27. Beatriz Fifteen-Years-Old
Beatriz: Fifteen-Years-Old
It’s late afternoon and the heat is high, pressing up from the tiled terrace no matter how the breeze tries to help.
Mami has a cardigan over her sundress despite the high temperature—she’s been cold lately, even when everyone else is melting—and a glass of iced lemon tea sweats on the table between us.
We’re tucked under the shade, feet propped, looking out over the garden.
Down below, Alejandro and his dad are working together as usual. Every time he lifts a heavy planter, something in my chest does a small, ridiculous flip and I pretend it’s absolutely nothing.
He's just a friend.
Mami follows my gaze and smiles like she caught me writing his name with a heart in my diary. “He’s a good worker,” she says, easy and warm. “And handsome. That's a dangerous combination.”
“Mami,” I protest, drawing out the vowels. It doesn’t help. She’s grinning now.
“What?” She sips her tea, eyes on me over the rim. “I am old, not blind.”
“You’re not old.” I tug the edge of her cardigan higher on her shoulder. “And you’re nosy.”
“Sí.” She pats my cheek like she’s proud of it. “It is one of my talents. But, look how he listens to his father,” she says. “How he takes direction, and double checks. That tells you something.”
“That he wants to finish and go home?” I offer.
She cuts me a look. “That he has respect. That he pays attention.” She glances at me from the side. “And that he isn't looking up here every five minutes because he's shy and doesn't want you to catch him.”
My eyes snap back to the yard, like I can prove her wrong just by watching harder. He's not looking at me.
Correction, he is deliberately not looking at me, which is worse, because it proves her point.
I pick up my cup and pretend it takes all my focus to get the lemon slice to stay near the straw.
“You should see your face,” Mami says, a soft laugh in her voice. "You're so obvious, Beatriz."
“I’m not—” I start, then stop because lying to my own mother feels pointless. “We’re just friends.”
“Mm.” She hums like she’s heard this story for a hundred years. “Friends.”
“It’s true!”
“Claro.” She reaches for my hand and rubs her thumb over my knuckles. “I'm not teasing to be unkind, mija. I know you. Even when you're trying to hide things, I know.”
My throat tightens. She’s been saying that a lot lately—about knowing me, about seeing me—even when I try to act like everything is fine.
I hate the fatigue that has crept into her days.
I hate the cardigan in July. I hate that sometimes she presses her palm to her ribs and breathes shallow until the wave passes.
But here, right now, she feels like herself, sharp and bright, so I soak her in.
She looks back at the garden. “I like that boy,” she says, matter-of-fact. “He is a hard worker, and he cares a lot. You can see it.”
“He’s careful with everything,” I admit before I can stop myself. “Even the plants. He talks to them when he thinks no one is listening.”
Her eyebrows lift. “He talks to the plants?”
“Just little things,” I say quickly. “Like, ‘you’re okay’ or ‘we’re moving you to better light.’” I shrug. “It’s sweet.”
“Aha.” She smiles into her tea. “And when he talks to you?”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “Mami.”
“What?” She leans closer, conspiratorial. “He's your friend. Friends talk.”
“He… asks about school. About Andrea. About you.” I sneak another look at him. He’s kneeling now, steadying a terracotta pot while his father checks the level. The curve of his smile is small and private when he says something I can’t hear and his dad laughs. “And soccer. Always soccer.”
“Good,” she says. “He should have something that he loves, that he's passionate about.”
I watch him stand, palms braced on his thighs. He shakes his hair back, sweeps an arm across his forehead, and leaves a dirty streak. My heart is ridiculous.
Mami follows the motion, then glances at me again. “Your father doesn’t know how to read boys like that,” she says gently, without malice. “He sees jobs and grades, plans and class. He does not always see hearts first.” She squeezes my hand. “I see hearts.”
“I know,” I say, because I do. And I believe her, even when I still get embarrassed and try to hide, but I don't keep the conversation on me and Ale. "How are you feeling?” I ask, because I ask her this three times a day.
“Today?” She tips her head side to side. “I am okay. A little tired. A little cold. But I like being out here.” She pats the cushion beside her. “With you.”
I swallow, then nod.
She watches my face soften, then makes it a game again, to keep me from sinking. “So,” she says. “When he brings the ladder up, you will offer him water.”
“Mami,” I groan.
“Agua,” she insists. “With ice cubes. He is working hard.”
“They brought bottles.”
“And I'm sure it's no longer cold.” She points at the kitchen. “Go, por favor.”
I roll my eyes and stand because I am a lost cause where she’s concerned, especially when she says please.
In the kitchen, I put ice in three tall glasses, pour filtered water, and add lemon slices to be extra—even though I pretend not to be extra around him.
When I come back, she’s sitting a little straighter, pretending she wasn’t catching her breath.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods. “I am fine.”
I set the tray down, and that’s when I hear boots on the stairs from the side path. Alejandro steps onto the terrace first, holding the small ladder. Up close, the dirt streak on his forehead is even more obvious, and something about it makes me want to wipe it away with my thumb like a lunatic.
He pauses, glances at me, then at the tray. “Hi,” he says, a little flushed from the heat.
“Hi,” I echo, brilliant and smooth.
“Water?” Mami offers, like I didn’t just bring it for him specifically.
“Yes, please,” he says quickly, then shifts his weight like he’s not sure if he should take the glass from me or from my mother. I hand it to him and our fingers brush.
Neither of us dies, so that’s good.
“Thank you.” He looks at my mother, less awkward. “Senora Ayala, we’ll try to finish the trellis and the bougainvillea today. The soil’s good. It’ll take.”
“It’ll bloom like a miracle,” she tells him. “You’ll see.”
He nods, and for a second I swear he stands a little taller. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Take another glass down for your father,” she says, passing him one. “And tell him to sit when he finishes that side. I’ll pretend to yell at him if he doesn’t.”
He grins, a flash of boy. “I’ll tell him.”
He pivots, then glances back. “Do you need anything before I go down? Shade okay? Fan okay?”
“We are perfect,” Mami says. “Go work.”
He heads down, light on the steps, and I stand there holding the tray with one water because I've forgotten what to do with it. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me, warm and amused.
I hand her the water, avoiding her gaze. If I look at her right now, I’ll give everything away. She lets me collect myself before she goes in again.
“Beatriz,” she says. “Listen to me.” I look up because her voice has changed. “Don’t push away happiness when it stands in front of you. You hear me?”
I nod because I’m not sure I can trust my voice.
“He cares for you,” she says. “He is gentle. He pays attention. I am not telling you to run away and marry him tonight,” she jokes, light returning. “I am telling you to be honest with yourself. You are allowed to love a boy who brings you flowers from the ditch and makes you laugh.”
“They were tiny yellow flowers,” I mutter, smiling.
“Weeds,” she says, smiling back.
I groan and hide my face. “Stop remembering everything.”
“Never.” She hooks my finger with hers. “I like him for you.”
“Me too,” I admit, so quietly I barely hear it.
We watch them finish the trellis for a while longer. When they’re done for the moment, Alejandro starts up the stairs again, a coil of twine in one hand.
He stops at the terrace edge and doesn’t cross the threshold until Mami waves him forward. Polite even in sweat and dirt. “Need anything else up here?” he asks.
“Just to know you’ll sit for a minute,” she says. “Come.” She pats the chair to her other side. “Rest.”
He glances at the yard, checks on his dad, then looks back. “A minute,” he agrees, like saying no to her is impossible.
He lowers himself carefully, as if he's afraid of getting it dirty. He sets the twine on the table and folds his hands like he’s in church. My mother hands him a napkin and nods to his forehead.
He blinks. “Oh.” He wipes the streak and looks immediately less smudged, which is somehow worse for my heart.
“You eat yet?” she asks.
“Not since breakfast,” he says. “We’ll eat after we’re done here.”
She frowns at the ladder. “You climb on an empty stomach?”
“We take turns,” he says. “It’s okay.”
“Eat a banana at least,” she scolds gently. “And take the cookies Beatriz baked.”
“I did not bake cookies,” I say, offended on principle.
“She will bake them,” my mother corrects smoothly, eyes dancing. “Later. After you finish.” She tilts her head. “How’s school?”
“Good,” he says. “I mean, math is good. History is… not math.”
Mami laughs. “History is stories. You like stories?”
He glances at me for help, then back at her. “I like the stories Beatriz tells better.”
My face burns.
Great. Perfect.
“Smart boy,” my mother says, satisfied. “And soccer?”
“It’s… good,” he says, and something bright moves through his voice. “Coach says I read plays well. We’re working on my first touch.”
“You’ll show me sometime,” she says. “I like watching you play.”
His eyes go soft. “Sí, senora.”
From the yard, his father calls his name. He’s up in a second, respectful, but he lingers just long enough to look at me. “Thanks for the water,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I manage.
He leans in, not as close as he could, not as far as he wants, and taps the knuckles of the hand my mother isn’t holding. It’s nothing. It’s everything. Then he takes the ladder back down, sets it, and the work starts again.
We sit in a hush that isn’t awkward at all. My mother breathes a little deeper and closes her eyes against the sun. After a while, the yard is quieter. Tools clink together. And then, Alejandro is climbing the steps one last time.
He stops short when he sees the cardigan slipped lower on my mother’s shoulder. His brow pulls. “Do you need anything before we go?” he asks, no joke in it. “Another blanket?”
“I am fine,” she says, but she lets him lift the cardigan and settle it carefully. He has big hands, but they move so gently over her.
“Thank you, Alejandro,” she says softly. “You take such good care.”
His mouth does that quiet smile again. “I try.”
She looks at him for a second longer than is polite and then nods toward the house. “Go wash your hands. Beatriz will pack cookies.”
“I will—” I start, and she lifts an eyebrow. “—pack cookies.”
He laughs, grateful, and bolts inside to the powder room off the hall. I stand to follow, but my mother catches my wrist and tugs me back down so our faces are close.
“Listen,” she whispers. “That boy is your forever, mi hijita. Remember I said it.”
I know better than to argue.
He comes back, hands clean, hair damp at the temples from splashing water on his face. I hand him a small bag with the good store-bought cookies I will absolutely re-plate later and lie about. He takes it like it’s a gift with meaning.
“Gracias,” he says, and then to my mother, softer, “Gracias, senora.”
“De nada,” she says. “Go. Rest. Tell your father I said he is not allowed to pretend he is twenty.”
He grins. “I’ll try.”
He leaves again, but not without one more glance, quick and hopeful.
He doesn’t trip on the stairs, which feels unfair because I could barely stand up without my knee knocking the table.
I watch him join his dad by the truck, the two of them moving easily side by side as they load the last things.
They speak briefly; his father looks up toward us, lifts a hand, and I lift mine back.
Then the engine turns over, and they pull away slow along the drive.
My mother leans into me and sighs like she just finished something important. I tuck her closer and rest my head against hers.
“You okay?” I ask again.
“I am,” she says. “More than okay. My bougainvillea is planted, my daughter is in love, and I got to drink tea with my feet up. Qué lujo.”
“That’s luxury?” I tease.
“Of course.” She taps my chin. “And you will go inside and bake cookies before your lie becomes a sin.”
I laugh and stand and kiss her forehead. “Okay, Mami.”
What am I supposed to do when she's gone?