Perfection

“Estela.” It means star.

Her face shines like a star, framed by lustrous black hair, pulled back now in a ponytail. Her smile, even in daylight … that shines, too, when something delights her. It’s a flash of white teeth, an intriguing curve of lips (slightly higher on the left side), and a quick hint of dimples. Perfect.

Her lithe figure moves gracefully up and down the ladder, clad in a faded pink chambray shirt over worn jeans that hug her legs, with sneakers below bare ankles. Her slender brown fingers quickly find the pears that are ready to pick, tipping them to see if they start to come away easily from the branch, mature but not yet fully ripened. Those that pass the test go quickly but gently into the bucket.

Estela. My star. And just as unreachable as the stars to me.

I’ve been stargazing too long, and someone has noticed.

¡El niño tiene ojos en la chica !

Laughter.

I don’t take AP Spanish until next year, but I know enough of el idioma to know they’re making fun of me. Yes, I’m just a kid, and of course I’ve got my eyes on pretty Estela – who wouldn’t?

But come on – my family owns the orchard! I’m supposed to be learning how to supervise the pickers. They are almost all men; Estela stands out. Her family works for us each year. She’s been hauling the 20-pound lugs down ladders since she was 14. And I saw her helping her tia at the sorting table before that. I was even younger but already starting to crush on her.

What do these guys know about anything? They’re just drones, like Garth said last week, and not too bright at that. What they sure don’t know is that some of them are probably going to be replaced next year, when we’re likely to switch from ladders to platforms. Drive a big machine down the row, with a few lighter, swifter pickers – could be women – and pay ‘em by the sorted pound not the underfilled bucket. We’ll see who’s laughing then.

I glare at the men, who quickly get back to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Estela heard the remark and the laughter. She glances down at me and returns to picking. With a hint of a smile, I think. My cheeks burn, and that shows on somebody with German-Irish skin tones. I bury my head in the charts on the clipboard.

*****

I like to be alone outside in the evening, take a break from the computer. I don’t usually go into the orchard; it’s boring. But I stroll along the edges, where you can see the mountains in the distance or hear some traffic on the highway and imagine going somewhere.

In July it’s still light this late, and warm. Bees are humming somewhere nearby, working overtime, sipping a little last nectar from the ripened and fallen fruit. I look up at the sky, where the brightest stars are beginning to appear even while there are still traces of color in the West, toward the unseen ocean.

A strange thought strikes me: this day has nearly ripened. Ready to fall from the branch. Did I taste it at all?

I am startled by a voice nearby.

“Kyle?”

I know that voice.

“Estela? What are you doing here?”

“It’s a problem?”

I follow her voice and find her sitting in the long grass under the branches of a pear tree, her shoes beside her.

“No, no, of course not. No es problema.”

She smiles. “I speak English, you know. I’ve lived here for years. Just down the road.”

“Of course you do, I’ve seen you forever. I mean …”

I’m glad she can’t see me blushing again, in the twilight. Probably.

I realize I’ve never actually spoken to Estela before.

“You want to sit down?”

“Uh, sure.”

I start to sit and then pause and poke around with the tip of a shoe.

Estela looks a question at me.

“Just checking for pears on the ground. Ants, you know.”

Estela laughs her gentle laugh and gestures toward her bare feet.

“I thought the same already.”

“Ah. Good.” I settle down beside her. Well, at a respectful distance.

It is quiet for a moment, and then we both start to talk at the same time.

“Do you …”

“What do …”

“Sorry, you go first.”

She smiles.

“What do you like to do when the orchard … it is not so busy like in harvest time?”

I think about that.

“It seems like there is always something to do. I mean, I have school, of course. But there’s not time to do much else besides the family business. Grafting, pruning, culling, spraying, hiring, harvesting, sorting, packing, storing, selling, maintaining equipment. We do some preserving and selling direct at the farmer’s markets, too. And there’s bookkeeping and taxes and reports and all that stuff that I’m just starting to learn. Crazy, right?”

She is silent for a moment.

“So, no sports for you. Or music, or books, or maybe surfing in the ocean like on the TV?” She grins playfully. Her teeth flash white. Her eyes are friendly.

I smile back. “Books for school, sure. We went to the beach a couple times. Dad usually says we’re too busy to take time off. He’s a perfectionist about the orchard. Always trying to make the perfect pear, the perfect crop, the perfect yield. Cassie plays piano; I never got into it. I play some computer games … you know, to relax. Um, what about you? You graduated, right? I don’t see you at Garfield anymore.”

She frowns slightly.

“Yeah, I graduated last year. I might take some classes at Colina Verde in the fall.”

“Oh, the community college. That’s good. So you can stay at home?”

“Yeah, so it doesn’t cost much.”

Naturally. I should change the subject, so I don’t embarrass her.

“So, are you into music or books or games?”

She chuckles.

“I like music. My older sister, Maribel?”

I nod, but I have trouble placing her. Then I remember: I’ve seen them talking at the packing shed.

“We sing together. Pretend we’re Thalía and Camila Sodi. You don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?” She laughs.

“No,” I smile, “but go on!”

“Sometimes, we even sing at parties. Pop songs, Mexican and American. When the mariachi band is on break. The kids like it; they sing along. They go out to the parking lot when the mariachi band comes back, you know?”

I don’t know, but then I don’t get out much.

“I wish I could hear you sing.”

It sounds dumb to me. Will she think I’m a dumb kid?

It’s quiet for a long moment. All I can hear is the drone of the bees nearby.

She seems to reach a decision and turns toward me.

“Like, A Quién le Importa?”

She starts humming a simple beat, while I try to translate in my head, pre-AP Spanish.

“Who Cares?” I offer as a translation.

She just nods and starts singing, softly at first, and then her voice grows louder. A beautiful voice, but … aggressive somehow. Demanding.

La gente me señala

me apuntan con el dedo

susurra a mis espaldas

y a mi me importa un bledo.

¿Que más me da

si soy distinta a ellos ?

No soy de nadie,

no tengo dueño.

“It’s got a good beat,” I remark lamely.

She smiles. “It goes on like that for some more verses. Kids like to dance to it. Very popular. It says, I don’t care what anybody thinks, I’m gonna live my own life. Nobody owns me. Kids like to think that’s what they’re gonna do. Until they don’t. That’s what my tia says, anyway. But she watches the telenovelas just like us!”

Her smile is sad this time.

“You live with your tia,” I say quietly. “Is your mom here?”

Silence. It’s getting darker. Maybe I overstepped.

“She died when I was little. She was pregnant again, and Papi was away working. She got sick, depressed. She … she went to someone to … stop the baby. It killed her. I only found out the truth last year. The family, they make up stories, you know? Because they are ashamed. But I am done with that. A quién le importa? Papi never got over it. We see him sometimes. Mirabel and me, we grew up with Tia Rosa and Tio Gordo and their boys. They have been good to us. But we don’t talk about mamá.”

Estela reaches for her shoes and puts them on, one slender foot after the other. I stand when she does, and we brush off our jeans.

“It’s getting late,” she says, and then she leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re a nice boy, Kyle,” she says as she walks quickly away.

I can think of nothing to say. A missed moment?

I savor the scent of her hair and the touch of her lips until the breeze turns cool and the bees are silent.

*****

“Ripeness is all.”

That’s one line of Shakespeare that sticks in my mind. Well, it would, in my business. Timing is everything in agriculture, and my latest app is proving its worth in helping growers know just when to spray and when to harvest. Funny how playing computer games as a teen and resenting farm work may have led to a career after all.

I bring the drone in for a gentle landing on the pad I laid down behind the farmhouse, save the data on my laptop, and prepare to pack up and head for the motel. I’ll email my report, and my invoice, tomorrow.

A voice startles me. And I recognize it at once.

“Kyle?”

She’s older now, of course, not quite as lithe and slender, but Estela’s face and smile still shine like stars in the sky.

“Estela! It’s been … so long! You work here?”

“No, no, I run a catering business. There’s a reception tomorrow. I have to do some setup.”

“Wow. We lost touch after …”

She looks at me strangely.

“Kyle, there was an ICE raid.”

“I heard about that. But you guys … I mean …”

“Yeah, I was born here, but not my sister and my tia and tio. Or the older boys.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, it took a while for everyone to find a place to live and work. I kinda drifted for a while. I was even married once. Didn’t work out. How about you?”

“Oh, we lost the orchard; you might have heard.”

She nods.

“It’s been years since I’ve been back to the farms around Colina Verde. My father never made the perfect pear, and he killed himself trying. Killed the business, too; the bank finally took the orchard a year after his heart attack. I barely finished my degree at Davis and almost lost my scholarship, what with trying to wrap up the business and getting Mom settled. But I’m doing all right now. Kind of a digital nomad, with an agritech niche. Never had time to settle down. Never found someone to settle with, I guess.”

“Waiting for the perfect time? Looking for the perfect woman?” she asks with a teasing smile.

“Well, maybe I missed the moment,” I smile back sadly, touching my cheek.

Estela lifts a pear from a bowl on the picnic table.

“You ever see a pear without some scars or bruises?”

“No,” I admit.

“Not this one either. Still ripe, though. You have to learn to enjoy your days, Kyle, even when they’re not perfect. Or what other people call perfect.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have time for dinner in town tonight?”

“I would.”

“Perfect.”