Free The River by Mary Jane Beaufrand Page B

wouldn’t be his sister or even his friend.
    He reached into another pocket, pulled out a flashlight, and pointed it at the banks.
    “So what are we looking for?” he said. And that was it. We both had a job to do. But I thanked some unknown deity (in the sky again rather than just around the bend), that Tomás was the one to come get me. I moved over to accommodate, and the two of us had an anti-race, trying to see how slow we could go, and what might be revealed.

It is a chilly fall evening. Karen and Tomás are hanging out, whispering in the kitchen over martini glasses of ceviche—a seafood cocktail in a tangy tomato base. It’s Spanish night so there are tapas, salty dishes with olives and Jamón Serrano, and if those don’t fill you up, pans of paella to be washed down with pitchers of bloodred sangria.
    Mom has hired an acoustic guitarist, a ponytailed guy in a gray vest who is out on the floor right now, his fingers tripping over strings at light speed in a lively but melancholy sound. In a surprise move, Gretchen is doing a table dance, flamenco style. She’s had no formal training but she’s donned a flouncy skirt and removed the Snoopy bandage over her nose ring. She oscillates like the bread attachment on Mom’s food processor. A gang has gathered around her, clapping and shouting E-pa! and trilling their tongues. Ai-yai-yai!
    Back here in the kitchen, which smells of saffron and capers, Mom has complicated our lives by insisting on serving ceviche in martini glasses. I’ve already broken three, they’re so top-heavy, they tilt at the vibration of a guitar string. But Mom says the stemware is necessary because it makes the shrimp and squid ring look classier, and she’s right.
    Karen and Tomás are leaning against a butcher block. Karen is forking calamari from her top-heavy glass with a plastic cocktail sword. She is a third of Tomás’ height, even when he’s slouching. She nudges him in the thigh and nods at me.
    Hey, guys, I say, unloading dirty dishes in the sink.
    Order up, Mom says. I reload for table seven.
    Hey, Ronnie, Tomás says, straightening to his full, lurching height. Do I notice him? Or do I notice Karen stamping hard on his foot? Hard to tell. It’s just a rustling in the corner of my eye as I pile plates on my tray, trying not to tip the ceviche glasses.
    Are you coming to the game on Friday? Tomás says.
    Of course.
    I go to all his basketball games and sit on the bleachers between Esperanza, his little sister, and my dad. Dad jumps up every so often to get us nachos with Squeez Cheez and stale donuts and root beer from the marching band concession stand. He always looks guilty as he does it but I don’t care. In our lives, stale, processed food is a rare treasure—an elaborate quartz in the middle of a brown thunderegg.
    Now, in the kitchen, Tomás looks to Karen, who gives him a “go ahead” motion. She even kicks him in the shins.
    Great, he grunts to me. Maybe…
    Veronica? Mom calls, shaking a curl out of her eyes. Her face is flushed with heat and stress. We have paying customers. I’ve got to get this food to table seven.
    Gimme a sec, I say to Tomás, and balance my tray carefully out the kitchen doors. No ceviche spillage this trip. Score one for me.
    When I come back in, I am ready to hear what he wants to tell me. I’m about to tell him okay, I’m here for you, at least until I have to jump up again, which is going to be instantly. I know I’m technically an only child but I’ll be Marcia Brady to your Greg. Together we’ll put the blend into blended family.
    But when I back through the swinging doors, I see something that unsettles me. Karen is reaching up to poke Tomás in the chest.
    You may look like the Hulk, she says, but you’re just a giant sissy. She spits with accusation. Tomás shrinks where he stands. At that moment Karen is taller than he is.
    When I ask him later about what he wanted to say, Tomás tells me it was nothing. When I question her