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They planned this. This is why Mom told me to be late.
I rub my chest. Something in there feels like an elastic band that was stretched too thin and has snapped. Now it’s a loose noodle, and it’s making my eyes prick again.
“Uh… thanks.”
“Is that it?” Alessio tilts his head forward to get a really good look at my face. Which I’m trying to hide. “Oh. He’s crying.”
Damn it. I punch him in the side, but there’s no hiding the sniffle.
“Oh, baby.” It’s Lily who pulls me into a hug. “Happy birthday, Massimo.”
One by one, they all wish me a happy birthday. No one makes fun of me, even though none of them have ever seen me cry. But once I start, I can’t seem to stop.
CHAPTER 30
LUZ
Growing up, I always wished we did things differently at my house. That we did them the same as all my American friends. They got a big stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes with dollops of gravy, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and so many pies.
Instead, my parents made pabellón criollo. Every. Single. Year.
That’s exactly what’s on the table, which, by the way, is round. It was always a big joke, since my dad’s name is Arturo. He said it was so he could look at all of us easily, so that everyone could speak freely to one another. Except no one is speaking right now, and there’s a lot of staring in my direction.
I love the pabellón criollo now. It took a hot minute to recognize that I’ve always been different from my friends, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. The struggle has continued inside the house, though. It’s one thing to reconcile my identity with my peers, but it’s completely different to do the same with who my parents always expected me to be.
That’s why they don’t talk. They keep stuffing their faces with tajadas and black beans and pulled beef and rice and arepas, to keep the words they want to say inside.
Why do you keep playing hockey? It almost killed you. You got a new lease on life, and you’re risking it all for that violent sport. So many people who went through accidents like yours didn’t get the miracle you did. What are you thinking? Are you even thinking?
Those were some of the things Mom and Dad volleyed at me the last time I sat at this table. It was a couple of days before I left home to start the summer bootcamp. We haven’t exchanged a word since.
Maybe I should be glad to still have a seat at the round table, huh?
To my right, Mom keeps sneaking glances at Dad. Estela de Rodriguez never does anything her husband doesn’t want, which sounds worse than it is. They’re just shockingly in sync at all times. But right now, I have a feeling even Mom can’t read him. I certainly can’t, even though I was Dad’s little girl until I started playing hockey again some three years ago.
To my left, my brother, Aran, gobbles up food like it’s oxygen and he’s drowning. Sixteen-year-old boys can be like that, but he’s worse. He’s already as big as Max, and if he keeps eating like this, he’ll more than pass him. With how he attacks his food, it would be impossible for him to talk, even if prompted.
Almost across from me is my baby sister, thirteen-year-old Olivia. She wants to be called Liv, but everyone in the family calls her Aceituna, since her name is one letter apart from oliva. Maybe that’s why she’s always cranky. Today is no exception. There is no way she’ll be the one to break the ice we’re all treading on.
It will be up to me. The question is whether to break the ice with something akin to weather talk or by pointing at the big elephant in the room.
“Are we going to talk, or is this going to be the most silent meal in Rodriguez history?”
My sister’s eyes go wide in that very obvious do-you-have-a-death-wish way.
“We can talk when you’re ready to hear what we have to say.” Dad’s voice is gruff. He washes away the unpleasantness with a swig of papelón.
I spear a mound of meat with my fork. “Conversations go both ways.” Then I eat, watching as his face goes from normal to streetlight red in a second.
Here we go.
“I don’t understand you, Luz Maria!” His utensils clang against the plate. “How can you not be afraid of getting injured again?”
Mom crosses herself. “I pray every night, mijita. I pray for the Lord to keep you safe.”
“So do I,” I say, not even lying. “But people can get injured really bad from a simple fall. You’re not saying I should stop walking just because I might trip, right?”
“That’s not the point.” Dad takes deep breaths before pushing himself off the table. He stands up for the higher vantage over me. “Walking is okay. Walking is what we hoped for after the accident. What you’re doing is reckless.”
