Model Ricans

Blanke Rayder III

Desiree always said the Spanish moss is thicker and somehow more sophisticated in Winter Glen. She's right. The Spanish moss in my subdivision off the state road looks stringier; less loved.

The Spanish moss hangs in front of Blanke's door as I knock on it and Blanke opens it with his two younger sisters and brother rushing up behind him. The happiness in the house is contagious. It sweeps me up like a jubilant tornado. I laugh as the kids all hug me. Blanke smiles shyly and blinks. He seems genuinely happy to see me in his house. "Thanks for having me over," I say.

"Of course, says Blanke. "It's the best first date. I mean like – I wanted you to meet my family so you know I am respectful, not just some guy picking you up at a stop light."

I choke and laugh. I want to ask why he wants to be respectful, but the kids have already pushed me out of my comfort zone by tagging me. No choice but to chase after them like the kids I babysit...at least the not-racist kids, until I remember I am not babysitting. I stop, pant, as Blanke watches me in awe. Scratch the tip of my nose and look around like I am a cool teenager. "Where are your parents?"

Blanke laughs. "They're in the backyard barbequing. I'll introduce you in a minute, lemme give you a tour of the house first."

I nod and obey when he motions to follow. The immense, Spanish-style concrete McMansion in Winter Glen is nothing like I have ever seen. Spiral staircase up to the bedrooms where there are family photographs hanging on the walls. Marga peers at a photo of his whole family standing on a boat dock. Everyone is smiling so happily. It's all so perfect. Like he said, Norman Rockwell. Perfect happy white people living their perfect white American Dreams in real life.

As I stare, the photos blur into Desiree's family photos in the hallway of her house. They also seemed perfect until Desiree started jumping out the window in the middle of the night. Norman Rockwell families don't have teenagers jumping out of windows, or parents who don't know about their teenagers jumping out of windows.

Blanke interrupts my mental comparisons as if he can read my mind. "My parents talk to me about everything. My dad once sat me down for the birds-and-the-bees talk when I was 6 or 7 – I know...so young! But he wanted me to understand it before all the boys at school started talking about it in the wrong ways."

"The wrong ways?" I lift my eyebrows. "What are the wrong ways of talking about sex – like from your dad's perspective?"

"Boys think sex is about boobs and asses and all the parts that aren't even that interesting. Dad says it's something really beautiful when it's with someone who moves your heart and your mind. When I met you, I hoped we would...make love someday, but I really want to get to know your heart first."

Lump in throat. "Did you just tell me you want to have sex with me?"

Blanke blushes. "Well...kinda. But only if we get married first."

"What?" I am taken aback by Blanke's words. He is so direct. And a little bit traditional for my tastes. Marriage before sex? All I needed was to turn 18.

Just then, Blanke's parents walk through the sliding glass doors from the backyard where I can see a huge, tropical pool. "Hello! Hi! You must be Marga! So nice to meet you!"

Blanke's mother has sensibly short blond hair and smiling blue eyes. His father has dark hair and a beard, and similarly blue smiling eyes. They exude exuberant energy as they shake my hand and pull me in for a hug.

"Is this normal? Is this how a real family interacts?" Apparently I am saying this out loud and crying after they hug me. "It's just so...nice to see parents still together. I am overcome by some kind of nostalgia I don't understand."