The Burning Side(13)
I wonder whether Rachel, fellow outsider, sees any of that now. Whether her family is similar to the Russos or more like mine. But before long, she references a family vacation to Florida, a surprise party her dad threw for her mom, and a sister who gets under her skin but is of course her best friend. So she’s one of them, then.
Cameron twirls a strand of Rachel’s long hair as he listens to her. Deb squints affectionate disapproval at Billy as he stretches to grab a cheesy potato slice straight from the Pyrex. April sits to my left, piling empty plates and chuckling at something Josie is whispering on her other side. And I no longer belong here, family eluding me again.
It doesn’t get easier. Harder, actually, because this time I really thought I had it.
LEO
2013
I HANG UP THE PHONE, hating the sound of my voice. I don’t sound like an adult or even a Tejano—just a needy, nasal, rootless kid. With April watching, I feel too known, too seen, too small for my body, too old for my age. I don’t want to think about the message I just left for my aunt and uncle, their voicemail recording the same as it’s been my whole life. Hola, you found Nacho and Izzy! Leave a message. Beep. Pause. Just kidding! Beep. Laughter. Kidding again. Real beep.
April wants me to reconnect with family before the wedding. I agreed to call Nacho and Izzy, but I won’t try to contact my parents, who sent me away at seven years old and haven’t been in touch since. I won’t track down two strangers who have no interest in me. I don’t know where they are or whether they’re together. I would have to ask Nacho, who was never fond of his sister, especially after she pawned off her kid on him.
I left my number on their voicemail, the time and place of the wedding.
Hoping to change the subject, I ask April, “What should we do for dinner?”
Between school and then meeting with Jonathan this afternoon, we didn’t get a chance to make evening plans. And though I’m always willing to cook something from my small rotation in my cramped apartment kitchen, April suggests, “My folks’ house?”
I love going over to Lexington Avenue. Cameron is there, Josie is currently home for the summer, and the Russos are somehow endlessly happy to add people for meals. Plus, it’s like a miniature road trip where April and I get to talk or blare music with the windows down, her hair whipping at her face until she piles it on top of her head and keeps singing.
“That sounds good,” I tell her.
She texts her mom as I shrug into a button-up, slip on my good shoes, and skim a razor across my face. I’m still trying to prove myself.
An hour later, we swing open the front door to the unalarming sound of Josie sobbing. April raises her eyebrows, so I kiss patience into the top of her head before we call out, “Hello?”
From the kitchen, Deb hollers, “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite kids!”
Deb’s “favorite kid” changes constantly, the title losing all meaning. Her three kids fight playfully over the fickle honor, but I simply like being included in the raucous brood.
Hugs are passed around, except by Cameron, whose hands are covered in car grease. He and Billy are restoring a ’68 Ford F-100. With his greasy hands and skin bronzed from summer baseball, Cameron Russo is beyond cool. His high school experience is completely foreign to me, yet he’s one of my favorite Russos. Despite my being older, I look up to him. He charts his path and sticks to it, quietly thoughtful and steady. He and April are similar like that. Josie, on the other hand…
Mascara is underlining her eyes like she’s in the NFL, and April plops her purse down on the kitchen counter. “What happened now?”
The Russo sisters couldn’t be more different. For Josie, everything is a crisis. For April, nothing is.
“I didn’t get Sandy.” Josie smears more of her mascara.
April looks to her mom in confusion, so Deb lifts her eyebrows and explains, “Grease.”
Ah. Sandy. As in, Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee.
April turns toward her sister. “That’s it?”
I wince. I get it. April works with kids like Jonathan. They can’t read, don’t have electricity, can’t imagine going to college or auditioning for plays because they can’t even get their medical bills paid or their grades above failing, because none of it is in their native language and the letters won’t stop fast-dancing on the page. Still. I wish she would go easier on her sister. I like that Jo gives air to small things.
Josie fires back, “Why are you here?”
So I interrupt them by doing something truly shocking: I begin to sing. Like John Travolta. About summer nights. My voice croaking, I stretch a hand toward Josie, who brightens. She dons a golden Sandy voice. It’s a true wonder, Josie Russo’s voice. I twirl her and then draw us together, cheek to cheek.
The rest of the Russos blink at me as I cue Cameron—the actual car grease on his hands making him primed and ready to be a backup singer. He rises to the occasion, curling his lip and slicking his hair and singing his line, vibrato and all. He’s no Josie, but his singing voice is definitely better than mine.
Everyone looks at April next, who is smiling ear to ear. She hasn’t seen this side of me; she hasn’t really even heard me sing. She smacks pretend gum and starts the hand jive right here in the kitchen on Lexington Avenue. By the end of the song, even Billy thrusts a hip, causing Josie to holler, “Eat your heart out, Danny Zuko!”