“Nacho?” she questions. “As in delectable processed cheese drizzled over corn chips?”
“It’s my family’s nickname for me. But I have a feeling my dad’s going to start calling me a whole lot of other names you won’t want to hear. Go inside. I’ll catch you later.”
With a suspicious squint, Olive heads to the back entrance of the restaurant, but not before waving enthusiastically with a bright smile in her voice. “Hi, Mr. Precio.”
She skips away and as soon as Dad reaches me, he starts to tear me a new one.
“Que la madre, Nacho. What the diablo are you doing?”
“Just talking, Dad.”
“Just talking! Your grandmother saw you ‘just talking’ while we were parking the car. I didn’t pass these restaurants down to you para que puedesfregar the waitresses.”
“It’s not what you think,” I say. There’s no talking to him when he’s worked up like this. I turn to my mom, who’s finally caught up to Dad, right behind Abuela. My grandmother is a spry lady for her age, and the only reason she didn’t reach me first is probably because Dad jumped out of the car while it was still rolling.
“You tell me what I think, Nacho,” says Dad, crossing his arms. “Since you’re so smart.”
“Francisco, remember what the doctor said about you getting worked up.” Mom, always the peacemaker, raises a brow at Dad, then comes in for a hug. “How’s my baby boy?”
I hug her back, taking refuge in the extra long embrace. “I’m good, Mom.”
“Good?” Repeats Abuela with a thick accent. “Estás haciendo muy ‘GOOD’, muchacho. Muy bien para ti, fallando las damas en la calle. Qué desgraciada!”
“I wasn’t… can somebody please tell grandma I wasn’t doing anything vulgar?”
“Tell her yourself,” says Dad.
Good grief!
“Abuela… tienes falta.”
“Some respect will serve you well, Nacho,” warns Mom.
I try again with a hard sigh. “Abue, lo siento. Pero estás equivocada.”
Really, how many ways are there to tell someone they’re mistaken? And why is one way better than the other?
“No tienes que saltar a conclusiones,” I continue. “I was just… comforting her. Consolándola.”
She scoffs. “Consolándola. Estoy segura que si. To think I live to see the day… mi hijo crió niños que son mujeriegos.”
“I’m not a womanizer. Grandma, please.”
“Spanish,” warns Dad.
“Por favor, Abuela. No soy…” I can hardly get out the word. “Mom, tell her I’m not like that.”
Mom rests her palm on Abuela’s arm. “Te lo juro,” she says, “Ignacio es un buen chico que va a la iglesia todos los domingos.”
“That’s right. I do go to church every single Sunday,” I say in agreement.
“Nunca se aprovecha de las mujeres,” she continues.
This seems to soften Abuela’s resolve to cut off my huevos, soMom wags a brow at her and nods slowly, saying, “Y es virgen.”
Oh, for goodness sake.
“MOM!”