END CHAPTER 10 "FIRST FLINGS FIRST"

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"For a long time, I had gotten away with sneaking around with Santana: talking to him on the phone at night without my mom ever knowing, being at his house, him being at my house, us-staying afterschool together. You name it, we did it. We had literally been there-done that; everywhere. I always knew how to do that covert thing right under my mother’s nose since ages seven to thirteen. So now, she was certainly no match for me. I was past covert, I was “pro-vert.”

But sneaking around to be with Santana was beginning to be a bit too tough, we had so many close calls. It seemed like the only pressure and stress in our relationship was getting around it all.

I had to break it to my mother gently, and as soon as possible. Because between school, friends, and sneaking to be with him; my schedule was way too full and poor Ms You Know Who was barely getting any girl-time with me anymore. But if I were able to see him freely, time spent orchestrating the covert could have been spent with-if not her-on something else; even if it was time alone, or some extra rest.

By this time, we were full-on-seven days per week: taking pictures of each other every moment of the day, going to the movies, out to eat and visiting his relatives-that was pretty much our routine.

His bedroom was a little cul de sac garage-like extension at the back end of his mom’s home.

We’d be huddled up in there taking pictures, eating, and taking naps in each other’s arms. Other times, he would be sitting on top of his giant speakers from behind all his DJ equipment, rapping, beat-boxing and playing air-drums while I would be dancing about for him. He would put on his classic Beastie Boys, LL Cool J and Run DMC records, then I would put on his b-boy hat and vintage Adidas Run DMC running suit; standing there looking like “Cousin-It” the way it would be draping over and drowning my body like curtains. I would break into this lil’ borderline corny but sexy b-girl dance that I made up; trying to impress him and fit in to his b-boy world-he l.o.v.e.d it. Santana was my love and one man show: cheerleading for me, smiling, laughing, and making bullhorns with his hands to shout through and cheer me on for when I would break into a break dance stance; folding my arms and tooting my lips while nodding my head. He’d bouncing up and down cheering me on and screaming: “GO BA-BY! GO BA-BY! GO! LOOK AT MY BABY! LOOK AT MY BABY! Aw man you are the SHIT! I love you girl!”

He would grab me tightly and hold me in his arms as if I was trying to run from him: “Don’t ever leave me, don’t ever leave me, don’t ever leave baby-never leave me,” he’d would hold me and say-all the time.

We were like two peas in a pod nearly seven days a week, so I had to let my mother in on it. I had to tell her that I had a boyfriend that loved me-madly.

It was getting kind of hectic and cutting it way too close; those days of us leaving school, coming over to my house, making love, and laying in each other’s arms until the alarm clock rang to wake us up so that he could get dressed and head out the back door in time before my mom would enter the front door.

My two oldest brothers had gotten their own apartment together. Once Twin finished up his mini lock-up bid at the school for disorderly boys; he was due to move in with the wifey and Mr. Super Saturday: that 0 to 120 blast from my past. After roughing up one too many guys for stepping to him-trying to test him, my mother did what she knew to do best: save herself the trouble; send it or ignore it away.  

That left breaking in the new apartment for just my mom and me. We had been there for quite a few months-since around the time I had first met Santana. The way the apartment was situated, it was perfect for me and Santana: the back door was at the back end of the small kitchenette we had-which was right by my bedroom. My mother would say that it wasn’t big enough to cuss a cat in, so she’d cook and take her plate into her bedroom or the living room. The living room, my mom’s bedroom and the bathroom were all in the front: perfect and convenient for her. Outside of the fact that in order to get to the kitchen, my mom had to come through my room; all else was perfect. Once she was done cooking or preparing a meal-I didn’t have to see her anymore.

So when Santana would come over afterschool, he could easily slip out the back door once we heard my mom come through the front door. The only downside to having Santana do that though, was Mrs. Cochran: the little old lady across the hall from us. Her back door was opposite and faced our back door and she didn’t missed anything or anybody coming in or out of it.  

It was obvious that our back door was freshly broken in from being painted shut. That joker was hard to open. It was so tight around the hinges-built for looks and a mere apartment amenity listing rather than for opening and closing. Sometimes when Ms. Cochran would be in her kitchen, she would peek out her back door whenever she would hear me tugging at it-each and every time-as though it was her first time hearing it and she was alarmed.

Santana and me would twist our lips and roll our eyes in our heads while trying to balance out his back door getaway and my mother’s front door entrance with Mrs. Cochran’s watchful eyes. We got crafty in those few minutes of time; tugging at the door to let her see me sit the trash out, then wait a few minutes to let Santana squeeze out of it. Our alarm would wake us up at 5:45pm and by 5:55pm Santana would be dressed and gone out the backdoor. My mom would be walking in the front door at 6:05pm. By that time, Santana was always good and around the corner and on his way home-never having to run into her.

It worked like magic for months, until that day my mom got in the house a little sooner than that 6:05pm time. There we were, cuddled up and napping. Me: “Goldilocks.” Him: my “Papi Love Bear. The sound of someone tugging keys and juggling bags-startled me. My bedroom door was cracked open a little bit, so I got up and peeked through. I could see my mom’s lunch bag in clear view.

“Santana, get dressed! It’s my mother! She’s coming inside the door!” I screamed.

In an instant, I grabbed my sweats and t-shirt that I would normally slip into afterschool.

He was busy turning in circles trying to find every article of clothing that I was tossing to him-one by one-while I was forcing him into the kitchenette and trying to get him out of that dreaded back door without Mrs. Cochran hearing and peeking out. We had zero stall time-this time.

In a matter of seconds, I had Santana standing on the back porch with his underwear and socks on, catching cotton, while Mrs. Cochran opened her lace curtains and looked out-but not to her surprise as wasn’t mine. I expected her, and from my peripheral vision, it looked like she expected us too because she merely looked and walked away. I always avoided looking right at her because I knew that the moment our eyes met (in this daily thing that had gone on most of the five days a week for months now) she would have used that as leverage and permission to reprimand me about it or feel obligated to tell my mom. I wanted to be the one to deliver this situation to her-first.

So I kept right on tending to Santana, not wanting him to know that Mrs. Cochran had seen his naked ass-that would have only slowed him down.

I could hear my mom yelling my name-she was right there in the bathroom. The small, clear, stained-glass bathroom window was, too, right there on the back porch-right next to Mrs. Cochran’s-both facing Santana out on that back porch, and at anytime, if either one of them wanted to raise their window up, look out on that back porch and simply say: “boo!;” “Boo” would have simply been busted.

“Ssshhh,” I placed my finger over my mouth, looking at Santana with my lips folded tightly.

By this time, he was completely dressed but demanded a kiss goodbye while I was trying to step into the house and shut that back door enough so the hinges would meet, but not all the way. I needed him off that porch:  

“Leave!” I whisper-laughed; pointing out into the air, needing him to follow the direction of it.

He kept making silly faces and making me laugh because he could see my mom’s silhouette in the little bathroom window-but she couldn’t see him.

“I love your daughter!” he pointed at me while whispering and giggling; then pointed over at the little bathroom window with my mom on the other side of it.

I raised my hand as if to strike him. He reached to kiss me again, treaded lightly down the steps, and around to the front of the building.

When he left, I pushed the door up on the hinges and yelled out to finally answer my mom. The alarm clock was sounding off and served as my theme music for this hell of an impromptu performance that we managed to pull off. I yelled out to my mom: “I’m taking the trash out Ma-I’m coming!”

Sigh.

I was sweating bullets-happy that this scene was over.

Cut."

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