Juanita shook her head no. “If she knows, she won’t tell me.”
After a few seconds, the silence became awkward. “Well, you have a nice family,” I said.
The spell broke. Her brown eyes turned to me, and she smiled. “Nosotros tenemos una buena familia.”
Then for my sake, she translated, “We have a good family.”
An hour later, the sun set and the family left the house one by one, until Gloria, my grandmother and I were the only ones left with Juanita and her family. I played with Lilia while everyone cleaned up the house and the kitchen. I was exhausted. Too many faces and too many questions from strangers who acted as if we had known each other our whole lives. And then there had been Gloria running around telling everyone I didn’t speak Spanish and, “Could you believe it? A Mexican who couldn’t speak Spanish!” My grandmother sat there and watched me the entire time with a look of interest or maybe it was distaste. I couldn’t figure out that lady and her moods.
We left soon after everything was cleaned up, took Gloria home and returned to the Pepto-Bismol house. Before I went down the hallway to my room, my grandmother stopped me. I waited in the kitchen as she went back into the living room. She returned with a brand new black backpack. She handed it to me and stood there awkwardly.
I unzipped it and found paper, pens, two spirals and a binder inside. I needed another spiral. The one I had was almost full. I zipped it back up. I had almost forgotten that tomorrow would be my first day of school in Laredo. A groan almost escaped my mouth at the thought of school, but my grandmother might have taken it the wrong way. Her gesture was nice. I had always had to buy my own second-hand backpacks from Goodwill or the Salvation Army and use them until a strap broke or the bottom seam ripped.
“Thanks.”
She nodded her head once and said, “De nada.”
Discomfort crept around us, so I moved to go to my room, but stopped and turned around. “Where’s my mother?”
My grandmother’s face didn’t change. Her hard eyes searched mine, until I had to look away.
“No.”
“No, you don’t know where she is? Or, no, you’re not going to tell me?”
“No,” she repeated, before walking past me into the hallway.
Desperate, I asked, “Why did she leave me?”
Her retreating form never stopped to tell me. I stood holding the backpack as I heard a door close down the hall.
My grandmother wouldn’t tell me. Then again, maybe she couldn’t explain what I wanted to know because we couldn’t understand each other. If that was the case, then that only left me with one more option: I needed to learn Spanish, become one of them, earn their trust and figure things out on my own.
Cuatro
MY FIRST-DAY-OF-SCHOOL OUTFIT consisted of a faded graphic T-shirt with the logo of a rock band from Memphis on the front, shorts and my white tennis shoes—I refused to stand out on my first day. My grandmother gave a narrowed look at my outfit before she rushed me to get my backpack. I should have been thankful she didn’t make me wear another awful dress.
We headed out the door and into the early morning darkness. We took the same route as we had that Friday before, except this time instead of being the only ones on the street, we were among many teenagers going the same way, all of whom stared at us as we walked past. The entire walk, I kept my eyes focused on my grandmother’s calloused heels that peeked out from her sandals.
When we arrived at the school, my grandmother headed straight to the front office. I didn’t have time to study the groups of kids on the lawn, except to notice that every single student appeared Mexican. A first for a new school.
A girl with glasses, a student like me, worked at the front desk, and an older woman on the phone sat at another smaller desk behind the main one. Offices lined the walls to the left, and despite it being the first day of school, we were the only ones in the office. My grandmother headed to the girl and spoke to her in Spanish.
The girl regarded me as my grandmother spoke, looked me up and down as if she were assessing me as a threat. I was used to such looks at new schools. After a moment, she turned around to a file cabinet against the wall, came back and handed my grandmother a few pieces of paper. My grandmother shuffled the papers around, looked them over once and then handed them to me. She pointed to the top one, a white sheet that had a class schedule, and then showed me the school map beneath it. She gave my arm a hard pat, which sort of hurt, and then left without any other instructions.
Terror spread throughout my chest for a moment. At every other school I had gone to, it had been routine: go in alone, new schedule, go to classes, go home. No one knew me or my mother. But Laredo was different. People knew my grandmother and that brought attention on me.
I looked at my schedule. Well, at least I was in an art class. My only saving grace. Besides all the advanced classes my grandmother had enrolled me in, something else caught my eye. My name was printed on the top, but instead of saying “Martha George,” it read, “Martha Gonzalez.” I walked up to the desk and pointed it out to the girl.
“My last name is George, not Gonzalez.”
The girl frowned. “Isn’t your grandmother Doña María Gonzalez?”
“Yeah. But that’s not my last name.”
She rolled her eyes as she turned around to look through the files again. George didn’t sound like a Mexican name. My mother’s last name was George, too, so I had always assumed it was my father’s name and my father wasn’t Mexican. Wherever the hell George came from, it didn’t matter. My name was not Gonzalez. My grandmother couldn’t dictate my life by changing my last name to whatever she felt like.
“There’s no George here. Your abuela said your last name was Gonzalez.”
I wanted to take her stupid glasses off and stomp on them. It didn’t matter what my grandmother had said, couldn’t she understand that? It wasn’t my name.
But it was useless to argue with the girl because she’d probably just roll those damn eyes and nothing would be accomplished. It was 7:30 so I had fifteen minutes to get to class. I asked her for directions to the library and left. After school, I’d have to have a talk with my grandmother about this name situation.
Halfway to the library, I got lost. There were so many people in the hallways that it was hard to maneuver. The noise was unbearable, and the mixture of body sprays and cologne made me want to gag.
The library was empty except for a young librarian who looked no older than me. She was small in her grey suit and overdone make-up. I think she was trying to separate herself from the students with her style choice. It could have worked if she wasn’t barely five feet tall. I walked to her desk and asked if she had any books on learning Spanish. The woman gave a small laugh, but then stopped when she realized I wasn’t joking. I tried not to narrow my eyes at her in annoyance, but maybe I did, because she hurriedly showed me to the right shelf and pointed out a few books.
Although the books were ten years old, they appeared brand new, which confirmed that I was probably the first person ever to attend this school and not know Spanish. Perfect. I checked out three that looked easy to understand and headed to my first class. I had four minutes to get there.
When I made it to the correct wing of the building, the halls were clearing up. I was searching for room 3B, when someone grabbed me from behind and shoved me into a girl’s bathroom.
“Hey!” I said.
When I got my balance, I saw pink tile and three stalls with white paint peeling off the doors. I was surrounded by three tough-looking girls, led by the girl I saw leaving grandmother’s house a few days ago. She stood a few feet in front of the group with the most pissed off I’m-so-ready-to-kick-your-ass look, complete with penciled-in eyebrows, an overabundance of mascara and eyeliner and lips that had been outlined in dark red lip liner but had not been filled in with lipstick.
Her hair was parted down the middle and slicked down with gel. Without her weird make-up, she could probably
be pretty with her small, button nose and almond-shaped eyes. She reminded me of my mother, but at least my mother didn’t look like a scary Chucky doll. The other girls stood around the dark-eyed girl and sported the same style in make-up and clothes.
I’d been in a lot of fights when I was younger—everyone wanted to mess with the new girl. But no one had ever tried to fight me the first day of school. Something about the way this girl looked at me, how she had looked at me at church—this was personal, at least for her.
“What’s your problem?” I asked.
The black-eyed girl spoke in Spanish and took a step toward me. I might have been more scared if I knew what the hell she was saying. It was like listening to the Tasmanian devil, slobbering and yapping about God knew what.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I said.
The girl stopped and tilted her head for a moment. And then she laughed, triggering laughter from her minions, like this was a bad cartoon stand-off.
“Look, chicas, we got a güera here with us.” They laughed again. “That bruja grandmother of yours chose a güera over me?”
“What are you talking about?”
The girl took a step closer to me, followed by the three other girls. Instinctively, I took a step back. I could take on one, but four . . . I’d be dead.
“What? You don’t understand English either, fea?”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking, but I need to get to class.”
I tried to sidestep around her and her friends, but she stopped me by shoving me up against the wall. As my back hit the cold tile, I smelled the strong fruit-scented perfume she must have bathed in that morning. My heart beat a little faster. Could I not get a freaking break this week?
“You can leave when I say you can leave, puta, you hear me?”
I didn’t respond. I focused on keeping my face under control. Flat with no emotion.
“Listen, you tell that bruja of yours she better watch her back. And you, fea, stay out of my way. I run this school, and I’m more than happy to beat your ass. But since it’s the first day, you get a free pass.”
She slapped the wall right by my head to emphasize her threat. I flinched, which made her smile. She gave me one more intense look, bared her teeth and then walked out of the bathroom followed by her friends.
A nervous sweat broke out on my neck. I leaned back on the wall for support. So now my grandmother’s enemies were my enemies? This family thing was not what I had expected. I leaned my head against the cool tile.
A shrill bell echoed in the bathroom.
“Damn it.” I banged my fists backwards against the wall, then headed to my first class.
I finally found room 3B. The teacher, a woman, was speaking in the front, explaining the course—Pre-Calculus. She stopped speaking and turned to look at me, as did the entire class.
Ducking my head, I said, “Sorry,” and hurried to a seat in the back.
If only that could have been enough.
“You’re late,” the teacher, Mrs. Herrera, said.
Had I not just said sorry? I sat down at a desk.
Mrs. Herrera, with her bird-like features, stared at me pointedly, her cheeks drawn in and her eyes squinting behind her glasses. She was waiting for me to respond, but I didn’t. The less one said, the better. That had always been the case for me at other schools.
A guy next to me snickered behind his hand. I wanted to turn and give him a nasty look but I held back the urge. Finally, Mrs. Herrera realized I wasn’t going to answer. She grabbed a clipboard.
“Name?”
“Martha George.”
She looked through the list. “I don’t have a George.”
“Gonzalez then.” Stupid grandmother.
“Gonzalez with a ‘z,’ not as common. Is your older sister Brenda?” Mrs. Herrera’s lips turned down slightly. Guess she didn’t like Brenda either.
“No. I just moved here so . . . ”
Her head turned to the side in thought. “Wait, are you la nieta de María Gonzalez that just moved here?” Mrs. Herrera’s voice changed. It didn’t sound so disapproving anymore.
My classmates turned in their seats and stared at me.
Not again. “What?”
I wanted to hide behind my hair. More Spanish. Confused lines appeared on Mrs. Herrera’s forehead. She was slowly figuring it out.
“You are Doña María’s granddaughter, yes?”
I nodded yes.
Mrs. Herrera smiled, and her cold features softened. She hurriedly walked to me and held out her hand. “Welcome, Martha. I’m so glad to have you in my class.”
I shook her hand, my cheeks burning with all the attention. When I pulled my hand back, I murmured, “Thank you.”
She added, “And don’t worry about your tardiness. It’s your first day here.” With a last smile, she returned to the front and began speaking again about the course but with a newfound bit of excitement in her voice and gestures.
I wanted to hide, to run out of the classroom. For the rest of the period, my classmates stared at me or whispered with neighbors, giving me furtive glances over their shoulders. I even heard one girl sitting two seats in front of me say, “I can’t believe she can’t speak . . . ” only to be interrupted by her neighbor who said, “I know! Loca.”
At times, Mrs. Herrera would translate something she had said in English to Spanish. Other times, students would raise their hand and ask a question in Spanish and she would respond in Spanish. Then she would turn to me and translate everything that had been said in Spanish to English.
“Martha, José asked how many tests I would give this semester. The answer is four.”
Death would have been so much sweeter than the embarrassment I suffered.
In each class that morning, it felt like everyone whispered as soon as I entered. I suspected they spoke about the incident with the black-eyed girl or my relation to my grandmother. A few of the teachers made comments when they called my name out. “Oh! You’re Doña María’s granddaughter?” Being quiet and keeping my head down was not going to allow me to be invisible at this school.
This was the second worst day of my life. The first: being left in Laredo.
At lunch, the cafeteria was filled with students, even though some went onto the lawn to eat their lunch. Kids sat grouped around their plastic trays. Most walked from table to table and yelled at each other from across the room. A few monitors walked around trying to keep the peace.
I didn’t even get a chance to look around the cafeteria for an empty seat after I grabbed a tray of food because a short girl with a jet black ponytail that showed off her deep widow’s peak walked up to me.
“Martha?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m your prima . . . Laura. Vámonos. You can sit with me.”
Before I responded she headed in the direction of a table on the far wall.
When I caught up to her, I asked, “What’s ‘vamanus?’”
“I thought it was just a rumor that you couldn’t speak Spanish.”
“Not this time.” There was an edge to my voice.
Why did everyone assume that I should know Spanish? Was I the only Mexican in the world who didn’t know how to speak Spanish? What if you were orphaned and then adopted by a non-Mexican or non-Spanishspeaking family?
“‘Vámonos’ means let’s go.”
We came to a table and sat down. A few students sat at the end, so we had the space to ourselves.
“So, you’re my cousin?”
“Yeah, my abuelo was your abuela’s brother, but he died five years ago.”
“So ‘abuelo’ is grandfather?”
“Yep. And ‘abuela’ is grandmother.”
We started eating our lunch. “So how come you weren’t at Juanita’s house yesterday?”
Laura laughed. “Our whole familia couldn’t even fit in this cafeteria. Besides my mom and I sort of aren’t welcome.” She stuck her fork in a peach and took a bite.
/> “What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“Okay . . . we’re not welcome at all.”
“Why?”
She ate another peach then shrugged. “Your grandmother doesn’t like my mom.”
“What did your mom do?”
“She didn’t do anything,” Laura said quickly, then a little unsurely, “at least, I don’t think so. I really don’t know why your abuela doesn’t like my mom. Just that they’ve always had something going on for as long as I can remember.”
“And you and I hanging out at lunch aren’t going to cause the next Civil War?”
She smiled. “Would you care if it did?”
As I was about to answer, a loud crash echoed through the cafeteria, followed by laughter. I turned around to find the black-eyed girl surrounded by her friends and a bunch of tough-looking guys wearing grey, button-up shirts and slicked-back hair. They sat on top of a few tables and were laughing at a girl who had dropped her tray. One boy who chewed on a cigarette stood up and did an impression of the girl dropping her tray. Everyone laughed, and he sat back down and kissed the black-eyed girl.
The girl who had dropped her tray looked as if she was trying not to cry as she picked her food off the floor. Her friends had already left her and her embarrassment behind.
I turned around disgusted and shook my head. Laura was looking closely at me.
“I also heard Marcela is pissed at you,” she said.
“You hear a lot of things. So, the witch’s name is Marcela?”
She nodded.
“What’s her problem?” I asked.
“You mean, why is she such a bitch?”
“Yes!”
Laura laughed. “She used to be . . . ” Laura blew air into her cheeks.
“Fat?”
She laughed again. “Yeah. Sort of teased when we were younger. Then around junior high she started hanging out with these real tough cholas that were in high school and suddenly she starts losing the weight and fighting everyone who ever made fun of her, and it just escalated from there.”
Secrets of the Casa Rosada Page 6