Ice Shock(4)

Then in some weird way, I start to enjoy it. Somehow, it’s like seeing my dad alive again. Even though we keep playing out the same little scene, it feels real. I sense his presence again. That’s way better than nothing. I go to sleep and I’m hoping the dream is going to happen again.





2


My recurring dream is something I don’t want to think about. Just remembering that Montoyo and Benicio know about it makes me cringe.

Get some therapy?

It’s the last thing I want to talk about. That’s why I was blogging … so much easier when there’s no face-to-face reaction.

And the dream is definitely not something I can discuss with Mom.

Things were better between Mom and me when we came back from Mexico, but only for a while. It didn’t take long to figure out that she’d been taking extra-special care not to upset me. I really scared everyone, going missing in Mexico like that. Every so often I can almost see the question forming itself on her lips.

What on earth happened to you?

And yet Mom never, never dares to ask. Not seriously—not in a way that might mean I’d actually tell her the truth.

Mom recovered a bit when she found out that Camila was Dad’s long-lost daughter, that Dad’s murder wasn’t connected to any funny business with a woman. We had some nice conversations about Camila and the afternoon that I spent with her. (Unbelievable to think it was only that …) A couple of times, I got a bit down and Mom would comfort me.

But deep down we both know that we’re still in the dark about what happened to Dad.

Maybe Mom made a secret pact, a vow or something, because ever since I came back from Mexico, she’s started going to church regularly. Every Sunday, and at least once during the week. I’ve caught her with rosary beads too. She’s asked me to go with her, many times. I always make excuses.

We’re coming up to our first Christmas without Dad. I can sense the stress piling on.

“Let’s do Christmas in a restaurant this year,” she says one morning, just a little too brightly.

“Nah … doesn’t seem right.”

“Then let’s make a thing of it. Go to a hotel, splurge a bit.”

“A hotel? Where?”

“The Cotswolds somewhere. You pick.”

“Okay,” I say. “Bibury. That hotel where we had lunch that time.”

Mom’s face drops. “Not Bibury.”

Of course she doesn’t want to go back to that hotel in Bibury; it was Dad’s favorite. If the point of going away for Christmas is to avoid thinking about Dad, then Bibury is sure to spoil her plan.

But I don’t want to avoid thinking about Dad. So, I put my foot down. “If it’s not that hotel in Bibury, then I’m not going. I’d rather stay here—at least we’ve got good TV.”

Mom just blanches. A few months ago I’d have gotten yelled at for talking to her like that. Somehow, not now. What’s changed? Is it Mom, or me?

I can see this argument coming back to haunt me one of these days.

In the meantime, Mom tries again to get me interested in “culture.” Culture! I’m still trying to get a grip on what happened in Ek Naab and all this Mayan heritage it turns out I have—now Mom wants me to go to museums and concerts. She’s terrified of going anywhere alone, that’s what it is. How can I refuse?

Today, however, Mom hits upon a winning strategy, a way to ensure I’m not just dragged along in a sulk. She invites Ollie to join us.

Mom’s put her finger right on my weak spot.

Ollie had to go away with her family for a few weeks after we returned from Mexico. And I didn’t see too much of Tyler either. So I’ve been hanging out with a girl from school named Emmy. We have one of those on-again-off-again friendships. Good friends in elementary school, then her folks split up. She moved away from Oxford to live with her dad, but now this semester she’s back. Guess things didn’t work out so well with her father. She’s one of those girls who like to watch boys at the skate park. And like all girls, she talks a lot. Which suits me fine—saves me the trouble.

Tyler, though—that’s a tricky issue. We were never what you’d call close friends; we only really met at capoeira. Mexico didn’t help. Tyler is still mad at me for the fact that he and Ollie wound up being interrogated by those NRO guys. He’s even angrier that weeks and even months later, I’m still tight as a clam on the subject of what really happened.

I stick with the UFO abduction story, even though I think he sees right through that.

I need Tyler, though, that’s the thing. He’s the best capoeira player in our age range, and I need the practice. We’ve even had our official “baptisms” now: ceremonies where you get a corda and an apelido—a color-coded belt and a capoeira nickname.