Page 59

Mama

Si mi amor. Hay comida en la heladera. Come lo que quieras

“That woman is an enabler.”

“That woman loves me.”

“Have I told you I eat onions now?” he says as he stands up and carries the food to the microwave.

“You’re twenty. Congratulations on your bravery,” I say, rolling my eyes. But I can’t avoid the smile that forms on my face. “What does that have to do with bracelets?”

He looks back at me, and the expression he gives me makes him look so much like our father that it catches me off guard occasionally, usually in moments when I’m not expecting it. The same dark eyebrows, the same dimple on one side of his mouth, the same crooked front tooth.

There are almost fifteen years between us, enough that calling him my little brother has always felt more literal than it probably does for most people. I remember him as an infant. I remember warming bottles while Mamá showered before work and sitting on the kitchen floor doing homework while he threw Cheerios from his high chair.

He remembers none of that.

By the time Fausto was old enough to remember our family clearly, we were already different people.

“Who is the bracelet for?” I ask.

The microwave stops. Fausto is suspiciously quiet while he takes out the container and stirs whatever is inside.

“Oh my god.” My eyes widen, and he hangs his head, like a little kid being caught taking a cookie from the cookie jar. “It’s for a girl.”

He grabs a fork from the kitchen.

“Can you make it or not?”

“What girl?”

“A girl.”

He comes into the dining room and drops into the chair across from me, bringing Mamá’s entire lunch with him.

“Her name is Genevieve.”

I stare at him. Blink for good measure. Eventually, Fausto looks up from his food.

“Oh, she’s a white girl.”

He nearly chokes. “You’re being racist, Flora.”

“Against white people?”

“You’re profiling my girlfriend based on her name.”

I stop, and Fausto freezes with the fork halfway to his mouth. There is a beat of silence, then he closes his eyes.

“Fuck.”

I smile. “Genevieve is your girlfriend?”

My brother rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now, which answers the question better than anything he could say.

“Okay, then,” I say, abandoning the stuck label and straightening in my seat. “What does she like?”

“Green.”