DANBURY

I was living where I’d been born, in a town named Danbury, in a house for sale. I was eighteen and on the verge of graduating. Soccer season had just ended, in the quarterfinals, in the rain. The game had gone to penalties. I didn’t save one. I was born with flat feet and the habit of guessing. That night I guessed wrong. Nobody had blamed me and neither had I. Still, I wept. Weeping is another habit of mine. I’ve had it since birth.

In April I mailed a love letter to Ms. Monti, the Spanish teacher. Latin American Literature was my best class, my only good one. Spanish was Ms. Monti’s second language, my first. She wouldn’t let me grade but did let me make copies and choose stories and movies for her to teach. When I would talk to her about my life, she would always listen. The letter stated that I was drinking wine and proposed that she and I get together and do the same. I left it in her mailbox at school. The principal called me into his office the next day. He explained that he had to do his job and suspend me for a week. I didn’t know what to say. I said nothing. He went on to apologize for the whole situation. He’d heard I hadn’t taken the end of the soccer season well, and he was aware that I hadn’t been thriving academically. I think he was more uncomfortable than I was. I felt bad for him. I did my best to say something that would make him feel better. “We’re all adults here,” I said, “I understand.”

Ana was already living and lawyering in Tucson. Her drinking was bad and was only getting worse. My mother was preparing for a divorce and my father was doing the same. The house was warm and clean. The market was good, the realtor was around, and I was in the way.

My uncle Nico lived alone and my parents thought it would make sense for me to stay with him for a little while. Nico was sick and his days were numbered. “You’ll take good care of each other,” they said. They were right. It was May and the days were long. I went.