Auggie
“YOU KNOW YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS,” MAYTE SAYS, FOLLOWING ME to my car. “I’m fine taking the bus.”
“Okay, but imagine not taking the bus,” I say. I think for a second about opening the passenger side door for her, but before I can decide, she’s already opened it and jumped inside. I toss my backpack in the back and get in the driver’s seat. “Did you imagine it?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“How was it?”
She laughs. “Better than the bus.”
I remember the general direction of her house, but she still gives me directions, and when we get there she throws open her door before I even fully stop the car.
“What are you going to do? Jump out while I’m still driving?”
“No,” she says, getting out of the car, her tote dragging behind her. “Not this time. But thanks for the ride.”
“You’re wel—”
She slams the door before I have a chance to finish.
That was weird.
I watch as she walks to the door and then I put my arm on the passenger headrest as I back into Mayte’s driveway. Then I put the car in drive and start down the street. Until I hear shouting.
I slam on my brakes. Did I hit something? Did I hit someone? I look in the rearview mirror to see a small, elderly woman running after my car. And Mayte running after the elderly woman.
I stop in the middle of the street and roll down my window.
“Abuelita, no! Stop it!” Mayte is yelling.
“Auggie like Doggy?” the woman says in a thick accent I can’t quite place. “That is you?”
“Um, yeah. That is me.”
Mayte appears at my window, pulling at the woman’s arm. “Abuelita, leave him alone. He has to go home.”
The woman shakes Mayte off and wags her finger at me. “Auggie like Doggy, you just drop mi Angelita in the street and you leave? You do not say hello?”
“Abuelita, I told him to leave. It’s not his fault,” Mayte says.
“Well, I am telling you to park your car and come into our house and say hello.” She points at the driveway. “Go ahead.”
There is no way I can say no to this woman. I’m one hundred percent sure she would chase my car all the way back to my house and yell at my mom.
Mayte and Abuelita go back to the front door, and Abuelita starts waving me into the driveway like she’s directing an airplane. Mayte is hiding her reddened face in her hands.
When I step out of the car, Abuelita looks me up and down and then throws up her hands, starting back into the house. “?Ay, qué flaco!” she shouts. “Auggie like Doggy, I have food to put the fat back on your bones. Come inside, come inside.”
“Auggie, I’m so sorry,” Mayte whispers. “That’s why I jumped out of your car.”
“I get it now,” I say as I follow her inside.
“Also, please ignore this entire house,” she says. “It’s like a little shack compared to yours.”
I’m not quite sure what she means by that.
Sure, her house isn’t as big as our house, but there’s something quaint and warm and homey about it.
I’ve only been here once, when Aida died, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what it looked like that night.
The couch is old and brown and worn-in, a multicolored knitted blanket crumpled on top of it, and, like, seven mismatched pillows.
There are more blankets stacked on the arms of the couch, pictures of family all over the walls, colorful knickknacks on almost every surface, crosses hung up all around.
I stop in front of a large photo of baby Mayte in a frilly colorful dress.
“Shut up,” she says, before I even have a chance to say anything.
“Auggie like Doggy, venga,” Abuelita says.
“Come here,” Mayte translates for me, leading me to the kitchen where Abuelita is setting a little fabric pouch on the table, along with some butter.
I sit at the table and Abuelita sits down across from me. Mayte grabs all of us glasses of water and then sits down herself.
“Auggie like Doggy, why did your parents name you that?” Abuelita asks.
I swallow and it’s so loud even Mayte glances at me. “Um, my name isn’t actually Auggie like Doggy. It’s Augustine.”
“Augustine,” she says. “Como el santo.”
“Comoel… huh?” I ask. “It’s, uh, Peterson, actually. Augustine Peterson.”
Mayte giggles and looks at the floor.
“That is a good name. Why do you call yourself the dog name instead?” Abuelita asks.
“I… I don’t… I don’t know,” I say.
Abuelita reaches into the pouch on the table, pulls out what looks like a really thick tortilla, cuts it open, and begins to slather butter on it. “You are el novio? The boyfriend?”
“No!” Mayte and I both say simultaneously.
“We’re friends,” I say, feeling the red crawling onto my face. “We’re friends now.”
“You are a very handsome boy,” Abuelita says, pointing the butter-covered knife at me. Then she points it at Mayte. “She is a very beautiful girl. Do you not agree?”
“What?” I ask, my heart flying into my throat.
“Is she not a very beautiful girl?” Abuelita asks.
“Abuelita, stop,” Mayte says. She turns to me. “You don’t have to answer that.” Then back to Abuelita. “He does not have to answer that.”
“Yes, you do,” Abuelita says, waving the knife. “I had cancer. You must answer that.”
I shrug in a way that seems to crumble my body into itself. “I mean, like, of course, yeah,” I stammer, looking at Mayte. “Like, of course, I mean, of course you’re… you’re pretty.”
“Eat your arepa!” Mayte shouts at Abuelita.
Abuelita’s eyes are sparkling, and she grins at Mayte, pouring an excessive amount of salt onto the buttered arepa, folding it, and taking a bite.
Mayte passes me an arepa, and when our eyes meet, I can see the wisp of a smile on her face. I try not to smile back at her, but I can’t push it down. Then the arepa is in my hand, burning my palm.
“Ow!” I drop it on the table. “Sorry. That’s hot.”
“That’s because they’re freshly made,” Mayte says. She takes my arepa, cuts it open, and spreads butter on it, then pours (not sprinkles) salt, and puts it back in front of me. “There. You’re such a baby.”
“You are el autor? The author?” Abuelita asks with a full mouth.
I nod, taking a small bite of my arepa. It’s soft and incredibly salty. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“Can you read her something?” Mayte asks. “Like an excerpt?”
“I think I left my notebook in the car,” I say, starting to stand up.
“What if you just tell her about ‘Georgio’?” Mayte says, motioning for me to sit back down.
“That one’s kind of dark,” I say. “They’re all kinda dark, really.”
“Yeah, well, she’s kinda dark,” Mayte says. “She’ll like it.”
When I finish describing the story to Abuelita, she begins to clap her hands. “Qué chévere. More, more. Tell me more of your stories, Augustine. That is beautiful. You have such a great mind.” She passes me another arepa. “Y come más.”
“She thinks you’re too skinny and wants you to eat more,” Mayte whispers to me.
“Augustine,” Abuelita says, her accent wrapping around my name in a way I’ve never heard it pronounced. “Qué buen nombre para un escritor, ?no?”
I look at Mayte for the translation. She’s staring at the ceiling, and I can tell her brain is working, and then she looks at Abuelita. “?Escritor?”
“The writer,” Abuelita says.
Mayte smiles and looks at me. “What a good name for a writer.”
“Augustine,” Mom calls from downstairs.
“Mom,” I yell back. “I told you to give me a minute. I’m working on something.”
But I can already feel myself being pulled out of the fictional world I’ve been sitting in for the last hour or so since I got home from Mayte’s.
Or the mostly fictional world, anyway. My parents know they have to give me a few minutes to get completely out of my writing headspace or else I’m sitting at the dinner table, half eating mashed potatoes and half in a New York City apartment that I’ve never been to, still looking for an oven for the half-baked plot I’m stuck in.
Or in this case, half eating mashed potatoes and half in Mayte’s house.
“Janko’s here,” Dad calls.
I swirl in my chair. Janko? On a Friday night?
I throw open my door and run down the stairs to see Janko standing at the front door holding two bags of popcorn and a two-liter bottle of Coke.
Janko. On a Friday night. Alone. Not entangled with Leo to the point that it’s hard to tell where each one begins.
I look from him to Dad. “It’s family movie night,” I say.
“I know,” Janko says, raising the popcorn and soda in the air.
“What about Leo?” I ask.
Janko smiles and walks past me to the living room. He sets the soda and popcorn on the floor and sits between Mom and Kate, putting his arms around their shoulders. “I don’t know, I’ll check in with her later,” he says.
“You can invite her if you’d like,” Mom says. She turns and looks at me. “That’s Mayte’s cousin, right?”
Janko shakes his head. “It’s all good. I’m here with you all tonight.”
My heart drops. I wanted to hang out with Janko, but I didn’t want him and Leo to fall out. They’re perfect for each other. And if there’s a falling-out between them, then what does that mean for me and—
“Why do you look like you’re going to puke?” Janko asks. He looks at my family. “Someone give him vodka again?”
“Did… did you guys break up?” I say.
He laughs. “Hell no! That girl’s my soulmate.
” He stretches his legs out and reaches for a bag of popcorn.
“We just realized we’ve been a little gaga over each other to the point where we’ve been shutting everyone else out.
Didn’t feel very healthy. We decided it would be a good idea to spend more time with other people in our lives and—”
“She hanging out with Mayte?” I ask.
“She’s hanging out with Mayte,” he says.
“That’s very mature of you, Janko,” Dad says. “And sounds like you found yourself a great girl.”
“I really did,” Janko says, smiling.
“If she’s anything like Mayte, I’d assume so,” Mom says.
Kate leans her head onto Janko’s shoulder. “Mom and Dad are obsessed with Mayte.” She sighs. “Which is fair because I’m also kind of obsessed with Mayte.”
Janko laughs and nods at me. “And you?”
“I… I mean, obsessed is a lot. But we have been hanging out lately and—”