She sighed. “Only God knows.” Well, that didn’t exactly make me feel better. She pulled a lime wedge out of the cup and began sucking on it, then pulled it out of her mouth and waved it at me. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Your father is smart—hard working and smart.”
“You always say that.”
“Well, it’s true. When his parents died, may they rest in peace, he was only nine. He made it three more years in school and then insisted on dropping out and working to help support the family. There was no budging him.”
“That doesn’t sound very… smart to me, Tía.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, your father found a job at a university. He cleaned the bathrooms, swept the floors. He didn’t mind. He talked to the students, and after their final exams, they would give him their books and notebooks. Your father taught himself a college education when he was only a teenager. And he got paid! That is smart.”
I picked at a crumbling corner of the stone step. “I guess. But—and I’m not trying to be rude or whatever—but then why did he have to move to the United States?”
She took another sip of beer. “Well, that… is a longer story. This was back during the war—”
My phone vibrated. Dustin. I put the phone in my pocket. A war? Did I know about a war in Guatemala? I knew Dad’s parents had died in a war.… But I didn’t want to sound like an idiot, so I bluffed with, “I actually don’t know much about the war.”
She made a face. “The civil war? In Guatemala and El Salvador? Your parents never told you?”
“Maybe… they forgot?” Or maybe I’d shown zero interest.
“Ha! Impossible. It lasted thirty-six years.”
Whaaa?
Tía spat. “There was a terrible, horrible rat of a general named Ríos Montt. He wanted to kill all the indigenous people.”
I stopped picking the stone. “Indigenous? Wait. Is my dad… indigenous? And, and, why did this guy want to kill them?”
“Mija, listen.” She gnawed at the lime wedge. There was practically only rind left.
“Sorry, Tía.”
“So, Ríos Montt, he and others—mostly politicians—were afraid the indigenous people would revolt.”
“Revolt?”
“Against the government.”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t quite following. But I wasn’t about to interrupt again.
She continued. “Some had already started to do that, actually. So this estúpido decided that to stop this, he needed to get rid of the indigenous communities.”
I gaped at her. “Seriously?”
Tía Laura threw the lime rind into the street. I took that as a yes.
I hadn’t known any of this. Questions were bruising my brain. “But hang on a sec. You didn’t answer my question. Are my parents indigenous?”
“To some extent, we all are, mija. We have indigenous blood mixed with Spanish blood.”
I sat on my hands, my head heavy with all this new information.
Tía Laura went on to explain more. There was a civil war in El Salvador, too—and the United States actually supplied weapons and money to the governments that wanted to basically wipe out all the people who disagreed with them. Isn’t that insane? Friggin’ insane. So that’s why my parents left, leaving everything, everyone behind.
“I had no idea!” was all I could manage at first, as questions, so many questions, bombarded me. Then I had to ask. “Were any of our relatives killed in the war?”
Tía Laura nodded like she’d been braced for this one. “Sí, mija.” She didn’t add anything more. I waited, quiet, quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said.
“Así es,” she said at last. “You can’t go back in time. They were older, two uncles. And they were very involved in the revolution. That’s why they were targeted. We had to hire a psychic to help us find their bodies.”
“A psychic? Did it work?”
She nodded. “The searchers found a grave with six men—their hands and feet bound by rope.” Now Tía was crying. But almost instantly she stopped. “Así es,” she said again, her voice soft, soft.
I needed to change the subject. I needed to stop her hurt. “So, what’s the government like now?”
“Pah!” She waved a hand as if smacking away a mosquito. “There are no jobs and not enough food. Schools are for the rich. So it’s a cycle. You see?”
“No wonder so many people try to cross the border!”
She was nodding again. “Now you see.”
I saw. Oh yeah, I saw. Suddenly a great big map of Latin America—Central America, South America, and the Caribbean—popped into my head, the one on the wall in Mr. Phelps’s class.
It was weird, almost like the two histories—what I learned in school and what I learned about my family—were converging. But why did it all have to be so divided? Like the cafeteria at lunch, for instance. Like Westburg kids and METCO kids. Like chocolate cities and vanilla suburbs.
Then another image popped into my head—a thick white line along the border between Mexico and the United States. And another—a tall, rusted orange wall. I scootched closer to my aunt, lowered my voice so there’d be no way my brothers could hear. “But Dad is going to make it across the border, right?”
“It’s not that simple, Liliana.” An odd mix of sadness and pity flickered across her face.
“But—aren’t you—bringing him money, so, you know, so he can pay a really good coyote guy?”
She drained the cup, gazed out at the twins. I didn’t like the look on her face. Like she was holding on to some bad news.
“What?” I asked, now clutching her arm.
“Nada,” she said.
“Tía? Please. You can tell me.”
My aunt looked suddenly haggard. “It’s just very dangerous, Liliana. Even with a coyote. The Border Patrol… some are real bastards—shoot first, then ask questions.”
A chill raced through me. Shoot first?
“I’m sorry, mija, but it’s true. Crossing over… it’s not like it was before—not that it was ever very easy, but it’s just… much harder now. The Border Patrol hide behind bushes, analyze footprints, follow you with these special night lights and everything. You hear stories of—” She stopped short.
“I know. Kids hiding on top of trains. Starving to death, or falling asleep and getting killed by falling off. Women being raped. I know. I’m learning about it in school.”
She looked surprised. “They teach you about that?”
“I just finished reading this book, Enrique’s Journey. And there’s another book, The Distance Between Us. It’s about—”
Tía’s eyes went bright. “Ahh. You really are your father’s daughter.”
My father’s daughter. Tía couldn’t possibly know how good those three words made me feel.
“Here.” She reached inside her bra, took out a worn embroidered change purse, and handed me a twenty. “Go down the street and buy a couple plates of food from that Dominican restaurant. Anda.”
“Thank you!” I ran down the hill. When I reached the restaurant on the corner, fried pork and arroz and plátanos and coconut mango smoothies had never smelled so fab.
19
Then they were gone. No lie, I was going to miss them. Okay, Tía Laura. Maybe I’d write about her in Creative Writing. Maybe Mrs. Grew would actually give us an assignment I could get into. When she handed back the road trip writing one, my pages were covered in her blood-red scribbles and comments, and I mean COVERED. (Like dang, doesn’t she have anything better to do with her weekends than edit every single line of my essay?) At the bottom of the last page she literally wrote: This isn’t writing. I suggest you visit the Writing Center. She didn’t even have the nerve to say it to my face. Wow. This is stream of consciousness and it must be shaped—scenes, dialogue, reflection, and more. Okay… But to say it wasn’t really writing? I sulked in the corner for the rest of the class. I even flat-out worked on my ma
th homework, anything but pay attention to her Royal Writerliness, who was going on and on about openings—how it’s effective to begin a scene with dialogue or action or a beautiful description. Screw you. How’s that for a scene opener?
After class Rayshawn caught up with me again. “What’s wrong? Let me guess: nothing.” He arched an eyebrow.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“She’s really getting to you, huh? I told you, don’t sweat her.”
I don’t know if I was following him or if he was following me, but we walked together down the hall.
“It’s not just Mrs. Grew. I thought I did a really good job too, not for nothing. You know, I was actually the best writer at my old school.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and half of what the other kids write is so boring.”
“I’m hip.”
I stopped. It had been a while since I’d heard anyone say “I’m hip,” and it sounded so—my normal. It was so easy to talk to Rayshawn. I wished it were this easy with the other METCO kids.
Rayshawn and I walk-talked all the way over to a building I’d never been to, a wing behind the natatorium (that’s a fancy word for a swimming pool). The smell of chlorine brought me back to the swimming lessons I’d had at the YMCA in Hyde Park when I was little. My dad would take me on Saturday mornings. And all of a sudden I was imagining my dad swimming across the Rio Grande River, and I tripped.
Rayshawn grabbed my arm, steadied me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“K…”
Then neither of us said anything. So we burst out laughing.
Then Rayshawn asked, “You coming to the big game Friday night?”
“Basketball?”
Rayshawn stopped walking. “You aren’t seriously asking me that.”
“Sorry!” I started laughing again. Yes, of course he meant basketball. He was on varsity—one of the stars. Duh!
“Lili?” I heard my name, and turned.
“Hey, Holly—”
“Hey…” Then Holly looked at Rayshawn like, What are you doing walking with my best friend? I didn’t like it.
“What are you—” she and I said at the same time.
“Oh, I was just at the WC,” Holly said.
“The bathroom?” I asked. “Aren’t you British!”
Rayshawn laughed. Holly’s ears turned pink. I felt so bad; I wasn’t trying to make fun of her.
“Uh… yeah. But it also stands for ‘Writing Center.’ ”
“You go there?” I must have sounded accusatory or surprised or judgmental or all of the above, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know Holly went to the Writing Center.
“Yeah. They literally help you with your papers and you literally get a higher grade just for going. See?” She took out a mustard-colored paper; it had a couple of signatures at the bottom. I took it from her and began to read.
“Hey,” Holly interrupted. “I thought you had study hall now.”
“I do.” The bell rang. “Eee! I mean, I did.”
“I’m out,” Rayshawn said. “Test in bio. Wish me luck!”
“Luck!” Holly and I both called out.
As we walked back to the main building, Holly asked, “So… whatsup with you and Rayshawn?”
“Nothing. Can’t a girl walk down the hall with a guy?”
Holly gave me a smirk. “No. And you know it.”
I smirked back. “Oh my God. It’s nothing.”
“You say so. But I wonder what Dustin thinks about your nice little walk with Rayshawn.”
“So, about the Writing Center…”
“Smooth, Lili.”
“Yeah, wasn’t it?” We laughed. “I swear, it’s not like that… with Rayshawn.”
“Whatevs.”
As soon as she was out of sight, I backtracked to the Writing Center to get some more info. I really was surprised that Holly used it. I guess I just didn’t think kids who were already smart needed to do that. And after my last big talk with Tía Laura, I knew for sure going to the Writing Center was something my dad totally would have done. When I was signing up for a tutoring slot, I looked up to see Ivy.
“Hey,” she said. No lie, I kind of held my breath. Why was I so nervous? I guess I was used to her and all the METCO kids icing me out. Well, not Rayshawn. Okay, mostly Dorito Girl.
“Hey,” I said back. Clever, Lili!
But at least Ivy smiled. And when I was done writing my name on the clipboard, I passed her my pen.
20
On the real, it was crazy to picture Tía Laura and Tío R. in Guatemala, handing my father this big wad of cash. Money cobbled together from lots of IOUs. To hire a coyote. To smuggle Dad across the border. And for him to return home. To us. Saying it like that made it sound like a movie, not a real life. Not my life. But it was my life. I wasn’t quite sure how Mom managed to gather the money, but by snatching bits and pieces of her conversations with my aunt late at night, it seems she had borrowed most from other people (mostly kind folks from church). Apparently she’d needed seven thousand dollars in total. And it had to be cash. Either way, Mom had some major IOUs to pay back.
With my aunt gone, my mom, alone all day again, was even more wigged out. She literally jumped at every noise she heard—even the toilet flushing! It was like she’d forgotten how to relax. So one day I asked her if I could use some of her CVS ExtraCare bucks for some school supplies. Instead of graph paper and highlighters, however, I returned with nail polish, polish remover, cotton balls, hand lotion, and a little brush that was supposedly for scraping the dead skin off the bottom of your feet. Kinda gross, but it was only ninety-nine cents, so. I set up a little mani-pedi station in the living room, laying a folded towel down on the rug, placing two bowls of warm water on it. In one I poured some drops of hand soap and stirred them around until they made suds.
“Hey, Mom? Can you come here a sec?”
After a minute she appeared in the living room doorway. “What’s this?” She cinched her robe at the waist.
“It’s for you. I’m going to give you a mani-pedi. Come sit.”
Her smile was everything. “Really?”
“Yes. Come on. Sit.”
“Ay, Liliana.” Just like old times. Thing was, this used to be Mom’s “thing.” I even think she had dreams of opening her own salon one day. Eh-hem, Sylvia’s Salon. I needed to finish that one. It did have a nice ring to it.
I think the mani-pedi helped, because that weekend Mom actually thought it would be fun if we invited Jade and her grandmother, Doña Carmen, out to eat with us at the Chinese Buffet on Route 9! Jade + Chinese food = heaven. And my brothers would be at a birthday party, so they didn’t have to tag along. So on Sunday we borrowed a neighbor’s car (rented, actually, by the hour), and off we went. I hadn’t seen Jade in like forever. She brought Ernesto.
The whole time, Jade and her boy stole tiny kisses from one another between nibbling on fried shrimp. His skin was kind of shiny, and he smelled like cocoa butter.
“I’m going up for more egg rolls,” Doña Carmen said. “Anyone else want anything from the buffet?”
“Hm? No, thank you,” I said.
“Vaya, pues,” Doña Carmen said, and excused herself.
Now Jade and Ernesto were eating off each other’s plates. Gag me. But if Dustin were here, wouldn’t we have been doing the same thing? Truth: I’d never even told Jade about Dustin. I liked having my worlds separated, like food at salad bars. Corn stays in the corn area, lettuce in the lettuce area.
“I’m getting more rice.” Mom interrupted my Dustin daydream, shot Jade and Ernesto a look, and left the table as well. As soon as she was gone, Ernesto actually spoke to me. “Hey, Liliana,” he said. “What’s the deal at your new school?”
The deal? I had never literally talked to Ernesto before, to be perfectly honest. He was just there in the periphery—picking up or dropping off Jade, and texting her like crazy. “I mean, it’s whatever.”
“Lots of entitled kids there?” he pressed.
“I guess.”
Jade gave me a look like, WTF, how rude are you?
I took a sip of tea. “Well, I mean, I don’t know. It’s weird.…”
“Well, there’s a rally coming up, in JP. We’re partnering with SIM. You know, the Student Immigration Movement. Some youth are going to speak out, share their stories.”
Partnering? Youth? Was he kidding? He was seventeen! Wait. Maybe he was older and he’d just told Jade he was seventeen! “How old are you?” I blurted out.
“What?” he and Jade said simultaneously.
“Forget it. Yeah… a rally. Sounds cool. Maybe I’ll check it out.”
Ernesto cocked his head. “I thought you’d be more interested. You know, because of the situation with your father and everything.”
The situation with my— What the hell? I shot daggers at Jade, but she was suddenly intent on picking up a kernel of fried rice with her chopsticks. She’d told him about my dad? She’d told him? I couldn’t even sit there. I excused myself and stormed to the restroom. After washing my hands, I held them under the heat of the dryer for a long, long time, scared of what might come out of my mouth if I went back to the table. She had NO business—And that’s when Jade busted in all dramatic-like.
“Hey,” she said, her hands on her hips, with all kinds of attitude.
I slammed my palms on the counter.
“Don’t even be like that, Liliana.” She lit right in. “Ernesto and me… we’re good. Happy. So I share stuff with him. But you seem to have a major problem with that based on your little METCO whatever program and your white-school attitude you got going on.”
“What?! Whoa. Hold on a minute. This is not about me You told him about my father, Jade. Really?”
She stepped closer. “See what I mean?”
“See what?”
“That. That right there. You have such a stank-ass attitude. You’re all sarcastic. Is that what your new best friend Heather or Holly or whatever-her-name-is talks like?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. You’re jealous.”
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