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Playing House with Pepín

31 Playing House with Pepín He’s the man and I’m the girl, Beba, though I’m not supposed to be. We live in Poghsquishy, in New York where my cousin is from. It’s pretty and snows a lot up there, like he says. My room is the house with a pink roof, the most biggest one on Cucamonga Street. I make Pepín pancakes on the dresser and strawberry Pop-Tarts in the lamp. I give him a kiss just like my mom does to my dad and he goes to work like him in a gigan’ic building in the living room. But he ain’t got a car. He drives a horse named Charlie Horse with purple spots. Our son’s name is Succotash, he barks, licks Pepín’s fingers when he gets home. Hi sweetheart, I make him say and kiss me like on the black-and-white tv shows. He wants to cook us dinner; I tell him no he can’t—only the girl is supposed to. How come? Just ’cause, that’s all I say and go into the kitchen in the closet, come out with cups of Kool-Aid wine, slices of blue and red Play-Doh pizza. It’s deewishes, but Succotash won’t eat. I yell at him like my grandmother does: Sit up like a man! Eat or no dessert for you! Succotash runs away—he’s a big sissy. Pepín is tired. We brush our teeth 32 with my pencils and jump into bed. I turn off the lights like he asks me. I ain’t afraid of the dark or his eyes, or when I put his arm around me. Good night, honey, I say, give him a kiss on the lips just like in the soap operas, but he doesn’t say nothing. He likes it when we play house, hates it when my dad comes in my room, real angry: Who you talking to? What’s going on? ...