Free Signal to Noise by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

three afternoons a week, saying “yes miss” and “no miss”, his sneakers squeaking over the floor as he moved to put the plastic bags in the shopping cart. He certainly knew that the boys and girls at school made fun of him because of that, giggling whenever they were in the checkout line with their parents; lofty because they didn’t have to scramble for a few pesos, stretch their hands like urchins, make their money from tips in dirty change. He was a cerillo , a nothing, a thin kid wearing a black vest and a tie as he packed and packed groceries and dreamed of Europe.
    Sebastian lay on his bed and stretched his arms, staring at the ceiling, the acid memory of the taunts the boys had yelled at him still fresh, still ringing in his ears. He felt his muscles relaxing in the pleasant darkness, his eyelids fluttering close to sleep.
    Romualdo walked in and turned on the light. He was tall, just like Sebastian, but his brother seemed better proportioned, better looking, better prepared overall. He gave Sebastian an indifferent glance.
    “I need to phone Margarita, asshole.”
    That was his girlfriend. She was pretty and nice enough, but Sebastian didn’t like it when she came around because Romualdo kicked him out of the bedroom so he could have sex with her. Sebastian then had to wander around the block or take a ride on the motorcycle, and sometimes he really didn’t want to go out but there was no reasoning with Romualdo.
    Or, just like now, Romualdo would phone Margarita and that also meant Sebastian needed to step out because he wanted some privacy. Funny how Romualdo had the right to privacy, but Sebastian didn’t have the right to anything.
    “Phone her.”
    “Go to the living room.”
    Sebastian grabbed his backpack and shuffled out of the room. Romualdo closed the door.
    Sebastian tried to read, then gave up and turned on the television. He rested his chin against the arm of the couch and watched a Timbiriche music video. They were singing Tu Y Yo Somos Uno Mismo. The lyrics and the images were incredibly corny: a man and a woman running together on the beach, a tear slipping down the woman’s cheek, the kiss and the catchy, pop tune. Meche would have hated it.
    But Sebastian wanted it. He wanted that corny, fabricated music video universe in which a couple could pop up from under the waves, water dripping from their bodies, embracing each other.
    He had nothing of that. Just the book in his lap, the ratty couch and the cat which now drifted next to him, rubbing against his leg.
    He supposed he never would, now that Meche’s spell had failed.
    Sebastian turned off the TV set.

 
     
    Mexico City, 2009
     
     
    I T WASN’T THAT Meche hated Lorenzo. She just had never taken to him. After her parents’ divorce, her mother’s swift remarriage had left her a little breathless and Meche had never felt quite at home after he moved in. It wasn’t anything that he did or said, but she knew she was an intruder whenever she visited. Two brief Christmas vacations in Mexico City had convinced Meche there was no reason for her to ever set foot in that apartment again. The third Christmas, when she asked if her mother could fly to Monterrey instead, Lorenzo happily paid for the plane ticket. After graduation, when she secured a job in Europe, Lorenzo had also been instrumental in soothing any fears of distances and dangers. Meche knew that, as far as Lorenzo was concerned, the less he saw of Natalia’s taciturn daughter, the better.
    “Did you make much progress today?” Lorenzo asked, trying to make polite conversation.
    “My father had a lot of things,” she said. “It’s hard going through all of it.”
    “How many records did he have?” Jimena asked, grabbing another piece of sweet bread from the centre basket.
    “Thousands.”
    “Is that all he had?”
    The question was crass, but then again so was Jimena with her bright red nails and her bright red smile. Since when had she become so cozy with her