Page 47 of Her Goal
I laugh inside because these Torres women are rather extraordinary.
Leah says something in rapid-fire Spanish and all I hear are the words forchosen oneagain.
Looking at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Abuela says, “I had a dream and sometimes when you know, you know.”
The song changes and Mr. and Mrs. Smith approach. Leah grabs me by the arm and all but drags me across the lawn to meet them.
“I’d rather we held hands.” Wait. Where did that thought come from? We’re not actually engaged.
“Don’t indulge them.”
“But you were?—”
Stopping abruptly in front of her parents, she flings her hands in the air. “Mother. Father. Explain yourselves,” then as an afterthought, she adds, “Please.”
Mrs. Smith cups her daughter’s face. “Mijita, I am so happy for you both.” She stretches her other hand to me but only reaches my shoulder.
“This is your anniversary party. Not our engagement because we’re not—anything.”
I’ve never been in a situation like this before, so I’m at a loss for what to say, but don’t disagree with Leah. Admittedly, the whole thing is ludicrous.
“Maybe you just don’t realize it yet,” Mrs. Smith says.
“There’s nothing to realize because—” She moves her hands rapidly as if trying to use them to speak.
Mrs. Smith smiles. “Perhaps it was meant to be.”
“Have you been drinking? Don’t tell me abuela smuggled inaguardiente. Or is it rum? That got you last time.”
“Your mother is stone-cold sober,” Mr. Smith says.
“Dad, you can’t possibly be going along with this?”
“We just want what’s best for you.”
Leah looks sharply at me, defying me not to speak up.
I clear my throat. “Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith, with all due respect?—”
“Please, call me Mami Maria.”
Brow furrowed, Leah shakes her head. “Mother, you don’t have Nathan, Grant, or Marisol call you a special name.”
“It’s new. Plus, Marisol will be calling me Mrs. Smith until she admits that Charles is the perfect man for her.”
Leah rolls her eyes and paces in a circle as if trying to walk this off. “Okay. Listen. We are in reality.” She waves her hand between herself and me. Then to her parents, she says, “Clearly, the two of you have entered another dimension and floated off into the ether.”
“Mijita, English, please.”
“You’re the one who isn’t making sense. Why are you trying to marry us off? Is there something you’re not telling us?” Fear flits across her features.
To my surprise, Mrs. Smith wraps all of us in a big group hug. I’m a head taller, but feel several body parts pressing against mine, squeezing tight. The Smith-Torres family knows how to hug. It’s like I just powered up with renewed life force like in one of Hunter’s video games.
Jabbering a mile a minute and still talking with her hands, Leah says, “Please tell me you’re not sick. Are you sick, Mami? Papi? Did you get a test done and hear bad results? Is an asteroid going to hit Earth and this is our last night on the planet?”
Drawing back, Leah’s parents and I all look at her as if her brain is melting out of her ears.
Mami Maria and Señor Smith—I’m sticking with formalities with him until told otherwise—exchange a guilty look.
