My grandmother said I had no respect and “nice Ecuadorian girls don’t act like you.” But aren’t I supposed to be a “nice American girl” now? What does it mean to be Ecuadorian when they didn’t even show me how to do it? I’m not the one who packed up all our things, got on a KLM flight, and started a new life. I’m not the one who chose this, so why am I the one who is left to figure it out on my own? What does it mean to be American when everyone we know is an immigrant? Is it the same exact thing? Can I be both things? It feels like I’m just supposed to have the answers to these questions but how am I supposed to figure anything out when it seems to me that communication is not one of the languages my family speaks?
Anyway, we get through the dance like we practiced. The chambelan who escorted me only stepped on my feet once. I think he was my tía’s coworker’s son. He didn’t talk much, which was a relief. The twenty minutes of dancing were the quietest I’ve had in forever.
But then, it was all over, and I saw him. Miguel. My brain went foggy and all the strobe lights and confetti made me feel like I was in the middle of a music video. Why was he there? His familiar frown split into a smile when he saw me. Warmth spread from my aching toes to my belly and settled right in my chest.
Miguel was starting to walk over to me when Horacia blocked his path and faced me.
“You made Ronaldo break up with me,” she shouted over the music.
“I didn’t do anything! I told him what you called me.”
“You’re such a little kid, Paola,” she said. “Why can’t you just take a joke?”
“Because some things aren’t funny. You can’t just say things like that and act like you’re not trying to hurt someone. I don’t know what I ever did to you, but I don’t want to be your friend.”
The next part I’m not so clear about. I know that in that moment Ronaldo and Alyssa were dancing. He spun her around and they looked happy. Sweet, even. Horacia whirled away from me. I thought that she was going to make a scene, so I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her. At the same time, she shoved me away.
I should have let go.
I should have done a lot of things differently. I should have tried to understand my mother more. Tried to be a better cousin to Gabby for her quince. Figured out how to use my voice to speak without having to write it down. I should have tried to learn to walk in heels. If I had, then maybe I wouldn’t have lost my balance and tumbled right into the five-tiered cake covered in buttercream flowers. I might have saved the cake table from flipping over and landing on top of three other damas, and then in turn, stopped those damas from crashing into a waiter carrying a giant tray of drinks.
Maybe things happen for a reason. Everyone says that but I can’t tell what’s true or what’s an accident. If my dad had never cheated on my mom, would she have wanted to stay in Ecuador? If I hadn’t had a fight with my mom, would I have dyed my hair? If I hadn’t caused a complete and utter scene I wouldn’t have had my Uncle Toto drive me home and I wouldn’t have stayed alone in his car while he went to get gas.
I wouldn’t have seen his cell phone light up with a message from someone named David that said: Everything will be all right. I love you. You are my life.
I remembered the name on the lease right next to my uncle’s. David Santos. David who loved my uncle. David who was the real reason my ñaño Toto was in a better mood. I wonder, what does it mean to be someone’s life?
When he got back in the car, I sat with my sticky hands on my lap staring at the car in front of us. He turned on the music—our favorite Enanitos Verdes song. He drove and gripped the wheel tight. He didn’t bring up the mess I’d made or what I had said to him about not being my dad. I wanted to take it back, because he is what my father could never be. He was there.
But I don’t know how to talk about things that matter. Sometimes I wonder if silence is something you can inherit from your family like dark hair or the shape of your teeth or the nose you think you’ll never grow into. I wonder if you can leave the bad things in a country you will maybe never see again. I wonder if I’m too young to think about these things, but I don’t know what else I’m supposed to be thinking about when no one talks.
“I was going to tell you about David,” Ñaño Toto said. “I wanted to tell you before the others. You know you’re my number one person.”
“Then why are you leaving?” But I knew why. I had a feeling in my gut. Also, I had read the text message that wasn’t meant for me.
“Because I met someone. I love him and we want to start a life together.” He looked at me. I made sure that I didn’t
