his best to get rid of me.

I’m not, I say.

Okay, he’s not, says Mike.

I ask Mike how work went, and he gives a quick nod. There’s a shadow on his face. It passes just that quickly.

All’s well that ends well, says Mike.

I start to say something, but then Ahmad tugs my sleeve. He shows me something on his phone. A note that he’s typed out.

It says: r u ok I give the kid a look. Take his phone.

I type: yes

When I look up again, Omar and Mike are talking at each other.

I watch them do that.

I turn back to Ahmad.

So, I say, how are you?

Without even turning from his fries, Ahmad flashes his teeth at me.



* * *





Eventually, we settle into something like a comfortable silence. The white folks around us chat into the air, and an old Astros game drones across the screens behind us. If you really strain your ears, the traffic on Montrose dies down, but the surroundings all blend into one thing, a vacuum that swallows us whole.

Ahmad looks at his brother and asks how much longer they’re going to stay. When Omar tells him not to be rude, the kid makes a face.

But we’re not doing anything, says Ahmad.

Everything doesn’t have to be an action movie, says Omar.

We’re enjoying each other’s company, says Mike, with his hands on his stomach. It’s nice outside. I’m getting a little fatter.

You’re not fat, I say.

You’re beautiful, says Omar, and we all turn to him, and he looks completely earnest.