Chapter 15

Let's have a fucked up summer. Let's travel off the map
You can be my fucked up lover before we go back
I need a little trouble. I need a fucked up summer.

~Nathaniel's Lyric Journal

SOMEONE KEPT CALLING ME.

I felt the vibrations of my phone deep in my sleep. My mind mentally blocked it to continue sleeping but the ringtone kept repeating. Blindly grabbing my phone, I cracked an eye open to see Esteban's name on the background of the FaceTime request. 

I pulled myself up, feeling the ache in my back and the heavy weight behind my eyelids. I accepted the call and saw a clean shaven Esteban appear on the screen. 

"Hola, compa," I yawned.

"Hola, Nathaniel..." Esteban trailed off, looking at me longer. "¿Estás llorando? "

I pulled myself up from the bed, heading the frame creak under my weight. My head was slightly throbbing and I wiped the tears streaming on my face.

I shook my head. "I am not crying, cabrón. I just woke up."

Esteban started to laugh. Alyssa popped up into the camera, wrapping her arms around his neck with a goofy smile.

"I know you miss me and everything, but are you really that sad?" Esteban continued to joke.

I rolled my eyes.

I thought of all my friends back home everyday. Most of the days were spent thinking about life back at home. I did it more times than I should've, but I couldn't help it. I would imagine myself in my old room, old school, and my favorite city. It was torture to think about, yet I thought about it constantly.

"No you fucker. I'm tired," I responded. 

"Is it because Javier kept you up half of the night," Esteban joked, fully aware that Javier got trashed at a party and started to drunk spam us with Spanglish messages. 

"That that didn't help. Anyways, I'm not crying. I am just sweating like crazy right now. I reckon it's ninety-five degrees right now. I'm burnin' up," I responded slowly, rubbing my legs at the thought of the heat.

Esteban laughed. "Dude youre accent is coming out." 

Alyssa giggled, "You sound like a hillbilly."

I wrinkled my nose at her, and she started to laugh harder.

She changed. She was fashionable, and stylistic if I recalled. She was the person that would look at all the fashion magazines and imitate the model's attire. She would come over with different hairstyles and make-up, even though I looked fine without it. Nowadays, she appeared to have worn jeans and t-shirts- a much more simplistic version of her. Instead of her long waves of deep black hair, she cropped it to a length just past her shoulders.

So much has changed about her, and I only left so recently.

And I definitely did not have a Southern accent.

"I do not," I rushed my response, trying to sound as much as a New Yorker as I possibly could. She shook her head.

"Just a little. Mostly New York. A little Southern. It's not a bad thing," she observed.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to imagine what she is talking about.

"Thank you for clarifying," I said hotly, crossing my arms on my chest. She giggled, and Esteban threw his head back, and started to join in on the laughter.

"Get your male pride out of the way, and realize. This is you now," he hooted.

This is you now.

Four simple words that made my heart skip beat. While my friends continued to laugh, I only sat there, thinking about all these changes. My identity was ripped from me by my mother, whose soul was stolen by death, but the cancer was eating her alive.

I could only think about the sad nostalgic look on her face everyday after chemotherapy like she was tired of all of this, but no one wanted to die. Even though I want to go to heaven, I still don't want to die, but death is something we all share; it is the equalizer.

I felt dead inside to be quite honest. It was just hitting me until I collapsed onto the ground.

"I-" I tried to defend myself when someone shouted for Alyssa, and that stopped their laughter.

Alyssa shouted, "Coming! Gotta go. I miss you, Nate. Visit us soon."

I gave her a look, that showed doubt. Esteban was toying with her short black locks. We both look at each other, and could feel the distance between us.

"I will come there," I reassured her with so much determination that I didn't know whether that reassurance was for her or for my inner conscious.

Either way, it appeased both of them.

"Why don't you come here?"I challenged her.

She gave me a look of doubt.

"And look like a sweaty beast? No thanks," She asked.

"You would look like a super sexy sweaty beast," Esteban corrected her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

She patted his cheek, and gave him an amused look. "Flattery will not get you anywhere. Anyways I am being called by your mom."

Esteban made a face at that, and I laughed at his pain. They quickly gave a kiss good bye, and she left the camera. I looked at Esteban, just staring at his familiar spiky black hair, and brown eyes. I could see his black leather jacket, and his green bedroom reminded me of home.

"They are conspiring against me," he laughed, looking outside his room.

"Wouldn't be the first time," I snickered.

He squinted his eyes at me."You enjoy this," he accused.

I started to laugh harder, verifying his accusations, and I didn't make an attempt to control my laughter.

"You're in pain. Who wouldn't enjoy this?" I explained to him. He pointed at me.

"You for one. Who will be there for senior year?" I stopped laughing, and felt a pang of sadness. His features darkened, and I didn't like this topic.

"All your other friends," I argued.

He gave a 'are-you-serious-look.' He rolled his eyes at my lost face."It's not the same though. You, me, Javier. We all been best friends since the first grade," he insisted.

"Don't worry. I will come soon," I promised.

"Don't say promises you can't keep," he said in a serious tone.

His eyebrows were raised, and his face twisted.

"I promise," I said. He shook his head.

"I should probably go downstairs, and stop whatever plan they are coming up with," he joked awkwardly. I tried to ignore the nagging feeling that was rising in my chest.

"You probably should," I strained.

"Talk later?"he asked hopefully.

I wiped my tired heads.

"Sure," I lied. "I'll talk to you soon."

Emma Walker dumped me a few months before Mom got cancer.

First heart break was a rite of passage for everyone I suppose. I thought I already went through it with Alyssa, my first girlfriend, and she was still one of my best friends till this day. I thought the pain I went through as the heartbreak everyone talked about. 

Emma was different. The chemistry we shared was incredible. Addicting. She made me feel relaxed and easy in ways I never felt before. We started dating months after talking and making out. However, she kept insisting to keep it private. She wanted to wait until the early morning before we can call. Most of the time, we were either hanging out in school, texting, or hanging out in her apartment while her parents were away. I didn't give it much thought until she broke up with my out of the blue.

The withdrawal was painful. What made it worse was that her parents didn't like the idea of her being with someone who looks Mexican. When she broke up with me, she never mentioned that was the reason but I knew that was what she was trying to say. Her getting back with her racist ex-boyfriend days after she ended it with me confirmed it. From what I was told, he got jealous that she was getting it on with someone Hispanic. 

There were a few moments that I knew my Mexican heritage would get sideway glances or an inappropriate comment, but that was the first time I was obviously discriminated for being half-Mexican.  

It was also the first time I was ever ashamed to be Mexican. 

"Excuse me?" an older lady interrupted my thoughts. "Do you work here?" 

I looked at the workers stocking the produce at the supermarket, all with similar skin tone to my own. I looked back at the older lady very much into her seventies, and shook my head. Her eyes widen through her glasses when she clasped her hand on my arm. 

"I'm so sorry dear," she said, clearly embarrassed. 

This was more what I was more use to. Not necessarily derogatory comments but comments out of pure ignorance. My name doesn't give much about my background, but I knew the minute they see me they just guess. 

"It's okay," I lied, giving her a smile that encouraged her to push away, searching for the help she needed. 

I looked back at the spices, trying to stock on ingredients Mom usually picked out. The spices she had were running out, so I took the liberty upon myself to restock it. I spent the past twenty minutes look at various brands, hoping that something would click. I knew what was missing but they were all the same. Just with different names and packaging and I didn't know which ones Mom got. 

When Dad invited me to join him with going to the supermarket for father-son bonding, I didn't expect him to send me off to find items.

I groaned. 

She always knew what was best. 

I thought back to the day after I found out Emma got back with her ex. Mom instantly knew something was wrong when I entered the house. 

"Is it really that bad if I look Mexican?" I remember asking her cryptically. I explained to her what happened without giving too much detail to avoid unnecessary pain. After, she just gave me a tight hug without saying a single word. 

Then she started messing with my hair before giving me a sad smile.

"No culture can ever be bad, mijo. Skin is simply a color, Nathaniel. What she did was wrong. What her parents feel is wrong, and you know that. Unfortunately, people are like that. Skin color doesn't anything more to their character or talent. They are all just people. People with eyes, legs, and hearts just like ours. Nothing more than color. You will find someone who would want to enjoy that side of you. Be proud that you are Mexicano," she explained softly. 

She held up two fingers in the air. "There are two types of people that exist in the world: good people and bad people. That's the only distinction, mi hijo. Nothing else."Sometime it is hard to tell who is good and who is bad, but you are smart."

Despite my time devoting to copying with the breakup, I still never forgot my mother's words. Day changed into to weeks, months, and years. I followed that belief: good people and bad people make up our world. It's simple distinction between mankind. Her seeds of wisdom became my foundation, yet it also became my fear.

Am I with good people? Are bad people manipulating me? Am I who I was suppose to be?

Every person I meet, they subconsciously run through my "good people-bad people" test. From the check-out girl at Walmart to my best friends, I group them in my mind as good or bad.

Mom? Definitely good

My siblings? good

Esteban? Javier? Both good

David? Debatably good.

Me?

I don't know where I fall on the spectrum, but I hoped it was on the good side.

"Nathaniel," a voice said. 

My thoughts interrupted, I saw my Dad smiling at me. He looked up at the Spanish section of the grocery store at the variety of cans.

"Hey, Dad," I greeted. 

"How's the food hunting going?" he asked, looking at the empty cart next to me. "Sorry, I bump into an old friend." 

That line would describe Dad's time in Alabama in a nutshell. When he mentioned it's a tight-knit town he was not kidding. Dad would bump into people he knew frequently, which he has tried to explain his connections with me but there were so many that I would get lost. 

I sighed, "No clue. I don't know any of these brands." 

Dad crouched in front of the canned goods, looking at each item. There were a few he touched, reading the label before putting into the cart. 

"I put some familiar items in the cart and hopefully Abuela can help us," he said vaguely. He looked at the items before he squeezed his eyes shut. 

He let out a loud sigh. 

"Your Mom made this look so easy," he said out loud, looking at the items he put in his cart. 

"She made a lot of things look easy," I scoffed, thinking back to the other tasks that Mom does. 

We spoke about Mom in brief periods, mostly through random fun facts. 

"She sure does," Dad agreed with finality. He pulled back a tight smile before he gestured me towards the end of the food aisle. "Come. The faster we buy this stuff, the faster we can go to Isabella's birthday party."

Fuck, I forgot about that. 

"Oh yeah," I said. I placed some random cans of familiar items into the cart. 

Dad was looking at me, hands on his hips. 

"Nathaniel. You promised you would join this gathering. Your family is waiting for you," he reminded me. 

Dad made me promise to see their family. After they came to the house, they have been inviting Dad and I to join them in the summers like we use to. Dad usually had work or was too mentally exhausted from work, so I just used that as an excuse to not join. It wasn't that I didn't want to see them, but they all reminded me too much of Mom. I wasn't ready. 

"I have seen them individually," I pointed out, reminding him of the few times I visited my cousins. Because Mom has five siblings, I have twelve cousins, all ranging from twenty-two to as a young as six. There were a few times where I saw my cousin, such as taking my car to my older cousin Enrique's car shop or grabbing ice cream with Ricardo. 

Of course, someone always comes by with food, and I always say hello and talk to him.

"Your family dropping us food doesn't count. You need to go see them. You can't isolate yourself away from them. Especially now," Dad insisted. 

My ears rang from his words. I focused on pushing the cart towards the the dairy section of the grocery store, fighting the urge to dispute the point. I wanted to say I can't, but my mouth stayed shut. 

I couldn't be this selfish to them. They were suffering as well. 

"I hang out with David a lot," I objected weakly. 

Dad smiled. 

"I noticed. I'm glad. He's a good kid," Dad agreed as he was nodding his head with approval. He picked up a couple of of his favorite blueberry yogurt and placed them in the cart. "You also have the rest of them." 

"Yeah. I know. It just seems not fair to do fun things without her," I confessed. Dad stopped skimming the milk options to look at me. 

"She wouldn't you want you miserable for the rest of your life Nate," he responded. His deep voice attempted to sooth the pain that was ripping through my chest, but it failed. 

His tone was factual like it was an obvious fact. I knew it was true because Mom always valued life and doing something new everyday. She wouldn't want me miserable. 

It was his tone that irked me because it brought back the memories of them fighting. not one one fight months worth of fighting that happened all the way until she died. 

"How would you know? She was miserable right until the day she died," I muttered. 

Dad looked at the milk, though his eyes were unreadable. His mouth tightened, his chest rising to inhale as deeply as possible. 

He exhaled loudly. 

"She had to go cancer and underwent serious radiation. That changes a person, Nate. Chemo is meant to kill the parts of her that had cancer. They also killed the parts of her that made her...her." Rough hands crossed over his midsection like he didn't know what to do with them.

He reached out a milk carton and placed it in the cart wordlessly. The conversation went silent for a while, us awkwardly walking side by side. Dad grabbed whatever ingredients he thought was necessary into the cart. 

Suddenly, he stopped walking and laughed. 

"You hear that song that just came on?" Dad asked. I nodded, hearing Yesterday by the Beatles playing loudly over the supermarket speakers . "She use to love this song when we were dating. She was still getting use to American music. When she heard this song, she went nuts over it." 

He started to hum along to the song. Now, he was grabbing a few items, a small smile gracing his face. The same thing happened every time Mom was mentioned, he smiled at the memory. The tune was soft, mellowing, talking about a girl that left him. 

Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say 

I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday

Childhood me liked this song.

Eighteen year old me felt this song. 

I let the words soothe over me, something that music always did. I'm sure Dad was thinking about Mom, indulging in that particular memory like it was his favorite book.

As much as he imagined Mom, for some reason, the only thing appearing in my mind was a particular blonde.