Page 6 of Catching Camila

“Okay, okay. Just take the bowl already. I'm late.” She pushed it into Mama's hands.

Mama sat up and cupped the bowl in her lap. After one spoonful, she twisted up her mouth. “Ah, the milk is bad.”

Camila shook her head, trying to keep calm. “I just checked the date. It's good for two more days. Listen, get some sunshine today. I just read an article that said a vitamin D deficiency can cause depression.”

Mama ignored her, pointing at Camila's T-shirt. “What job is this now?” she asked, reaching for the box of cigarettes on the couch arm.

Camila chucked the box over her shoulder and pointed to the cereal bowl with a shake of her head. Mama scowled, but began eating.

“It's the ice cream place, remember? Fer got me the job. I'll scoop 'til I droop.”

Mama frowned. “That Jennifer. Why she wanna dress like a boy?”

Camila pulled an empty Marlboro pack from a crack between two couch cushions and folded it between her hands. “Fer doesn't dress like a boy, Mama. She has her own…style.”

“A boy's style.”

“Mama!”

Mama shrugged. “Okay, okay. I just don't want to see it rub off on you. You have a nice figure.”

Camila tried to cover her blush with a scowl. “I gotta go.”

Mama pretended not to hear. “Why I never see boys over here? You could use a novio. What happened to that boy… that Allen? Allen, wasn't it?” The spoon trembled as she lifted the Cheerios to her lips.

“His name was Elliot.” Camila pressed her hands together. How long did it take Elliot to break up with her after his surprise visit to her house last fall? Camila still remembered the embarrassment on his face when she'd opened the door to her trailer. How his jaw dropped when he saw the garbage-filled foyer. No guy would ever come here again.

Camila got up and walked to the door, gripping the knob with white knuckles. “We just park in the alley and have loads of unprotected sex, okay?”

Mama pointed a stern finger. “Camila Maria Consuela—”

She cut Mama off by opening the door. Sunshine spilled in, lighting the dark trailer momentarily. “Look, don't worry. I'm a heterosexual virgin, the perfect Catholic, alright? Now I'm going.” She stepped out the door before Mama could stop her. Someone had to make the money around here.

“Love you, mi amor,” Mama hollered as Camila shut the door.

“Love you, too,” she muttered. “Don't burn the house down.”

A shape jumped out at her. “What up, mother trucker!”

Camila whirled to find Fer perched on her bike in the driveway, a cigarette dangling from her lips. To Camila, Fer was a teenage beauty: full red lips, creamy white skin, and round cheeks that were always pink in the middle. Most people were too distracted by Fer’s wardrobe. Her purple hair, the dye fading into a periwinkle gray, was pinched into a messy ponytail. Her pink Lizzy’s Ice Cream shirt was baggy and sported stains across her belly. Her boy's skater shorts drooped past her knees.

Camila frowned at the curling smoke. “Surgeon General says smoking kills brain cells. That,” she said, pointing to the cigarette, “is why you scored in the 15th percentile on your PSAT.” She leaned down and spun the lock on her bike chain that was hooked to her porch railing.

Fer shrugged and squinted into the smoke curling around her face. “I plan to live hard and die naked under a Victoria Secret model. Besides, I was copying off you, genius. Now enough with the chitchat. Move your ass 'cause we're late. If Lizzy's in she'll have her panties in a bunch fo sho.”

Camila got into Fer’s ancient Ford and shut the passenger side door as Fer got in the driver’s side. “Sorry. Mama was giving me a lecture.”

“The stay-a-virgin-‘til-you're-thirty routine? She knows you’re twenty-years-old, right?” Fer took a drag on her cigarette and blew a few smoke rings out of her puckered lips as she pedaled around.

Camila shook her head as Fer pulled out. “Something like that.”

Fer spit the spent cigarette out the window. It dropped to the sidewalk in a spray of sparks behind them. “Parents, man. Glad mine have finally stopped creeping up my ass.”

They rolled over a busted speedbump and kicked into high gear. As they drove by, Ms. Kaminski's cockier spaniel, Harley, howled and charged his chain. Then he slunk through a gap in the missing skirting around the trailer and eyed them suspiciously from the shadows. Ms. K came out on her porch in a flowered bathrobe, her veiny calves showing below the hem. She leaned over her metal porch rail and waved as they drove past.

Camila waved at Ms. K. She’d have to walk Harley for her after she got off work.

A couple of Kool-Aid-mustached children sitting on a plastic climber called to them as they neared the main street. They approached Mr. Harris’ dilapidated doublewide that he shared with about fifteen cats. The house next to his was abandoned. The wooden porch had separated from the trailer and leaned at a dangerous angle. The siding was bowed and warped, making the whole house look like a bulging can ready to explode. Two-foot-high grass swayed in the breeze, hiding a computer monitor and a printer. Tattered curtains fluttered out of the broken windows like a cartoon haunted house.

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