Page 13 of Sweet Little Lies
Not realizing the terrible working conditions, the minimal and unlivable wages that pickers and laborers receive. The lack of medical attention and other creature comforts that so many take for granted when they eat those foods.
And while my father and I have very different ideas about what his daughter should do with her life – he always wanted something better for me. So that I didn’t have to work manual labor like the rest of my family did to make a living in this country.
“Micaela Reyes,” my voice squeaks. “But my friends call me Mica.”
Although I say it in barely a whisper with my eyes cast down, I can feel the change in the atmospheric pressure that surrounds us. There’s an audible gasp that leaves Lance’s chest. And when I finally peek back up at him through my lashes, he’s playfully holding his right hand over his heart and he’s got a weird – almost stunned – look on his face.
I’m worried. We just studied strokes and embolisms in our nursing program and I wonder if Lance is having one right now.
“Are – are you okay? Say something.”
He huffs out a breath. “I can’t. You’ve taken all my breath away just by speaking your name, Mica Reyes.”
The student center and café is busy and chaotic at this time of day, but I don’t hear anything outside of the way Lance says my name. It’s not with the same rolled-R as I pronounce it, but with something else. A sensual quality. And yet, he’s making of fun of me, too.
I roll my eyes and I don’t know where it comes from, but I get up the nerve to press back. To flirt the way he’s flirting with me.
“I said my friends call me Mica. We’re not friends.”
He produces this wounded puppy-dog eye expression and drops down from his chair onto his knees and sits before me in a pleading manner, his hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“Please, please, please be my friend, Micaela Reyes. You’ll make me the happiest guy in the world.”
And then he throws his arms around me, hugging me tight, pressing me against him as a laugh escapes my lungs.
“Oh, what a cute pink bunny rabbit. Just what I always wanted. My own little bunny rabbit…”
Say what?
“I will name her George, and I will hug her and pet her and squeeze her.” Lance squeezes me and then pulls back and pats me on the head like I’m a child. Or some kind of small play toy. Or bunny.
I wave off his hand with an embarrassing laugh.
“What the heck are you talking about? You’re a weirdo.”
Lance jumps to his feet, laughing with a deep grunt. “Haven’t you ever watched Looney Toons? You’re my own little George. And we’re gonna be great friends. Just you wait. See ya round, Mica Reyes!”
And just like that, Lance bounds off, without a care in the world, as I sit here dumbfounded as to what just happened with everyone in the room staring at me in confusion.
As if he can read my thoughts, Lance breaks through my memory.
“Hey Georgie, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours? Doesn’t look like you’re studying much to me. I think you’re daydreaming over there about my lickable eight-pak and my amazing tight end.”
Wiggling his eyebrows in a show of conceited hilarity, I can’t help but shake my head and roll my eyes to hide the truth. Because he’s kind of right.
If it’s one thing I love about Lance over all other things –even that beautiful tight end of his– it’s his humor.
While I know he uses it most of the time to keep people from seeing the dark sadness that hides behind his eyes, he has a natural born gift of making others feel good. Putting them at ease and making them feel special. Like they’re the only one in his orbit.
Or maybe that’s just how I get when I’m around him. It’s nice change of pace - that lightness of being with Lance. There’s a moment where I just feel normal – where the tightness in my chest is lifted and I feel like any other college kid on this campus.
That’s something I don’t necessarily get when I’m with my family.
Growing up, I would get lost amongst my brothers and sister. Of course, my family has fun – and we celebrateeverythingtogether – but there’s also an underlying solemnness in our household. A weight and a burden that naturally emanates from the knowledge that we’re considered foreigners. Unwelcome in this country. Looked down upon because we’re immigrants.
A race that is considered lower than those with lighter skin walking around next to us. Living next door to us. Running and managing the businesses we work for. Educating us.
It’s as if sometimes there already has been a wall built and people stare at us and wonder how we got in here with them.
