Winter is finally over. Christmas and New Year’s came and went like a slow and anguishing blur. We spent the holidays at tío Bigotes’s house with the rest of the family. Though my aunts and uncles tried to make it festive with loud music and a giant feast of tamales and roasted goat, Olga’s absence floated silently around us. No one mentioned her, probably so Amá wouldn’t cry—which she did anyway when we got home—but we could all feel it.
Every spring the teachers organize an outdoor field trip for each class. They’ve been doing it ever since Olga was in high school, maybe even before. I bet they feel sorry for us because we live in the city and never get to go anywhere. The only animals we see are pigeons and rats, which are essentially the same thing. Nancy from chemistry class told me she had never been outside of Chicago until two years ago, when she went to Wisconsin. I don’t even know how that’s possible.
I guess these trips are a way of giving us poor kids a taste of nature. Last year they took us to Starved Rock State Park, which was beautiful. I spent the entire time alone writing in my notebook next to a waterfall. Some people made out in a cave all day. Another group just sat around looking at their phones. What a waste. I don’t understand how people can ignore beauty like that. I saw rabbits, beavers, toads, and all sorts of colorful birds. I saw a freaking eagle, which I wasn’t even sure actually existed. I started to wish that I could live alone in a cabin by myself, like Henry David Thoreau, but I’d probably start to get restless after a few days.
This year after a never-ending bus ride, we finally arrive at the dunes. The sun is shining, and though it’s chilly, it’s beginning to
look and feel like spring. The trees are growing leaves again, and some flowers are beginning to sprout. Not bad for April.
Ms. López and Mr. Ingman tell us we have to meet near the bus at 2 p.m.
“Under no circumstances will you leave the park. Do you understand?” Ms. López says, with her hands on her hips, trying to look tough but failing, because she’s probably not even five feet tall.
As soon as we all mumble yes, Ms. López goes back to flirting with Mr. Ingman. I heard her laughing at all of his stupid jokes throughout the entire bus ride. I know both of them are divorced, and the way she looks at him makes me wonder if they’re boning.
Lorena, Juanga, and I wander around the forest until it’s time for lunch. I still haven’t been able to shake him. He and Lorena are inseparable. I thought his charm would have worn off by now, but, no. The whole time he complains that he doesn’t have any cell phone reception. I try to block him out and focus on the buds on the trees, the smell of leaves, and the sounds of birds, but he’s so annoying that it’s almost impossible. I have to put up with him because I’m going to ask him to help me get in touch with Jazmyn through his friend Maribel. I keep wondering who Olga told Jazmyn about when she ran into her at the mall a few years ago. I mean, it’s hard to believe that she could have been talking about Pedro. How could anyone be excited about him?
“Ugh, I hate nature,” Juanga says.
“How can you hate nature?” I grow more exasperated by him by the minute.
“I just do. It’s boring.”
“So what do you like to do for fun? What is your idea of beauty?” “Shopping, partying, and…fucking,” he laughs.
“That’s all you like? Do you have any sort of inner life? Do you even know what that is?”
Lorena glares at me. “God, Julia. Shut up already, okay?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand how a person can say they hate nature. It’s like saying you hate happiness or laughter. Or fun. I don’t get how someone could be so freaking vapid.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but just stop.”
Juanga looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he walks a few feet away from us and looks down toward the lake.
“Okay, okay. I’m done.” I lift my hand to show that I give up.
We climb to the top of the highest dune when it’s time for lunch. The view is incredible. The waves are splashing, and the white dunes against the blue sky are unreal. I had no idea something so beautiful was close to Chicago. Lorena sets the blanket down for us. Amá had to be all Mexican about it and pack me cold cheese- and-bean burritos. God forbid I eat a regular sandwich.
Before we even start eating, Juanga, who is clearly obsessed with all things penile, starts talking about different shapes he’s seen in his life. The craziest one, he says, was long and pointy, which seems like something out of a horror movie.
“That sounds terrifying,” I say. “I would have run out of the room screaming, worried for my life.”
“It was ugly,” Juanga says, closing his eyes, then taking a small bite of his smelly tuna sandwich. “But it felt like heaven.”
I shudder.
“This one over here used to think that penises had hair on them. Not just the balls—the actual penis.” Lorena points at me and laughs.
“What?” Juanga nearly chokes on his food. “How is that possible?”
“I had never seen one, so I assumed,” I say, looking down at my cold burrito. “I mean, women have hair down there, so it made sense to me.” I don’t tell him I still haven’t seen one in real life.
“Yeah, I had to be the one to break it down for her,” Lorena says, and Juanga laughs so hard, he almost spits out his Coke. “She’s a virgin, you know?”
Juanga’s stunned. I had no idea that a fifteen-year-old virgin would be such an oddity. It’s as if Lorena just told him I had a sixth toe or something. She lost her virginity when she was fourteen and thinks she’s some sort of sexpert now.
“So what?” I glower at her. I can’t believe she’s embarrassing me in front of this idiot. I feel the burritos hardening into cement in
my stomach.
“I’m just saying that for all the shit you talked about your sister being such a saint, you’re really not that much different. You’re always so scared of your mother.”
“Are you serious? Are you really talking about my sister right now?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Lorena is defensive, all of a sudden. We’ve argued about stupid stuff a million times over the years, but this feels different. We’ve never done it in front of other people like this.
“And who is there for me to have sex with? Please, tell me. Am I supposed to just bang any loser I see?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Lorena looks frustrated. “Then what are you trying to say?”
“Sometimes you’re kinda stuck-up. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t blame you. That’s how your mom is.” Lorena knows this is a low blow, and looks nervous right after she says it. Being compared to my mother makes me want to punch Lorena right in the mouth, but I do my best to control myself.
“So I’m stuck-up because I don’t want to have sex with anyone?
Am I hearing that correctly?”
“No, it’s not even about that. That’s not what I’m saying. Sometimes it’s like you think you’re too good for everything. You’re too hard on people.” Lorena doesn’t make eye contact.
“That’s because I am too good for everything! You think this is what I want? This sucks. This sucks so hard, I can’t take it sometimes.” I swing my arms, gesturing toward I don’t know what. I’m so angry my ears feel as if they’re on fire. “Just because you have sex with everything with a penis attached to it doesn’t mean you’re better than me.”
Lorena looks hurt. Juanga pretends to be distracted by his phone, but I’m sure he’s enjoying every second of it.
“Forget it. Sometimes I just can’t talk to you,” Lorena says.
I throw the rest of my sad burrito into my backpack and run down the dune, nearly slipping on my way down. I’m sure Juanga
would love to see me topple over and break my neck in front of everybody.
When I get to the bottom, I kick the sand out of sheer frustration, and thanks to a gust of wind, some of it flies right into my eyes. I’m so pissed at Lorena, and I’ve had it up to my armpits with Juanga. Now I can’t even ask him for Maribel’s number. I don’t even want to look at either one of them. I walk farther away from everyone and decide to make sand angels to see if that will calm me down. I close my eyes. I’ve always loved the feeling of sand against my skin. We rarely went to the lake when I was a kid, even though it was close. They were some of the only times I’ve ever seen Apá happy. He built sand castles with us, and swam and swam until it got dark. He said it reminded him of swimming in Los Ojos when he was young.
When I open my eyes, I see Pasqual standing over me. I nearly jump at the sight of his brown, pocked face.
“What the hell, man! What are you doing?” “Watching you, duh.”
“Yeah, I see that, you weirdo,” I say, getting up and dusting the sand off my clothes.
“Your sister is dead.”
“No shit. How do you know?” “Everyone knows. Do you miss her?”
Pasqual looks like a nerd, but he’s not even smart, which is always disappointing. It surprises me every single time he opens his mouth in class. His clothes are so dorky they’re borderline offensive. He smells like basement and wears video game T-shirts, which he sometimes pairs with socks and sandals. Even his name is uncool—Pasqual is the name of an old Mexican man who sits on a dusty porch muttering about his lost chickens.
“Of course I miss her. She was my sister.” I don’t know why I bother replying. I should probably just tell him to eat a bag of wieners.
“Must be really hard.” I nod.
“Was she pretty like you?”
“Ew. Don’t even. Geez.” I wrap my jacket around me. A seagull squawks above us. I hate those things. They always look like they’re up to no good.
“You don’t even know you’re pretty. That’s sad.” “Shut up. Leave me alone.” I walk toward the lake.
“You shouldn’t hate yourself so much. Everyone is messed up, even when it doesn’t seem like it.”
The wind is starting to provoke the water, and a big beefy cloud drifts toward us. I can see the faint and hazy Chicago skyline across the lake. It’ll probably rain soon, which will make this day even worse. Pasqual walks toward me, looking up at the sky with his mouth wide open, as if he’s never seen it before.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“I do. And you know I do.” Pasqual puts his hands in his pockets and walks away.
I sit down and pull out The Stranger by Albert Camus. I try to read, but I’m distracted because I’m still seething about my fight with Lorena. I just stare at the water and count the waves. When I reach 176, I hear someone yell behind me.
It’s Mr. Ingman. “Hey!” he says, and sits down next to me. “What are you reading now?”
I hold it up for him to see.
“So, a light beach read?” Mr. Ingman chuckles. I nod. “I guess so.”
“What do you think of it?”
“It’s like nothing means anything. Nothing has a real purpose. I guess that’s how I feel a lot of the time. Sometimes I really don’t see the point in anything.”
“Existential despair, huh?” “Yes, exactly.” I smile.
“I really want to know that you’re okay. You keep telling me you’re fine, but I’m worried about you.” Mr. Ingman scoops sand with his hands and tries to form a pyramid.
“I don’t know what okay means anymore. I don’t know what normal is.” What I don’t tell him is that I can hardly get out of bed
most mornings, that simply getting through the day feels like a monumental task.
“I think you should talk to someone. You can always talk to me, but I think you need a professional. I can try to find you a free program.”
“That’s very nice of you, but no thanks. I’m fine. Seriously.” I’m a terrible liar, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“Okay. I’m going to trust you here. Please don’t let me down.” “I won’t.” I force a smile. “I promise.”
