Familia

First of all, you should know that I am a winner. Not a failure. Girls? Got ‘em. Money? Got it (well dad does). Reputation? High school was my kingdom and that crown fit me damn good. Future? Try a full ride to Northwestern on a swimming scholarship. My senior year in high school, I was staring straight into a beautifully laid out, perfectly fitted, extremely bright, and well deserved future­--if I do say so myself. Let me tell you, this vision I had, peering into the next four years away at college, was a dream. Dad always says, all men know what they want, but real men won’t stop until they get it. And being my father’s son, you bet your ass I thought nothing would stand in my way.

So when I slid Dad my graded Spanish test across the table during dinner one night so he could sign the blank space next to the fat, red inked, “F”, I was prepared.

“The Hell is this?” Dad asked me, spitting bits of green bean on the multiple choice section.

“It’s my most recent Spanish exam. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. I just need you to sign it so I can turn it back in tomorrow,” I quickly replied, keeping my eyes on my own greens in front of me.

“Take care of it you will. You know that Dan can’t let you dive in that water if you aren’t keeping a C average,” he reminded me sternly.

“I know Dad, Coach already knows and I—“

“Not to mention you promised the coaches at Northwestern a high GPA,” Mom interrupted. “No A’s, no scholarship!”

I sat up a little taller. “Guys, I got it. Don’t sweat it. I’m going to talk to Señora Ortega tomorrow,” I said as I met my Dad’s stare of disapproval from across the table.

“Good. You make sure she knows how important you are to the team. And how important this scholarship is for your future. Following in your father’s footsteps at Northwestern is an honorable thing to do, wouldn’t you agree? Maybe she’ll let you make another piñata for extra credit.”

Instead of telling Dad that there’s more to Spanish class than papier mâché, I nodded my head and gave him a “Yes, Sir.”

“Alright, son. Sounds like you have a game plan. I know you’re a smart boy, you’re doing just fine in all your other classes,” he said in between mouthfuls of meatloaf.  “Stupid how they require a language these days. In America, we speak English. I never had to waste my time with any of that nonsense. You just find a way to make sure Señorita Lopez gives you a C so that you can stay in the water. Deal?”

“Deal,” I confirmed, as I stood up with an upset stomach to scrape the rest of my food down the garbage disposal.

Because a deal is a deal, I dragged myself to Señora Ortega’s (her name is Ortega, not Lopez, by the way. Excuse my father) classroom before swim practice the next day to go over my options. She told me that she didn’t believe in extra credit, but she could set me up with a, and I quote, “remarkable tutor.” Now, like I mentioned before, I had it all in my glory days. Including intelligence. Don’t think that I was one of those jocks with a reading comprehension equivalent to that of a fourth grader. I, by no means, lacked in the academic field. So the idea of a tutor? Kind of insulting. But when it came down to a couple of tutoring sessions a week or an ugly “F” mocking me on my transcript, I dry swallowed my pride like the fat pill that it was.

                  “Muy Bien,” I said with a very fake, very painful smile plastered to my face. “When can I meet with them?”

******

                  Because practice was every day after school and Coach Dan would be sure to kick my ass if I showed up late, tutoring was to take place Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during lunch. That following Wednesday, I kissed my open lunch trips to Taco Bell goodbye and made my way to the library right after fourth period. That first day, the tutor I imagined, with a flowing red cape, prepared to heroically swoop in and save my Spanish grade, was late. I remember sitting alone at  one of the heavy, wooden tables, shooting old, crumpled up assignments into the waste basket in front of me, looking up only to check the clock. And just when I thought my hero had ditched me for a turkey sandwich from the cafeteria, I saw her.

                  Back in high school, looking at girls was a full time hobby. I mean seriously, I knew a pretty girl when I saw one. But this girl, strutting towards me, holding her books close her chest with one hand, giving me a fluttery wave with the other, wasn’t pretty. This girl was stunning. She set her books down on the table in front of me and began apologizing for her late arrival. But listening to her excuse was impossible. Instead, I could only stare as she reached for her bun and pulled out her hair tie. I watched as a mess of long, caramel brown waves tumbled past her neck and down her back. She was wearing a black, Guns N’ Roses tank top that clung to a tiny waist and revealed smooth, delicately tanned shoulders. Her blue jeans hugged her hips and thighs tightly. Her figure was petite, yet complimented with curves that demanded appreciation.

                  “My name is Marisol Garcia, your tutor,” she said with a smile and offering a small, elegant hand. “It’s Jack, right?”

                  I nodded and shook her hand, still speechless. With all the grace in the world, she slid into the seat in front of me and began flipping through my textbook. I was still staring. Drooling, probably. I had never seen skin more flawless, dark and smooth across her face. Her lips were plump and colorful, covered in a thin layer of drug store lip gloss. They drew back perfectly, exposing a perfect smile, the kind of smile that belonged in a Colgate commercial. With each smile she generously gave, came adorable little crinkles that formed at the edge of her eyes. Her eyebrows were perfect, thin arches above long, thick eyelashes. But it was her eyes that afternoon that I could never forget. They tied every individual beauty together. After just one look into those deep, warm, brown eyes, I knew what I wanted, and I knew I would stop at nothing until this pretty little stranger was mine.

******

At first, she rejected me, making the first few weeks of our library lessons agonizing. She started each lesson with a warm up, unpacking lunch items for the two of us from her backpack and laying them next to notecards, each labeled with the Spanish word for the food she brought in neat, black sharpie. My job was to learn and identify each food in Spanish and attempt to retain the information as best I could. Instead, I attempted to flirt, only to be resisted time after time.  She pretended to be annoyed, but every irresistible smile that worked its way in between those sexy, rounded lips, was reason enough for me to persist.

                  “Do you realize how beautiful you are?” I asked her one day, admiring the way the sun beamed through the tall, library windows, bathing her in a glowing light.  

                  “Jack, I don’t date the people I tutor. Give it up, dude,” she sighed, holding an apple out in front of me.

                  “Naranja,” I said, snatching the apple out of her hand. “And don’t think of it like that. I’m not just any student. You see me all the time. Three times a week, actually. That’s practically dating.”

                   “Manzana,” she corrected, snatching her apple back. “Do you realize how bad it looks? Dating someone you tutor?”

                  “Then quit. I don’t know why you do it anyway, you’re not even in a Spanish class,” I argued.

                  She rubbed the tips of her fingers together.  “Got to make money somehow! And I told you, I’m fluent in Spanish. My family is from Mexico, remember? I grew up in a Spanish speaking home. Teaching morons like you is a quick and easy buck.”

                  “You saving up to buy yourself something pretty?” 

                  “Try college,” she replied, tossing the apple gently back and forth between her hands. “Not all of us have swim scholarships and a rich Daddy that can foot the bill for the Ivy League of our choice.”

                  “Damn, Marisol. I love when you unleash that Latina sass on me,” I said, grinning at her. “You hoping to hear back from any schools in particular?”

                  “I mean a couple,” she admits. “But if I don’t figure the whole college thing out right away, I won’t be too upset. I want to take a year off. Maybe go volunteer in Latin America somewhere. It’s important to help people, you know? There’s a program that I think I’m going to apply to but its super selective and I—“she stopped herself midsentence. “Why am I telling you this?” she mumbled, quickly flipping open my textbook. “Are you ready for this test?”

                  I grinned. “Yeah, about that. I think I need more practice.” I take the apple gently from her hands. “Considering I mixed up the Spanish words for apple and orange, I think I’m going to need some extra practice. Can we meet tomorrow?”

                  “What? Tomorrow’s a Saturday?” she said, fighting a smile.

                  “Great, 6 o’clock. Italian place downtown. The one that serves their pasta in unnecessarily large portions,” I confirmed, leaning back in my chair. “I’m getting tired of this library scenery.”

                  “Jack! I can’t—“

                  I cut her off. “You wouldn’t want one of your students to fail the exam, would you?” She squirmed in her seat before giving me a mumbled agreement. I winked at her once more before I got up to gather my stuff. She remained seated as I rolled the apple back in her direction and began to walk away. But before I got too far, I turned around and faced the beauty, still sitting stiffly in her chair, her notecards dispersed across the wooden table.

                  “Oh, and Marisol?” I said. She snapped her head in my direction, staring at me, a look of irritation beaming through her big, brown eyes. “Wear something nice,” I said with the biggest, purest smile I could manage.

                  Maintaining eye contact, she aggressively took a bite of her apple in response in an effort to display her annoyance. But as she started to chew, and I began to turn away, I swear I caught a glimpse of those lips beginning to curve.

******

                  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that some strangers aren’t strangers at all. Sometimes, you’ll meet a person and realize that they are everything you are not, yet everything that you admire. A perfect compliment. Sometimes, you’ll meet a stranger, and within a matter of minutes, hours at the most, you feel as though you’ve known them your whole life. We find our very best friends, our significant others, and our role models within strangers. And all it takes is one conversation—and a whole lot of pasta.

That first date downtown, we spent hours talking about anything and everything. She was so articulate, intelligent, and hilarious. Ever laugh so hard it hurts? Her laugh, much like her smile, was contagious that night. Bright and warm and loud. If her beauty hadn’t captured the entire restaurants attention the moment she walked in, her laugh did. I would crave the sweet sound after some time and found myself looking for any possible way to make her laugh again. Most of the time, it was my bad Spanish. The Spanish word for spaghetti is just spaghetti, by the way.

After dinner that night, I asked her if she wanted to go on a drive. She was reluctant at first, but after promising that we would practice vocabulary the whole way, she agreed and I eagerly helped her into my truck. I drove a little ways out into the country, far past the city lights, and parked off the side of a back road.

“Jack! We are in the middle of nowhere!” she said, laughing. “I am way too trusting.”

I open my door. “I want to show you something.”

                  I hopped in the back, spreading out the many quilts and blankets I had taken from my mother’s closet earlier that evening across the bed of the truck. I let the tailgate fall and pulled Marisol up and over, onto the pile of comfort, then took a seat beside her. We laid down, stretching ourselves out beneath a blanket of stars.

                  “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, her big brown eyes fixed on the galaxy above.

                  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Stars are pretty.”

                  “Well, yes. But that’s not what I meant.” She turned her round face towards me. “What’s beautiful is that these are our stars. They belong to all of us. All of us humans on earth. When we look at the stars and the moon, we are all looking at the same ones, no matter who we are or where we are or where we come from. We are all people and this night sky is what keeps us connected. It’s beautiful.”

                  She reached her hands out to the stars in the sky and squeezed her hands into a fist, as if she was trying to grab a handful of them. Then she pointed at the crescent moon.

                  “La luna,” she said softly to me, still looking at the sky. “That’s the Spanish word for moon.”

                  “La luna,” I repeated, looking at her.       

******

                  Marisol Garcia was the best thing I never knew I needed. After that night, we were inseparable. The following months were spent at the library, at her locker, at our pasta restaurant, at the movie theater, and in the bed of my truck, under the dark sky on a starry night. (Don’t worry, plenty of Spanish notecards were used during these months.) When I wasn’t at practice, weights, or school, I was with her. This girl was like some kind of drug. I craved her laugh, her smile, her perfect lips, and her soft, dark skin on mine. I fell in love with the way she sang along to the radio in my truck at the top of her lungs, sticking her head out the window so that the wind swept her hair out of her face and behind her. She said it felt like flying. I fell in love with her intellect and the way her nose was always buried in a new book. I fell in love with the way she religiously recycled and her need to make small, monthly donations to the humane society. I fell in love with the Spanglish she would sometimes speak in, without notice.

But above all else, I fell in love with her unconditional support. She always surprised me with ice cream and brownies after a successful Spanish test. The not so successful ones were followed by constructive criticism and a plate of broccoli. A Northwestern University t-shirt hung in her closet. She never missed a home swim meet, either. With a scholarship on the line and parents like mine, each race was stressful. Even if it was still just high school season. Whether I liked to admit it or not, each race my senior year came with extreme anxiety. As I stepped onto that starting block, it wasn’t always easy to keep my cool. But right before the gunshot went off, before every race, I would hear her. I swear, Marisol’s “KICK ASS, JACK!” was consistently the loudest cheer from the stands. I can also promise you it’s what carried me through my races. When I finished, she was always beaming with pride. Whether I did well or not.

“Great race, cariño! What’s the Spanish word for proud?” she would ask me.

“Orgulloso,” I would respond, still winded form my race.

“That’s what I am,” she would say. “Orgullosa no matter what!”

******

Ever since Marisol had been around, I had started doubting the things I thought I had always wanted. I became uncertain about wanting to attend Northwestern, or to swim at all for that matter. I wondered what would happen if I decided to pursue a psychology degree instead of a business one. Or maybe if I wanted to graduate from KU with an astrology degree. Maybe I didn’t want to go to college at all. Suddenly, my future didn’t seem like the perfectly fitted one my parents always made it out to be. I felt as though it was their dream and no longer mine. I was so terrified of disappointing them and even more terrified that Marisol would see I was too much of a coward to go after what I wanted. In retrospect, I think that’s why I kept her away from my parents for so long.

But just as any other parents would be, mine were eager to meet her. Mom always complained about not knowing the girl that took up all her son’s time. It took me months to make the decision to bring her home. I hadn’t met hers either. It had always just been me and her, her and I. Families only complicated things, so we rarely even spoke of them. But after mom threw a grand ole fit about her son dating a complete stranger, I picked up the phone and offered a formal invite to family dinner.

******

She looked stunning, as usual, in a modest, olive green dress. I watched from the front door as she made her way up the steep driveway.

“This is your house?” she questioned as I held the door open for her, her eyes wide and wandering. “I knew you came from money or whatever but this is—“

“Shoes off,” I interrupted quickly. “Mom’s a freak about her carpets. Let’s just eat and get the heck out of here. We can go star gazing if you want.”

Mom and Dad firmly shook Marisol’s hand before we took a seat at the table, introducing themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. Mom had set out our best china and silverware for the elegant dinner she had prepared. She served us each what she thought to be an appropriate helping, giving a little less to Marisol and herself.

                  “It’s important for us women to watch our figures, isn’t that right, Marisol?” she said, passing a plate to my girl with a smile that was just a little too friendly.

                  “Mom she can—“I started, but was interrupted by Marisol’s sweet voice.

                  “No, its okay, Jack. That’s plenty, thank you! Everything looks so wonderful, Mrs. Barnes.”

                  “Well thank you, sweetie! I hope you like pot roast and mashed potatoes!” mom chimed.

Marisol said that she had actually never had it, explaining that although her mother was a wonderful cook, she didn’t make pot roast dinners.

                  “Oh! Well she can certainly have the recipe!” mom offered. “I do like to do exchanges though! Maybe she could give me recipe for an authentic, Hispanic dish. I love testing my cooking abilities with a new challenge.”

I remember cringing in my seat. We began eating.

                  “So, how did you two kids meet?” Mom asked to fill the silence. “I want to hear all about it.”

                  “I told you, Mom, Marisol tutors me in Spanish. She’s a really good teacher actually. Got my grade up to a B-.”

                  “Hm, I totally forgot you were struggling with that class,” Dad says while chewing. “English is your second language, correct Marisol?” I focused on quickly shoveling mashed potatoes down my throat while she told Mom and Dad that she grew up learning and speaking both languages at the same time. They chuckled when she referred to it as Spanglish. Then silence. More chewing.

                  “So where exactly are you from again, Marisol?” Mom asked, taking a bite of her roast.

                  “I was born in Oklahoma,” my girl responded shortly with a smile. Mom nearly choked.

                  “Oh!” Mom’s face went red.

                  Marisol giggles. “But my parents, they’re both from Mexico. They came to the United States and received citizenship a few years before having me.” More chewing. More silence. Dad asks her what her plans are after graduation. Both Mom and Dad kept their eyes on their plates as Marisol described her plans to take a year off before college so she could volunteer abroad. When she finished, I decided to finally contribute some conversation.

                  “It’s actually a really cool program, Dad. It’s a great experience, looks killer on a resume, and it’s all for the sake of helping people. Marisol helped me with my own application just last week,” I stated confidently, keeping my own eyes on my beautiful girlfriend rather than my dinner. Dad chuckled shortly before he responded, “That was a fun idea, son, but you’ve got a bright future ahead of you that can’t be put on hold.” Silence.

                  “No offense to you, Marisol,” he remembered to add with a smile. Marisol smiled back and took her first bite of the roast. Then, “I think whatever makes Jack happy is what he should pursue,” she shoots from across the table. Dad looks up from his food.

                  “A degree at Northwestern University and an opportunity to swim at the collegiate level is a dream.”

                  Marisol meets Dad’s gaze. She smiled as she responded, “I guess that depends on who’s dreaming, huh?” I remember the collar of my shirt choking me during that dinner. I give Marisol a look and mouth the words hurry up. She winked at me, then looked down at her plate with determination. For a moment, I was relieved. That is until Dad spoke again.

                  “So what kind of jobs were your parents able to find upon arriving to the states, Mar—“

                  The sound of my fine silverware falling against my plate startled my parents. I pushed my chair back away from the table and stood up, quickly making my way to the other side of the table to pull Marisol out of her seat.

                  “I totally forgot, Mom and Dad. Marisol and I have to work on a Spanish project for tomorrow!” I call as I pull my girlfriend behind me, through the front hall and out the door. As I drag her down the driveway and towards my truck I hear her laugh.

                  “I think they like me!”

******

                  I walk out to my car after practice sometime the following week. Things had mellowed out with my parents and both Marisol and I agreed that we would hold off on the Barnes family dinners for a while. When I got to my truck, I saw Marisol standing in the bed, a comforter bunched under an arm and a stack of notecards clenched tightly in the other hand. We drove out to our spot in the country, spending the evening counting the stars, reviewing Spanish conjugates, and kissing. She sat on my lap and I remember holding her perfect face in one hand while tracing the curves of her body with my other.

                  “Okay, stop for just a second,” she says in between kisses. “I have to show you something.”

                  “This better be good,” I tease as we both sit up and face each other in the dark.  She reaches for her purse and pulls out two letters, one addressed to her and one to me. Her smile was bigger and more child-like than I had ever seen before. Marisol was holding our letters of acceptance into the volunteer abroad program. In that moment, Northwestern didn’t exist, swimming didn’t exist, and my parents were somewhere distant. In that moment, all that was in front of me was my gorgeous girl, la luna, and a ticket to be a part of something bigger than myself.

                  “We did it, Cariño! We got in! We can help and make a difference and I know it’s far away and your Spanish isn’t perfect and our influence might not even be that great but think about all the people we CAN—“ I kiss her to shut her up so I can tell her.

                  I take a deep breath and hold her small hands.“Te quiero, “ Silence “Oh god, I hope I said that right.”

                  She laughs, running her fingers through my hair. “I love you too.”

******

If I didn’t mention it before, you should know that Marisol is really into celebrating. She said in her family, they’re always celebrating something. Our acceptance letters were another excuse to give thanks. So I wasn’t totally surprised when Marisol insisted I come to Garcia family dinner that Saturday night. I pull up to a long driveway. My palms were soaked with sweat. I looked up at the house. It’s beautiful—big and adorned with large windows that looked over a colorful, rich garden in the front yard.

The inside was equally beautiful. The furniture and walls were so vibrant and alive. Upon walking in, I was enveloped in a delicious aroma of spices and fresh tortilla. Marisol then took my hand and led me into the kitchen, so at this point, I was probably salivating. She tossed me an apron, informing me that family dinners require all hands on deck, so I better start cutting the avocado. As I turn to my cutting board, I see a woman dressed in an identical apron come charging towards me—her short, dark, brown curls bouncing around the frame of her face. She was smiling widely, speaking the fastest form of Spanish I had ever heard.

“Jack, this is my Mama, Rosa,” she told me, gently placing her hand on my arm. “Mama, this is Jack, mi novio.” I offered my hand to Rosa for a firm handshake, shocked when she pushed it out of her way and wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace. She pressed her lips to my cheek and squeezed my shoulders.

“Jack! I am so glad to finally meet you! Sorry I smell of tortilla, I’ve been in the kitchen all day,” she apologized. I hugged her back.

“Your mom doesn’t work?” I whispered to Marisol as I stepped towards the cutting board again.

“Oh, she used to,” Marisol replied. “She doesn’t really have to anymore though. She spends a lot of time with the younger two these days. It helps since my dad has been stuck at the hospital a lot lately.”

I was confused. Was Marisol’s father sick? Surely she would mention that.

“Hospital?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed casually, hardly looking up from the tomato she was dicing. “My dad’s a doctor. You didn’t know that?”

I remember thinking, how could I have gone all this time without knowing what Marisol’s father did for a living? Did I not care? And more importantly, why was I so surprised?

I focused on my avocado and impressing my girl’s mother.

“It’s so good to finally meet you too, Mrs. Garcia,” I said. Rosa threw her head back in laughter.

“Please, call me Mama Rosa,” she said, putting her arms around me and Marisol. “Eres familia.”

Mama Rosa split us up into groups. Marisol fried the tortillas, Mama Rosa finished the chicken, while the 6 year old twins, Carmen and Adrian, helped me with the guacamole. We practiced our Spanish as I mashed the avocado into mush. My poor accent kept Carmen and Adrian entertained. They giggled at each word or phrase I insecurely spat out, then laughed harder when Marisol corrected me. For each phrase that I executed flawlessly, I earned a high five from Adrian and a kiss on the cheek from Carmen and my girl. We cooked and laughed to the beat of the salsa music Mama Rosa played through a Bluetooth speaker. The kitchen felt so alive. I haven’t cooked without music since.

                  When he arrived home, Marisol’s father introduced himself as Diego Garcia. Finally, my practiced, firm handshake came in handy. Every Garcia took turns planting a fat kiss on his cheek. He was dark and tall, towering over his family with broad, protective shoulders. He was intimidating, I won’t lie to you. But upon looking into his deep, brown eyes, he earned your trust. Something about those eyes were so inviting and comforting. Marisol has her father’s eyes.

                  I noticed that I was not the only guest that evening. Behind Diego, stood a very timid, very small man, dressed in stained, baggy clothing.

                  “This is Fito,” Marisol told me, smiling and pulling me towards him. I shook his hand, too. “He doesn’t speak English.”

                  “Hola,” I say. Fito smiles at me and nods. When I asked Marisol if he was joining us for dinner, she nodded. She also told me that Fito ate with her family sometimes, mainly because her father was treating some back problems of his and often times invited him to eat with them before they practiced some therapy exercises in the office upstairs. I asked her what was wrong with his back.

                  “Well, he picks strawberries for a living, if that answers your question,” she told me as we began to set the table for dinner.

                  “Yikes, that can’t pay well.” I said. I was so ignorant, then, it’s embarrassing to this day. Without looking at me, she shakes her head. “Then why does he do it?” I murmured.

                  Her head snaps up and she stares at me, blankly, firmly placing the plate she was holding against the table cloth. “Well, are you going to do it?”

                  I looked away and continued to place the forks. “So how is he paying your dad?” I asked quietly.

                  “He’s not.” We looked at each other for a minute before she added, “And that’s okay, because he needs help. It’s the right thing to do.” We set the rest of the table in silence.

                  I ate fast at dinner, helping myself to serving after serving. Marisol asked me if I was hungry and I told her family that swim practice always left me prepared to inhale 3,000 calories. I didn’t admit that the food was just so good, I never wanted to stop tasting it. Mama Rosa reassured me that she would box some up for me to take home—there was plenty of guacamole.

                  About halfway through dinner, Diego Garcia tapped the end of his fork lightly against his glass of water. The twins squirmed in their seats giggling, then repeating after their father.

                  “I would like to make a toast. Let’s congratulate these fine and intelligent young adults on their acceptance to a wonderful program. I am so excited for them to travel to another country, immerse themselves in a new culture, and lend all the support and effort they can to the people there in need.”

                  I looked at Mama Rosa who was nodding her head gently in approval.

                  “Cheers! To an opportunity to help our brothers and sisters!”

 Marisol laughed and rolled her eyes. We all lifted our glasses to the ceiling. I watched as everyone took a drink at once.

                  “Actually, I don’t know if I’m going for sure,” I said, a little louder than I intended. The room grew quiet. I looked for Marisol’s eyes from across the table, but she looked at her father.

                  “Remember, Papa? He’s still deciding between swimming for Northwestern and the volunteering abroad program.” Diego nodded his head.

                  “Of course! You, young man, have worked hard to be eligible for both opportunities. I know that whatever you choose, you will come out successful,” he said kindly. “Do what makes you happy and what you see fit.”

 I set down my fork. “I would go, but my father doesn’t want me to put college on hold,” I said, as I picked my fork up again, only to set it back down. “He doesn’t want me to put this swim scholarship on hold,” I add. “And the idea of me traveling to another country…I’m not sure if he’s really okay with it.”

                  Diego stares at me. “Coming to the United States was a sacrifice.” I swallow hard. “I had to make a decision between a good life with my family in Mexico, or starting a new life here, alone and from scratch.” The room was silent. “I chose to start a life for my own family here and I contribute to this country as best I can. I help people for a living, providing them with good health and proper care when they need it, and that decision has made all the difference.”

                  My collar was choking me again. I nodded my head. “Look son,” he continued, “choose what you see fit for your future. But don’t throw an opportunity away because you are afraid. Whatever it might be that you are afraid of.” I looked across at my girl, her eyes are still on her father. “Whether you continue your education at Northwestern, or you decide to volunteer abroad, remember that the end goal is always contribution. When a man gives, he is able to help a brother grow, and that opportunity is the most rewarding thing a man can ever receive.” Fito passed the tortillas towards me.

                  Later that night, sitting on the back porch with my girl, sipping on some Pacifico beer that her father so kindly provided, I told her how beautiful her family is. She nodded her head and told me she knew. I asked her why she kept them from me for so long, and she explained shyly that family is everything to her. She explained that she didn’t just let anyone around her familia. A stranger must earn that opportunity.

                  “I envy your relationship with your father,” I admitted.

                  “Your dad loves you, Jack. Promise me you’ll talk to him, at least? I’m sure he would support whatever you decide.”

                  I finished my beer before asking, “How do you know?”

                  She doesn’t need time to think of a response. “Because that’s what family is. We love each other unconditionally and we support each other no matter what. Familia.”

                  “Hey, I knew that one,” I said with a wink. She laughed and I kissed her.

******

                  On Monday, I meet Marisol in the library to review for the exam I had coming up that week. We were supposed to be going over tenses, but she was eager to hear some news I wasn’t ready to share.                   “So, did you talk to your dad about your decision?”

                  I looked up from my notebook briefly. “Maybe we should talk about it after my meet tonight. Are you coming?”

                  Her forehead crinkled. “Well why can’t you just tell me now?”

                  I let out a heavy sigh and shut my notebook. “I want to go, you know I do. But—“

                  “But what?” she said, raising her voice. “If you truly want to go, you should do it. This program is so selective. You were chosen above so many others to make a difference!”

                  I tried to quiet her down. “Look, you know how my dad is. He won’t stand for it. It can’t happen. He won’t let it happen. He says I can’t throw away everything I’ve worked for.”

                  Her brown eyes were clouded with tears. “You should be able to do what you want. Your family should support you. Familia. Remember? He’ll understand!

                  “I don’t think you get it, Marisol. This is a huge sacrifice!”

                  Ever say something and wish you could take it back quick, before your sharp words make their way to hurting someone? Those words hit my girl. Hard.  I will never forget her eyes on that day either. Cold with disappointment. Or maybe cold with pity. Maybe both. She stood up and walked out of the library, as quickly as she had walked in the very first time I saw her.

                  “Great, babe. See you at the meet,” I mumbled to myself. My heart was heavy and my throat was dry. I stared at the notecards she left scattered across the table.

******

                  Before my race that evening, I stood behind the blocks stretching. I remember how tight my muscles felt and how unbearably heavy my head felt. I searched the spectator bleachers over and over again, hoping to spot a mess of caramel curls somewhere among the crowd. Every time I saw that she still wasn’t there, my heart sank a little more. To take my mind off of it, I started thinking about graduation.

                  I thought about my high school swim career ending, and my college swim career beginning. I thought about 4 years at Northwestern as a business major, just like Dad. I thought about my swimming career at the collegiate level ending, and soon dusty medals and ribbons, tucked tightly away in some kind of box, would be all I would have left to show for an entire youth spent swimming. Then, I thought about Diego and his family. I thought about the stars that people, no matter who they are or where they come from, got the privilege to admire. I thought about Fito, and how his labor was what made 5 dollar boxes of strawberries possible. I thought about Diego, caring for a brother simply because it was the right thing to do.

                  The whistle blew and I stepped onto the blocks, focusing on the water and lanyards strung to the walls of the pool. In that moment, it was just me and that race before me. Whatever decision I made, I would make it after. Whatever decision I made, the people that loved me would support me. Right?

                  The official speaks into the microphone, “Take your mark.”

                  And right before the gunshot, right before I dive in, that’s when I heard her, “GOOOOO, JACK! KICK SOME ASS!”

                  Right.