I’ve got to get this girl out of my head. I need time and distance, and I’m about to get both. Despite how she responded to me physical y, despite this insistent pul towards her that I’m trying (and failing) to brush aside, she knows and I know that we would never work. Everything about us is different—every damned thing. I’ve never given a shit about that before. I’ve never thought about that before. When you’re hooking up with a girl, al that matters is what she looks like and how fast and hard she’l put out.
Who cares about her past, her beliefs, her aspirations.
Who cares if she has kind eyes or endless patience or the ability to put the needs of everyone on the goddamned planet ahead of her own.
***
We’re not a mile away from the house when we pass Gabriel e on the side of the road, standing in front of her piece of crap Cutlass—smoke pouring from under the hood and hazards flashing. Some guy in a truck has pul ed over in front of her car. He looks about twenty-five and I don’t recognize him. “Hey Luis, pul a U-turn, man. I know that girl back there.”
Gabriel e’s eyes widen when she sees the Mercedes pul up behind her car. As I exit, the guy standing next to her glares at me with undisguised loathing. He’s dressed and tattooed like a gangbanger, which doesn’t preclude him from knowing her, but I suspect he’s a complete stranger who only stopped to help a hot girl into his car. “Car trouble?” I say, ignoring him.
“Yeah. It does this every month or so, no biggie.” She shrugs, noticeably embarrassed. This car isn’t just a late model, it’s ancient. Unlike one of my dad’s cars—a pristine 1968 Mercedes 280S—this Olds Cutlass, at least a decade younger, hasn’t been wel -cared for. There are rust spots in the doors and sidewal s, the headliner is hanging down like curtain swags, and the tires are too bald to be remotely safe. The fact that it’s not running isn’t much of a shock.
“So… is your mom or dad coming to get you? Or a friend?” I ask. Her would-be rescuer stands there regarding me icily, and I’m al kinds of glad Luis is in the car behind us.
“They aren’t answering their phones. They don’t always
“They aren’t answering their phones. They don’t always get reception at work…” She shrugs.
“C’mon then. I’l give you a ride home.”
She grins ear-to-ear, but then her smile falters. “Um, I promised my little brothers I’d pick them up early from daycare and take them for ice cream. I guess… they can just stay ’til Mama or Papa picks them up...”
“Ice cream sounds good after today. If you guys don’t mind being stuck in the car with me. I’m sweaty as hel .”
“You know this pendejo?” Ah, so her roadside companion speaks—if only to cal me an ass**le.
One hand on her hip, Gabriel e answers him in Spanish, which I understand just wel enough to know I’d better steer her to the car before she gets bitch-slapped. “Thanks for stopping, man,” I tel him while taking Gabriel e by the arm and quickly directing her into the back seat.
An hour later, her car’s been towed and we’ve got the twins in the car. Since they’re nine, they’re way more impressed that they can make faces through the dark-tinted windows that other drivers can’t see than the fact that I’m a movie star. They’re also awed by the fact that I’ve got a guy to drive me around wherever I want to go; their sister better comprehends the way I miss my own wheels.
Gabriel e directs Luis to an ice cream shop in her old neighborhood and the boys go into raptures when I tel them to get whatever they want. I don’t think the words get whatever you want have ever been uttered to them before. It takes them a ful ten minutes of discussion to decide what to get, and since we’re the only customers, the woman behind the counter takes the break to watch entertainment news on a tiny television by the register. One of the commentators says my name and I feign inattentiveness as the clerk glances between me and my image on the tiny screen. Final y she stares at me, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows elevated to the level of her pink visor, and I smile at her. When we leave, she’s grabbing up her cel and taking photos of our retreating backsides.
Luis raises an eyebrow when we exit, the boys with what looks like quart-sized cartons each, and Gabriel e and I each holding an overloaded cone. “Dinner is official y spoiled,” I tel her as one of her brothers cal s shotgun and the other squeezes between us in the back seat. “Your mother is going to kil me.”
Gabriel e smiles prettily. “No, she won’t. Mama likes you.”
“Oh?” I’m taken by surprise, even though Mrs. Diego thanked me for working on the house just a couple of days ago. I mean Jesus, I ran into her house with my car. “Must be my infamous charm and good looks.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “She says you’re a hard worker. That’s the only thing that ever impresses Mama.”
*** *** ***
Dori
I was in line for airport security at 7:00 a.m. for the flight to Miami, and from there, I caught my connection to Quito. I’ve made this trip twice before—each of the past two summers
—but having experience in LA-to-Quito travel doesn’t make the thirteen-hour trip feel any shorter. It’s almost midnight by the time I get settled into the women’s dormitory, and I’l probably be lucky to get five hours of sleep before it’s time to get up.
There’s always a lot to be done. Children in Quito are sent into the city in droves to beg or shine shoes to help support their families. My first year here, we refurbished a school and organized learning activities with children whose parents spared them from a few days of work. I asked one group of little boys whether they attended school during the regular school year. Al of them said no, but some had siblings who did. When I asked why some of their siblings were al owed to go and they weren’t, one replied, “My sister is smart, so she goes to school and we work.” It broke my heart. These kids were exceedingly bright, but they were al resigned to the impression that they weren’t.