Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood Read Free

girl.”
    “What girl, Dad?” I always pretended I didn’t know what the hell was going on. That trick always worked for me.
    “Tú sabes a cual muchacha,” my father said, “no te hagas tonto.”
    “You should see all the girls that are after me,” I said.
    “Really?” my little sister said, completely astonished. She was half my age and was addicted to other people’s conversations. “Lots of girls are after you, Sammy?”
    “Seguro,” I said.
    “I don’t know about that,” my father said, “but I know how many girls you’re after. Ya te conozco. You’re only after one. And her name’s Juliana Ríos.”
    “Really?” Elena asked. “Her sister, Mariana, goes to my school.”
    I didn’t say anything. My father’s analysis of the situation sounded like an accusation—like I was committing a crime. “She’s nice, Dad.”
    “Bueno, la muchacha tiene una cara muy bonita, pero eso no quiere decir que she’s nice.” My father looked down at his plate of food. He was an easy read. Any time he wanted to tell me something, he’d look at his food as if the sopa or the beans on his plate were feeding him words. “You and Juliana aren’t doing things, are you?”
    “Like what things, Dad?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “I don’t know what you mean,” my little sister said.
    “No, tell me,” I said.
    “Yeah,” Elena said, “tell us.”
    “Never mind,” my father said. But he couldn’t quite give up on the subject, even though Elena was at the table. “What’s she like?” he asked.
    “She’s good and she’s pretty.” I looked at Elena. “Isn’t she pretty, Elena?”
    Elena nodded. She was crazy, crazy for me and always ready to be my accomplice. “Beautiful,” Elena said.
    “And she’s smart,” I said.
    “Does she study?” my dad asked.
    “No. She doesn’t have to. She just knows things, I guess. I don’t know. She doesn’t ever take her books home. But I saw her report card. All A’s except two B’s and one C.”
    “Not as good as yours,” my father said.
    “Yeah, but I have to study, Dad.”
    “Can she teach me how not to study?” Elena asked.
    “No,” my father told Elena. “It’s better to study.” He was very literal about earning things. He looked at me. “You don’t give her the answers, do you?”
    “No, Dad, I don’t give her the answers.” I wanted to tell him that she sure as hell didn’t rely on me for the answers to anything. She found all the answers on her own. He didn’t know her, my dad, didn’t trust her. He thought she wasn’t good enough for me. Nobody thought she was good enough. I wondered what that was like. If people looked at me like they looked at her, I’d be permanently pissed off. “Look, Dad,” I said. “We’re all the same. We’re all from Hollywood.”
    “No. We’re not all the same. Some of us are good, and some of us aren’t. You’re not like Pifas Espinosa or Joaquín Mesa or René Montoya. Or like Reyes Espinoza. You’re not like any of them.”
    “You won’t let me be like them.”
    “No tiene nada que ver conmigo. You have that wrong, mijo. If you were like those boys, then nothing I would do or say could tame you. You’re not like them. You’re just not.”
    I wanted to tell him that sometimes I wanted to be as wild as them. I hated myself sometimes for being so tame, like some docile cat who’d been declawed—good for nothing but sitting on the windowsill.What good was I? In Hollywood, I was useless. “I’m not better than them, Dad.”
    “Okay,” he said.
    And then I said, “She’s a sweet girl, Dad.”
    “Sweet?”
    “She is, Dad.”
    He looked at me and shook his head. “I know her family.”
    “No,” I said, “you don’t know her, Dad.”
    “Didn’t she tell Mrs. López to—” he stopped and smiled at Elena. “She disrespected Mrs. López in front of the whole neighborhood.”
    “Mrs. López likes men, Dad.”
    “What’s wrong with liking men?” Elena