Page 9 of Que Será, Syrah

“You mean the ‘reckless driving’ charge?” Rosa asks, shooting me a look in the mirror. I don’t know how to interpret that remark. Is that supposed to be snarky or rude? Is she intentionally referencing my tattoo, or has she forgotten all about that by now? She’s smiling, so maybe she thinks she’s being funny. But the jet lag is catching up with me and I’ve used my last spoon.

“Right. Got it. I guess we’re thinking it was my fault. As usual.”

“Well…yes, Allegra,” Bianca responds, a little more bluntly than usual. “I don’t know who else you think is to blame.”

“Honestly, it sounds to me like he went easy on you,” Rosa says. “Maybe you should be thanking us for softening him up, or something?”

“Whatever,” I grumble. Then I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t sweat it if I were you,” Rosa continues. “Romeo’s a much nicer nickname than any of the ones we’d come up with for him. He should be happy.”

Right, I think; he looked real happy. I’m tempted to ask my sisters if either of them happens to know what the deputy’s actual first name is, but I’m supposed to be sleeping, so I don’t. No one says anything for a while, but eventually my sisters go back to quietly discussing my actions. And, eventually, same as always, they conclude that this whole situation is just so typical of me. Which would probably hurt more if it wasn’t also accurate.

My family has always viewed me as a screw-up. And sometimes they’ve been wrong. In this case, however, not only are they correct, but they don’t even know the half of it.

All the same, Rosa is one hundred percent incorrect about at least one thing; there’s nothing “soft” about Deputy Hard-Ass-Extra-R Romero. I wish I knew who you remind me of, I think. And then I really do fall asleep.

Clay

By the time I finally get home from work, going out is just about the farthest thing from my mind. So, I place an order for tacos, allow myself one beer (it’s a work night, but I deserve it) and kick back on my couch. I try channel surfing, but nothing catches my interest. My thoughts keep drifting into the past, back to a certain party I’d attended, down by the river, the summer I’d turned eighteen…

* * *

I can’t recall now how we’d even found out about it. I know that I’d gotten a ride there with some friends and I imagine one of them had heard about it from someone else—who may have heard about it from someone else again. That’s how those things usually worked.

Other than the guys I came with, I didn’t know anyone there—they mostly looked like prep-school types to me, which was something that I very much was not. I’m also pretty sure we were trespassing on private property, because if we’d been on public land, the place would have been crawling with cops. Instead, it was just a bunch of kids—maybe three dozen in total, maybe four, maybe less than that. It was hard to tell exactly. We were outside at night and there wasn’t a lot of light to be had. People kept slipping away in groups of twos or threes, disappearing into the trees, or into the bushes that lined the dusty dirt paths, or into the backseats of nearby cars.

There was music coming from somewhere not too far in the distance (I had no idea from where. Perhaps a local festival? Or a house party?) and people were dancing. There was wine—a lot of wine, and not all of it labeled—because, again, it appeared that quite a few of the kids present had ties to wineries, and ready access to Napa’s most famous and ubiquitous commodity. There was some beer as well, and a few bottles of stronger stuff. Weed was only mostly legal, at that point. Not that it would have mattered, since we were all under twenty-one, as far as I could tell. But it was enough of a gray area that it was a safe bet that no one was going to come out and investigate the smell like they probably would have done a few years earlier.

The theme of the party was Midsummer. I do remember that, because someone (or maybe several someones?) had strung solar-powered twinkle lights all through the manzanitas that clustered around the riverbanks, prompting several of the girls to remark that it looked like fairyland, to which someone else (usually a guy, trying to sound knowledgeable) would respond that it was meant to, and then mumble something vague about Shakespeare.

My man-card was still pretty new at that point, so I wouldn’t have been caught dead saying anything about fairyland myself, but that didn’t stop me from thinking it, too.

I’d managed to snag one of the few bottles of beer and between that and the zaza I was feeling pleasantly crossfaded as I headed down a path that seemed to wander alongside the riverbank. And that’s when I saw her. She was humming to herself, dancing in the shallows, with her hands above her head and a bottle of wine clutched in one of them. Her hair was long and loose, curling nearly to her waist. It swayed from side to side following the movement of her head.

She was not exactly dressed to impress, in cut-off jeans and a graphic T. But I was impressed, all the same. Her legs were long, and the shorts were cut very short and the T-shirt hugged her breasts in a way that made the slogan stretched across her chest a little difficult to decipher; but I managed. “Sonoma Makes Wine,” I read silently. “Napa Makes Auto-Parts.” Wow. I figured it took a lot of guts to wear that shirt here in the heart of wine country. Either guts, or civic pride, perhaps? “Are you from Sonoma?”

Her eyes shot open. “No?” she said, sounding slightly confused. “Are you from Sonoma?”

“No, I’m from here,” I said, then added. “I mean, I’m from Clear Lake originally, but yeah, I’m…I’m local.”

“Clear Lake,” she repeated as she tilted her head to the side. “I’ve heard of it. It sounds pretty.”

I shook my head. “It’s not.”

“So, why were you asking about Sonoma if neither of us are from there?”

“It’s on your shirt,” I replied, gesturing at her chest.

She glanced down at herself and giggled. “Oh. That. Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? I thought it was funny. Also, it pissed off my uncle, so…”

“So, that’s a good thing?”

“Uh…yes! Obviously.”

Except, of course, that since I had no idea who her uncle was, it had not been obvious. Nor did I care.

“He takes himself way too seriously,” she explained. But then she frowned and added, “Except, as it turns out, it also pissed off my cousins. And that was sucky. I definitely didn’t mean for that to happen. But it’s too late now. I’m committed, so...I can’t just back down.” She sighed and tipped the bottle to her mouth, dropping her head back, losing her balance as she did, and stumbling just a little.

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