Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World (Aristotle and Dante #2)(14)

I live in a confusion called love. I see you take a perfect dive and I think of how perfect you are. And then you get angry with me because I don’t want to spend all my time with you. But a part of me does want to spend all my time with you. And I know that’s not possible—and it isn’t even a good idea. It isn’t logical to think that I don’t love you just because I think it’s not a good idea to go to the same school. And then you want me to talk more and then suddenly you tell me not to talk. You’re so not logical. You’re not logical at all. I guess that’s part of the reason I love you. But it’s also the reason that you make me crazy.

I had a dream last night about my brother again. It’s the same dream. I don’t really understand my dreams and why they’re inside me and what they do. He’s always standing on the other side of the river. I’m in the United States. He’s in Mexico. I mean, we live in different countries—I guess that’s true enough. But I want so much to talk to him. He might be a nicer guy than people give him credit for—yeah, fucked-up and stuff, but maybe not completely corrupt. No one is completely corrupt. Am I right about that? Or maybe he’s just a miserable fucking asshole and his life is a complete fucking tragedy. Either way, I’d like to know. So that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life wondering about a brother whose vague memory resides inside me like a splinter in your hand that can’t be removed. That’s how it feels. Dante, if your mom has a boy—if you get that brother you’ve always wanted—love him. Be good to him. So when he grows up, he won’t be haunted by bad dreams.



My mother walked into the room as I was writing in my journal. “I think that’s a great idea,” she said, “to keep a journal.” And then she noticed the journal I was writing in. “Ophelia gave that to you, didn’t she?”

I nodded. I thought she was going to cry. She started to say something—then changed her mind. But then she said, “Why don’t you and Dante go camping for a few days before school starts? You used to love to go camping.”

Now it was me who was going to cry. But I didn’t. I didn’t. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to hug her and hug her.

We just sort of smiled at each other—and I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but I just couldn’t. I just, I don’t know. Sometimes I had beautiful words living inside of me and I just couldn’t push those words out so that other people could see they were there.

“So, what do you think about the camping idea?”

I didn’t want to show her how damned excited I was, so I very calmly said, “Mom, I think you’re brilliant.” She knew. She knew how to read that grin I was wearing.

“I just made your day, didn’t I?”

I looked at her with that wiseass look on my face that said I’m not going to go there.

And she looked back at me with that kind of sweet but self-satisfied look that said, I did. I did make your day. And then she laughed. I liked the way we could sometimes talk to each other without using words.

And then she dropped this bomb: “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. Your sisters want to take you to lunch.”

“Lunch? Mom…”

“You know, you’re not such a boy anymore—and when you get close to being an adult, you start doing what adults do—go to lunch with family, with friends.”

“You told them, didn’t you?”

“I did tell them, Ari.”

“Shit! Mom, I—”

“They’re your sisters, Ari, and they love you. They want to be supportive. What’s so bad about that?”

“But did you have to tell them?”

“Well, you weren’t going to tell them. And they shouldn’t be the last to know; they’d be hurt.”

“Well, I’m hurt that you told them without my permission.”

“I’m your mother. I don’t need your permission. I get to tell my children what I think they need to know.”

“But they’re so bossy. They don’t even think I’m a person. They used to dress me as if I was some kind of doll when I was little. And they were always telling me what to do. And don’t touch this, and don’t touch that either cuz I’ll kill you. Ugh.”

“My, how you’ve suffered, Angel Aristotle Mendoza.”

“That’s pretty snarky, Mom.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I am mad at you.”

“I’m sure you’ll get over it soon.”

“Yup,” I said. “Are they going to interview me? Are they going to ask me all kinds of questions I won’t be able to answer?”

“They’re not journalists, Ari—they’re your sisters.”

“Can I invite Dante to come along?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. For the very reason you want to invite him to come along. He’ll do all the talking and you’ll just sit there and watch the whole thing play out. I love Dante, and I won’t have you use him as a front man just because you don’t want to talk about things that make you uncomfortable.”

“Which is most things.”

“Yup.”

“I talk to you, Mom, don’t I?”