I always catch myself staring at the door, like a dope, waiting for Olga to come home. People said it would get better with time, but that’s not exactly true. There are moments I miss her just as much as I did when she first died. I know we weren’t that close, but now that she’s gone, I feel like I’m missing an organ. I still have dreams about her, too. Sometimes they’re harmless, like the two of us in the car or at the kitchen table, eating breakfast, but every once and a while, she appears covered in blood, her body twisted and crushed, and I wake up screaming.
Amá still cries a lot. I can hear her in the bathroom sometimes. I think she covers her mouth with a towel to muffle her sobs. Her eyes are always red, too. I wish I knew how to help, but I feel useless, as always. Apá is as silent as ever. He could be dying inside, and no one would even know.
I’ve gone back to Olga’s school three times now, but each time I saw the same bitter-looking woman, and walked right back out. She would probably remember me and call security for real this time. I’ve also called the Continental five more times, hoping to get a worker who’ll bend the rules, but they keep saying they’re not allowed to give any information about their guests, even if they’re dead. If only I could get Olga’s laptop from her room so Connor can unlock it.
Dead. Dead. Dead. Always dead ends. Story of my life.
I remember the stupidest things now, too, small details about me and Olga I never even thought about before. Like the other day, I was waiting in line at the grocery store and remembered the time I got a paper cut on a Sesame Street book when I was four, and became so afraid of it that I refused to touch it again. Olga
knew how much I loved the book, so she read it to me over and over. I’m sure she memorized it. Then yesterday I was walking home from school and thought of the night at Mamá Jacinta’s house when our cousin Valeria told us about La Llorona, the ghost woman who wails through the streets because she drowned her own children. I couldn’t sleep for days, convinced that every squeak or rustle meant that La Llorona was coming to drag me by the hair and kill me in the river. Olga stayed with me every night until I got over my susto. This morning, as I was brushing my teeth, I remembered when we bought a bag of chocolates and hid it in her room. We’d eat one in secret every day after school, as if the candy were some sort of high-stakes contraband. That was probably the most disobedient thing Olga ever did when we were kids.
When I get these flashbacks, I feel like someone scooped my soul out and trampled it on the dirty ground. Everything was so much easier when we were little. What I thought was hard at the time, now seems easy in comparison.
Happiness is a dandelion wisp floating through the air that I can’t catch. No matter how hard I try, no matter how fast I run, I just can’t reach it. Even when I think I grasp it, I open my hand and it’s empty.
Every once in a while, I do have moments of joy, though, like when I get to see Connor. He calls me almost every night, and we talk until my ear gets hot. What I like most about him is that he makes me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever known. The other day he cracked me up with a story about him and his best friend arguing over some sports team. They got so angry that they ended up throwing hot dogs at each other. And because they were still hungry and didn’t want to waste food, they picked the hot dogs off the grass and ate them right before a flock of seagulls usurped them. I laughed so much I snorted, which made us both laugh even harder.
Each time I’m on my phone, Amá just happens to walk by my room. It’s hard to really talk when someone is always hovering over you. Although Amá doesn’t understand English that well, I’m still afraid of what she’ll hear. She must already know that I’m talking to a guy.
The idea of college also cheers me up when I feel shitty. Thank God I skipped a grade, or else I’d be stuck here for another year. The only people I’ll miss are Lorena, Mr. Ingman, and Connor. Juanga has grown on me, too. I just wish he and Lorena would stop drinking and smoking weed all the time. Sometimes they act kind of erratic, which scares me a little, like the time they were convinced we should crash a party even though the host threatened to kill Juanga over his ex-boyfriend last year. With a knife and everything. I was able to persuade them it was a horrible idea, and we went to the movies instead. Lorena smuggled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in her purse, and she and Juanga polished it off, drank it as if it were water and they were dying of thirst in the desert. I only drank a few sips, told them it tasted like violence, and they looked at me like I was out of my damn mind. And weed makes me paranoid, like something terrible is about to happen, so I stopped smoking it. Real life is scary enough, thank you.
—
Lorena insists we go sledding because, according to her, winter is boring as fuck, and she’s going to lose her mind if she’s sequestered in her apartment any longer. I’m getting stir-crazy, too. It happens every single year. It doesn’t matter that I’ve lived in Chicago forever; the winters here are always a kick in the teeth.
I’ve never been sledding in my life. I’ve heard of it, have seen it on TV, but my parents have never taken me, just like we’ve never been to Disney World or watched The Sound of Music. I assumed it was just something white people did.
“Where are we going to get the money for sleds?” I ask Lorena as she fiddles with my makeup on my dresser. “And how did you even think of this anyway?”
Lorena shrugs. “I dunno, saw it in a movie. We don’t need to buy real sleds, dummy. All we need is pieces of plastic to slide on.” She blows into her hands and rubs them together. It’s cold as hell in here because Amá always keeps the heat down in the winter to save money. I usually walk around the apartment wrapped in a blanket and wearing a hat, looking like a fool.
“And where are we gonna find that?” I’m usually up for an adventure, and I’m bored, too, but the idea of being all wet and cold is not at all enticing.
“I don’t know, but it can’t be that hard.” Lorena puts on a coat of my lip gloss.
I think about spending the entire weekend indoors, and suddenly sledding doesn’t seem so unpleasant. “I guess that sounds kind of fun.”
After a trip to the hardware store, Lorena, Juanga, and I are at the top of the hill at Palmisano Park, in Bridgeport, holding cheap plastic mats. The man who helped us seemed confused about our purchase but wasn’t interested enough to ask. He just scowled and sent us to the register.
—
There are no real hills in Chicago, but the park used to be a quarry, so it has a decent slope. There is a circle of white Buddha heads half buried in the snow and a perfect view of the skyline at the top of the hill. I can’t believe I’d never been here before. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been living in a dark hole. There’s probably so much of the city I’ve never seen.
Unlike us, several families are using legit sleds, and two little kids are rolling down the hill in their snowsuits, squealing the whole way.
“See, it’s not just for white people,” Lorena says, with a smug smile.
“Well, color me embarrassed!” I say dramatically, and put my hands on my cheeks in fake surprise.
Lorena laughs. “Shut up.”
“I hope this works,” I say to Lorena. “There’s nothing to grip on to.”
“Jesus, just hold on to the sides. Shouldn’t you be more positive now that you’re in love and all that?”
I can’t help but grin. “First of all, I’m feeling fine at this particular moment, if you must know, and second of all, I’m not in
love,” I say. But maybe I am. When I think of kissing Connor, I get a little short of breath and my insides feel hot.
Lorena shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
“This is definitely a first for me. The sportiest thing I’ve ever done is run after the bus,” Juanga says as he ties his shoelace.
“I don’t think this qualifies as a sport,” I reply. “It’s not like we’re going to be panting or anything.”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. An activity?” The glare of the snow makes me squint. “Ah, whatever, it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, let’s do this.” Juanga smiles, positions his mat, and sits down. He is not dressed right for the weather—an old leather jacket, thin black gloves, jeans, and battered gray gym shoes. He’s not even wearing a hat or scarf, so his face is bright red. Sometimes the way he dresses makes me wonder about his mother.
The three of us get in a line and push off at the count of three. The whole way down, we scream and laugh like crazies. When we get to the bottom of the hill, we just lie on the snow, giggling. I look up at a scrawny tree, the branches covered in frost, and am stunned by how beautiful it is.
“Oh my God, Lorena, you are a genius,” Juanga says. “Entertainment for under eight dollars. I never thought being outside in the cold could be fun. At first, I was all, like, this bitch is crazy, but, nah, this is cool.”
“What did I tell you?” Lorena raises her eyebrow at me.
“You were right. I’m sorry I doubted you. This is fun, much better than being inside the apartment, listening to my mother complain about how lazy I am.”
Juanga and Lorena get up and dust the snow off their clothes, but I lie there for a few seconds, listening to the church bells in the distance.
—
When Connor asks to visit me, I make up some dumb excuse and hope he never brings it up again. He says he’s curious about the
south side of the city, and I tell him there’s not much to see. It’s not that I’m ashamed of where I’m from, but we have such different lives. How do you explain to someone that you’re poor? I think he knows, but it’s different if he sees it for himself. I avoid it by asking him to meet somewhere in between.
After school, Connor and I meet in Uptown, at his favorite thrift store. His face is flushed from the cold, and he looks cute in his big, puffy jacket and purple stocking hat.
Though I love looking at old and used things, I kind of hate thrift stores because they make me feel itchy and remind me that I have no money. For Connor it seems like a fun adventure, probably because he’s never had to shop there. Amá, Olga, and I used to go to the one in our neighborhood on Mondays because it was half off. How sad is that? A sale at a freaking thrift store.
“Oh my God, look at this,” Connor says, and holds up an embroidered sweater with three cats on it, something an old lady would wear. “This is amazing. It’s so ugly, I kind of want to buy it.”
I smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty hideous, like, disrespectful to the senses. Where would you wear that, though?”
“Anywhere. I’d wear this to school, the grocery store, to a bar mitzvah, I don’t care.”
I have six dollars to my name, and he’s gonna buy something as a joke. I know it’s not his fault, but I can’t help feeling a little annoyed. I try not to show it, though, because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “I think you should do it. You will be the belle of the ball.” I twirl in the aisle like some sort of princess.
I need new pants, but it’s impossible to buy them at a thrift store since I can’t try them on. Pants rarely fit right because of my thick legs and round butt. Instead, I look for dresses that stretch and forgive, but find nothing.
I always wonder who wore these clothes before they ended up here, why and how they got discarded. Sometimes I see stains and I try to guess where they came from—coffee, mustard, blood, red wine, grass—and create a story in my head, like the time I found an old wedding dress with mud stains at the fringes. I imagined rain began to pour in the middle of the outdoor ceremony, and that instead of cursing the sky for bad luck, the bride and groom
held hands and ran for cover under a tree, the guests and wedding party all laughing about their wet clothes, ruined hairstyles, and dripping makeup.
Everything is picked over, and I start to lose my patience. My eyes itch, and I imagine bedbugs latching on to my clothes. I want to leave, but Connor looks like he’s having so much fun. He walks toward me smiling and holding a framed painting of an old-timey clown on a unicycle.
“Man, they have the coolest shit here. This is ridiculous,” he says, and laughs.
“Do you mind if we leave? I don’t really like this.” I scratch my neck.
“What do you mean, you don’t like it? What’s wrong? You said you wanted to come with me.”
“Yeah, I know, but I want to go now. Is that okay? I’m sorry.” All of a sudden I’m sad, and I’m not even sure why. I’m always excited to see Connor, but there’s a heaviness that has set inside me that I don’t understand.
“What’s wrong?” Connor looks hurt and stares at the clown picture.
“Nothing, I swear. I’m okay. I’m just tired, really.” So far, it’s been nothing but giggles and kisses, and it would be so typical of me to ruin it.
“All right, let’s go then.” Connor puts his items on a shelf and walks toward the door.
I catch up to him and touch his arm. “No, wait. Buy your cat sweater and your clown thing. You wanted them. I’m sorry I’m being weird.”
“Okay, I guess. But are you all right?”
I’m afraid to tell him exactly how I feel—how one second I’m okay and the next I’m sad for no good reason. I don’t want to scare him away. “I just keep thinking about bedbugs, and it’s freaking me out a little. And maybe I’m getting my period.”
“Ah, I see. Well, let’s get you some chocolate, and then I will inspect you for vermin.” Connor says, and pretends to pick a bug out of my hair.
“Oh my God, that’s so gross.” I bat his hand away. “And how do you know chocolate will make me feel better?”
Connor shrugs. “Works for my mom.”
“I guess it works for me, too, so, yes, I will accept your offer.” I take his hand and lead him to the register. “Hurry up, before I really get stabby.”
We can’t find any bakeries, so we settle for a nearby grocery store, one of those fancy ones where a bag of organic apples costs more than our rent. Connor and I walk up and down the aisles for a while. I think we’re both trying to stretch our time together as much as we can.
“Once, when I was a kid—I think I was about nine—I was with my mom at a grocery store,” I tell him when we pass the cleaning supplies. “I got bored, so wandered off and got a bunch of embarrassing things and put them in strangers’ carts when they weren’t looking.”
“Like what?”
“Like constipation pills, adult diapers, ointments. A bunch of butt-related stuff, now that I think about it.”
Connor covers his face as he laughs. “What did they do?”
“I watched some of them when they got to the checkout line. Most of them were confused. One lady kept trying to explain to the cashier that she didn’t put the items in her cart. She was really pissed off. I laughed so hard. Does that make me a bad person?”
Connor turns to face me and takes my hand. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but”—he sighs—“you’re the worst person I’ve ever met in my life, hands down.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. I’m kind of proud of myself.” Connor nods solemnly. “And somehow I still like you.” “I wish I could say the same about you,” I joke.
Connor laughs.
When we get to the candy aisle, he places his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. I’m almost startled by it. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. My hands get shaky.
“Okay, Ms. Reyes, pick whichever chocolate suits your fancy,” he says.
“Even some fair-trade, sustainable, locally-grown-by-a- community-of-gnomes kind of shit?” I ramble. “Because that’s the only kind I’ll tolerate. I have very high standards.”
“Anything.” Connor smiles. “Artisanal and pesticide-free, if that’s what you want.”
“You know how to treat a lady,” I say, and kiss him on the cheek. “A real gentleman.”
—
Connor tells me his parents are out of town on a business trip this week and his brother won’t be visiting from Purdue this weekend, so he wants me to come over on Saturday afternoon. Everyone’s parents in my neighborhood work in factories, so the idea of a “business trip” is foreign to me, but I don’t ask any questions so he doesn’t think I’m stupid. I’m shocked that his parents trust him to stay home alone.
Amá and Apá have never left us by ourselves or let us sleep anywhere else. Not in a million years, not even with our cousins. The only other place we’ve ever stayed in is Mamá Jacinta’s house when we went to Mexico. I think Amá has always been afraid that we’d get molested or have sex. She doesn’t even like it when people kiss on TV, and if two characters are about to get it on— forget about it—she shuts it off and runs out of the room, muttering about cochinadas.
White people are different, I guess. Nancy from algebra went out with a white guy from Oak Park once, and she said that his parents let her sleep over.
I wonder if Connor expects us to have sex. I think about it all the time, but now that it’s a real possibility, the idea of it scares me. What does it mean to be ready? How do you know for sure? I mean, I like him, and when we make out, it’s obvious my body wants it, but what will it mean? Would he see me differently once he’s gotten what he’s wanted? At the same time, I want it, too, and if he judges me for doing the same exact thing he’s doing, then that’s bullshit. I lie on my bed thinking and worrying until I can’t stand it anymore.
I need Lorena’s advice, but I have to make sure Amá doesn’t hear. She’s sitting on the couch, knitting a blanket, so I get inside my closet and close the door. I barely fit, with all the boxes of useless crap and old clothes, but it’s the most private place in the house.
Lorena says I have to shave my pussy before I go.
“But I don’t know how. Why do women always have to do such unpleasant things? Heels, thongs, shaving, plucking, bleaching. It’s really not fair.” I like makeup and dresses, and I will shave my legs and armpits, but everything else is such an ordeal.
Lorena sighs. “You have to, or else he’s going to get grossed out.”
“Why did we evolve with hair down there if we didn’t need it?
Isn’t there a reason for it?”
“Jesus, Julia. Why did you call me for advice if you weren’t going to listen?”
I guess Lorena has a point. “Okay, so tell me how.” “What do you mean how? You just do it.”
“The whole thing?” “Yes, stupid.”
“What if I cut myself?”
“You won’t. Just do it slow.”
“It hurts, right? Not the shaving but the…you know. Ugh. I’m freaking out.”
Lorena is silent for a few seconds. “At first it does, but then it gets better.”
—
I tell Amá I’m going downtown to an art gallery. I make something up about a new exhibit featuring female artists from Latin America. Sometimes I’m impressed by my own lies, but I can see the suspicion radiating from her eyes.
“Amá, I’m so bored. Please.”
“Why don’t you clean, then? There’s plenty to do at home,” she says. “Olga never wanted to go anywhere. Work, school, home.
That’s it.”
After I whine about my need for cultural enrichment and go on and on about how this neighborhood is going to suffocate me— both emotionally and intellectually—she finally lets me go. “You better not be lying. You know I always find out.” She points her spatula at me and turns back to the flautas frying on the stove.
—
I walk to the pharmacy to get condoms first. I don’t know if he’s supposed to have them or what, but I don’t want to take any chances. Will he think I’m a slut, though? Or what if a nosy neighbor sees me buy them? What then? I guess either scenario is better than ending up pregnant or infected with a deadly STD.
I have to take three trains to get to Evanston. The houses are massive, and the streets are lined with looming trees. Bushes and hedges are trimmed with a precision that seems almost silly. I figured Connor’s family had money, but I wasn’t prepared for this.
I’m supposed to walk east from the station once I get there— toward the lake—but I still get lost for almost twenty minutes, going in circles and ending up in a cul-de-sac. I’ve never been very good with directions.
Finally, I find his block, so I pull out my pocket mirror to make sure I look okay. My eyeliner isn’t smudged, and my lip gloss is still intact. Thank God the gigantic pimple on my cheek is gone. I iced it for days, but it was super-stubborn, with roots so deep, they felt like they reached my skull. I was starting to think I’d take it to the grave. I almost named it; Ursula and Brumhilda were my top two choices.
Connor’s house has a giant wraparound porch and enormous windows. It’s as big as our entire apartment building. Part of me wonders if I should go back home. I feel nervous and start tugging at my hair. My crotch is beginning to itch like crazy, too. I shouldn’t have listened to Lorena. Maybe she doesn’t know everything about sex.
When Connor answers the door, I feel a surge of anxiety. He’s wearing a Foo Fighters T-shirt, pajama pants, and a pair of
moccasins—total suburban white boy—but he’s so hot, I’d like him even if he wore a tattered garbage sack.
“You smell like Mexican food,” he says as he hugs me. “Like fried tortillas or something. You’re making me hungry.”
I laugh, even though I’m mortified.
Connor gives me a tour of the house, which is two stories high, not including his giant bedroom in the attic. I try to play it cool and act unimpressed, but the only fancy houses I’ve ever seen in real life are the ones I’ve cleaned with Amá. Every room is expertly decorated and looks like it belongs on TV. The kitchen is the size of our apartment, and fancy copper pots and pans hang over two stoves (two!). They even have a fireplace and a giant black piano in the living room. These people must be rich as fuck.
The mantle is covered with photos. There’s one of who I assume is Connor’s mom, laughing on a swing. They have the same light brown hair and crinkly eyes.
“You and your mom are identical.” I turn to him and smile. “Yeah, that’s what everybody says. I think I look more like my
dad, though. Jeremy is the male version of my mom, basically her
with short hair.”
“Is this your dad?” I pick up a frame of a tall man wearing a baseball cap in front of a stadium.
“No, that’s Bruce, my stepdad. I haven’t seen my dad in five years. He lives in Germany now.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Connor’s never said much about his family. “What does he do there?”
“He’s an engineer. Lives in Munich.” “When did they get divorced?”
“I was six, and then Bruce married my mom when I was nine.” “What’s he like?”
“He’s pretty conservative, watches Fox News and shit like that. We don’t agree on a lot of things, but he’s been more of a dad than my real dad, that’s for sure.”
I see a photograph on the mantle of Bruce holding a rifle in front of a giant dead animal. I can’t tell what it is exactly, but it looks majestic. Its long horns are twisted and beautiful.
“What is it? The animal, I mean.” “Spiral-horned antelope.”
I can see Connor is embarrassed, so I don’t ask him more.
The Thai food he’s ordered is supposed to arrive in an hour. We watch music videos on his laptop while we wait.
“You’re so pretty,” he says as he searches for a video. “Thanks.” I feel my face flush.
“No, seriously. I really like you.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just look at my dry hands—one of my knuckles is cracked and bleeding from the cold.
“I like you, too, even though you’re wearing those pants,” I tease.
“What’s wrong with my pants?” “Where do I begin?” I giggle.
“You’re horrible, you know that?” Connor says, trying not to smile.
“I know. We already established that.” We both laugh, then get quiet.
Connor puts down the laptop and kisses me, and though we’ve kissed many times before, my hands and legs begin to shake. I hope he doesn’t notice. We kiss and kiss for so long that my jaw aches. Then he lies on top of me and slips his cold hand under my shirt. After a few minutes, he tries to pull down my jeans, but I have to take my shoes off first. This is the part I was most afraid of. Every time I take my shoes off in someone’s house, I remember the time in kindergarten, a roach crawled out of my sneaker. Though it’s happened to me only once, I still worry about it every single time. What if there’s a roach nestled in there somewhere, ready to ruin me?
“Wait,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” Connor cocks his head to the side. He seems concerned.
“Well…it’s just that…” My eyes dart around the room. I’m too nervous to look at him.
“Oh shit, you’ve never done this before, huh? Are you sure you want to?” He holds my face in his hands and looks straight into my eyes.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I nod. Connor looks skeptical.
“Don’t you feel special? Since you’ll be the first? You can strut around wearing a crown, throw some confetti or something.”
Connor smiles. “So you’re absolutely, one hundred percent positive? I don’t want to do it if you’re not ready. There’s no rush, you know.”
“Yes. Really. Now shut up and kiss me.” I laugh and pull him closer.
After we kiss for a while, Connor pulls a condom out from under a couch cushion. I guess he was prepared. I look away as he puts it on.
My body tightens, bracing itself—it hurts more than I imagined, but I pretend it doesn’t.
“Is that okay?” he whispers. “Yeah.”
I’m not sure what to do. Am I supposed to say something or move a certain way? I hold my breath for a long time, my mouth against his neck. Then I wrap my legs around him, grip his back, and inhale. I don’t know how to describe his smell exactly—clean and sweaty at the same time—but I like it.
Connor kisses my face and then bites my lip, which surprises me. I can’t help but gasp.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice raspy.
Though it hurts, kissing and touching him feel amazing. At the same time, I keep thinking I’m doing something dirty. So many feelings all jumbled together. There’s also this sensation building, like I have to pee or something. I’ve never experienced anything like that before. It’s not bad, just intense.
Once Connor is finished, he kisses my forehead and sighs. I rush to put on my clothes. I’m suddenly so embarrassed, I can’t even look at him. I know that sex isn’t evil, that it’s a normal part of being a functioning mammal, so why do I feel like I’ve done
something wrong? Lorena is always going on and on about how great it is to come, but I don’t think I did. At least there isn’t any blood. I was afraid of that.
Connor grins at me, which makes me feel shy. “What?” I laugh and turn away.
“Nothing. I’m just looking at you. Is that okay?” “Absolutely not,” I kid with him.
“Fine,” Connor says, and covers his eyes with his hands. “What do you want to do now? Watch a movie?”
“I’ll only stay if you change those pants.” I make a disapproving face.
Connor laughs and reaches his hand toward me, and when I get closer, he pulls me onto his lap. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder.
—
My parents aren’t home when I get back, thank God. I bet Amá could read it on my face. She claims she can tell a woman is pregnant just by looking at her eyes, so maybe she’ll be able to see that my hymen is gone now.
I’m starving, even though I scarfed down all of my pad Thai, but there is nothing to eat. Maybe sex counts as exercise because I’m also tired as hell, like I just ran laps or something. I ravage the pantry and fridge, but we don’t even have tortillas—nothing except condiments, eggs, and one sad pickle floating in a jar. The freezer is just as disappointing. All I find are a bag of corn and a box of waffles so old I think they’ve been there since before Olga died. They’re freezer-burned, of course, so I’ll have to smother them with syrup. When I throw the box away, I notice something’s still inside. I pull out a small, knotted plastic bag full of two gold chains, three rings, and one key. Olga’s key. This has to be Olga’s key.
I suddenly remember the time I was five and saw Amá put her jewelry in the freezer. When I asked her why, she said it was in case we were ever robbed. Even then I wondered why anyone would ever want to break into our apartment. We’ve never had
anything worth stealing. Months and months of secretly searching the entire apartment, and I never once thought of looking in there.
I have to make sure the key works. And it does.
—
That night I wait until my parents fall asleep and go back into Olga’s room. It’s completely covered in dust, so I know Amá hasn’t been in here. I write my name on the dresser with my finger, then wipe it away. It’s eerie, like going back in time or something. I take the laptop, underwear, lingerie, and the hotel key to hide in my room, in case Amá ever decides to come in here. I’ll make an extra copy of the key after school tomorrow.
—
Amá is crying on the couch with three cardboard boxes in front of her when I get home. At first I don’t understand, and I ask her what’s wrong. I assume it has something to do with Olga, but she doesn’t reply. Then I see one of my old shirts peeking out of a box, a faded red-and-blue button-down from the thrift store I was always too embarrassed to wear.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. My life is over. I’m basically a living corpse. “What are you doing? Why are all these boxes here?” I feel light-
headed.
Amá just shakes her head.
“Why did you go through my things? Why would you do that to me? Why can’t you ever leave me alone?” I tug at my hair with both hands. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“This is my house, and I will do whatever I want. I was going to donate these clothes to kids in Mexico, and look what I find.” She opens one of the boxes and pulls out Olga’s underwear and lingerie, the hotel key, and my box of condoms. “What is this?”
She didn’t find the laptop because it’s still in my backpack. I carried it around all day in case I was able to see Connor after school.
How do I explain that the underwear, lingerie, and key are my sister’s? How do I explain that I bought the box of condoms
because I had sex and was terrified to get pregnant? How do I tell Amá that both of her daughters are and were probably impure?
“They’re not mine.” My body tenses as if a wire were running through it.
“Why are you always lying to me, Julia? What have I ever done to deserve this? I always knew you would do something like this. Ever since you were little, you’ve given me so much trouble, even before you were born.” Her voice cracks at the end of the sentence. Tears are streaming down her face, and her hands are shaking. She’s referring to the complications she had when she gave birth to me, as if it were my fault I almost died and took her with me.
I don’t say anything. I just stare at a crack in the wall shaped like a letter Y.
“What must your sister think of you right now? What a disgrace.” Amá looks away, disgusted.
“They’re not mine,” I say over and over, my body trembling. “They’re not mine. They’re not mine. They’re not mine.”
—
Amá has taken away my phone, so I call Connor every day after school from what I believe is the only remaining pay phone in the city. I have to go five blocks out of the way and use up a lot of quarters, but it’s worth it. Sometimes I call him from Lorena’s phone. We haven’t been able to see each other in three weeks now, which sucks for both of us. Mostly, I tell him how miserable I am, and he tells me everything is going to be okay. He’s offered to come meet me after school, even if it means seeing me for only twenty minutes, which is sweet, but if Amá saw me with him, I’d be in even deeper shit. This is getting so frustrating. I should have known that everything would fall apart. It’s as if, when I was born, someone decided that I was not allowed to be happy.
Connor is always a good listener, but today he feels distant, as if he were on the other side of the world and we’re talking through two paper cups connected by a string, like in cartoons.
When I tell him how horrible my day was, he pauses for such a long time, I think maybe the call has cut off. Then I hear him
exhale.
“Julia, I don’t know how to help you.”
My heart becomes heavy. “What do you mean?”
“I care about you and everything, but it’s too much, don’t you think?”
“What’s too much?”
“I don’t even get to see you anymore. All we ever do is talk on the phone, and you’re always crying. I don’t know what to do. It’s every single day. It’s just a lot for me. I really like you, but…how can we do this? I want you to be my girlfriend, but I need to actually see you. You understand that, don’t you?”
I begin to cry. A woman passes by and asks if I’m okay. I nod and wave her away. “I want to see you, too, but I can’t. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m suffocating. I can’t stand living like this anymore. Fuck, why does everything have to be so impossible all the time?” I kick the pay phone so hard it rattles.
“I just don’t know how to help you, especially when I can’t actually be there. When will I see you again? Do you have any idea? You can’t be grounded forever, right?”
I hear the ice crunch under my feet. I hate that noise. I can always feel it in my teeth. “I…I…” I take a deep breath and try to say something else, but nothing comes out.
“You mean a lot to me, I swear. Please believe that.”
“I don’t know when things will get better,” I finally say. “All I know is that I feel like shit, like no one in the world understands anything about me.”
“I understand. I’m trying to, at least.”
“How could you? Do you have any idea what my life is like? What it’s like to be me? To have your sister die? To live in a shitty neighborhood? To be scrutinized all the fucking time?”
“I guess I don’t,” Connor says quietly.
“No one does.” I say it so loudly that I surprise myself. I’m having trouble breathing at a normal pace.
“I’m not sure what you want me to do. Have you thought about talking to someone, like a therapist or a counselor? What about that teacher you’re always talking about?”
“All I do is fuck up. No one cares about who I really am.” “Stop, just stop, okay? That’s not true at—”
“No one cares. No one cares. No one cares,” I yell, and hang up the phone.
