Page 16 of The Night We Became Strangers

Instead of wasting my energy on that twit, I should focus on talking to Ernesto Albán about my parents.

I got a feeling he was about to share something important earlier.

But as the whiskey and aguardiente bottles were getting empty, and people got more and more affectionate, Don Ernesto became harder to reach.

He’d shed his jacket a long time ago, displaying a pair of suspenders over his white shirt, and people often came to talk to him or offer him a drink.

He was undoubtedly the most popular man at the party, whereas Juliana Isabel was the most popular girl.

Even Tío Bolívar had asked her to dance.

Don Ernesto danced, too, with his wife, who Graciela had told me was also a theater actress.

Félix and I were already on our fifth song. He was getting significantly better, so I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was getting tired and thirsty, and wanted a break. What I had noticed was that the closer he got to me, the more frequently I sneezed.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Now it’s my turn to dance with Valeria,” Matías told Félix.

I was shocked. Up until that moment he’d acted as though he didn’t even know my name.

But something about the way he’d approached us: with that smug smile, the faint scent of alcohol, and how he had taken “ownership” of me bothered me.

Not to mention the fact that he’d apparently been laughing at me earlier.

“No,” I said. “I’m not dancing with you.”

I held Félix’s hand and led him toward the table where Graciela was sitting. She’d run into an old school friend and was talking to her animatedly.

After a sip of water, Félix and I returned to the dance floor for a cha-cha. It was a favorite, and everyone stood up to dance. Matías had recovered quickly from my rejection and was dancing with yet another girl. Ugh, he’d turned into such a womanizer.

Félix was more comfortable with me now and was not stuttering as much.

He was also learning the steps faster. The dance floor got crowded, and I lost sight of Matías.

In the last few years, chacha-chá had become a popular dance in all of Latin America and I liked it because it was simple and fun to dance.

But the first notes of “Los marcianos” by Tito Rodríguez made me stiffen.

I stopped dancing.

“What’s wrong?” Félix said.

I needed to be alone. I couldn’t stand that stupid Martian song for one more second.

I made my way across the dance floor, pushing a couple of drunks who tried to grab me by the waist. Somewhere along the way, I lost Félix, which was a relief as I didn’t want to have to give him any explanations.

I found a hall that was quiet and dark, and stood there, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed.

The hall led to another small patio, but I spotted a couple sitting on a bench under a dim light, so I stayed where I was.

“You don’t like this song, either.”

His voice startled me. Matías had been standing behind a column in the center of the patio.

“I hate it,” I said.

“Me, too.”

“You can’t get away from it.”

The blasted song was in every radio station and party, it seemed.

It had come out a couple of years ago in light of the ongoing Martian craze around the world.

Not only because of the drama that ensued here eight years ago, but also in other countries.

The so-called alien invasion became the subject of graphic novels and movies, even songs such as this one, which tells the story of Martians arriving on a flying saucer and dancing the chacha-chá.

If it weren’t because the subject was so personal to me, I probably would’ve liked it as much as the next person, since the melody and lyrics were extremely catchy.

“It should be banned,” he said, approaching me.

Of course he would hate it, too. His father had died in the same incident.

The whole Martian fiasco, which seemed so outrageous and amusing for some, wasn’t funny to us at all .

Now that I had him close, I could tell he wasn’t drunk, like I’d originally thought.

He seemed completely sober. His eyes had that special shine they always got when he looked at me. At least, I had wanted to believeit.

“Why didn’t you want to dance with me?” he said, curtly.

“You’ve changed.”

“Everyone changes.”

I sighed.

“You have changed, too,” he said. He was about to add something else but didn’t.

“Your mother is not here today?” I asked, self-consciously.

“No. She hates parties. Ever since my dad”—he loosened his tie a notch—“ever since his passing, she doesn’t go out anymore.”

And yet, she’d married another man. I found that odd, especially because her new spouse was her husband’s first cousin.

“Why were you laughing at me?” I asked him.

“I wasn’t laughing at you. When?”

“Earlier. When I was dancing.”

“Someone told me a joke.”

“But you looked at me.”

He inserted his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “That had nothing to do with it.”

“With what?”

“The joke was not the reason I was looking at you.”

“Then what was it?”

He shrugged. “You look like your mom now.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“I never said that.”

“Well, is it?”

He cleared his throat. “No.”

“Valeria!” My uncle’s voice thundered behind me. He’d never raised his voice at me, and it was disconcerting. “What are you doing here? Félix got tired of waiting for you and left!”

He looked at Matías as though he were a monster emerging from a cave.

Neither one greeted the other. I knew for a fact they’d met before.

Matías and his parents often attended gatherings at my parents’ house during holidays and birthdays, and Tío Bolívar and his family were always there.

At some point, Graciela, Matías, Germán, and I had all played together.

Tío Bolívar grabbed my arm. “Come on.”

I turned to Matías. Now that I’d finally gotten him to talk to me, I had to leave. I was going to tell him something about continuing with our conversation at another time, but he spoke first.

“Don’t let me keep you.”

I was so hurt I turned around and left without saying goodbye. On our way out, we heard Don Ernesto Albán singing a popular tango.