ONE LATE AFTERNOON, DANTE CAME OVER TO MY house and
introduced himself to my parents. Who did stuff like that? “I’m Dante Quintana,” he said.
“He taught me how to swim,” I said. I don’t know why, but I just needed to confess that fact to my parents. And then I looked at my mom. “You said don’t drown—so I found someone to help me keep my promise.”
My dad glanced at my mom. I think they were smiling at each other.
Yeah, they were thinking, he’s finally found a friend. I hated that.
Dante shook my dad’s hand—then handed him a book. “I brought you a gift,” he said.
I stood there and watched him. I’d seen the book on a coffee table in his house. It was an art book filled with the work of Mexican painters. He seemed so adult, not like a fifteen-year-old at all. Somehow, even his long hair that he didn’t like to comb made him seem more adult.
My dad smiled as he studied the book—but then he said, “Dante, this is really very generous—but I don’t know if I can accept this.” My dad held the book carefully, afraid to damage it. He and my mother exchanged glances. My mom and dad did a lot of that. They liked to talk without talking. I made up things about what they said to each other with those looks.
“It’s about Mexican art,” Dante said. “So you have to take it.” I could almost see his mind working as he thought of a convincing argument. A convincing argument that was true. “My parents didn’t want me to come over here empty-handed.” He looked at my dad very seriously. “So you have to take it.”
My mother took the book from my father’s hands and looked at the cover. “It’s a beautiful book. Thank you, Dante.”
“You should thank my dad. It was his idea.”
My father smiled. That was the second time in less than a minute that my father had smiled. This was not a common occurrence. Dad was not big on smiling.
“Thank your father for me, will you, Dante?”
My father took the book and sat down with it. As if it was some kind of treasure. See, I didn’t get my dad. I could never guess how he would react to things. Not ever.
