“Girl, please.”
“No, for real. You act like I’m the one who has changed, when YOU’VE gone from zero to a hundred with Ernesto. He’s all you ever talk about, and talk to, and it’s just, wow. And for real, Jade, why are you telling him my business? What if he tells someone? Did you even think about that, for one second?”
I must have hit a nerve, because she got all spooky calm, lifted her chin. “You know what? Forget you.”
“Forget you, then.” I stepped backward and bumped into the hand dryer, setting it off. I jumped a mile. A woman in a stall farted really loud. When the dryer stopped, the woman didn’t. She just let it all out. And, yeah, so, we’re apparently mad immature, because Jade and I started laughing. Hysterically.
“Ew. Let’s get out of here,” I said.
Outside the door, Jade laid a hand on my shoulder. “Liliana?”
“Yeah?”
“On the real, I’m sorry I told Ernesto. He’s just into these issues and helping the community. He’s not a bad guy. In fact, he’s really great, actually. You gotta get to know him.” Her eyes were all soft now, pleading—
“I know. I mean, I’m sorry. It’s just that yeah, I’m busy at my new school and all, but you’re still my best friend. I just feel like, I’m the one who goes to a school a million miles away, and yet you’re the one who’s never around. And you literally live next door.”
Jade started laughing.
“What now?”
“Girl. You say ‘literally’ a lot now.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“But it’s all good. I still love you,” she added quick.
Just then the lady from the bathroom—you know who—came out the door. She speed-walked past us. Jade and I couldn’t help it. We tried so hard to restrain our laughter that we were practically crying.
“Liliana!” My mom’s voice broke our little reunion as she hustled toward us. “Where have you girls been? We thought you’d been kidnapped!”
“Okay.… Dramatic. Mom—”
“Let’s go! We already paid the check.”
“But I wasn’t even done eating,” I protested.
“Well, that’s your fault. We have to return the car. Vámonos.”
On our drive, I played around with the radio stations. But I wasn’t really listening to the music as I looked out the window. The closer we got to the apartment, the more cop cars we saw. More stop signs. More drunk dudes chillin’ on the corners. More tagged apartment buildings. A boy on a bike almost getting hit by a car. The man in the car yelling at the boy, “I could’ve fucking killed ya! Ya idiot!” I hadn’t really… noticed this stuff before. It was like the streetlamps had been changed to a different wattage, and now, even though everything was the same as it had been before, it was cast in a different light or something. The wind picked up. And it carried smells of sewage and such funkiness. I rolled up the window, covered my mouth with my sleeve. Everything seemed… different.
“What are you thinking about?” my mom asked.
“Nothing,” is what I said. Everything, is what I thought.
21
When I mentioned to Holly at lunch that my tía and tío had left, she got the same look on her face that she had when she told me she was getting her braces off. (Her teeth looked magazine-advertisement perfect, by the way.) “Now I can come over to your house,” she said, all kinds of happy. I told her I would hang out at her house that weekend instead. I had no idea how I was going to convince my mother, but it was better than the alternative. But Holly was sooooo sick of Westburg, she said. It was… awkward. Corn in the corn area, remember?
Take Dustin, for example. I only ever saw him at school, and for now, that was working. I mean, what was the alternative? He definitely couldn’t come over. But we texted all the time—not quite at Jade and Ernesto’s level, but I did save some:
My Lili… donde estas?
Save me from bio. Dissecting cats again today. J/K. I think.…
Saw you writing like crazy in class just now. Whatchu writing?
On the last one—yeah, no. Corn in the corn area. Period. I wasn’t ready to share ALL my stuff with Dustin yet. My writing was… mine. So I never responded. He didn’t push. Holly, on the other hand, wouldn’t let up. She was mad persistent. Kept asking to come over. She called a few nights later to say her parents were really on her back about college (even though we were only in tenth grade!), and she’d overheard them talking about sending her to some prep school up in Maine. What was it with Westburg people and Maine? Still, Holly was practically crying into the phone, and I felt so bad that I ended up inviting her over.
In preparation, in addition to my usual chores, I stepped it up big-time. I dusted the random collection of hair spray and mousse bottles on my bureau. I got out rags and Windex and wiped down the windows, TV screen, coffee table, lamps, everything. I made sure the trash bin in the bathroom was empty, and got rid of all the coupons and overdue notices on the refrigerator, stuffing them in a drawer. I even freakin’ mopped the kitchen floor. Benjamin asked who was coming over.
“No one.” If I’d told him the truth, he might have stuck a whoopee cushion under Holly when she sat down, or started a burping contest with Christopher—those boys could BURP. Luckily, turned out some special TV chef was giving a demonstration at the YMCA, and my brothers begged to go. Phew!
Saturday afternoon, exactly on time, Holly’s father pulled up in his Lexus. The neighborhood kids gaped at the car, at him, at Holly as I said a quick hello and ushered her into my building. Her father didn’t leave for a long time. We could see him still parked outside through the second-floor window. Finally Holly texted him and told him to go. He did.
Even though Mom appreciated how Holly’s family was my METCO host family or whatever, I got the feeling that she was looking for evidence right out of the gate that Holly was a bad influence. Did her T-shirt smell like cigarettes? Did she have swears written in marker on her bag? Did she stick her nose up at the doilies on our living room couch? No, no, and no.
Besides, Holly was totally cool and normal. Yeah, she swore like a truck driver, and no, she didn’t always say the most polite things to her parents. But she was my new friend, my only real friend so far at Westburg. As we settled in the living room for what I hoped would be a two-minute conversation before Holly and I could go hang out in my room, I low-voiced to my mother in Spanish, “Just be easy on her, please.”
Then I switched to English. “So, Holly, this is my mom. Mom, Holly,” I said all cheery bright, like we were being recorded on camera or something.
“Hello, mija,” Mom said.
I glanced at Holly. Did she know what “mija” meant? She took Spanish. Of course she did!
“Nice to meet you,” my mother added. She kept smoothing her hair down. Was Mom… nervous? About meeting Holly?
“Hi,” Holly said, all casual, like she was meeting another friend of mine.
Fifteen years old, and this was the first time I was bringing a friend home from school. (Jade didn’t count. She was like family.) But unlike Holly, Jade called my mother “señora,” and always said “excuse me” and “please” and “thank you” in every single sentence she directed toward her. It was like the law or something. You had to be super polite to adults, especially your friends’ parents. My mother sort of smiled at Holly. Holly sort of smiled at my mother. Neither said anything more. Total crickets. After twenty seconds of silence, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Hungry?” I practically shouted, and hauled Holly to the kitchen, where I grabbed a packet of Ritz crackers and two glasses, which I quickly filled with orange juice.
Holly looked around, pausing at the massive wooden utensils on the wall. “You all must make crazy house salads,” she said, gesturing.
“Let’s hang in my room,” I suggested.
“Cool.” Holly peeked into the rooms coming off the hallway. “Your apartment is so cute.”
“Thanks?”
> In my bedroom Holly began flipping through my journal without even asking.
“Uh—excuse you,” I said, easing it out of her hands.
“You really do love writing,” she exclaimed as she continued to poke around my room. I tried to imagine it all through her eyes. The faded pink rug my father had promised to replace the year before. The mismatched furniture—all purchased at flea markets or yard sales. A photo of Jade and me holding our fingers up in peace signs sat along the left edge of the mirror. Bottles of (dusted!) hair gel and mousse stood unevenly on the bureau. I never bought the same brands; I bought whatever was on sale. One month that meant XXX volumizing gel. Mom said it made my hair look like Diana Ross’s, whoever she was. Not even my bedsheets and pillowcases matched, unlike the ones in Holly’s bedroom. Everything there was part of a set, down to the sage-colored towels in Holly’s own bathroom. No lie, I wished I had matching towels.
I followed Holly’s gaze to the Romeo Santos poster on the wall, the drugstore perfume bottles on the bureau—some still in their original packages—and the mesh laundry bag tucked in the corner.
Then she let out a happy cry. “What are those?” She pointed at a pair of cardboard houses I had placed by the window. A little church and Lorenzo’s Liquor. I stuffed a Ritz into my mouth and waited to see where she was going with this.
“Lil? What are these? Oh my God… I’m obsessed.”
“Really?” Crumbs fell from my mouth. “Just something I like to do, you know.”
“They’re amazing.” She bent over, checking out every detail. “Is this what you work on in art club?”
“Yeah… well, when I go.”
“Ha.”
Noticing a lime-green elastic band beside the church, Holly picked it up and put her hair in a high bun, or at least she tried to. Honestly, she was doing it all wrong. As she tried again, I noticed Mom standing quietly in the doorway. She was holding a plate of butter cookies, the kind with red fruit filling in the center. Aww.
My mother placed the plate on the bureau, wiped her hands on her gabacha. Holly dropped her arms, her red hair falling back onto her shoulders. “Oh, hi,” she said quickly.
“Thanks, Mom… for the cookies,” I said.
“Yeah,” Holly added. “Muchas gracias.” Points!
“De nada,” Mom replied.
The room felt suddenly claustrophobic. My mom headed for the door, thank God. Then like two seconds later she turned back to ask, “Do you want anything else?”
At that exact moment Holly had to ask, of course, OF COURSE: “Hey, Lili, do you have any tampons?”
Mom’s eyes almost popped out of her head.
“What? Oh, no.… I must have run out.” I begged my mother with my eyes to leave, but now she was not only fixated on me, but her hands were on her hips. Not good.
I swallowed.
“You use tampons now, Liliana?”
Holly looked from me to my mother to me again. “Wait, you’re not allowed to use tampons?” I wanted the floor to open. How could I explain that my mother believed that tampons were for loose girls? That if you used a tampon… you technically weren’t a virgin anymore?
“Mom…,” I said, now praying she got my not now, please tone.
“Liliana? What if your father found out you use tonterías?”
“Wait,” Holly cried out. “You have a dad? You’ve never mentioned a dad before!” She looked around like he might pop out of the closet.
What was I supposed to say? Yeah, my dad is actually getting ready to cross the border as we speak! Pang. In. Chest. Oh my God. I so did not want to deal with this right now.
“Answer,” Mom said, her lecture voice full throttle.
Holly was probably thinking, WTF?
“Sorry. Sounds like maybe it’s a touchy subject,” Holly said. She grabbed a cookie, took a bite. “Mmm. These are delicious, Mrs. Cruz!” she gushed.
Holly was trying to smooth things over, tuck it into a folder labeled That Was Awkward.
And Mom was eyeing Holly, trying to decide whether she was being sincere. Then Mom eyed me, and must have decided she’d deal with me later, because “Keep the door open” was all she said before pivoting and walking down the hall. I sat down hard on the bed, my heart pounding.
Holly mouthed, Sorry! before reaching for another cookie. “I swear, Lili, I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I just have my period.”
“I’m not in trouble,” I said quickly, but we both knew the truth.
After that we watched a movie in the living room, but I was so stressed out, I couldn’t tell you what it even was. When Christopher and Benjamin came home with Mom, I heard her tell them to leave us alone. Holly’s dad picked her up at five o’clock. A couple of texts and two honks let us all know he had arrived and was expecting Holly to pop out of the building and back to her world, where daughters were allowed to use tampons. I noticed that Holly had left her orange juice on the bureau in my room. Glass still full.
“What a rude girl,” was the first thing my mother said as I poured the juice down the drain. “Liliana, you know we don’t use those… things.” Tampons. She couldn’t even say the word. Tampons lived in the same category as face piercings—gateways to hell.
“I know, Mom,” I said, shaking every last drop out of the glass.
“And she didn’t even finish her orange juice,” Mom said.
“Nope.” That little word was all I could give in the moment. My temples throbbed.
And that’s why I hadn’t wanted Holly to come over.
As I ran the faucet to wash the glass, I heard my mother sigh, then mutter, like it was an insult, “Americana.”
The glass slipped from my hand.
Yeah—Holly was American.
But wasn’t I, too?
22
Yes, I am American. I mean, I was born here, hello. Even if my parents had brought me here as a baby or as a little kid, I would still consider myself American. But… I’m also Latina. I’m both. Why did that all have to be such a big deal? Besides, my dad was trying to get back to us because he wanted us to be together, in America. He wasn’t asking us to move to Guatemala. Which he could have!
I wondered if he was saying good-bye to Tío and Tía right then. “Please, God, watch over him. Please,” I whispered. Just your normal walking-into-school prayer, you know. On Monday, when I reached the main entrance, bam, my attention was immediately diverted by orange and black streamers that hung in spirals from the wall. A huge hand-drawn poster read: c’mon westburg! let’s kick some b-ball! Huh? Oh, right, the major game this weekend. I saw a group of cheerleaders huddled in the corner, drawing the number sixteen on each other’s cheeks in lipstick. Sixteen? Chris Sweet was number sixteen. The only reason I knew that was because he wore his basketball jersey over his T-shirts like, every stinkin’ day. I guess he was the captain? Center forward? Or was that only in soccer? Except for knowing that Rayshawn played, I’d pretty much get an F on a basketball basics exam if they ever gave such a thing. I made my way down the hall, taking in the posters, more streamers, balloons, pictures of the teammates all over the doors—yeah, a little extra—and looked for Rayshawn. His big ol’ paper face was right beside that massive Celtic’s shoe. Probably considered the place of honor!
I found Holly at her locker, nudged my shoulder into hers. “What… is all this?” I waved a hand toward a bouquet of balloons.
“I know. The team won on Friday. That’s eight in a row—a record. Oh, by the way, does your mom, like, hate me? I got this weird vibe from her.”
“What! No…” Um, maybe, kinda, sorta? “So. Westburg. Basketball.” I was becoming a pro at changing the conversation.
“Yeah, if you couldn’t tell, Westburg has a thing for basketball.” She pulled a notebook out of her backpack and dumped it in her locker.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
We laughed. “And I guess Chris Sweet is going to take us to the state semifinals, something that hasn’t happened in like, twen
ty-seven years or something. So—”
“Cool?”
Holly smirked. “Anyway, see you at lunch.”
* * *
Dustin—and his smelly friend Steve—met me at my class and walked me to lunch before they headed to the locker room with the rest of the team. In the hall, as we passed the big shoe, I glanced toward Rayshawn’s picture and stopped dead in my tracks. Someone had drawn a huge X through his face! Whaa? I looked to the other players’ photos. They were fine.
“Oh shit,” Dustin said, also stopping short. He looked at Steve. “You know what that’s about.”
Steve laughed. “I don’t blame them, man. I’d be pissed too.”
I gave Steve serious side-eye. “What’s going on?”
Steve whistled at Dustin, then turned to me. “Nada. Dustin, man, coach’ll be pissed if we’re late.” Dustin gave me a quick kiss on the cheek—had his lips even grazed my skin?—and took off with Steve.
I entered the cafeteria uneasily; I could sense the whole room buzzing. As soon as she saw me, Holly grabbed my elbow. We sat down, and she dished out the info. Apparently, just before Friday’s game, to everyone’s shock, the coach had replaced Chris Sweet with Rayshawn as point guard. Best as I could figure it out, Chris hadn’t kept his grades up. Anyway, Chris—or some of his friends—didn’t agree with the coach’s decision. So someone had drawn an X over Rayshawn’s face.
Before I could begin to wrap my brain around all of this, a girl from student council came up to us. “Hiiiii, ladies. So, we’re having a fund-raiser today. Come over to the tables and support Westburg! Big game coming up!” As if we didn’t know.
“K,” Holly said in her awesome deadpan tone.
Across the room a bunch of student council kids had set up a couple of folding tables. They were piled high with sweatshirts and jackets and T-shirts, with little signs that read, support westburg high! and together we will cure cancer! Huh?
Holly nudged me. “Let’s just check out what they have.” Wait? Was she still being sarcastic?
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