The Music of What Happens(13)

We stand there awhile silently, and then we lean, me on the ordering window, my poetry journal keeping me company, and him next to the grill. I keep opening and closing the journal, wanting to write something, and at the same time knowing Max will think it’s super weird. We watch the crowds bypass us for breakfast burritos and smoothies, and I wonder how I’m going to like a homeless shelter, because yeah. Here I come.





I love me some heat, but man. I must’ve lost ten pounds on the truck today. When I get home, I’m not just drenched; it’s like a whole bunch of dudes sweated all over me. And not in a good way.

I jump in the shower and go full-on cold, which is lukewarmish in the summer but still feels epic. I stand and let the cold water attempt to wash away the oil from cleaning out the damn fryer. It coats my arms completely, and the water can’t touch it. And it definitely can’t get at the smell. I smell like McDonald’s.

Today was a total disaster. Jordan might be seriously adorable, but he’s also clueless, and the least grateful person I’ve ever met. I’m trying to help him, and he can’t even … Dude doesn’t even know what he’s paying me. At the end of the day he finally said, “Ten an hour plus tips.” I was like, fine. I’m not trying to break the bank, and that’s more than what I’d make doing fast food or at State Farm, but it’s all pretty messed up.

I throw on my blue swim trunks and head out to the pool, the remnants of some sour feeling sticking to my ribs, even after the shower. I slide open the patio door and the broiling summer air punches me in the face.

Mom, who like me isn’t bothered by the heat, is gardening in the backyard, putting in some summer flowers on the little dirt area where we used to have a brown statue of a grinning grizzly bear. She’s down on her knees with a yellow bandanna over her head. She turns her head when I slide open the patio door.

“How was it, mijo?” she asks.

I launch myself into the pool, and the water is just perfect. By August, it’ll be like a hot tub out here. I come up, spit out some water, and rub my eyes.

“Not good, Ma.”

“How so?”

I focus on the copper sun god that hangs on the side of the house and jump up and down to get my blood flowing. “The truck in general, Mom. It’s not good.”

She giggles a little. “Not a good truck? Flat tire?”

I laugh back. “Nah. Like the boss is my age, has no experience, and is irresponsible. Didn’t know how to drive the truck. Wasn’t sure how to turn it on. Definitely doesn’t know how to cook. Didn’t think to study up before his first day out without his mom.”

“Ay,” she says, and she puts down her gardening shears, kicks off her flip-flops, and sits at the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in. I pounce over and try to grab hold of the side right next to her. Too hot, so I splash some water to cool it down and some of it hits her. She grins and splashes me back.

“I think I gotta reconsider. No eggs, Ma. He has a breakfast truck with only fried and grilled chicken. I’m afraid I’m gonna be out of a job soon if I stay.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Sounds to me like you’re bailing.”

“This is different. This is just — bad, Ma.”

She lifts herself up with just her triceps and slips into the water even though she’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. She pulls off her bandanna, throws it on the pool’s edge, and submerges, coming up with a contented gasp. “You know that’s what your dad always said. Always an excuse. ‘This place was lame. This other place was too many jerks. They didn’t get his genius,’ quote unquote.”

“Ma,” I say.

She treads water with her legs and puts her hands up as if to say, “Sorry, sorry.” She knows I don’t like when she compares me to Dad, or trash-talks him. “You smell like french fries,” she says.

“I know, right?”

“I remember working fast food. My first job.” She grabs the side of the pool and pushes off with her legs, drifting backward as far as the kick will carry her.

Mom is a good one. She grew up in the Polanco neighborhood of Mexico City, which is pretty fancy. She came to Arizona State University for college, and she got her degrees there. Met my dad, which was good because it led to me being conceived, but in the end he was definitely not the right guy for her. Dad is cool as fuck, but comedians — especially nonheadliners — don’t exactly have the most stable livelihoods. She’s an actuary for State Farm, which means she’s a whiz with numbers and figures out how many years people are expected to live, and how much the company is likely to pay out to them over a lifetime, so that, as she says, the powers that be can screw good people over.

She kicks her feet back and forth in the water. “You love to cook. Maybe help him fix it?”

“I’ve known him a day, Mom.”

“I have faith in you. And you can always come work at State Farm.”

I float, and I don’t respond. And soon, I can feel Mom floating next to me. And we just hang like that for a bit. I’ll figure this out somehow; I don’t need her to do it for me.

He sits on my calves. I’m just. What? Dude, what are you doing?

I feel her hand on my shoulder and see that she’s now standing in the water. “You okay, mijo?”