Now it was my turn to pause. “How’d you know that?”
“I’m your METCO host sister or whatever. I tried talking to you on your first day, but…”
But I was a total jerk to her. That’s why she had been trying to talk to me that morning. Nice, Liliana. “About that—” I started.
“Whatever,” she interrupted. “Everyone skitzes out on the first day. Wanna come sit?” She bit into her half of the ice cream sandwich.
What? Come sit? “Sure,” is what I said.
I followed Holly, who joined a group of three other girls, ones I recognized from the halls. The three stared, expressionless, at me. They looked like triplets. Same height, same pale complexion, same brown hair parted down the middle. Maybe they were sisters.
Holly motioned for me to take a seat. Thank you, God.
I finished eating my half of the ice cream, the ham sandwich stuffed back into my backpack. The other girls just chewed their lunches and stared, chewed and stared, until my left leg started bouncing like it does when I’m all anxious. Luckily, the others couldn’t see that from where they sat.
“So how do you two know each other?” one of the triplets asked at last.
Holly’s mouth was full but she answered anyway. “I’murhmhosidoor.”
“What?”
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I’m her host sister.”
“For METCO,” I added. The other girls glanced away.
“Yeah,” Holly said. “I was trying to welcome her to the school on her first day here, you know, like a normal person, but then she freaked out.”
“I didn’t freak out—”
Holly tilted her head.
Okay, busted. “Well, maybe just a little. Like you said, first day weirdness.”
Holly smiled. Unscrewed her water bottle and took a long sip. Man, people really loved drinking water here.
“Well, anyway, I go by ‘Lili,’ ” I added.
“You go by ‘Lili’? Do you need a talent manager? Because I could use an extracurricular activity on my résumé,” Holly said, thankfully in a joking tone. “Need all the help I can get to get into Stanford.”
“Stanford?” I tried not to make it sound like a question even though it was a question. Yes, I’d heard of Stanford, but in a general way. Like, I knew it was a college, but I didn’t know much else.
“It’s in California,” Holly said.
“California,” I repeated, like an idiot. Obviously I knew where California was, not that I’d been there, but I could identify it on a map, hello.
“Yeah, California. As in three thousand miles away. That way I can live as far away from my annoying brother as possible.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Kidding,” Holly added. “Sort of.”
“Right.” I folded my ice cream wrapper into fourths, then eighths. The brown-haired girls were now ping-pong talking about everything from how annoying gluten-free wannabes were, to whether or not a certain teacher would drop the lowest quiz score, to guys—guys with names like Aiden, Jackson, and Ryan. “Ryan is a douche,” Holly said, and crossed her arms. My mother would say She has a mouth on her or whatever. It’s not like I wanted to be this girl’s best friend or anything. But I needed somewhere to sit. Speaking of sitting, from the corner of my eye I spotted Steve play-pulling this girl Erin—I recognized her from Mr. Phelps’s class—onto his lap. She jumped up and jabbed his shoulder, but he pulled her onto his lap again. He was the douche.
“So. Lili—” Holly interrupted my thoughts. “What do you think of Westburg so far?”
“I love it,” I lied.
“Yeah, fucking right you do,” Holly said, one eyebrow raised. “Westburg is boring as hell.”
I laughed out loud. So, not best friends forever, but we would get along fine.
12
So get this. On Saturday morning, like crazy early, like, the sun was hardly up, Mom—with zero notice—woke me up to inform me that my tía Laura and her husband were coming to visit from Guatemala. As in, that day. Um… what? Once it actually woke up, my brain started churning. Obviously this had something to do with Dad. Then my brain stopped churning as Mom gave me clean-my-room orders. “I want it spotless by the time I get back from the airport.” She straightened piles of mail on the kitchen counter and then wiped away a few stray crumbs with the side of her hand. Whoa. The kitchen was practically gleaming.
“Why? They’re not even going to see my room.”
Luckily, it was my brothers’ room they would be staying in, not mine. The twins would be sleeping on the pullout sofa bed, and they were actually excited about it. Phew. I’d dodged a major one. No way I was going to give up my room, not even for old people. Does that make me a terrible person?
“Just clean it, Liliana.” My mother sounded exhausted. How could someone who slept so much be so exhausted?
“Okay, okay.” I hesitated, gauging her mood, then asked, “So, Mom, does this have something to do with Dad? It does, doesn’t it?”
Mom suddenly got very busy taking down a fancy crystal sort of bowl thing she’d gotten way back when she and Dad got married, one that she, like, never took off the top shelf of the cupboard, and started polishing it.
I tried a different tack. “How long are they staying?”
“Liliana. Por favor.” She set the bowl in the center of the counter. Began arranging a bunch of bananas in it, moving it to the left, then the right.
“Fine,” I grumbled, and went to clean my room.
I heard the front door close a few minutes later. Mom had left for the airport. So, yeah, technically I was cleaning my room—folding shirts, arranging my hair products on top of the bureau, but I was also talking to Dustin. Talking, not even texting! A few minutes of chillin’ on my bed, phone glued to my ear, turned into a couple of hours. You know how that happens. Don’t lie.
Suddenly I heard voices and laughter. Shit! I told Dustin I had to go, then bellowed, “Benjamin! Christopher! Shut off the TV!”
My brothers for once listened. Even they knew what was expected. Whenever relatives from Guatemala visited, my brothers and I had to be on our best behavior, like fake children or something. We wore clothes we never usually wore, like corduroys and collared shirts, like we were going to take a family portrait at Sears or something. Smile. Sit up straight. Give the guests something to drink. If there were kids, we had to play with them. Share our toys. When they left, we had to offer our toys to them—to keep. Yes. It was ridiculous. I learned not to show off my best stuff—the newer Barbies, or the bottles of neon pink and yellow nail polish. Yep. I really am a terrible person!
Luckily, Tía Laura and her husband—honestly, I keep calling him “her husband” because I forget his name, Rodolfo or Refugio or something—were childless. I mean, not exactly lucky for them, but lucky for me, because maybe the fact that she had had no children of her own was the reason why Tía Laura had agreed to take in my dad when he was little. Dad’s real parents were killed in some war. I don’t really know much about it—it wasn’t something Dad ever talked about.
“Hola,” my mother called out in her fake TV voice from the front door. Here we go. I yanked a brush through my hair and headed for the living room. I just wanted to get this part of their visit over with so I could get back to Dustin. But—wait. They probably knew something about Dad, so maybe I should stick around a while?
“Hi,” I said, hugging my aunt and uncle. “Bienvenidos,” I added like a good daughter. Then we all stood there like a bunch of idiots just smiling and nodding at each other. Sorry, but it was true. It was mad awkward that my father wasn’t there, and I was sure everyone else was thinking the same thing.
“A la gran…,” Tío R. was starting to say as he gave me a once-over that kind of gave me the creeps. He was old and freckled, and he had tufts of white hair pushing out of his ears. He was short, but not as short as Tía Laura.
She was soooooo short. The
same height as Benjamin, who was the slightly smaller twin. For real, Tía Laura looked like a miniature person. I hadn’t seen her in probably three years. Her black curly hair had white roots showing, giving her head a skunk-like look. And now she had a missing tooth. I tried not to stare.
Tía Laura squealed in agreement. “Liliana! You look like a woman!”
I never knew what to say to comments like that, especially because then everyone just stared at my body.
“Do you need help with your bags? Moving them to your room?” I asked to distract them. Plus, look at how polite I can be, Mom! I gestured toward their maroon suitcases. Somehow this question ignited giggles.
“She’s so funny—” Tía Laura said.
“Verdad,” Tío R. chimed in, shaking his head. “Those aren’t jobs for girls.”
My mouth fell open. Mom didn’t even notice. “Por favor, sit down,” she was telling them. On the coffee table: Ritz crackers on a white plate arranged in a circle, a block of cheese and a small knife in the center. The cheese still had the clear wrapping on it. Then she turned to me and mouthed, Get the boys. They were taking forever to get dressed.
“And get drinks for everyone,” my mother whispered next, giving me the You should have already thought of that look.
A few minutes later I returned holding glasses of iced tea, the ice cubes clinking and popping. First I set one in front of Tía Laura, who promptly handed it to her husband. I gave her the second glass as my brothers scampered in, all decked out in the clothes our mother must have set out for them—checkered sweater-vests and white button-downs, khakis and shiny shoes like for church, even though it was Saturday.
“Gracias,” Tía Laura said. Tío R. didn’t say anything, just started patting the top of Benjamin’s head like he was a dog. My brother looked like he wanted to evaporate. Christopher began eating cheese and crackers like he was in a cheese-and-cracker-eating contest. Mom glared at him and he cut it out real quick. It was hard not to laugh.
“So, Liliana.” Tío R. crossed his legs and leaned back on the couch. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I practically choked on the cracker I had just bitten into. Dustin-Dustin-Dustin! “Uh… no.” Please change the subject. Please change the subject.
As my mother offered Tío and Tía napkins, in a no-nonsense tone she explained, “Liliana is not allowed to date until she is eighteen.” Saved by Mom! But—wait—eighteen?! Eighteen? I decided to let that go for now.
Benjamin and Christopher snorted. I wished I could aim the remote at them and turn them off.
But Tía Laura’s eyes grew mischievous. She leaned forward. “But my Sylvia. You dated well before that, didn’t you?” She took a dainty sip of tea, staring down my mother, who sat like a saint, her hands folded on her lap.
“Memory can get fuzzy with age, no?” Mom said it like a statement instead of a question.
“Not mine,” Tía Laura responded, holding back a smile.
Oh snap!
Here’s the thing. Tía Laura had had no formal education in Guatemala. She could not read or write her own name, but my dad said she remembered every little detail of everything. Like this one story she’d told me about Dad. Your father, oh. When I first started taking care of him, he was like a bird. So whenever I ate a piece of pan dulce, I would only nibble around the edges, save the inside part, the soft doughy part, for him. I’d walk to the school at recess and stick my hand through the fence and pop it into his mouth or sneak it into his hand. I did this a couple of times a day, and before I knew it, he was growing. Then one day, I handed him the ball of pan dulce like always, except this time, I lingered by the fence. And your father, bless him, walked up to a little kid, littler than him, and gave him the ball of pan. I started crying right there on the sidewalk, but they were happy tears, you know?
I loved Tía’s stories. Maybe she was so good at remembering everything—and I mean everything: songs, dichos, proverbs, and especially juicy memories—because she also seemed to save everything, including the napkin she’d just folded into fourths and tucked inside her bra.
“Let’s get you settled,” Mom said now, changing the subject from dating. Ha—now we were both off the hook! Of course this made me crazy curious about when she had started dating. “Do you remember where everything is? The kitchen is yours. The bathroom, too. Anything you need, we can get.”
“Sí, sí. But first, gifts!” That made Christopher and Benjamin sit up real straight. Tía Laura pointed at her suitcase. Tío R. unzipped and searched and dug and unzipped some more, before finally taking out a few items. My brothers were practically panting, but if they were hoping for some kind of Guatemalan version of video games, they were about to be super disappointed. Tío R. handed a wooden toy to Tía Laura, which she then handed to Benjamin. It was some kind of a wooden spinning top with a picture of a Mayan temple painted on it. “Gracias,” Benjamin mumbled. Mom’s jaw twitched.
“And for you, Christopher.! Tía Laura gave him a miniature chicken bus painted in bright orange, blue, and yellow, with the word guatemala written across the front of it. Little papayas, watermelons, and bunches of bananas had been glued to the top of the bus. As someone who appreciated miniatures, I thought it was cute, but Christopher, not so much. Maybe he’d let me take the fruits off for my bodega.
Still, he hugged Tía Laura and Tío R. “Muchas gracias.” My mother beamed.
“Wait!” Tía Laura suddenly yelped, as if we were all going to get up and leave. She pushed Tío aside, rummaged through the suitcase herself, and unwedged about a pound of white tissue paper. Then she took forever opening all the layers, until she got to the center—a magnet of the Guatemalan flag. She placed it triumphantly into my mother’s hand. Squeezed. “For you, Sylvia.”
“Oh, how pretty,” Mom gushed, like it was jewelry or something. Well, it was sort of practical, unlike the enormous—I’m talking how-did-they-fit-in-the-suitcase enormous—wooden fork and spoon wall pieces they’d brought last time, which hung in our kitchen to this day.
Tía was already rustling through more tissue paper. “Last but not least, for you, Liliana.” She passed me a royal-blue-and-purple textile thing. I held it up, planting an I love it look on my face. Was it a purse? A belt? A headband? “A holder for your water bottle,” Tía Laura declared.
I did not look at Christopher, who was one glance away from hysterical laughter. “Muchas, muchas gracias,” I said. When I got up to give Tía Laura a hug, I stepped on Christopher’s toe. On purpose.
* * *
After Mom finished the grand tour (even though my aunt and uncle had been there before, and hello, there were only five rooms, six if you counted the bathroom), Tía Laura gently led me by the elbow into the hallway. She stood so close that I could smell her old-country smell, like what every relative from Guatemala’s suitcase smelled like: burning firewood and sweet corn and dirt after the rain. And a hint of Head & Shoulders shampoo.
“Como te pareces a Fernando,” my aunt said, running her palm along the side of my face. “¡Igualita!”
Unexpectedly, the sound of my father’s name brought tears to my eyes.
“Don’t cry, mija,” she murmured, and squeezed me tight. She leaned in even closer (which, I’m telling you, was hard to do because she was already mad close). “No matter what, he will always love you, mija.”
What the heck did that mean?
“Thanks?”
She dropped her voice down to a whisper. “He is trying really hard to come back. You must know that. You have to believe that he will make it back safely. Si Dios quiere.” She made a cross over her chest.
I froze. Safely? And why did he need prayers? How exactly was he planning to come back?
“Tía?” I asked. “What do you mean, safely?”
“Laura!” Tío R-something called from down the hall.
Tía Laura’s eyes widened.
“Tía, please?” I begged.
She pressed a finger to her lips, then turned to catch
up with my uncle.
* * *
Later, while Tía and Tío were taking a jet lag nap, I approached my mom in the kitchen. She was stirring batter for a Magdalena cake. The empty box sat crookedly on the counter. On the front a white hand presented the finished cake on a pink platter. I wondered if it would be a better cake than the one I had for my birthday last year. I cleared my throat. “Mom?”
“What is it, Liliana?” She poured the batter into the Bundt pan; it looked delicious. I reached for a spoon to lick what remained in the mixing bowl.
“Tía Laura said something about Dad making it back safely.”
A flicker of worry crossed my mother’s forehead. She suddenly got very busy pushing buttons on the oven.
I didn’t want to add to her stress, but I had to know. So I pressed. “Well, she said that Dad needed prayers… to help him make it back. What did she mean by that?”
“Oh…” My mother pushed at the temperature buttons so many times that the oven started beeping.
“Mom! You bake at three-fifty. Not five hundred.” Even I knew that! I moved her hand away and adjusted the temperature, set the timer.
Ignoring me, Mom reached for the Bundt pan. It slid from her hand and started careening off the counter. I caught it just in time. “Mom! Tell me what’s going on!”
“Not now, Liliana.” She wiped her hands on the embroidered towel—a gift from Tía from three years before—hanging from the refrigerator handle. “Finish the cake?” She opened the oven door for me before leaving the kitchen. A moment later I heard her bedroom door click shut.
13
Safely, Tía had said. Tía, who was visiting for whatever reason. Safely. The thought began pricking at me. What if things weren’t as simple as straightening out paperwork? Would Dad have to sneak across the border to come back? Literally climb an actual wall? No, no. My dad was smart. Street smart. He’d find a way to get back to us without putting himself in danger. I mean… right? But Tía had said make it back.…
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