nothing in the kitchen. We had eaten every last can of soup, every box of mac-n-cheese. We had run out of food and run out of money.
“I think this is how the Donner Party started,” I said.
Cruz had the refrigerator door open, and he was staring inside it, as if he expected something to magically appear.
“Is your mother a member of Costco?” he asked.
“Yes, but we can’t afford Costco.”
“Did she leave her card here?”
Her Costco card was in the utility drawer. We took the bus to Costco and flashed the card to get in.
“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” I asked him. I have to admit I thought he planned to rob Costco. I was imagining him pretending to have a gun in his pocket and ordering them to hand over a giant bag of rice, a twelve-pack of tuna cans, and a six pound package of ground beef. It wasn’t the most logical place to commit a robbery.
“We’re going to eat,” he said. “We’re going to sample.”
It was Friday evening, and Costco was packed with people and packed with employees handing out free samples. We pushed our cart to the first sample lady, who was handing out cheese and crackers. I ate two, and she gave us a dirty look.
“Do you think they’re on to us?” I asked Cruz. We didn’t look like typical Costco shoppers. First off, we were teenagers.
“We have to fit in. Put that box of Cheez Its into the cart.”
I threw the box in, and just like that we looked like Costco shoppers. We circled the entire store, throwing whatever our hearts desired into the cart. Soda, cookies, pasta, and socks. We filled our cart like millionaires preparing for a nuclear holocaust. It was great to pretend that we had enough money to pay for it all.
In between our fake shopping, we sampled everything. We ate chips and salsa, hot wings, burritos, and cheesecake. We nibbled on egg rolls, brownies, and pulled pork. After we hit all the sample tables, we made another tour around the store.
An hour later, we were stuffed, and so was our cart. We stashed it in the aisle with the golf bags and bicycles and skipped out, expecting them to run after us and arrest us for sampling under false pretenses.
We ran through the parking lot and burst out laughing when we got to the bus stop. “That was the best meal I’ve had in ages,” I said, trying to catch my breath from all the laughing.
“If I had had any money, I would have bought a bag of wings,” he said, wistfully.
“You ate six of them.”
“I couldn’t get enough.”
The bus arrived, and Cruz took my hand. At his touch, I felt my insides melt like ice cream on a hot day. We flashed our bus passes to the driver, and we took a seat near the back. Cruz didn’t let go of my hand, and I noticed that all the women on the bus checked him out as he walked by.
Every female wanted him, but he didn’t seem to notice them. He was with me.
“Tell me more about Paris and writing,” he said.
I did. All the way home, sitting together and holding hands, our bellies full and forgetting that we needed three thousand dollars by next week, I told Cruz about Paris and writing.
I told him about Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. About Gertrude Stein and the Café de Flore. I told him about the Sorbonne. Then I told him that I had been writing stories since I learned to write my name. How crafting a story was like breathing for me.
How writing was essential to live.
Cruz hung on every word. He leaned toward me, his face only inches from mine, studying my eyes and my mouth as I spoke. He was captivated by every detail, not bored at all by my dreams. I had never told anybody what I told Cruz that day on the bus. With every hope and goal and desire pouring out of me, they became even bigger, just by sharing them with Cruz.
He made my dreams more important, if only because he thought they were worthy. He also thought they were attainable.
“You’re going to do it,” he breathed. “You’re going to do all of
“I think this is how the Donner Party started,” I said.
Cruz had the refrigerator door open, and he was staring inside it, as if he expected something to magically appear.
“Is your mother a member of Costco?” he asked.
“Yes, but we can’t afford Costco.”
“Did she leave her card here?”
Her Costco card was in the utility drawer. We took the bus to Costco and flashed the card to get in.
“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” I asked him. I have to admit I thought he planned to rob Costco. I was imagining him pretending to have a gun in his pocket and ordering them to hand over a giant bag of rice, a twelve-pack of tuna cans, and a six pound package of ground beef. It wasn’t the most logical place to commit a robbery.
“We’re going to eat,” he said. “We’re going to sample.”
It was Friday evening, and Costco was packed with people and packed with employees handing out free samples. We pushed our cart to the first sample lady, who was handing out cheese and crackers. I ate two, and she gave us a dirty look.
“Do you think they’re on to us?” I asked Cruz. We didn’t look like typical Costco shoppers. First off, we were teenagers.
“We have to fit in. Put that box of Cheez Its into the cart.”
I threw the box in, and just like that we looked like Costco shoppers. We circled the entire store, throwing whatever our hearts desired into the cart. Soda, cookies, pasta, and socks. We filled our cart like millionaires preparing for a nuclear holocaust. It was great to pretend that we had enough money to pay for it all.
In between our fake shopping, we sampled everything. We ate chips and salsa, hot wings, burritos, and cheesecake. We nibbled on egg rolls, brownies, and pulled pork. After we hit all the sample tables, we made another tour around the store.
An hour later, we were stuffed, and so was our cart. We stashed it in the aisle with the golf bags and bicycles and skipped out, expecting them to run after us and arrest us for sampling under false pretenses.
We ran through the parking lot and burst out laughing when we got to the bus stop. “That was the best meal I’ve had in ages,” I said, trying to catch my breath from all the laughing.
“If I had had any money, I would have bought a bag of wings,” he said, wistfully.
“You ate six of them.”
“I couldn’t get enough.”
The bus arrived, and Cruz took my hand. At his touch, I felt my insides melt like ice cream on a hot day. We flashed our bus passes to the driver, and we took a seat near the back. Cruz didn’t let go of my hand, and I noticed that all the women on the bus checked him out as he walked by.
Every female wanted him, but he didn’t seem to notice them. He was with me.
“Tell me more about Paris and writing,” he said.
I did. All the way home, sitting together and holding hands, our bellies full and forgetting that we needed three thousand dollars by next week, I told Cruz about Paris and writing.
I told him about Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. About Gertrude Stein and the Café de Flore. I told him about the Sorbonne. Then I told him that I had been writing stories since I learned to write my name. How crafting a story was like breathing for me.
How writing was essential to live.
Cruz hung on every word. He leaned toward me, his face only inches from mine, studying my eyes and my mouth as I spoke. He was captivated by every detail, not bored at all by my dreams. I had never told anybody what I told Cruz that day on the bus. With every hope and goal and desire pouring out of me, they became even bigger, just by sharing them with Cruz.
He made my dreams more important, if only because he thought they were worthy. He also thought they were attainable.
“You’re going to do it,” he breathed. “You’re going to do all of
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