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Dad barks at Dante, also from all the way across the table. “Come un poco de ensalada.”
“Tu eres uno para hablar,” chirps Abuela, sitting next to Dad. “Nunca comiste tus verduras.”
“This is why he has health problems,” says Mom, agreeing with Abuela that Dad should have eaten his veggies as a child. This, Abuela considers an invitation to slip some underhanded jokes about Mom’s horrible cooking and poor domestic skills. She’s loud and works the room for laughs among her sons, clueless to the cultural differences in social etiquette. Or maybe that’s just Abuela’s way. Mom chooses to ignore her, draining her wine glass.
At the opposite end of the table, Sebastian chimes in about the assassin’s sister from the opera, mouth full of meat. Francesca is certifiably grossed out by this, being a vegetarian, which prompts Mom to scold Sebastian for speaking with food in his mouth.
Everyone’s talking at once, now—which is normal for a Precio family dinner. We kind of have our own opera—a quartet of melodies all at once. Dante and Nate are grilling Edmund about what exactly are his views on trust and forgiveness.
Abuela, Dad, and my three tíos are now making plans for another shopping trip, as if Abuela hasn’t been shopping almost every single day since she arrived in California.
Olive is having a robust conversation with Mateo, Sebastian, and Francesca about redemption arcs for fictional characters. And I’m just watching her, astounded by the way she slides into the family dynamic with ease, laughing and shining her light. She has a full, hearty laugh, and her whole face illuminates with true joy. She’s not a demure girl by any means—but she’s every bit a woman, so carefree and breezy.
And those leggings. This time they’re blue with skiing penguins in red and green striped scarves. She’s a walking ABC Christmas special.
To complete the ensemble, her orange t-shirt entirely clashes with the color scheme of the leggings, but somehow on her, it just works. The shirt is cut off at the waist, exposing the tiniest sliver of skin when she leans across the table for more sour cream, and I have the feeling it’s a half size too small—the way it stretches over her chest, rendering the words ‘Camp Half Blood’ almost unreadable.
My fingers itch to tug at the hem of her shirt so nobody but me will catch a glimpse of the ivory skin above the waistband of her ridiculous leggings. I’ve never met anyone so open and artless, yet remain a complete enigma. How everyone seems to love her—through her unbridled sincerity, her impetuous zeal for life. How she makes people laugh and smile—men and women enamored by her, even as she reverts all the attention away from herself. It’s fascinating to watch.
Eventually, Dante and Nate abandon their interrogation of Edmund to listen to Olive tell the story of how she accidentally entered the Sonic drive-through going the wrong way. Somehow she convinced the cashier to take her order anyway, then proceeded to the pick-up window with her car in reverse. The folksy, spontaneous way she tells the story, unashamed to make fun of herself, has Edmund and my siblings rolling, practically falling off their chairs.
Dad, completely clueless that he’s interrupting, shouts across the table.
“Olive, show my mother your shoes.”
“My shoes? Right now?”
Before my dad was born, when God was passing out manners to new souls awaiting their assignments, Dad must have stepped out of line while tact was being passed out. Apparently, he doesn’t see the hillbilly factor with showing one’s feet at the dinner table.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Just let us see them.”
“Dad,” Francesca warns through gritted teeth, shaking her head at him. “Why?”
Tío Borris (who I thought was the cool uncle when I was a child but now realize he’s the stuck-in-the-80s uncle) throws up his hands.
“I bought my mom a pair of shoes and they’re too big,” he says, shrugging.
“No me gustan,” says Abuela with a scowl.
Dad points his fork at Tío Borris. “Maybe let her pick out her own shoes next time, burro.”
“I wanted her to have nice shoes!” Borris responds.
Abuela pulls a face. “¿Por qué querría unos zapatos tan feos?”
“I don’t think they’re ugly,” he protests.
Tío Enrique decides to add his two cents because he just can’t help it. Never mind that his mouth is full of meat. “Ni siquiera sabes su talla, carnal.”
Then he kind of grunts and swats his hand at Tío Borris. Tío Pedro is finding this whole thing amusing, quietly laughing in his corner seat. Somebody better remove all beverages from his vicinity. He already spilled beer down his front while cheering for the soccer game earlier. Now his clothes smell like the floor of a sports bar.
“Madre, deberías comprar zapatos como Olive. Son muy bonitos.”
“Okay, I heard my name in that sentence,” Olive whispers to me. What are they saying?”
“My uncle bought my grandma some shoes that she basically hates and Dad’s trying to convince her to buy a pair like you’re wearing.”
“Oh.” She scrunches her nose the way she does when she’s a little confused. “My Crocs?
