“You are the only person in the way of yourself, Isa. Text me if you want to meet up. I need to shower.”
“Okay, have fun.”
“Love ya, bye.”
After Maricela hangs up, I pace around my room for the next thirty minutes. I wasn’t lying when I told her I was dating challenged. I just didn’t feel comfortable around most men because everything seemed so performative these days.
I’ve known Manny my whole life, and recently, it’s like being around him is the only thing I look forward to. That’s why I kissed him. Not because I was tipsy on BOGO margaritas, but because I wanted to. Waiting a whole week to see him again would be torture.
I pace around for another hour before I settle on a story. I straighten my hair, put on some black leggings, a white crop top, my checkered vans,a pair of hoops, and a simple makeup look- winged liner, mascara, and lined lips.
I savagely go through Junior’s things to find something I’m sure he desperately needs. A deodorant? No. He probably has an extra one at Manny’s. A charger? Too lame.
I keep looking until I find something worthy. Then I’m almost out the door when I jump at my mother’s voice.
“Isa!”
“Ma. You scared me. What are you doing up?” It wasn’t too late, but my mother was usually in bed by eight o’clock.
“I’m praying to Saint Anthony. He’s the patron saint of lost items. I’m asking him to bring you a husband.”
I look down at the weird shrine my mother has set up on the coffee table. If I didn’t already know she was a devout Catholic, I would assume she was doing some type of witchcraft. Red candles surround her statue of Saint Anthony, and inside the circle, she’s included several pictures of me and?—
“Is that my hair?” I grimace.
“I took it from your brush. What are you doing? Why do you have Mijo’s jacket?” she says, looking down at the Houston Astros jacket.
“Wait. Go back. You took my hair from my brush?” I shake my head.
Socorro Sandoval has no shame.
“Ma. I already had a husband,” I scold her.
“That was not a divine connection, Isabel. You were sixteen! I didn’t have time to ask Saint Anthony to find you a husband like I did for Lourdes. Y fíjate la diferncia!”
Ouch.
Another reminder my sister has the perfect life, and I was just the fuck up of the family. I look at the statue of the half-bald saint in a brown robe holding the divine Niño Jesus. The whole setup is creepy but oddly comforting. She really thought I could find someone after all the bullshit I had been through.
“Why do you have Junior’s jacket?” my mother asks again.
“Um. He left it. And there’s a game tomorrow. It’s bad luck not to wear it.” The excuse that took me a minute to come up with sounds awfully stupid now that I hear it out loud.
“Mmmhmm. The Astros don’t play again until Tuesday.” My mother stares at me like she did all those times when I was a child, and she caught me in a lie. I scoff and fall to the couch.
“Fine. Just tell me who the Patron Saint of Pendejas is so I can ask her to stop me from doing something stupid,” I say, shoving one of her overpriced decor pillows in my face.
“Isabella! What is going on?” I feel her soft hand grab my hand as she yanks her pillow free.
The concerned look on her face reminds me that since I became a mother, she’s always been the safest place to vent. She may have been hard on us as kids, but the woman had the best advice on navigating adulthood.
“I kissed Manny,” I confess, grabbing another pillow and shoving it in my face just before I catch her eyes widening. When she doesn’t say anything, I lower the pillow and see her standing there in full thought, staring at her small shrine.
“You can do better than a jacket, Isabel,” she says, her face deep in thought. “I told Juanchito I would make him some cocadas. There’s a Tupperware on the stove. Say I made you take them. Ya saben todos cómo soy con mi Juanchito.”
“You’d let me use you to make a fool of myself?”
“Claro que sí mi hijita. I like Manny. He’s been waiting for you, Isa. All this time, and now, the stars have aligned.” She fans her hands out in front of her face as she looks up toward the ceiling.
