eighties, velvet shoes, studies me.
“That ain’t no neighbor.
“I know every neighbor on the block.
“We ain’t got neighbors lookin’ likethat.”
“She look just like Camila Cabello.”
“Havana ooh la, la…”
“You eat yet? Somebody feed this girl.”
Paola cuts through the noise?—
“She’s here forAndrew…”
Dead silence.
Then—
“YOU’RE SHITTIN’ ME.”
“No she’s not.”
“That boy? Andrew? OUR Andrew?”
“Is she real? Touch her.”
“I’m not touchin’ her! You touch her.”
“Wait, wait, wait?—
“whatta ya meanhere for Andrew?”
“Like…herehere?”
“Sexually?”
“Jesus, Ma!”
One of the grandmas is already out of her seat,
cupping her hands
and yelling into Grandpa’s bad ear:
“SHE’S HERE FOR ANDREW!”
“Who?”
“YOUR GRANDSON!”
“What about him!?”
“ANDREW. BROUGHT HOME. A WOMAN.”
Instantly, I know which one Maria is.
