Seeing Off the Johns (16 page)

SPRING
SPRING

Chon was not at the Greyhounds' season opener against Santa Clara that Saturday. It was a long weekend—school was out Monday for a teacher workday—and the only weekend that Chon would spend without Araceli since the night of the first football game of the season.

On Christmas, she and Chon and Henry had stolen away to Henry's house with beer, pan de polvo, tamales, and a plate of mole pilfered from Araceli's home party.

The three of them rang in the New Year at a party at the Lazo ranch, just past the cemetery. It was populated with high school students from both Greenton and Falfurrias and many alumni who had caught wind of something brewing out on Fal Street. There was a palpable animosity coming from the circle of automobiles around the fire. It made Chon uncomfortable. So they left and fired Roman candles and threw bottle rockets at each other at the county line—having as much fun as any children ever let to run around and play with explosives in the dead of night. They listened to the countdown on the radio. When 1999 came in, the station played the Prince song. Araceli hugged Henry and gave Chon the slightest of pecks on his unsuspecting lips. Henry seemed more surprised by this than Chon, but he played it off by making fun of Chon's clearly elated state and his ear-to-ear grin. It was dark, and the three of them were alone in the middle of nowhere. They used the rest of their fireworks to light the darkness around them, and then they drove back home.

Whether he worked or not, whether Henry was around to serve as a now unnecessary buffer between his cousin and his best friend, Chon spent at least one night of every weekend with Araceli. Seeing how he treated her confidences, she opened up to him more, sharing her plans for the future.

She had pinned her hopes on UT. She had pictures cut out of brochures thumb-tacked to the corkboard above the desk in her room. She did her homework there, checking her answers twice in hopes of getting to that huge university with green lawns and over a century of traditions she badly wanted to be a part of. She had applied in October and was waiting for a response, hoping for the right one.

Chon thought UT would be nice. Anywhere with Araceli would be nice. But he missed the admissions deadline. That meant more time at the Pachanga this summer and fall. They watched movies together and talked music.

There was another band from Austin: Fastball. Neither of them were too wowed by the album she bought. They listened to it driving around in her father's Suburban. There was one song—their big hit—about a couple leaving for a trip and never making it back. Araceli looked over at Chon when she heard it and shook her head. She pulled the truck into the post office parking lot and started laughing so hard she grabbed at her sides and sank into her seat a little bit. He laughed too, and then she cried. He gave her a conciliatory pat on the back, and she leaned over the center console and put her head on his shoulder.

Then it happened. It happened again, really. But this time it felt more real, like it counted. She put her left hand on Chon's face and turned it to her so that she could kiss him. Like on New Year's, it was small—intimate, but close to asexual. Had the circumstances been at all different, had Araceli not just been crying over the death of her first love, Chon would have seized the opportunity and let out four years of frustrated passion.

But no such thing happened. Araceli's crying before she kissed him was unsettling enough, but the burst of pouts and tears she let out right after she kissed him made Chon feel like he had done something wrong—like all the time they'd spent together during the last several months had brought them to this place that Araceli wasn't ready for. She pulled away, getting as far from him as she could in the front seat of the Suburban. She hid her face where the window next to her met the door, crying for a while longer before throwing the car into gear and driving Chon back home. They didn't say a word the whole way, just bye when he got out.

This was on Thursday. At school on Friday, Araceli apologized to Chon for “freaking out,” begged him to forgive her for it right then and to forget about it forever after. He forgave her, and that was that. He asked what she was doing that weekend, knowing it was Valentine's and a long weekend and hoping that her response would be that she would like to be with him. But she was going to Corpus with her family to visit the Velas, not to return until Monday to get ready for school the next day.

So that settled that. For once, he had free weekend time. Ana had been asking to pick up extra shifts. He was happy to give her his weekend hours now that he had something to do, someone to be with. Except that this weekend he didn't.

He woke up feeling lonely. He called Henry's, but Henry's dad picked up, sounding bothered at the thought of the phone ringing before noon. He said Henry was sleeping. Chon didn't want to sit around in his room, a room he had come to detest because it reminded him of the sad hours he'd spent there when he had nowhere else to go. He got dressed, fired up the Dodge-nasty, and headed west by northwest for Laredo.

He drove the fifty-six miles of Texas Highway 359 that separated Greenton from the nearest city—not exactly sure what he was doing or where he was going. Warm, dry air
blew through his hair and stung his eyes. Then he had an idea, one so perfect he wasn't sure if he had known it the whole time or not. How could he have gotten in the car and headed for Laredo without intending to buy Araceli a Valentine's gift?

He headed for Mall del Norte. He rifled through the contents of the glove compartment and found a checkbook he'd gotten from the credit union but never used. He tore a few checks out (numbers 1, 2, and 3), folded them in half, and slipped them into his wallet. He was going to buy Araceli a proper Valentine's gift. It might be something she would love or like or maybe not even want. But with it, Chon was going to abandon all pretenses and make his intentions—however obvious they may have already been—clear, out there for her to take or leave.

No matter what the gift, he would put his friendship with Araceli—and maybe even his friendship with Henry—on the line. It was a risk, a scary one. But Chon believed that he wasn't acting selfishly. After all, she needed to know exactly how he felt. He knew she was asking herself questions about the two of them, questions that needed answering. He saw it in Araceli's eyes when they met each morning at school and when they parted after a night of killing time.

What he was doing was right.

He sat there sweating in the car. He closed his eyes and saw Araceli.

What he was doing was right.

Chon opened the Pachanga on Monday. As had been his practice all year long, Rocha took Chon's day off from school to mean that Chon would be available to open the store and Rocha would be able to drink cheap beer and fortified wine in the dirt alley behind his house with the old drunks he knew as kids who would always come around when they heard a beer can crack open or a tin cap scraping glass signifying that wine
was about to flow. They sat in lawn chairs and on milk crates, blocking the cars that weren't ever going to pass by.

Chon didn't mind opening up. In fact, it was perfect for him—he wouldn't have to work until near midnight, which would be too late to go over to Araceli's on a school night. He would get off of at three, shower and change. Then he could take Araceli his gift.

The Pachanga was busier than normal. Tryouts and team drafts were being held at the Little League field. Chon's parents were there with Pito, who was excited in a way that seemed strange to Chon. He was fired up about baseball—the game, the sport—not about going out and playing grabass with his friends and picking flowers in left field. He wasn't a tee-baller anymore. When did the kid get old enough to be passionate about something?

There was a steady stream of kids coming into the store and buying Gatorades (the boys in their gray polyester pants and baseball caps) and sodas (their little brothers and sisters). When Ana came to work at two-thirty, the cooler shelves had holes. Chon gave the floors a quick sweep-up, then grabbed his jacket and headed into the cooler.

After a while, the bell above the cooler door rang. Ana needed help in front. Chon looked out at the store between the drinks. There didn't seem to be too many people for Ana to handle. Maybe she had gotten a phone call she needed to take. He stuck his head, red-faced and burning earlobes, out of the cooler door and looked at Ana inquisitively.

“I think you've got a visitor, Chones.” Ana nodded in the direction of the Suburban parked in front of the store.

There she was, hair pulled back and sunglasses sitting on top of her head. She was putting on lipstick in the visor-back mirror in front of her. Watching her like that, without her knowing, without her having to act interested or keep at a safe distance, Chon felt
good. Ana rang up the only customer she had, an old man buying some chicarrones and a topo chico. He had looked over at Araceli in the parking lot when Chon came out.

“You're a lucky guy,” he said in Spanish. “She's putting on makeup.” Then he said something else, fast and singsong, like an old saying or joke. He left, laughing to himself.

Chon thought about asking Ana what the guy had said, but he wasn't sure if he wanted it repeated, least of all by her. Chon looked at the clock: five more minutes.

“Just go,” Ana told him. “I'll punch you out.” She was smiling, proud almost. He didn't know what that smile meant, only that it didn't look cruel. It looked generous, caring, like she was giving Chon the only thing she had worth offering.

“He's right,” she said as he took off his jacket and hung it on the hook next to the cooler door. “She's putting on that makeup for you. Who else does she have to look good for here?”

“That's what he said?”

“Yeah, that and some other stuff.” She laughed and walked out from behind the register to empty the coffee pots and brew fresh ones.

Chon signaled to Araceli to wait a second when he came out. He ran to the Dodge-nasty. When he came back, he climbed onto the passenger seat of the Suburban, closed the door, and put on his seat belt.

“Hey,” Araceli said.

“Hey. You want to go for a ride?” he asked, the box in his pocket too small to be seen in the bagginess of his pants but making him feel exposed nonetheless.

She threw the truck into gear. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“How was Corpus?” Chon asked.

“Good. Really good. I'm glad I went. They're really good people, the Velas. I got to do a little shopping and even went with my family to a show at the place I told you about.”

“The place with the surfboards?”

“Yes! We just went, we didn't even know who was playing. And, guess what?” She paused here, actually wanting him to guess.

“It was closed?”

“No, stupid. Bob Schneider was playing. Can you believe that? He was down from Austin, playing to promote a new album. It was amazing.”

“So you took you parents to show them this place where this thing happened this summer” —Araceli had pulled out of the Pachanga heading for the ‘Y.' She took the turnaround and had already driven across town. She pulled onto the shoulder of the highway to let cars pass by so she could make a U-turn and drive across town again—“and the same guy is playing when you get back? That's pretty crazy.”

“I know,” Araceli said. “When I saw the marquee, I gave this scream-shout thing. I couldn't believe it. We had dinner there and stayed for the show. I was so happy.”

“Araceli, that's perfect.”

“After the show,” she said. “We stuck around, and I bought his new album. It's really good.”

“Put it on,” Chon said.

They rode for a while just listening to the music. She turned around at the ‘Y' again, but when she reached the north end of town, she just kept going. Chon wanted her to keep going, to let Highway 16 turn to Freer and then to San Antonio and then to forever.

“Isn't it good?” she asked. “Isn't it just perfect?”

“Yes,” Chon said. But he was lost, trying to feel every bit of right then.

Araceli looked over at him.

“Yes,” he said again. “This is perfect.”

“Perfect,” she repeated. They rode on.

Araceli turned the music down a bit.

“Open the glove box there.”

Chon did and found a CD still wrapped in cellophane.

“I thought you might like it, so I bought you a copy. So, you know, happy Valentine's Day.”

Chon looked at the CD in his hands. The album cover was a black and white cubist portrait. On the back was a track listing and a picture of the band.

Chon looked over at Araceli, beautiful behind her sunglasses. “I got you something too,” he told her.

She lifted her sunglasses over her forehead. “Shut up,” she said.

“Really, I did,” Chon said, reaching in his pocket for the box.

Araceli pulled the Suburban onto the side of the road, a smile on her face.

He produced the box, a small one—obviously holding jewelry. She stopped smiling. Chon tried not to notice. He held it out to her, but she didn't take it.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Open it,” he told her, but he quickly realized she wasn't going to.

He opened it for her, revealing a teardrop-shaped blue marble glass pendant. She looked at it and at Chon. She didn't seem angry or even upset. Just blank. She looked out of the window next to her and then put her head on the steering wheel. Chon closed the box and laid it on the dashboard between his side of the cab and hers.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” he said, like he had meant to but feeling stupid for it.

He sank down in his chair and looked away from Araceli. She put the car in gear and turned around to head home.

“Why?” she asked. Before he could answer—as he had prepared to do in case she ask that very question—she continued. “Why does it always have to be something? Why
does it have to go somewhere? I like you, Chon,” she said. She waited for him to turn. “I like you a lot. But isn't it just easier to not make it something?”