Instructions for Dancing(39)
I walk to the door, ready to leave. Danica and Dad hug and say goodbye. Mom and Dad just nod at each other. And we’re off.
* * *
——
It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from our apartment complex to where we’re going. Here’s how we spend the first five minutes:
Dad: How’s school?
Me: Fine.
Long, awkward silence.
Dad: I heard from Danica that you’re ballroom dancing. How’s that going?
Me: Fine.
Longer, more awkward silence.
Dad: How are your friends?
Me: I think you can guess the answer to this one, right?
He stops walking.
I stop too. “It’s not like you can bribe me into forgiving you with tacos, anyway,” I say.
He throws his hands up. “What can I bribe you with, then?”
I fold my arms tight across my chest and stare down at my shoes. Decaying jacaranda leaves, more brown than purple, litter the sidewalk. It’s funny how they’re so beautiful on the tree and such a nuisance off of it.
“Can we call a taco truce for the night?” he asks.
The last time I heard him sound like this was when he promised me and Danica that he didn’t love us any less just because we wouldn’t be living together anymore.
I sigh and agree to the truce with a nod.
He smiles like I’ve told him he’s best dad in the world or something.
I really miss thinking that he was the best dad in the world.
We start walking again. “Should we devise a conquering strategy?” he asks. At my confused look, he goes on: “We need to decide which trucks to partake of and in what order.”
I can’t help smiling. “You mean because of the great chimichanga incident of yesteryear?”
“Those who don’t learn from history—”
“Are doomed to repeat it,” I finish for him, with pretend seriousness.
Last time we started with the fried meats, which was a mistake. Too heavy. By three chimichangas in, we were full.
“Let’s start with the ceviches,” he says.
We agree and spend a few more minutes deciding which trucks to hit and when. Once that’s settled, we move on to talking about our favorite sport, the National Spelling Bee. I used to argue that it wasn’t a sport, but then Dad convinced me it is. “Have you seen how much those kids sweat while they’re thinking?” he asked.
We talk about last year’s winning word—prospicience—which, weirdly enough, given my current predicament, means “foresight.”
We don’t talk about how we missed watching it together.
We don’t talk about how this year’s competition is only two months away and how we probably won’t watch that together either. Maybe he doesn’t watch it at all anymore. I wonder if Shirley is a word geek.
We cross Sixth Street and cut through Pan Pacific Park until we’re finally on Wilshire Boulevard. Taco trucks gleam in the distance.
“I smell my future,” Dad says.
“It smells like salsa,” I say back.
He laughs and I laugh too.
We eat until our stomachs hurt. It turns out it doesn’t matter if you start with the lighter foods if you still eat too much of them.
On our way back, he tells me terrible Mexican food jokes:
Q: What do you call a nosy pepper?
A: Jalape?o business.
and
The first tortilla asks the second tortilla: “Do you want to taco ’bout it?”
The second tortilla says: “No. It’s nacho problem.”
They’re such bad jokes that I can’t help laughing. I think the phrase dad joke was invented because of my dad.
We move on from bad jokes to talking about our favorites from the evening. Tacos al pastor for him. Shrimp ceviche for me. It feels like every other Taco Night, except we’re both going home to someplace new.
We’re just a couple of apartment buildings away from home when he says he has something to tell me.
“Shirley and I are thinking about postponing the wedding,” he says.
Hope flashes in the small, stubborn place in my heart, the part that used to read too many romance novels. Maybe this means he’s reconsidering. Maybe this means there’s hope for him and Mom. But the feeling only lasts for a second. I know that’s not what he means.
“Why?” I ask.
“To give you more time to get used to the idea. I want you to be there. It’s important to me.”
The earnestness on his face is hard to look at. I want to say yes. No. I want to want to say yes. But I can’t pretend to be happy for him and Shirley.
Still, it’s nice that he wants me to come.
I shake my head. “Dad, don’t,” I say. “Don’t postpone for me.”
I can see he wants to force the issue, to pull dad rank, but he doesn’t.
“Okay,” he says. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
It’s not lost on me that both he and Mom have asked me to make this promise.
Before I can answer him, someone calls out to me. “Hey, Evie.”
It’s X. My heart does this weird interpretive dance thing in my chest. His dreads are down and his eyes are bright black and focused on me. His guitar is strapped across his back.