Crossing the River (21 page)

“Mom, I said I was seventeen. It was just easier. Okay? I just want us all to be on the same page.” At sixteen, she could easily pass for twenty, so I thought seventeen was quite conservative.

“Mom, Brooke and I just split a
caipirinha
. Is that okay?” She was heady with excitement.

By now, the tunes were cranked, a mixture of international pop and some American oldies, Men at Work, The Police. The Argentinean girls were trying to coax the Argentinean guys into dancing. Peter and I took a couple of turns. It struck me that this was one of the best New Year's Eves I'd had in a long time. But Skyler was sad. The Kadas-Newells
had left earlier in the day, starting the multi-flight journey home. Skyler had wanted to go, too.

At 10:00
PM
, the music stopped and everyone prepared to head down to the beach, to the big sound stage. It was rumored Ivete Sangalo, Brazilian pop star and local darling, would be playing. Skyler didn't want to go, so he and I stayed behind. Peter and the girls left with the roving party, and the hostel dropped into quiet, as though someone had flipped a switch.

I sat on the bunk bed with Skyler. He didn't want to talk. I lay down and fell asleep, until I felt someone shaking me.

“Mom, Mom, were you sleeping? Can we play a game and then go to the beach?”

Skyler's anguish at losing his friend seemed to have passed. We played a couple of games of dominoes and then headed out at 11:00
PM
. Everyone was walking toward the water. By the time we turned onto the shoreline drive, the street was thick with people, all in traditional New Year's Eve white. Being small and quick, Skyler was good at finding the cracks in the crowd. I hung on to the back of his shirt.

“
Cuidado
,” several women said to me as we passed. “Be careful.”

Skyler managed to sneak us right up to the lip of the stage. The banks of speakers throbbed in our throats. Five feet above us, a man in tight jeans, long dreads, and a knit Rasta hat was shouting into a mic, his foot stomping, pelvis grinding, one hand pumping the air. TV cameras projected the scene onto large screens. Despite being at the center of the sound vortex, I couldn't make out a word, but the people around us were singing; as always, they knew every song. They began to jump, both arms in unison, slapping the air above their heads. Skyler was jumping, too. The camera zoomed down. Skyler was waving, giving the cameraman the thumb-and-pinky-finger sign,
hang loose
. Now everyone's arms were overhead, waving side to side to the beat.

Bidda
,
badda
,
badda
,
boom
. Fireworks burst all around us. It was midnight. We'd never seen so many, so many kinds, all at once. Gold bursts of weeping willow dissolved into sparkling cauliflower florets; a silver ball split into dangling earrings. The woman next to me pulled me into a jubilant hug and kissed me on both cheeks.

Around 1:00
AM
, Skyler and I began to wend our way back. We looked down at the beach as we passed. People were in the water in their clothes. A boney, nearly naked man was standing on a rock, awash in white waves. He punched triumphant fists at the dark sky. Made it through another year!

And we
, I thought,
have made it almost halfway through ours.

26
26

Home
Home

A
FTER SIX MONTHS
I am still struggling with:

          
   
watching Skyler struggle.

          
   
how to, politely, ask the rafts of kids to leave our house so we can have a little alone time as a family.

          
   
how to tactfully train them not to turn on every piece of electronic equipment in our house as they flow through.

          
   
what I might do to be helpful in this town.

          
But I have learned:

          
   
more of the small words, the
ehta
s and
neh
s, those expressive grunts that make you sound like a local.

          
   
to get the phone numbers of particular van drivers to reserve seats for trips to the coast.

          
   
to understand every fifth word when Bentinho is speaking.