The Moon Within Read online

  after the movie. Can you believe it? A nightmare!

  Iván waves his arms and imitates a screaming Pedro.

  I giggle to imagine Pedro thrashing in his bed

  because he’s got to be almost six feet though thin as a pin

  but then my laughing grows partly because

  my stomach is a ball of nerves.

  I double over

  suspended in breath

  in that quiet

  right before I

  explode

  with laughter.

  Celi, what’s going on?

  Why are you laughing with this creep?

  I am disarmed, my laughing slows

  but the happy orange warmth

  for Iván doesn’t leave my chest.

  Iván turns to Marco and flails

  his arms at him too.

  Come on Mar, see, he’s harmless.

  I hope Marco will get his humor.

  Hey, Magda, can your hair get any butchier?

  Iván flings the question at Marco

  looking for another laugh.

  I’m Mar, not Magda, you idiot!

  And I can’t be a butch when I’m …

  He pauses as if wasting his breath,

  Can you be any stupider, Iván? Marco finishes.

  He’s Mar now, Iván, I manage to inject.

  Iván bursts out laughing.

  You’re the funniest-looking Mar I’ve ever seen!

  Marco turns to me, his eyes tearing to shreds.

  You call this harmless, Celi?

  How could you defend such a jerk?

  Before I can really remember my promise

  to help Marco I sass,

  Oh c’mon, Marco, give him a break

  not everyone is going to understand

  your changes from one day to the next.

  Not everyone’s got moms in a women’s circle like us.

  Marco steps back in disbelief.

  A shadowlike hurt travels across his face

  when he storms,

  Celi! He knows about everything now

  because of your big mouth!

  I know he did not recognize me.

  I did not recognize myself.

  Marco is my amifriend

  but right now I want

  Iván to like me more.

  Want to be invited

  to the movies again

  for him to hold my hand again

  maybe learn to do

  fancy skateboard tricks

  and go to the

  skate park

  with him too.

  My locket lies open on

  a shore of a sea

  of confusion

  steady sand grounds my feet

  like Marco—best amifriend forever

  but the waves of Iván

  crash into me

  a foam that wraps around my legs

  sends a tingle through my body

  and swarms my heart

  with a feeling of

  first love?

  His tide draws me

  wants me

  to swim

  in the thrill

  of those waters

  no matter if he’s been mean

  once or twice

  and I could drown.

  Though I hear Marco’s voice calling my name

  waves feel stronger than sand.

  Maybe with time, he will

  learn to be cool with Marco.

  I reason.

  I hope.

  The next time I see Marco

  at school, he looks the other way

  hides the bright teeth that spread joy.

  Passes by me in the hall as if I don’t exist

  and the next time

  and the next.

  I can’t blame him.

  So I shoo away the emptiness I feel

  by pretending to be writing

  in my notebook but really playing

  MASH a million times.

  I rig it by writing:

  Iván

  Iván

  Iván

  Iván

  in all four slots of possible husbands.

  This way, I will marry Iván no matter

  if I drive a beat-up car

  have ten children

  live in a shack.

  I avoid Aurora’s suspicious beetle eyes

  for just a few more days before summer break.

  Instead, I wonder

  what Iván is eating for lunch and

  who he is talking to at this very moment.

  Will there be a text from him

  waiting

  for me when I get home?

  I sit next to Marco during class

  so that Papi doesn’t suspect

  that Marco’s not speaking to me.

  I don’t try to look for his eyes.

  Marco shuffles his body to

  the opposite side of the chair

  inch by inch, away from me.

  Don’t think he wants Papi

  to know either

  but I can’t be sure.

  Papi always sprinkles his lessons

  with drum wisdom nobody asks for,

  The African tradition of the drum

  helps heal mental illness, problems of any kind

  the layered rhythms they provide

  soothe the brain with left and right brain communication

  and ignite the body to stir out of its rut

  from any place it might be stuck.

  Maybe it was the drum that helped Marco

  find his way to himself and not Iván at all.

  Marco stays after class to speak to Papi

  though his own dad is waiting in the car.

  I hang out in the far corner watching

  I don’t hear them but I wonder

  if Marco is telling on me

  or if Papi is teaching Marco

  how to sing from within

  how to tune

  the drum inside himself.

  When Marco leaves, I help Papi and Juju

  put away the remaining drums.

  My eyes squint while I wait for a scolding

  but instead he says,

  Marco lleva la música por dentro.

  She, I mean, HE carries the music deep inside

  like Juju and you, Celi.

  My eyes pop open while I point to my chest—me?

  Except your body is your instrument.

  That’s why you two make such great partners.

  I almost smile and shake my head

  hoping the guilt I feel will scoot off

  like a nagging bug, but it doesn’t.

  You can’t have dance without music.

  Papi keeps talking …

  but I don’t register any more words.

  Betraying Marco feels like

  a huge bug has landed on my head

  and its shameful venom drips down

  like egg on my face.

  Summer solstice swept away

  the last days

  of school like a swift broom.

  Marco is nowhere.

  My parents force me to come

  to a community solstice celebration

  at Lake Merritt where

  large layers of smooth grass extend

  out from the gray-green water.

  All of Oakland’s colors

  are a rainbow

  splashed and

  spread across the park.

  Salseros dance a rueda on the concrete flat near the arches.

  A hip-hop cypher’s going off near the barbecue pits

  and there’s a capoeira roda over near the playground.

  Others picnic or

  run

  walk

  skate

  ride

  around the paths

  while the 580 freeway roars

  like a swarm of locusts above our heads.

  Then there’s my family who

  sets up our batey
/>   in a sunny grassy field

  littered with geese poop.

  Now that I’m here, I feel

  the warm sun

  soothe my grump.

  But then I see

  Aurora’s family, the Camachos

  begin to load in.

  I wish it were Marco’s family

  arriving.

  Mima, can you text Teresa?

  Ask if they are coming?

  Okay, mija, let me see.

  She fumbles with her phone.

  I help Mima lay out

  our gray-and-white-striped Mexican blanket

  and put out the food:

  nopal salad and tostadas

  black beans and rice

  and Papi’s garlic chicken.

  I check her phone for an answer.

  Nothing.

  Papi’s tuning the drums

  and Juju hit the playground

  the moment we got here.

  I follow Mima’s eyes

  searching for Juju

  and then I spot him!

  Iván, near the playground

  standing over a woman

  with long black locks

  spiraled into a ponytail

  reading a book

  not too far from the capoeira roda.

  Isn’t that your friend Iván? Mima asks.

  Um, yeah.

  Looks like that might be his mom. I’m

  going to say hi. Mima rises.

  You coming, Celi?

  No!

  It’s a good thing I’m sitting

  because I fall back into the blanket

  and cover my eyes with my hands.

  Okay, suit yourself.

  I peek through my fingers and watch

  Iván greet Mima with his wonky smile

  and introduce her to the woman, who really

  does look like she could be his mom.

  Mima sits on their blanket

  and points over at me!

  Iván begins to walk over.

  I wish Mama Earth would swallow me whole

  but all I can do is press my fingers tighter to my eyes

  pretend to be asleep

  and pray that Mama Earth is hungry.

  Too much light for you, Celi? Iván squawks.

  He plops down next to me.

  I peel myself up from the blanket.

  Force a hi.

  Iván’s curls sway in the breeze

  behind him, the lake’s water reflects the solstice sun

  makes it look like he’s got an aura of lava around him.

  His voice breaks again.

  So when’s your dad gonna play?

  I dunno, it’s a free-for-all.

  I’m really beginning to like bomba.

  I can tell.

  Really? You’ve seen me hella stalk your class, eh?

  I shrug and answer,

  You don’t have to be Puerto Rican to play bomba

  you know.

  No?

  Marco’s Mexican and he plays, I want to say

  but instead I say,

  Well, no. You aren’t Brazilian

  and you play capoeira. Right?

  It’s a feeling, and you know

  if it’s got you and you’ve got it.

  Before we know it

  our moms are laughing

  and eating together

  and the bomba drums

  and the cantos

  are fired up.

  Iván’s capoeira master, Mestre Tamborim,

  whistles Iván over for his turn to play in the roda.

  I exhale for the first time

  since he sat there

  but then I hold my breath

  again

  when he says,

  Be right back.

  I dig through Mima’s purse

  for her phone.

  Now I hope Marco’s not coming!

  Teresa answered:

  Sorry amiga, Marco’s

  not feeling well.

  Let’s connect in a couple

  of weeks when you and the

  kids get back from LA. Okay?

  A tornado of relief and worry unleashes inside me.

  It’ll be another two weeks without Marco

  and a trip to LA I didn’t even know about!

  And Marco’s not feeling well?

  I’ve got to tell Mima

  maybe one of her herbal concoctions

  will make him better.

  But what if it’s me?

  Maybe Marco’s

  sick of me.

  I see Aurora go over

  to the capoeira circle

  to watch Iván, of course

  to see him clap his hands

  to the music

  and wait for his turn

  to battle-dance

  in the roda.

  I turn away thinking

  Iván didn’t sit next to her and she knows it.

  I look over at Papi playing the lead drum, the primo.

  He points his lips at the center of our batey.

  Though I hesitate to grab my skirt because

  there is no one like my echo

  I remember what Papi told us

  about our black Puerto Rican

  ancestors who created bomba.

  They would dance and drum

  after a long day’s work

  as slaves on the plantations

  to erase their pains.

  It is how they kept their spirits alive.

  If they lifted their skirts when

  they were tired and hurt

  I have no room to complain.

  Then, I think about all the circles

  I see and know:

  the Puerto Rican batey

  the salsa rueda

  the capoeira roda

  the Mexica círculo

  the drum

  this lake

  the sun

  the moon.

  I’ve got to get up and get into the circle

  for a solstice bomba dance for all of us.

  Iván comes back

  in time to see

  me hit my last piquete

  and Papi’s last drum response.

  When I come out of the batey

  Iván’s sitting with Mima

  AND Aurora on our blanket!

  Every one of my nerve endings cringes.

  Too late to turn around because

  my feet are already walking that way.

  My fingers go straight to my chewing teeth

  and when I arrive Mima scorns,

  Celi, las manos.

  You killed it, Celi, Iván beams right into me.

  Mima shines, I could watch her dance forever.

  Before I can say thank you

  Aurora snaps,

  You were off time, you know.

  I was suspending time, genius.

  You’d know that if you

  knew about rhythm.

  Iván snickers through his nose

  in the cutest way.

  Celi, be nice, Mima’s voice is seriously low.

  Aurora shrugs,

  I do know about rhythm

  because I’m full Puerto Rican

  not like some people.

  She clears her throat

  and rolls her eyes sideways.

  If Mima weren’t here I’d be

  tackling Aurora to the ground

  and pushing her into the

  stripes of the blanket.

  Mima reaches over and gently swats my

  hand out of my mouth, knows

  that maybe I’m thinking

  something devious.

  What you doing next week, Celi?

  Iván asks suddenly.

  You wanna go to the skate park?

  Aurora jumps in, sounds fun, which one

  are we going to?

  I glare at her.

  Iván crinkles his face

  in an are-you-crazy kind of way.

 
I was asking Celi!

  I can’t help but beam

  a big fat so-silly grin

  to see Aurora’s

  shoulders

  shrink

  into a frown.

  When I answer,

  That’ll be cool.

  I don’t tell either of them that

  next week, I’ll probably be in LA

  missing the skate park

  with Iván.

  Yeya, my six aunts

  and my cousins in Los Angeles

  are a woven rug

  of laughter and bickering

  that always welcomes us

  with the Mexican warmth

  of LA’s desert heat.

  Though Papi stays behind

  this time

  because of a gig

  and my locket is more

  achy than ever without Marco

  LA feels like home too.

  El-A is:

  Yeya and her cazuelas

  filled with beans and amor.

  Tias who wear

  too-tight clothes and

  manicured nails

  to work at dentist offices

  and in computer programming

  and in real estate

  and to stay at home with their kids …

  Cousins too young to hang out

  with me but who are the perfect

  half dozen to

  dog pile on Juju

  during water balloon fights.

  I escape to Yeya’s brick patio

  to the hammock beneath the avocado tree.

  Though it is daytime, I see a faint sliver of Luna

  peeking through the big leaves.

  I sneak the tablet and text Marco

  but he doesn’t answer.

  He seems as far away as Luna.

  I ignore Iván’s text about the skate park.

  I don’t care that Iván’s tide is waning.

  While I rock

  back and forth

  forth and back

  I notice how all of Yeya’s

  plantas—the sábila

  the yerba santa

  the hydrangeas

  the roses

  the jacalosúchil

  have found a way to grow

  no matter the cold cement

  that surrounds them.

  Like Marco

  a xochihuah

  who’s put up

  with the awful

  concrete of me.

  As if she can read minds

  Yeya asks me about Marco

  when she finds me on the

  hammock.

  I play it off

  I dunno, Yeya, I haven’t seen him for weeks.

  Yeya’s soft round hands

  stroke my hair as she showers

  me with sweet Spanish

  words that never feel heavy like Mima’s.

  You have to be strong for him, Celi.

  He doesn’t have an easy road.

  I only nod my betraying head

  too ashamed to speak.