Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (11 page)

While Magda, Miriam, and I disagreed with Antonio's political views, we thought it was just a phase he was going through. Besides, we had a lot of history together. But when school started in the fall, the political tensions emergent last year now blossomed profusely.

Although Antonio and I still remained friends, the feelings between us regarding politics were reaching a boiling point. Having known everyone in school for most of my life, I felt confident to freely express my thoughts and views. Perhaps, too freely. I gave short shrift to the fact that I was bucking a powerful force, one more dangerous than I could've imagined.

I was not the only one expressing anticommunist views. Arguments between pro- and anti-Castro factions were frequent, boisterous, and rancorous, partly because we were so young and partly because we knew the stakes were so high. Due to my leadership position at school, I often found myself smack in the middle of these disputes.

Meanwhile, Antonio was spending most of his spare time in an office the Party had opened in Guanabacoa. He attended lectures on socialist history and philosophy, becoming more entrenched in his views by the day. Occasionally, senior officials would visit our school and applaud Antonio's efforts on the Party's behalf, praising his success in recruiting new members to the Cause. His role as an ardent Party supporter was providing him with a new sense of power.

Our disagreements regarding student policies were now becoming weekly events, with Antonio and me arguing our points on opposite sides of the table in the principal's office. Some battles I won. Some battles I lost.

Antonio wanted our sports teams named after heroes of the revolution, a fight I won. He wanted to carve out half an hour from every
school day to lecture students about communism so he could recruit them into the Party, a fight I lost. He wanted to replace the school flag with flag of the Party, another fight I lost.

But when Antonio announced that the students should sing “The Internationale,” the international song of communism, instead of the national anthem at school events, I hit the ceiling. I had too many fond memories of singing “El Himno de Bayamo” with Abuelo to allow that to happen.

“Do you have some problem with the revolution?” taunted Antonio. “Do you have some problem with China, with Russia? Aren't they big enough countries for you, Frankie?”

“What are you talking about, Antonio? We don't live in Russia. We've always sung the Cuban national anthem, you know that.”

Antonio's style of arguing was to bob, weave, and parry my attack. I never knew where an argument would take us.

“Are you forgetting what Batista did?”

“What does Batista have to do with it?”

“Batista was an enemy of the People.”

“But, Antonio, that's irrelevant. Nobody wants to sing this song. We don't even know the words.”

“It's not what the students want that counts, it's what the Party wants that counts.”

“Maybe so, but it's not something I want.”

“Well, times have changed, Frankie. The Party doesn't care what you want. If you know what's good for you, you'd better get on board.”

I closed my eyes for a moment to steady my emotions. This argument was headed in a dangerous direction. I didn't want to blow up at Antonio. On the other hand, I didn't want him to walk all over me either.

“Is that some kind of a threat, Antonio?”

Antonio shrugged. “Take it any way you like.”

I studied my friend's face. In the past few months the light had
fled his eyes. His remark made me feel sad, disconcerted. I felt like I had lost something I could never recover. I inched closer.

“Look at me, 'Tonio; it's me, Frankie. What are you trying to do? I'm your buddy, your lifelong friend.” I lowered my voice. “Let's not do this to each other.”

Antonio's gaze narrowed. He shot me a look I'd never seen. “I don't need you, Frankie. I don't need friends. I don't even need family. I have the Party; that's all I'll ever need.”

When my cousins heard what Antonio had said, they could hardly believe their ears. They didn't want to think that one of us had turned into a Communist. It was almost unimaginable.

While I felt sad, hurt, and confused, Gilbert, Luis, Jabao, and Pipi teased Antonio about his views. Luis was the worst.

“Antonio, come here. Is it true you're a Communist?” asked Luis.

Antonio threw back his shoulders and expanded his chest. “Of course, I'm a Communist. Communism is the future. And you better watch out what you say—or else.”

“What are you going to do, report us as ‘Enemies of the People'?”

“Maybe,” said Antonio. “Or maybe I'll do something that will make your life truly miserable.”

I urged my friends not to cause trouble. I told them Antonio could call the police and accuse us of anything, including counterrevolutionary activity.

But they had known Antonio too long to fear him. To them he was still the shy, reclusive kid who showed up at baseball games with black-and-blue marks. They just wouldn't lay off.

Believing he was following the advice in billboard proclamations that read, “The Working Day Is Sacred!” and “To Be Communist Means to Sacrifice!” Antonio began recruiting students to work for the Party on weekends.

He wanted students to volunteer to clean the streets and sidewalks.

He also arranged for buses to transport students to an abandoned drug company to collect old prescription bottles so they could be recycled by the Party.

Most students had no interest in these activities. When they didn't show up at his events, Antonio blamed me for sabotaging his efforts.

Fired with enthusiasm, Antonio distributed communist pamphlets at sporting events and gave out tickets for communist parties and rallies. He told the students they served free food and drinks at the rallies. People were hungry. He was gaining support.

Meanwhile, Miriam was becoming more and more disgusted with Antonio's behavior. Rather than support him, she took my side in all our disputes. So did Magda. Which did nothing to endear any of us to Antonio.

The good news was that my relationship with Magda was developing nicely. One day during one of our walks, I reached for her hand. I had thought about how I would do this for days, and when I finally slipped my hand in hers, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes we would entwine our fingers. At other times, we would hold each other's hands as if they were enveloped in an old woolen mitten. When I removed my sweaty hand to wipe it on my pants, it felt naked and cold, like a child abandoned on the side of a road. I thought about how it felt to hold Magda's hand every night before I went to sleep.

The only problem I had with Magda concerned an occasional bout of jealousy. Being on Student Council meant I had meetings to attend and problems to solve.

Because I was two years her senior, Magda feared I would tire of her and find a girl my own age, someone who was more sophisticated. We had several long talks about this, and she voiced her concern about the attention being paid to me by other girls. She clung to the fear that I would make of fool of her by dating someone else. I thought this was something she would eventually outgrow.

One day, some students were discussing politics in the back of a classroom. In the heat of the argument, a beautiful young woman grabbed my arm. A look of anguish crossed Magda's face. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears gathered in the wells of her eyes. She looked like she was about to be sick.

Magda stumbled out of the classroom with me close behind. She wandered around the hallway for a minute as if she had no idea what to do. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she opened the heavy metal door to the stairwell and began stumbling down the concrete steps. I followed her. The door clicked behind us as the metal bar fell into place. A window was open and sun poured in, casting a parallelogram on the wall.

Magda's back was to me, and I called for her to stop. I wanted to reach out and grab her, but I wasn't sure how she'd react. I ran down the stairs, calling after her.

“Magda, Magda, what's the matter?” I had no idea why she was upset with me. I racked my brain for something I might have said to offend her.

“You know what's the matter,” she said. Her voice was laced with anger and a very deep hurt.

“No, what?” I asked, confused.

“That girl touched you.” Her voice rose an octave. “She touched your arm. I saw it.”

“Magda, please don't be upset over that.”

Magda turned her face to the wall, not wanting me to see her cry. I placed my hand on her shoulder to make her turn around. She moved away from my hand and mumbled something into the wall.

“I'm sorry. I can't hear you. What is it?”

Magda hesitated a moment before facing me. “It's nothing.”

“That's not true. Tell me what's bothering you.”

Magda took a deep breath. “That girl likes you. I've seen her try to get near you before. She wants you for her boyfriend.”

“She was just trying to get my attention, that's all.”

“Yes, she does. I know it. I've heard her talk about you. You don't know anything about girls. What I'm saying is true.”

“But Magda, even if it
were
true, what difference would it make? I don't care about
her
. I care about
you.
”

“Then why did you let her touch you?”

“She touched
me
, Magda. I had nothing to do with it. Besides, it didn't mean anything. It was nothing—nothing at all.”

“Nothing for you,” said Magda, her voice cracking. “But not nothing for her.”

I looked at Magda's face, so fragile, so beautiful, and I thought my heart would break. Never,
ever
would I do anything to hurt Magda. She was the girl I went to sleep thinking about, the girl I woke up thinking about. She was the only girl I
ever
thought about. How could I make her understand?

Suddenly I was possessed with an overwhelming desire to take Magda in my arms, to soothe her fears, to tell her how much I loved her. I didn't care whether it was proper, whether her parents would approve, whether my parents would approve. I just didn't care.

I took Magda by the shoulders, pulled her toward me, and hugged her tightly. As I did, some tension drained from her body. I held her for a moment, relishing the feel of her body against mine. It almost made me dizzy. This was the beginning of a sea change in our relationship. I took a half step backward and reached for her hands. I was brimming with emotion.

“Magda, I want you to know something.”

“What?”

I hesitated just a moment, hoping she wouldn't laugh—or reject me. I drew in my breath, mustered my courage, and said, “You are the most dear and precious person in the whole world to me. And there is no way on earth I could ever care for anyone else.”

Magda looked up, surprised. “I am?”

I smiled at her. “Yes, you are. I'm sorry I haven't told you that before.”

Magda sighed and tried to blink back her tears. One large teardrop drifted down her cheek, and I brushed it away with my thumb. I pulled her toward me, lifted her chin gently with my finger, and kissed her on the mouth.

It was the first kiss for both of us, and one I had dreamt about for a very long time. I couldn't believe how soft her lips were, and I was suddenly hungry for more. I hoped our kiss felt as good to her as it did to me.

Magda looked startled at first and then I kissed her again, nibbling her bottom lip while gathering the back of her neck in my hands. My heart beat faster, and the rest of the world disappeared. There were only two things that existed at that moment: her lips and mine. This time Magda eagerly returned my kiss. I pulled away and looked at her. I could hardly believe this was happening.

“I'm crazy about you, Magda. You know that, don't you?” She nodded briefly. “I've fallen head over heels in love with you.” My voice cracked a little and I blushed.

“You have?”

“I really have,” I replied with a smile.

Magda nodded twice to indicate her understanding. She looked very happy. She drew in her breath, and to my surprise, she replied, “I love you too, Frankie.”

My heart was thumping in a way I had never felt before. Her response confused all my senses. Suddenly I couldn't think. I couldn't hear. I couldn't speak. I hugged her for a long minute, and I then pulled away so I could see her beautiful eyes. She looked angelic.

I took out the ring I had kept in my pocket all these months, the one my aunt had given me, and pressed it into her hand. She looked down at it.

“It's fake,” I said. “But I want you to keep it until I'm old enough to get you a real diamond—one you can be proud of. But it would make me so happy if you would wear this one for now—as a sign of my love.”

Beaming, Magda closed her hand around the ring and drew it to her heart. “I will be proud to wear it,” she said. “I will wear it for the rest of my life.”

I took Magda in my arms. “And I will love you for the rest of my life.”

Magda hugged me so hard I was sure she could hear my heart beating through my shirt. I squeezed her hair in my hand. It felt just the way I had imagined: thick and silky to the touch. She handed the ring back to me, confusing me momentarily. Then she held out her hand, her fingers outstretched.

“Please put it on for me,” she said. She looked jubilant.

“Which finger?”

She laughed and wiggled her ring finger, and I slipped on the ring. She stretched her fingers upward to view it. A beam of sunlight caught one of the stones and it sparkled, throwing a burst of color against the wall. I had never seen Magda look so happy.

“I want you to make me a promise.”

Magda looked at me quizzically and nodded. “What, Frankie?”

“Promise me here and now that you will
never
,
ever
doubt my love. No matter where we are, no matter what we do, no matter what happens in the future, we cannot doubt each other's love.”