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“Bonita, dear,” Mom called from downstairs. And by “called,” I mean she yelled, in case I had snuck off and was actually at Greta’s house two blocks away, I could still hear that it was time for lunch.
“I’ve got to go, Greta. Mom’s calling me for lunch.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get any news.”
“Or I could call you every ten minutes and ask, ‘Have they emailed yet?’”
“Bye, Greta.”
“Buen provecho.”
2
Noah
If you can’t let your best friend kick you and punch you repeatedly for over an hour before lunchtime, then I have to question what kind of a friend you truly are.
Going over to Guillermo’s for a mid-morning kickboxing session had been my routine for the better part of two weeks now. Guillermo had a state tournament to prepare for, and I, being his best friend and his next-door neighbor, was happy to help. If I were being honest, I might have had ulterior motives, too. Will call them perks—his sister, Bonita Rose Morales.
Getting kicked around by a soon-to-be state kickboxing champion was a small price to pay for getting to spend a little time with Bonita. Aside from the fact that she was gorgeous with a toned, slamming body, it was hard to spend time with Bonita and not feel happy, excited, and motivated to go out and conquer the world. All I had to do was ask a question about film editing or about one of the many filmmakers she admired, like Werner Herzog or Barbara Kopple, and sit back and take in the barrage of information she’d share and with an enthusiasm that was simply contagious.
Films were never my thing, but I’d frequently start conversations about them just to get Bonita talking and bask in the joy she’d then emanate. Plus, she was gorgeous. And that always made the conversation more stimulating.
Yeah, I’d trade getting kicked in the ribs a half dozen times for a good look at Bonita’s tall, slender frame gliding across the room any day of the week. And for the better part of two weeks, that was precisely the trade I had made. Plus, of course, Guillermo was my best friend, and best friends help when there was an important kickboxing competition to prepare for.
It didn’t hurt that his mom was one hell of a cook: the best bandeja paisa this side of Colombia. Not that I’d ever been to Colombia or anywhere else outside of the US, for that matter. Still, I’d be willing to bet there weren’t many who could cook up a platter of grilled steak and fried pork rinds and chorizo served on a bed of rice and beans that was as tasty as Mrs. Morales’s. Though, perhaps I enjoyed it so much because I’d worked up quite the appetite from sparring. Or maybe it was because of the company.
Like I said—perks.
I took my usual beating from Guillermo, then I took my usual place at the dining room table—farthest from the opening to the living room. It was pure luck that the Morales set my place there. Sometimes, life smiled on me like that. It was a good seat because it was the only one with a view—albeit slight—of the corridor that ran from the kitchen to the stairs. And when I’d hear Bonita coming down the steps, I’d only have to lean my head just a bit and inconspicuously get a glimpse of her before she’d enter through the living room.
That glimpse was the highlight of my day—worth a few punches to the stomach, easily. When I’d see her come down the stairs, it was before she’d make her entrance before she knew eyes were on her. For that split-second, there was no pretense, no merry façade put on for the benefit of her over-anxious parents, no forced smile, and no affected bravado.
Instead, for that fleeting moment, I got a glimpse of Bonita, unveiled and honest—the true, unfiltered Bonita. I saw her doubt and her insecurity. Yet, I also saw her determination and resolve. For that fleeting moment, I simultaneously ached for her and admired her.
When she appeared a moment later in the living room, it was with a confident yet wry smile, headed cocked playfully to the side with her brown hair falling in waves to her shoulder.
“Good afternoon.” In an instant, she’d touched her brother on the arm, given me a nod of recognition, and flashed her mother a wide smile. In an instant, we were united, and the room had lit with her presence. “Dad, home yet?”
Mrs. Morales set a plate of steaming rice in the center of the table. “Supposedly, he’ll be here any minute.” She returned to the kitchen but kept talking. “Of course, that’s what he said fifteen minutes ago. You’d think for a dispatch officer, he’d have a better notion of time.”
