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8. ZORTZI
- University of Nevada Press
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| 45 »« 8 z o r t z i The word monsoon comes from the Arabic mausim, which means “a season .” I found that out while doing a science report my junior year of high school. I also learned that a monsoon can’t officially happen until the dew point is fifty-five or higher. Which, in Arizona, isn’t usually until around the first week of July. Any monsoons before then aren’t really monsoons—just thunderstorms. I explained all this to my father on a May day while shearing sheep, after he looked at the thunderclouds building to the south and said, “Now, then, monsoon’s a coming.” When I ended my tutorial, Dad put down his shears and pointed to a coyote trotting along the edge of the pasture. “Now, then, you see that thing over there,” Dad said. “What is it?” “Huh?” “That animal,” he said. “What do you call it?” “Come on.” “Name it.” “Fine,” I said, “a coyote.” “You sure?” Dad said. “Because I thought they were only called coyotes between September and October.” “I was just telling you what I learned in school,” I said as I got the next sheep in position to shear. “I appreciate that.” Dad clicked on his shears. “But there are some things you don’t have to be taught—you just know.” I was thinking about what Dad said as I stepped out of Mr. Steele’s office. What things should I have just known? That I didn’t own the ranch? That | 46« » Dad had a sister? Were there clues I had overlooked? Not seen? Not wanted to see? Or was it just different for me? Unlike Dad, would I have to be taught everything I learned? Did I have no natural instinct passed down to guide me? No Basqu-oh traits to show me the way? A bank of clouds floated in front of the sun. Cooled the day’s heat to a simmer. And even though it was only May, a monsoon was coming. Dad had taught me that. I looked down the street—not the way I’d come, but in the opposite direction toward I-10, the highway that led to Phoenix and all those places beyond. But like always, the road was obscured. A mirage blurred the horizon in wavy lines of heat. Created a shining lake that spread out over the desert. The ribbon of asphalt rippled beyond the water. Today, that water appeared closer than ever. All I needed to do was make a good sprint, and I could be splashing through the mirage, toward the highway and the world beyond. I tensed the muscles in my thighs as a pair of high school girls stepped out of the Dairy Queen, each holding a swirl of vanilla. They smiled as they walked past. And I smiled back and started off. Not toward the water. Not yet. But back to Jenny and the diner. The overcast sky dimmed the sun’s glare on the store windows so that I could now see the people inside, buying things, talking, laughing. I moved across the street. The smell of orange blossoms from the line of trees in front of Garcia’s pink and yellow Tienda de Flores spun around me. I jumped from the asphalt of the street onto the cement of the sidewalk. I wondered what Mike was doing at the U of A right then. Going to class? Ditching? Sleeping in late after a night out with friends? I could see the diner at the end of the block. In a few months, what would I be doing? Moving into a dorm room? Choosing my classes? Reading books I’d never thought to read? And would all this be just a memory to me? Something from another life that seemed to have happened years ago, to another person who was no longer me? I was going to the University of Arizona. The very idea of it made me smile as I pushed open the diner door. The place was again empty. Whatever there had been of a lunch crowd had come and gone. “Jenny?” I called toward the kitchen. But instead of Jenny walking through the swinging door, her father, Mr. Krawski, stepped out. [44.192.247.185] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 11:42 GMT) | 47« » “She’s gone,” he said as he flipped the towel he was holding over his shoulder and took a seat at the counter. “Gone...