After the funeral, Amá doesn’t get out of bed for almost two weeks. She only gets up to go to the bathroom, drink water, and occasionally eat one of those Mexican cookies that taste like Styrofoam. She’s been wearing the same loose and frumpy nightgown, and I’m almost positive she hasn’t taken a shower this entire time, which is scary, because Amá is the cleanest person I know. Her hair is always washed and neatly braided, and her clothes—even when they’re old—are patched, ironed, and spotless. When I was seven, Amá found out I hadn’t showered for five days, so she dunked me in a scalding hot tub and scrubbed me with a brush until my skin ached. She told me that girls who don’t wash their junk get horrible infections, so I never skipped showering again. Maybe I’m the one who needs to throw Amá into the tub now.
Apá works all day, then sits on the couch with a bottle of beer, like usual. In fact, he even sleeps on it now. It’s probably molded to his body at this point. He hasn’t said much to me this whole time, which is not that different from before. Sometimes he barely says hello. Could it be that my own father hates my guts? He wasn’t that much more affectionate toward Olga, but she definitely tried harder. When Apá came home from the factory, she’d bring out his foot bath. She’d kneel down, place his feet gently inside, and massage them. They never said a word during this daily ritual. I can’t imagine touching him like that.
The apartment is a disaster, since Amá and Olga were the ones who did all the cleaning. We have roaches, but because Amá mopped every single day, it didn’t feel that disgusting. Now the dirty dishes are piled high and the kitchen table is covered with
crumbs. The roaches are probably rejoicing. And the bathroom? It should be burned to the ground. I know I should clean, but whenever I look at the mess, I think, what’s the point? Nothing feels like it has a point anymore.
I don’t want to bother my parents because they have enough to worry about, but I’m so hungry and tired of eating nothing but tortillas and eggs. A few days ago, I tried to make beans, but they never softened, even though I boiled them for three hours. I nearly cracked my teeth on one. I had to throw away the whole pot, which is a sin, according to Amá. I hope my aunts bring over more food. This is the only time I wish I would’ve let my mother teach me how to cook. But I hate the way she hovers over me and criticizes my every move. I’d rather live in the streets than be a submissive Mexican wife who spends all day cooking and cleaning.
Apá hasn’t eaten much, either. The other day he brought home a brick of Chihuahua cheese and a stack of tortillas, so we ate quesadillas for several days, but we’ve run out now. Yesterday I got desperate and boiled some old potatoes and ate them with nothing but salt and pepper. We didn’t even have butter. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve started daydreaming about dancing hamburgers. A slice of pizza could probably make me weep with happiness.
I peek inside my parents’ bedroom, and the sour smell nearly knocks me over—a mix of unwashed hair, gas, and sweat.
“Amá,” I whisper. No answer.
“Amá,” I say again, louder. Still nothing.
I finally step inside the room completely. The smell is so awful that I have to breathe through my mouth. I wonder if Amá is ever going back to work. What if the rich assholes she cleans for decide to fire her? Now that Olga is gone and can’t pitch in, what are we going to do? I’m not old enough to get a job.
“Amá!” I finally yell. I turn on the light.
She gasps. “What? What do you want?” she says, her voice blurry with sleep. She covers her eyes with her hands.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Please leave me alone. I want to rest.”
“You haven’t eaten or taken a shower in a really long time.” “How do you know? Are you here watching me every hour of the
day? Your tía came by and gave me soup yesterday. I’m fine.”
“It smells terrible in here. I’m starting to get worried. How can you live like this?”
“Funny how my slob of a daughter is suddenly concerned with cleanliness. When have you ever cared about that before?” Amá has always given me attitude for my messiness, but this is unlike her. “Olga was the clean one,” she adds, in case it didn’t sting enough. She has compared me to my sister every single day of my life, so why should I expect that to change now that she’s dead?
“Olga’s gone now. All you have is me. Sorry.” Silence.
I want Amá to tell me that she loves me and that we’ll get through this together, but she doesn’t. I stand there like a dope, waiting and waiting for her to say something that will make me feel better. When I realize she’s not going to, I dig through her wallet on the dresser, take out a five-dollar bill, and slam the door.
After searching every crevice of my room, I manage to find
$4.75 in change. I’ll be able to buy three tacos and a large horchata, which isn’t much, but it will do. If I have to eat one more plain tortilla or boiled potato, I swear I’ll cry. I slip out the back door to avoid Apá in the living room, not that he’d even ask or notice. Now I have a ghost father and ghost sister.
—
The taco place is bright with fluorescent lighting, and smells like grease and Pine-Sol. I’ve never eaten alone at a restaurant, and it makes me nervous. I can feel everyone watching me. They probably think I’m a loser for eating alone. The waitress gives me a funny look, too. I bet she thinks I’m not going to tip her, but I’ll prove her wrong. I may be young, but I’m not dumb.
I order two tacos de asada and one al pastor with extra limes. The smell of fried meat and grilled onion makes my mouth water.
When the tacos arrive, I try to eat them slowly, but end up inhaling them with desperation. Not only am I bad at cooking, I’m bad at being hungry. I’m always convinced I’m going to faint when my stomach starts to grumble. Each bite of the taco shoots a rush of pleasure through my body. I guzzle the bucket-sized horchata until I feel sick.
—
When I get back home, Amá is in the kitchen, with a towel wrapped around her head, drinking tea. She’s freshly showered and smells like fake roses. She’s finally ditched her nightgown and is wearing her white robe. The sudden sight of her clean and functioning almost scares me. She doesn’t ask me where I’ve been, which has never, ever happened. She always wants to know where I am and who I’m with. She asks a million questions about my friends’ parents—what part of Mexico they’re from, what church they go to, where they work—but today, nothing. I wonder if she can smell the meat and onion in my clothes and hair.
I can usually predict what Amá is going to say, but this time I’m not at all prepared. She takes a loud slurp of her tea—which always, always gets on my nerves—and tells me I’m going to have a quinceañera.
My heart stops. “Wait, what?”
“A party. Don’t you want a nice party?”
“My sister just died and you want to throw me a party? I’m already fifteen!” I must be dreaming.
“I never got to give Olga a quinceañera. It’s something I’ll always regret.”
“So you’re going to use me to make yourself feel better?”
“Ay, Julia. What is wrong with you? What kind of girl wouldn’t want to celebrate her fifteenth birthday? So ungrateful.” She shakes her head.
Plenty is wrong with me, and she knows it. “But I don’t want one. You can’t make me.” Amá tightens her robe. “That’s too bad.”
“It’s a waste of money. I bet Olga would’ve wanted you to help me with college instead.”
“You don’t know anything about what Olga would have wanted,” she says, and takes another slurp of tea. Apá is watching the news in the living room. I can hear the news anchor say something about a mass grave found in Mexico. He always turns the volume way up when Amá and I are arguing, as if he’s trying to drown us out.
“This doesn’t make any sense. I’m already fifteen. Who’s even heard of such a thing?” I start pulling on my hair, which is what I do when I feel panicky.
“We’ll have it in May in the church basement. I already called the priest. It’ll be available by then,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“May? Are you joking? I turn sixteen in July. Why would you do that? You can’t call that a quinceañera.” I start pacing. I feel short of breath.
“You’ll still be fifteen won’t you?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point. This is so stupid.” I shake my head and look at the ground.
“The point is having a nice party with your family.”
“But my family doesn’t even like me. And I don’t want to wear a big, ugly dress….And the dancing. Oh my God, the dancing.” The thought of spinning in circles in front of all my idiot cousins makes me want to run away from home and join the circus.
“What are you talking about? Everyone loves you. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“No, they don’t. They all think I’m weird, and you know that.” I stare at the cheap replica of The Last Supper next to the cabinets. It’s so old that Jesus and his posse are starting to fade into light yellows and greens.
“That’s not true.” Amá furrows her brow.
“Well, either way, you can’t call it a quinceañera.”
“Yes, I can. It’s tradition.” Amá’s jaw tightens, and her eyes narrow in a way that tells me I’m not going to win.
“Where are you going to get the money?” “Don’t worry about it.”
“How can I not worry? That’s all you ever talk about.”
“I said, it’s not your problem. Do you understand?” Amá’s voice gets quiet, which is even scarier than when she yells.
“This fucking sucks,” I say, and kick the stove so hard the pans rattle.
“Watch your mouth, or I’ll slap you so hard, I’ll break your teeth.”
Something tells me she’s not exaggerating.
—
When I can’t sleep, I crawl into Olga’s bed. Last week Amá told me to never, ever go inside her room, but I can’t help it. I slip in there after my parents have gone to bed and then wake up before they do. I think Amá wants to keep the room exactly as Olga left it. Maybe she wants to pretend that she’s still alive, that one day she’ll come home from work and everything will be normal again. If Amá knew that I touched Olga’s things, she’d probably never forgive me. She’d probably ship me to Mexico—one of her favorite threats—as if that would solve any of my problems.
My sister’s bed still smells like her—fabric softener, lavender lotion, and her warm and sweet human scent I can’t describe. Olga dressed ugly but smelled like a meadow. I toss and turn for a long time. Tonight my mind won’t shut off. I can’t stop thinking about the chemistry test I failed yesterday: twenty-four percent, which is the worst grade I’ve received. Even an intellectually stunted monkey could get a better score. I already hated chemistry, but since Olga died, I haven’t been able to concentrate. Sometimes I look at my books and tests, and the words all blur and swirl together. If I keep going like this, I’ll never get into college. I’ll end up working in a factory, marry some loser, and have his ugly children.
After lying in bed for hours, I turn on the lamp and try to read. I’ve read The Awakening a million times, but I find it comforting. My favorite character is the lady in black who follows Edna and Robert everywhere. I also love the book because I’m so much like Edna—nothing satisfies me, nothing makes me happy. I want too
much out of life. I want to take it in my hands and squeeze and twist as much as I can from it. And it’s never enough.
I read the same sentence over and over again, and lay the book on my stomach. I stare at the light purple walls and remember the happy times I had with my sister, before we started to flutter away from each other. There’s a picture on her dresser of both of us in Mexico. Our parents used to send us every summer, but it’s been years since we’ve been there. Amá and Apá haven’t been able to go back because they’re still illegal. The two of us are in front of Mamá Jacinta’s house. We’re both squinting and smiling in the sun, and Olga’s arm is around my neck so tight that it is almost as if she’s choking me. I remember that day so clearly. We swam in the river for hours, then ate Hawaiian hamburgers from the cart near the park.
Most of my childhood sucked, but our summers in Mexico were different. We’d get to stay up all night and play kick-the-can in the streets until we were filthy and exhausted. Here, we would’ve been hit by stray bullets. Sometimes we’d get to ride my great-uncle’s beautiful black horses, and Mamá Jacinta would spoil us with food, no matter how silly our cravings were. Once, she even made us a pizza with stinky ranchero cheese.
Behind our picture is a poster of Maná, the terrible Mexican rock band that I hate, because all their songs are about weeping angels or something equally lame. On the opposite wall is her high school graduation picture. Olga was a good student, so I could never understand why she didn’t want to go to a real college. I’ve been dreaming of going since I was little. I know I’m smart. That’s why they skipped me ahead a year. I was bored out of my skull in class. Now I get mostly B’s, with a sprinkle of C’s, except for English. I always get A’s in English. My mind usually wanders and gets lost in a tangle of worries.
As I look around the room, I wonder who my sister was. I lived with her my whole life, and now I feel like I didn’t know her at all. Olga was the perfect daughter—cooked, cleaned, and never stayed out late. Sometimes I wondered if she’d live with my parents forever like that sap Tita, from Like Water for Chocolate. Ugh. Such a terrible book.
Olga loved her job, even though she was only a receptionist.
What could be so fulfilling about filing and answering phones?
The stuffed animals on the dresser make me sad. I mean, I know they’re inanimate objects—I’m not an idiot—but I imagine them all melancholic, waiting for my sister to come back. Olga loved babies, the color pink, and peanut butter cups. She always covered her mouth when she laughed because of her snaggletooth. She was a good listener. Unlike me, she never, ever interrupted. She was also an excellent cook. In fact, her enchiladas were better than Amá’s, but I’ve never said that out loud.
I know Amá loves me and always has, but Olga has always been her favorite. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve questioned everything, which drove both my parents insane. Even when I tried to be good, I couldn’t. It’s as if it were physically impossible for me, as if I were allergic to rules. Things just got worse and worse as I got older. Stuff that’s sexist, for example, makes me crazy. Once, I ruined Thanksgiving by going on a rant about the women having to cook all day while the men just sat around, scratching their butts. Amá said I embarrassed her in front of the whole family, that I couldn’t change the way things have always been. I probably should’ve let it go after a while, but I stand by what I said.
Amá and I also argue about religion all the time. I told her that the Catholic church hates women because it wants us to be weak and ignorant. It was right after the time our priest said—I swear to God—that women should obey their husbands. He literally used the word obey. I gasped and looked around in disbelief to see if anyone else was as angry as I was, but, no, I was the only one. I poked Olga in the ribs and whispered, “Can you believe this shit?” But she just told me to be quiet and listen to the sermon. Amá said I was a disrespectful huerca, that how could the church hate women when we worship La Virgen de Guadalupe? You can’t ever win an argument with her, so why do I bother?
Stuff like that made us hate each other, and Olga was always taking her side. They looked alike, too. They’re both pale and thin, with stick-straight black hair, and I’m chubby, short, and dark, like Apá. I’m not, like, super-fat or anything, but I have thick legs and my stomach is definitely not flat. Oh, and my boobs are much
too big for my body—two pendulous burdens I’ve been lugging around since I was thirteen. I’m also the only one in the family who wears glasses. I’m practically blind. If I went out into the world with naked eyeballs, I’d probably be robbed, run over by a car, or mauled by animals.
I read for a little while longer, then try to go to sleep, but I can’t. I stay wide awake for what feels like hours. When I hear birds beginning to chirp, I get so angry, I tug at the sheets and arrange the pillow over and over again. I feel something inside it press my cheek. For a second, I think it’s a feather, but then I remember I’m not living in the 1800s. I sift through the pillowcase and pull out a folded piece of paper. It’s a sticky note with the name of a prescription: Lexafron. Olga probably got it from the pharmaceutical people who always visited her office. On the back, it says, I love you. I stare at it for a minute, not understanding. Why the hell is this in my sister’s pillow?
My mind is leaping, my thoughts doing somersaults and backflips. Olga only had one boyfriend who I knew of—Pedro, a skinny, little guy who looked like an aardvark, but that was years ago. I seriously don’t know what she saw in him, because not only was he ugly, he had the personality of a boiled potato. Even though I was only ten, I often wondered what was going on in that little brain of his.
Pedro was just as shy as Olga, so I don’t know what they talked about. When he came to our family parties, my uncles would give him a hard time for being such a dork. I remember tío Cayetano trying to give him a shot of tequila once, and Pedro just shaking his head no. Most of the time, he’d pick Olga up on Friday nights and take her to dinner. Their favorite place was Red Lobster. Once, they even went to Great America (how riveting!). They dated for a year until he and his family moved back to Mexico (oh my God, who does that?). That was the last I knew about Olga’s love life.
I tiptoe to her closet and start digging through her things as quietly as possible. One box is filled with photos from school. Most of them are of Olga and her friends during science fairs, field trips, and birthday parties. She was in the science club at school, and, for some reason, felt the need to document every single moment. I
mean, there’s even a picture of her holding a microscope. Jesus, my sister was boring. I keep sifting through the box when I feel some clothes. I can’t be prepared for what I pull out—five pairs of silk-and-lace thongs. Sexy lady underwear, the kind I imagine a very expensive hooker might buy. At the very bottom, I find skimpy lingerie. I have no idea what it’s called. A nightie? A negligee? A teddy? Such stupid names for things that are supposed to be sexy. Why would Olga have this in her closet? Why would she subject herself to these forever-wedgies when she didn’t even have a boyfriend? Was this what she wore under her senior-citizen ensembles? Olga must have done a good job washing them in secret because, if Amá had found them in the laundry, she would have flipped the hell out.
I have to find her laptop now. I have two hours until my parents wake up.
I look everywhere, even the places I already searched. Finally, when I’m so tired I’m about to give up, I think to check the most obvious place of all—under her mattress, and there it is. Duh.
I know guessing a password is probably impossible, but I have to make an effort. I try a few things—her favorite food; our parents’ hometown, Los Ojos; our address; her birthday; and even 12345, which only a complete moron would use. Oh, who am I kidding? This is impossible.
I go back to her dresser. There has to be something else in there. Her junk drawer is full of pens, paper clips, scraps of paper, receipts, old notebooks—nothing even remotely interesting. As I consider going back to sleep, I find an envelope under a pile of notecards. It feels like there’s a credit card inside, but it’s not. It’s a hotel key. The Continental, it says. Except for our trips to Mexico, Olga has never, ever slept anywhere else. Why would she need a hotel key? Angie works at a hotel, but it’s called something else…the Skyline, I think.
I hear someone open a door. Maybe Amá or Apá got up to pee. I flick off the light as quickly as possible and try not to move or breathe. If Amá catches me, she’ll make sure I never get in here again.
—
The next thing I know, I wake up to the sound of someone in the kitchen. My pillow is wet. I must have fallen asleep before I could set an alarm on my phone. Holy shit, Amá is going to kill me. I make Olga’s bed as fast as I can and press my ear to the door to make sure no one is near when I sneak back into my room.
Amá must have been wearing ninja shoes because, when I open the door, there she is with her hands on her hips.
