What's In a Name?

“You’ll need to spell that for me, Dear.” Grey hairs stick to the man’s scalp with the desperation of a child refusing to let go of the carousel when it's time to go home. He wondered why he had all but stapled the thinning strands to his balding head; counterproductive, and in denial. With a strong jaw, and wise eyes, he would suit the greying look.

“A-R-A-S-E-L-I,” His insides squirmed, suddenly forced to reconcile with the deception he was putting forward. Creaky fingers stamped in the letters, a grimace tugging at his lips as the display lit up. His mother always ensured her children were the best in everything, and had the best of everything. When your identity defined the things you received in life, it was necessary for a mother to maximise her children’s values. Since the age of three, he had been taught ballet by industry stars, and spent hours in English, French and mathematics lessons. For all intents and purposes, he was his mother’s perfect child.

Except, “I’m sorry, I am not finding anything worth exchanging for.” He’d soared above his siblings in all ways of contending. Growing up, classmates’ parents pointed to him, pigtails draped down to a pink, pressed-perfect skirt, telling their children to emulate his immaculateness. 

His insides turned, “Are you sure?” He was certain this would work, “D-Did you get the family name correct?” His words tripped out before he could consider what he was saying. 

“Yes, I am certain that I know how to spell Ortiz.” A dullness pulled over his green eyes, scowl deepening as he watched him, waiting for an offer, “Look, child, either you bring your mum here to complete the purchase, or you get out of my stall. I don’t have all day!” His friendly tone fell through the chasm that had developed between them. 

He looked to the vest once more, wondering if he could convince his mamá that it was suitable for a girl, but quickly gave up. The cut wouldn’t be suitable, not to mention the entire shop was marketed as men’s wear. He could try lying, but that could further tarnish his name, which would hardly help him. 

Shaking his head, “Thank you. Apologies for taking your time, Sir.” He left without any further discussion, lower lid threaded with a line of clear tears. Before he knew it, he was back in Andrew’s family shop, the boy grinning up at him, “Fernando! Where’ve you been?” Something eased in his chest as he slumped down next to his best friend. It didn’t matter how hard he tried here, he could never be mistaken for his mother’s daughter.

“Disappointed, but not surprised. Got any soda bread?” He asked, letting his knees part as he leaned forward to grab a soda from Sio across from them. Andrew slung an arm across his shoulders.

“Oi, you could have borrowed my name, you know?” He smiled, not surprised by the offer, but not willing to risk taking value from him. His hair brushed across his back as he shook his head.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Well, do you at least want to borrow some clothes, Mijo?” Mrs. Moran smiled down at him, brown eyes flickering with warm affection, “I’m sure Andrew has some shorts that’ll fit.” He sometimes wished she was his mamá, then he remembered his own’s sacrifices, and guilt would stab through him. After receiving a bashful nod, she brisked towards the back.

“You’re lucky,” He murmured, glancing at Andrew, who beamed proudly in response.

“She’ll cut your hair, if you want. She ain’t afraid of Señora Ortiz, y’know?” Fernando barely kept upright, whether the instability was from the quaking of his stomach at the suggestion or the weight of the larger boy leaning against his shoulder. Siobhan nodded in agreement, before hopping off the bench to go check the bread cases for a snack.

Fernando licked his lips, “Her name would be tarnished if my mamá found out it was her. Besides, my name is next to worthless.” He popped open the can, taking a long drink.

“No, Mijo!” His mother exclaimed upon returning with the clothes, “Fernando, you are family here! To us, your name is more than enough!” He laughed, taking the items gratefully.

“Look up Araseli Ortiz on the shop Mac, and you’ll find a very different story,” He replied, sliping the tee shirt over his blouse, hands slipping beneath it to unbutton the frilly garment.

Andrew’s nose recoiled at the name, “Nah, we’ll look up Fernando, it suits you better.” He nodded his sister’s way to instruct her to do it. She giggled, hopping up to the Mac, and pretending to type the name in, “Infinity!” She called to her brother, grinning broadly.

“That’s not my real name,” He pointed out, rolling his eyes, “so it's an empty account.” He stuffed the blouse into his bag, perhaps more harshly than necessary. What was he supposed to do, though? Mrs. Moran was frowning down at him, again, and he despised the pity he felt in her stare. Everything a child could want growing up, he had. If anything, he should pity her. Husband overseas, left with three children and a failing shop. She never stopped mothering him, though. Despite all the pains of her life, she lived to alleviate theirs. 

Her fingers brushed his bangs from his eyes, “My boy, you’re tearing up,” She murmured softly, wiping his eyes softly with the pad of her tanned thumb, “Fernando is the only name of value here, do you know why?” He looked up at her, her visage swimming like the sun refracting on the lake behind his family home. He shook his head solemnly.

“Because nothing is more valuable than you. Your worth is not defined by what you offer, nor what you can buy… it's innate, because there’s only one Fernando Ortiz. Only one you, Mijo.” White sank stark into pink, tears flowing down his cheeks freely. Andrew wrapped him into a hug, never doubting his mother the way Fernando did. 

“...can you cut my hair?” He asked quietly, looking at her like the sunrise after a month of darkness. The rays lit up his face when she smiled in agreement. “Thank you, gracÍas, Señora! C-Can I do anything to help around here? Repay you, somehow?” She hummed thoughtfully, moving to the Mac, and typing in his name. He followed her, frowning softly.

“Ar-” 

“I will not be looking up that name,” She interrupted, shaking her head, “Fernando Ortiz…” she mumbled as she typed it in. He stared up at her in fascination. Hovering over the keyboard, her fingers froze as she stared, “Well…that’s unexpected…”

He frowned, slinking up to look over her shoulder. On the screen, Fernando Ortiz was displayed in a pristine blue font.

“That’s…that’s me?” She nodded, glancing back at him, as tears pricked his eyes, “B-But that’s…” He’d seen that awful brown splotch over ‘Araseli’ for so long…he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re worth far more as yourself, Mijo.”