Calabaza, Calabaza

by Celine Aenlle-Rocha

They were talking about politics. Beatríz sat on the armrest of the faded green velvet couch, not because she found it comfortable but because Maria was there only five minutes ago, before she got up for another glass of wine, and Beatríz hadn’t been able to help but notice the way Maria perched on just one side of her ass, not both, how tightly she was wrapped in her high-waisted, washed-out vintage jeans, holding her glass of white wine like a trophy.

And there Beatríz sat, on the Turkish rug, Beatríz with her abuelita name, her straight-from-the-island name, in her black jersey bodycon dress, the one she thought made her look sophisticated, maybe older or maybe younger, whichever was better.

Beatríz realized she’d fucked up seven hours ago, when she and Tommy arrived at the bar and it turned out not to be a bar but some sort of café that served wine to thin, velvet-clad graduate students on antique cushions. Beatríz wrapped her jacket around her chest, hoping she didn’t look too much like a chola fresh downtown from the Bronx. She pulled out her ponytail. This was as good as it was going to get.

When the birthday party stretched into the tiny hours she asked Tommy to take her home. He kept pushing her hand away, not needing to worry about fitting in because he was a Black guy in a leather jacket; he looked cool as hell and Beatríz knew if she left without him he’d be swarmed.

At two-thirty he agreed to leave, but only because Maria lived nearby and he offered to walk her from the train stop, and then, when they reached 145th Street he’d blurted out he had a bottle at their place, which was really Beatríz’s place and a place where Beatríz did not want him clumsily trying for a threesome at three in the morning.

But Maria said okay, even though she mentioned her boyfriend who was out of town, like a little posted sign saying I’ll take the wine but not the sex, thank you very much and Beatríz felt flooded with relief, happy that this night—morning—wouldn’t end in a fight between her and Tommy, the one they had every time he went looking for a third and she tried to remind him of boundaries, even though yes, she wanted them to have fun. But couldn’t they also just go out and not try to pick someone up, especially when she felt fat and ugly in this dress now, not like the sexy ambiguously-Latina-but-not-a-telenovela-star girl she tried to look like when she’d pulled that black dress over her head. It wasn’t that Beatríz didn’t want a third—but she wanted, for once, to choose her. 

And now, here, creeping onto four o’clock, Tommy was going on about the debates, while her head ached and she longed for sleep. “I can’t imagine anyone not doing their civic duty . . . ” he said. “I think it’s racist, frankly.”

Beatríz felt her cheeks prickle, wondering what Maria must think. Tommy was infatuated with her, would probably ask Beatríz later what she thought, ask her questions phrased in his aspiring-feminist way, like, “She’s good-looking but I don’t think she needs to wear makeup, do you? You don’t feel like you need to put all that stuff on your face just because of some Sephora ads.” Beatríz would nod and excuse herself to the bathroom to sit on the toilet and open her Sephora app, trying to track down that bronzed highlighter Maria was wearing.

That was the kind of thing Maria could do, make you wish your skin were more olive-toned or golden, as if you didn’t need more from the típos up and down Broadway calling to you, “Mamí, bring me a piece of that! Let me put my mouth between your legs.”

If you looked white, like Beatríz sometimes did when she was on her way to the gym in her Outdoor Voices leggings (not on purpose, she just liked those leggings), they left you alone. Didn’t want you calling nobody.

Maria was talking now. Beatríz tried not to stare. “I only just registered to vote,” Maria admitted.

Tommy said clumsily, “Oh, well, I didn’t mean it like that, I think that’s fine, and as long as you’re informed—”

“She doesn’t need you to inform her,” Beatríz interrupted. She glanced quickly at Maria, expecting her to avert her eyes, but instead she saw lips curving up, and she felt hers do the same.

Tommy laughed—“Right, right, mansplaining again?”

“Yes,” Beatríz said, and the smiles were gone. It was solid now: there would be a fight.

“It’s getting so late,” Maria said. She stood up; her purse jingled.

Panic flamed up Beatríz’s throat. She didn’t want to be left alone with Tommy. Maybe, worse, she didn’t want to be alone without Maria. “You shouldn’t be going out this late—you can stay on the couch,” she said. Tommy turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I don’t know . . . ” Maria said. She looked at Tommy with apprehension, and Beatríz thought, this girl does not, in fact, want to sleep with my boyfriend.

“Please,” Beatríz said. “I want you to stay.”

Published January 9th, 2022