Page 19 of Betsy
She laughed at her joke, but I froze where I stood. Asher I could have ignored. Told off even. But Tricia was another story. If I walked away, I’d be no better than the other self-absorbed males in the band. No better thanhim.
I pasted on a smile, then reapplied glue when the upward slant of my lips didn’t stick. “How could I say no to that?”
“I’ll meet you guys there.” Dave stuck his drumsticks in his back pocket and exited stage left.
Asher had assured me earlier that the church was fine with us leaving all the equipment up throughout the week, so I didn’t bother unplugging anything or coiling the long lengths of cables running along the blue carpet. I’d get enough of a workout over the next couple of months lugging the coils of cables around. My arms would be nice and trim.
Asher descended the stage with his guitar case in his hand. “You can follow me to the restaurant.”
Tricia waddled past me up the aisle, so I waited a moment to give her a head start so I didn’t feel like I was in a traffic jam on I-5 stuck behind a grandma driver. I hated driving slow, but I hated walking slow even more, and passing Tricia as she panted up the slight incline seemed incredibly rude and heartless.
Asher pulled up behind me, his palm out like he planned to place it along the small of my back to help steer me up the aisle. “Shall we?”
He was essentially a tail-riding sports car inching closer from the middle lane. He could pass me, but he wouldn’t. I had two choices: tap my brakes and risk a fender-bender, or speed off before contact was made. No matter how much I wanted to dig in my heels and stand rooted where I was—stand for all women against all men who pushed them places they didn’t want to go—I lengthened my stride and sped up the aisle before his fingers could find contact with my skin.
Outside, Tricia finger waved at me as I passed her car to unlock my clunker, then she pulled away. Thankfully, the engine cranked right up instead of coughing and spluttering like a chain smoker that inhaled two cartons of cigarettes a day. The sentenceWill you give me a jump?would never pass my lips, even in referring to my car’s battery.
Mamacita’s Cantina ended up being only a few minutes’ drive from the church. Arched entryways and windows had been cut out of the stuccoed exterior, the trim painted a vibrant red and the green roof making the building patriotic as it sported the colors of the Mexican flag. Soft Mariachi music played in the background, but it was the smell of fresh tortillas and cilantro that really welcomed guests as soon as they walked in the front door.
The hostess seated us right away—a table not too far from the entrance. Tricia squatted over the seat beside mine, her palms planted on the table as she lowered herself into the chair.
Yeah, a very pregnant lady on a concert tour was a super good idea.
Dave picked up his menu with one hand, his index finger tapping along the edge. I followed his example even though I already knew what I’d order. In contrast to Nicole’s vegan sensibilities, I was very much connected to my Argentine culture when it came to food—namely, I could eat a Texan under the table when it came to beef. Malachi’s family cattle ranch was safe as long as I and those like me lived by the sloganBeef, it’s what’s for dinner.
A server stopped at our table with a tray of waters. She set an ice-cold dimpled red cup down in front of each of us. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but a strand around her face had come loose and stuck to the corner of her mouth. “Can I take your order, or do you need a couple more minutes?” she asked in accented English.
Eyebrows rose in silent inquiry as we all looked at each other around the table. “I think we’re ready.” Asher smiled at the server, then looked to Tricia. “Ladies first.”
Tricia ordered the smothered burrito she had mentioned back at the church. The server moved her gaze to me after she’d finished writing.
“Yo quiero la orden de tacos de carne asada, con tortillas de maíz y extra limón. Gracias.”
“Algo de beber?” she asked as she jotted down my order of thin steak tacos and corn tortillas with extra lemons.
“La horchata, es receta original o es hecha en una máquina?”
“Sí, es hecha aquí y sabe muy bien. El dueño hace la receta de su bisabuela.”
“Entonces me da una, por favor.” The sweetened rice milk spiced with cinnamon was one of my favorite drinks as long as the restaurant made it fresh and it wasn’t on tap like soda from a machine.
Dave and Asher ordered, but as soon as the server left, I found three pairs of eyes staring at me.
“What?” I pulled my water cup closer and took a sip.
“You speak Spanish like a native.”
I cut Dave a withering glower. I hated when people made assumptions based off skin tone. My friend Juan couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish even though he was as brown as toffee. But Hispanics and whites alike assumed he knew the language because of that alone. And I, well, my skin reflected the history of European migration and influence in Argentina. None of our neighbors automatically assumed or even suspected we were an immigrant family, because wepassed. We passed as born in the good ole U-S-of-A because we didn’tlookhow people assumed all Hispanics and immigrants from Central and South America looked. Our story and experience with racism within these borders wasn’t the same as many other immigrant families because of our light skin inherited from our European bloodlines, and that made me angry. And sad. And, quite frankly, also inspired a guilt-inducing amount of relief.
“Maybe that’s because I’m Latina.” I kept my voice monotone, a silentduhpunctuating my sentence.
“But—” Dave looked like he had two puzzle pieces in his hands that he swore fitted together, but no matter how hard he forced them, they just wouldn’t line up right.
I rolled my eyes. Nothing added after thatbutwould be good. Better to cut him off and steal his shovel before he dug himself deeper into a pit of ignorance supported by splintered beams of good intentions.
“My parents immigrated from Argentina when I wasn’t much older than a baby.” I splayed my fingers across the lacquered table top, hoping that small morsel would give them all something to chew on for a while. At least until our food came.
“Oh.” Tricia’s eyes rounded as she pressed a hand to the side of her belly. “Speaking of babies, want to feel mine kick? She’s going to be a soccer player for sure.”
