ONE DAY, AFTER SWIMMING, DANTE AND I WENT WALKING
around. We stopped at the 7-Eleven. He bought a Coke and peanuts.
I bought a PayDay.
He offered me a drink from his Coke. “Don’t like Cokes,” I said.
“That’s weird.” “Why?’
“Everybody likes Cokes.” “I don’t.”
“What do you like?” “Coffee and tea.” “That’s weird.
“Okay, I’m weird. Shut up.”
He laughed. We walked around. I guess we just didn’t want to go home. We talked about stuff. Stupid stuff. And then he asked me, “Why do Mexicans like nicknames?”
“I don’t know. Do we?”
“Yes. You know what my aunts call my mom? They call her Chole.” “Is her name Soledad?”
“See what I mean, Ari? You know. You know the nickname for Soledad. It’s like in the air. What’s that about? Why can’t they just call her Soledad? What’s this Chole business? Where do they get Chole from?”
“Why does it bother you so much?” “I don’t know. It’s weird.”
“Is that the word of the day?”
He laughed and downed some peanuts. “Does your mother have a nickname?”
“Lilly. Her name’s Liliana.” “That’s a nice name.”
“So is Soledad.”
“No, not really. How would you like to be named Solitude?” “It can also mean lonely,” I said.
“See? What a sad name.”
“I don’t think it’s sad. I think it’s a beautiful name. I think it fits your mom just right.” I said.
“Maybe so. But Sam, Sam is perfect for my dad.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your dad’s name?”
“Jaime.”
“I like that name.”
“His real name is Santiago.”
Dante smiled. “See what I mean about the nicknames?”
“It bothers you that you’re Mexican, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Yes, it bothers me,” he admitted.
I offered him some of my PayDay.
He took a bite. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “It bothers you.”
“You know what I think, Ari? I think Mexicans don’t like me.”
“That’s a strange thing to say,” I replied.
“Strange,” he echoed.
“Strange,” I agreed.
