Mayte #2
“Do you have to go again?” I ask, but she doesn’t shut the door behind her. I make my way over and peek my head inside. She’s standing, staring at the bathtub. “Uh, do you want to take a shower first?”
She nods.
I guess that’s fair. If I had peed my own pants, I would probably want to wash it off, not just unstick myself from one pair of pants into another.
I start the shower and help Aida out of her clothes. And then I begin the struggle of getting my sister into the tub.
One summer, my family went to Six Flags.
There’s this haunted house sort of ride that runs itself in a circle, so the little gravestone buggies don’t stop while riders are getting into them.
By the time the operator finally pushed the emergency stop button, Tía Dely, Tía Val, and my dad were all chasing after one of the buggies where Aida had only been able to get half inside.
She’d ended up breaking her ankle and hadn’t let out so much as a yelp when it happened, so no one even knew it was broken for two entire months.
Later, when we read Emily Dickinson’s “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” in English class, all I could picture was this moment, and even though it’s not funny, considering my sister broke her ankle, I giggled so uncontrollably that my teacher had to send me into the hall.
By the time Aida is standing in the bathtub, my sweater is soaked through, along with the bottom of my pants, and Aida looks uninjured but incredibly uncomfortable.
Again, that’s fair. I tried so hard to be careful with my hand placement, but I’d grabbed onto the rolls of her bare stomach multiple times and had to push on her backside to keep her from slipping.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “All the touching and stuff.”
She shrugs, her black hair falling flat and wet down the side her face. We stare at each other.
“Do you want to just, go ahead and wash yourself?” I ask.
She looks at me for a moment and then reaches for the pink bottle of body wash balancing on the edge of the tub. She tries for a moment to open it with her seashell hand, and when she can’t, she hands me the bottle.
“Here.” I squeeze some body wash into her palm, and she proceeds to scrub her body. I stare at the sink, trying to give her as much privacy as I can, given the situation, but suddenly I feel a heavier bottle set into my hand. I turn and catch it before it crushes Aida’s toes. A bottle of shampoo.
“I don’t think you need to wash your hair,” I say, setting the bottle back down. At which point Aida immediately picks it back up and hands it to me. “Okay then.” I open the bottle and look at her. “So, does Abuelita usually wash your hair, or do you do it yourself?”
Shrug.
“Aida, you’ve gotta help me here.” I squeeze the hem of my sweater and end up soaking my socks with the water that comes out. “You or Abuelita?”
She shrugs.
“Aida,” I groan.
“Abuelita,” she says.
“Okay.” I pull off my socks and stand in the remaining puddle, barefoot. “How?”
Aida, surprisingly, shrugs and then stands like a grown-up version of the kid from The Ring, black curtain of hair hiding her face.
“Give me a sec,” I say, running to my room. I strip off my drenched clothes and dig through my underwear drawer until I find both parts of my pink two-piece swimsuit. I pull them on and head back into the bathroom.
Aida looks up from the water at her feet as I step into the shower with her.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
I shove past Aida with the bottle of shampoo so I can stand behind her, and when I realize how much taller she is than me, I climb onto the edge of the tub, balancing one foot on both corners near the faucet and then begin to wash her hair.
We’re both silent as I pull her backward into the water, running my hands through her hair as I rinse it out.
I start a second round of shampoo, and as I scrub, I stare at the white shower wall, absentmindedly, until my mind is no longer absent and I am thinking of…
Auggie? I giggle aloud and Aida turns to me, splashing her eyes with water.
She rubs them with her good hand, and I steady her head forward so she doesn’t hurt her eyes again.
“Remember that guy Auggie I told you about?” I ask. “Auggie like Doggy?”
Aida laughs.
“I was at tutoring today and he showed up.” I pull her back into the water to rinse off the shampoo. “Pass me the conditioner,” I say. She does, and I begin to work it through her hair. “But, like, he wasn’t the actual worst this time.”
Aida turns to look at me again, and I hold her head straight.
“Stop,” I say. “You’re going to get water in your eyes.
Just take a step forward and turn around if you wanna look at me.
” She steps forward and turns, leaning against the side of the tub opposite from me.
She starts to slip, and before I can jump off my perch to grab her, she’s caught and stabilized herself. “You good?”
She nods.
I stare at the water circling the drain and dip down, swirling one foot in it while I balance on the other.
“So, anyway, I told him that my tutor sucks because she does, and he was doing a story about tutoring for the school newspaper, and then he asked if I wanted him to read over my essay and give me feedback.” I look at her.
“Which, like, I actually think I do. I need help because I really need to pass English because, like, no offense, but the whole thing with Abuelita and you moving in has taken up a lot of time. You know?”
Her green eyes are caught on mine. She shrugs.
I shrug back. “Yeah.” We’re silent for a moment, just looking at each other, and I wish I would’ve shut up.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, Auggie like Doggy might not be the absolute worst. Or else he just had a good moment and is gonna shit all over my essay when he reads it, which wouldn’t surprise me.
” I sigh. “I don’t know. I thought he was kinda cute at first and I guess he’s kinda nice and all, but I think we’d be better as just friends.
I mean, like, obviously as just friends. ”
Aida snickers.
“Shut up!” I yell and give her a playful slap on her shoulder. She laughs harder. “Come back in the water. Let me rinse the conditioner off.”
Once Aida is finished showering, I help her get dressed and we head to my room. Aida throws herself onto my bed and lies down, staring up at the ceiling.
“Can I braid your hair?” I ask, grabbing my brush and slipping a couple of hair ties onto my wrist.
Aida nods and sits up, scooting forward as I make my way to crouch behind her.
“It’ll make your hair all wavy when you take it out tomorrow,” I say.
I run the brush through some tangles and she groans.
“Sorry. But I think waves will look really pretty on you.” Once I’ve gotten it smooth, I part her hair and toss the left side over her left shoulder.
“I’m kind of jealous of your hair,” I say. “Just for the record.”
She laughs.
“It’s so thick and dark and intense.” I pull her hair tight, keeping strands from slipping out of the braid. “And then with your eyes and everything. You just kind of give off Snow White vibes, you know?”
She laughs again and tries to turn to me.
“Stop,” I say, laughing too. “You’re going to make me mess up.” She straightens her head again as I tie off her first braid. “Do you think I should send Auggie my essay or do you think it’s a trap?”
Aida shrugs.
“Nooo!” I moan. “You’re my big sister. I need an answer. I need advice. Yes or no, Aida?”
She laughs harder this time and shrugs.
“Aida!” I tug lightly on her finished braid and she swats at me. “If you don’t answer, I’m not going to finish the other side of your head. Just nod or shake your—”
“Yes,” she says.
I tilt my head. “Yes, I should send it to him?”
She nods.
“If you say so.” I start on the second braid. “I’ll do it when we’re done, I guess. But I also need to get rid of all the emotional shit. He doesn’t need to read about me whining. No one needs to read about me whining.” I tie off her second braid. “Voilà! Come look in the mirror.”
I jump off my bed and start toward the bathroom, only to realize Aida hasn’t followed me. Instead, she’s grabbed my bag of nail polish off the ground and set it on the bed.
“You already have nail polish on,” I say. I grab her hand and look at each nail. “It’s not even chipped. You’re good.”
She places her seashell hand on my leg and meets my eyes.
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, for sure, I can do this one.”
I pour the contents of the nail polish bag onto the bed and search for the hot pink that Aida and I are both wearing.
When I find it, I unscrew the top and then unfold Aida’s crumpled hand, trying to straighten each finger so they don’t immediately curl back in and ruin each nail I’ve painted. “Does that hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Good,” I say.
This hand is softer and slicker than her other hand, the texture of the skin almost like a baby’s. It feels like a different person’s hand. Her fingers are splayed as I paint, but I think of the seashell shape they make naturally. Like a mermaid’s thingamabob—damp and smooth and spiraled.
I hold her seashell hand down as it dries, but with her other hand, Aida grabs the pack of lip balms and stares at them.
“I don’t even remember when I got those,” I say. “I’ll give you a few of them when this is dry, if you want.”
She shrugs and then her eyes catch on something. I follow her gaze, even though I know where it’s leading. Sure enough, she’s staring at Buttercup, perched atop my pillow.
“Do you want to hold—”
Aida groans and moves to climb off my bed, but I pull her back, holding her hand on my lap.
“Stop!” I say. “You’re going to ruin your nails.
And I don’t know what your deal is with Buttercup.
” She tries to pull away again, and despite her superior strength, I’m able to pull her back again.
“I don’t think you’re a baby or a kid or whatever for liking stuffed animals.
I like stuffed animals and I’m not a baby or kid.
A lot of adults and teenagers like them. ”
She grunts but stops trying to pull away from me.
“Here,” I say as I reach for the pack of lip balms. “I’m not really a fan of the chocolate ones or the soda-flavored ones so you can have those.” I pick them out and pass them over to her. “You might like them, though.”
She looks through the ones I’ve given her and places all of them on her lap except for the root beer–flavored one, which she hands to me.
I pull the lid off and give it back. She uses her good hand to apply the lip balm and makes a face that seems to mirror how I feel about the root beer–flavored one.
She gives it back and I recap it, then place it in her lap.
“They should be about ready,” I say, touching her nails. They’re still a little soft and will probably smear a bit when her hand curls back in, but no one will notice. It’s more the principle of the painting.
She takes her hand back and I watch as it coils into itself.
“You go watch TV,” I say. “I’ll clean up the nail polishes and meet you there, okay?”
She nods and climbs off the bed, leaving my room.
I put the nail polishes back into the bag and sit on the edge of my bed.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to send my essay about personal adversity to my nemesis—after cutting out all the emotional whining, woe-is-me bits—because to pass English I am ready to risk humiliation and the potential of more ammo for his low blows.
I start toward the door but then stop and grab Buttercup off my bed. I stuff her beneath my arm and take her to Aida’s room, where I balance her on the bed, in front of the pillows, her smiling snout ready to greet Aida as soon as she comes into the room.
It just looks right.