Someday, Somehow

by Claudia Burgoa

  Every memory I have from her plays like a song in my head, repeating itself for what seems like forever. The grief takes me ten feet under. I cry for hours and write letters that I know she’ll never read. Today is just like any other anniversary of her death. Except, Auggie arrives at my doorstep to say, “We have things to do.”

  “Not today,” I say. “I’d like to be alone.”

  He takes me into his arms and says, “Every day is a good day to spend it with your best friend.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say, trying to keep the tears inside.

  “Maybe I don’t. Grief isn’t something I’m familiar with but what I do understand is that I don’t want you alone.”

  “We’re just going to my place, let’s pack an overnight bag.”

  I give in pretty easily because maybe I can do something different for the first time in forever.

  “There’s something I need you to understand. You’re not alone,” he says, driving away from my place.

  There he goes with his never ending words of comfort—you’re not alone. I’m not waiting for the shoe to drop, but some days I wonder when we’ll drift apart. Next May when he graduates? I’ve seen it before. This college of thirty-three thousand students is like a small town where you find your best friends one day and then drift away the next.

  “What do you want us to make for dinner?” he asks. “There’re some leftovers from yesterday but not enough to feed you.”

  “Yesterday’s was okay.”

  “Just okay? That’s not what you said last night. Let me quote you, “Mmm, best paella ever.””

  “I didn’t moan, and it was okay at best.”

  Fine, to be honest it was fucking unbelievable. Yes, best paella ever but I won’t admit it again.

  “Uh-huh. Keep taking away my compliments and you won’t get dinner tonight, missy.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” I glare at him. “What happened to I’m not alone?”

  He smiles and shakes his head.

  “Do you want to talk about her?” he asks.

  “She was beautiful, soft-spoken, patient. At the same time, the entire room brightened when she entered. Everyone loved her. She …” I sniff. “Every year I feel like the memories of her vanish away and I remember less and less about her. I can’t even remember her voice …”

  He parks the car and squeezes my hand. “She’ll always live inside you.”

  I turn to look at him and for the first time I don’t feel alone. That’s exactly what Dad says. I remind him of her bubbly personality and the way I believe in my dreams and work hard to achieve them.

  “Come on, Georgie-girl, let’s do something different today.”

  As we enter his house, he drags me to the kitchen. He goes to the pantry, taking out ingredients and then orders me to wash my hands.

  “What are you making?” I frown.

  “I’m not sure. Cookies, scones, pastries. Something will come out of the oven.”

  Following his instructions, I wash my hands and begin to search for the book we’re using today. “Where’s the recipe?”

  “We’re creating something new.”

  “New?” I ask, intrigued and worried. “If it tastes bad?”

  “We’ll learn from the first time and so on until we get it right.”

  “We have an entire weekend to practice. Allow yourself to enjoy what you do. Be open to the possibilities of something different.”

  ✩✩✩

  “I'm going to lose my lunch,” I say out loud.

  This is worse than the English literature test I took earlier today. I have no idea how I’m going to pass this exam.

  “Wouldn’t it be your dinner?” Auggie asks.

  “Shut up,” I order, concentrating on my papers. If only the words would stop tap dancing around, maybe I could read them and be able to study. “Why would I want to lose my dinner when it was really good? Have I ever told you you’re the best cook ever?”

  “A few times but then, you go and ruin it with something like, I want to puke.” He hands me a cup of tea. “Drink this, it should help with your anxiety.”

  There are a lot of advantages to having a best friend who lives close to campus, and one of them is couch surfing. Auggie always lets me stay at his house when I have an early class—or an exam.

  “I’m calling it a night,” Auggie says.

  “Already? Don’t you have any resistance?” I goad him.

  “Go to bed, George,” he orders.

  He likes to boss me around, like he does his little siblings. As if I’m going to give up when I have to power through all my flashcards and notes.

  “Tomorrow you can wake up early and study some more,” he suggests.

  “Like I can. The exam is at eight in the morning. I don’t have time to wake up and study. I have to pack everything inside my brain, or they’ll be kicking me out of the school.”

  “Fine, just don’t complain tomorrow when you’re tired and we need to pack your dorm.”

  “No, we don’t have to pack my dorm until Friday. Dad will be here to help.”

  He sighs. “Go to sleep,” he insists.

  I take a sip of the tea. Lavender and honey. Not too sweet or hot. Just right the way I like it. He’s the best friend I could’ve found.

  “You know, if this was a game show like Survivor, I’m sure I’d been booted out of the island by now.”

  He laughs. “This place is more like Big Brother.”

  “Either way, I’m doomed. Think about it. I can’t make alliances. There’s always someone smarter and stronger than me.”

  I look at him and sigh. “And I couldn’t go a day without your amazing food.”

  “You’re in luck. College is not a game show,” he says. “You need to stop watching reality shows. And tomorrow you’ll do great on your test.”

  “Liar.”

  “Good night, Georgie-girl,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  Once I am alone, I stare at the book and still feel a little queasy. I am coming down with something.

  A panic attack?

  I’m not cut out for this college thing. It was so much easier in high school. Taking another sip of the tea, I decide to lie back down on the couch staring at the ceiling. It could use a coat of paint. See those kinds of things I can assess. That’s real life. Not what’s in these outdated books.

  Am I ever going to use any of this crap once I graduate from college? Yeah, I can see it. I’ll be telling my children. You can watch TV only, ten minus x minutes, times how many chores you did last Saturday.

  Is that even a real equation?

  Oh, God, I am losing my freaking mind. I’m just gonna close my eyes for one second before I continue trying to study.

  This is gonna work out, I tell myself. Everything will be fine, George. You passed Mr. Johnson’s class. You can do anything.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Auggie’s voice and the scent of bacon wake me up.

  “Five more minutes,” I beg.

  “It’s seven thirty,” he announces. “In half an hour you have to be in your classroom. How many times do I have to tell you to stop trying to pull an all-nighter?”

  I spring off of the couch. “No, that’s impossible!”

  “You fell asleep, didn’t you?”

  Staring at the couch, I nod. Every freaking time. I should be drinking coffee if I want to stay up all night.

  “It’s all your fault,” I blame him. “That tea you prepared last night had something in it.”

  “The one you didn’t drink?”

  I glare at him and then at the full cup of tea set on the coffee table. “I took a couple of sips.”

  “Come on, have breakfast before you leave. I wasn’t sure what you wanted so I made you eggs and bacon with a side of hash browns.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “I’m writing that down,” he warns me. “Georgia Angelina Jones finally accepts I
’m the best.”

  “Dude, hand over the caffeine. Right now, I’d say a lot of crazy shit just to get you to feed me.”

  “You wound me.” He touches his heart.

  “You love me,” I remind him.

  “Hurry up, I’ll drive you.”

  Eight

  Auggie

  “How are you so confident...about all this?” George asks me the night before graduation.

  I take a swig of the vodka we brought with us to the roof. That’s a question I never want to deal with, but this is George. She’s intuitive and if she doesn’t know how I feel, she asks. Maybe that’s why she’s my best friend.

  She not only understands me, but she is with me for me and not my looks or my money. She doesn’t care if I can’t score tickets for the playoffs—of any sport—or take her to the biggest party. We’re happy just by being us.

  Like tonight, we’re hanging out on the roof. It’s a clear night out, the best kind to stargaze out toward the mountains. The sky opens up for miles and miles around here. This is one of my favorite spots on the entire campus...maybe even the world, because of how beautifully serene it is. It’s great for taking a breather from the big party raging downstairs...as well as any time that I just need to clear my head.

  Which happens a lot when my life’s been a flurry of classes and business meetings for my dad the last few years. I haven’t even graduated yet and so much of me is sucked into the family business.

  I should be enjoying the rage downstairs. I have one last night as a college student before adulthood punches me in the gut.

  Normally, I would be partying my ass off. But for once, I don’t care. I’d rather be with George. I don’t think I can enjoy my last night of collegiate freedom without her.

  “About not falling off the roof?” I guess. “It’s all about balance, and slow movements—”

  “You think you’re so damn funny,” she says.

  I laugh. “And you don’t?”

  “Not one bit,” she says with a smirk.

  I clutch my chest. “Ouch, that's cold,” I say. “So, what am I so confident about?”

  “You know.. classes, your major, your whole family business career path,” she says quietly.

  Well, fuck, here I thought I was doing a terrible job of hiding how much that shit eats me up inside. I think the real answer is something along the lines of occasionally I sit in existential dread that all I’ll ever amount to is exactly what my father wants me to be, and I’ll die a failure because I’ll never learn how to be happy for myself.

  “I don’t think I’m that confident,” I actually say.

  George shrugs, taking a sip of the wine she stole from my roommate’s girlfriend. “I think you excel in the shit you’re required to do. Sometimes I think about what it’d be like to be in your shoes. I’m freaking out of my goddamn mind every other day about disappointing my dad who says I can change majors if I need to. How...how are you just so calm about your entire life being planned out for you?”

  I sigh, look up at the sky, and shrug.

  It’s terrifying honestly, but it’s also the only thing I know. I’ve known what I would be when I grew up since I was ten. Most kids say they’re going to be president at that age. I said ‘a chef for my father’s international conglomerate of high-end restaurants.’

  My dad started his career later in the game...Okay, maybe he wasn’t that old when he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. But he’d spent so much time raising me and my siblings and bouncing around jobs that he didn’t care for but paid the bills. When he found his calling, how could I not appreciate that? How could I not do everything in my power to make sure he reached his dreams?

  Dad’s career and passion have shaped every step I’ve taken since then. Because he deserves to be happy after all the love and sacrifices he’s made for us.

  “It is just a fact of life. Like the sky is blue,” I say. “You learn it and eventually, it’s just like breathing.”

  But what if I didn’t have to? I think quietly.

  “... And you’re okay with that?” George asks.

  “I don’t really have another choice,” I admit.

  George squeezes my shoulder. “You sure about that?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” I say.

  George calls her dad at least four times a week, not including for dinner in his time zone. The first thing she says when she gets a B on anything is ‘but is this good enough?’

  She’s as wrapped up in making her dad happy as I am. She’s so hard on herself but she acts like it’s her only option. I just wish she’d realize that her dad loves her no matter what she does. Her dad just wants her to be her own person and thrive in the ways she deserves.

  I’m trying to help her realize that, but I know it’s going to take some time.

  “Who I am has been wrapped up in my family for so long, I don’t know what I’d be without them,” I say.

  “That sounds a little crazy,” she argues.

  “That’s just how life is,” I state. “It’s not good or bad. It just is.”

  She bites her lip. I don’t think she totally gets it. It’s not just about repaying my dad, it’s about taking care of my entire family. My younger siblings, my abuelos. They all need me to carry on the family business. Nothing makes me happier than seeing them happy.

  “What if it didn’t have to be?” she says. “What if we just lived for us?”

  I hum. Wouldn’t that be something?

  I could...I don’t know. Do something? Go...somewhere? I don’t know what I would do with myself.

  How the fuck do I not have dreams outside of my family’s expectations?

  “I don’t know what’s the point of anything outside of restaurants and family,” I say. “Fuck, I don’t have a single interesting bone in my body.”

  George shoves me gently. “You do.”

  “Come on, what do I even do for fun? Drink? Play video games?”

  “Oh, no, underneath your serious bravado you’re just a regular college student,” she says sarcastically. “Might as well give up now while you’re ahead.”

  I chuckle. This is what I love about George. She always sees me for what I am. No coddling, no bullshit. George gives kindness where kindness is due and sometimes that means politely telling me to get my head out of the ground.

  It’s nice...a relief, really.

  When everyone else sees a dutiful son or an amateur partier, there’s George with a real take. She never leads me astray.

  “You’re too smart to slum it with the boring businesspeople, you know that?” I say.

  “Thanks,” she says with a giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I try to jump ship to a new major.”

  I shrug. “Maybe you should.”

  George is too good for the bullshit she has to put up with. I hope she learns to go after what she really wants. Who knows? Maybe by this time next year, she’ll have forgotten all about me because of the fantastic life she’s living.

  She sighs in the kind of depraved way she does whenever she sobers up from her ambitions. “We’ll see,” she says.

  Nine

  Auggie

  Grad school is one of the most obnoxious decisions I have ever willingly made in my entire life. Mostly because the people are even worse than my undergrad program. I could do without getting spit in the face by professors who don’t know how to enunciate...and I could seriously live without the classmates I currently have.

  There’s a lot of self-entitled assholes here who are mostly wasting their time on their parents’ money. This is what I get for choosing a school closer to home—the more expensive a degree is, the more pretentious snobs get thrown into the mix.

  In fairness, I would say overall the classes are fine. You know, if I discount how much time they take away from me. And every so often I remember that I’m stuck with people who are just getting accreditation for knowledge they already have. Which is fun when, at twenty-two, all I w
ant is to get tangible experience to make me better prepared for my job—not review concepts everyone else is already well-versed in.

  Even living closer to home has its downsides. During my time as an undergrad, it was hard to get home. Now I can be there in less than twenty minutes, as long as I have four to six hours to dedicate to my family. Which gets me in trouble because I honestly don’t have that time. Ever.

  But that’s why Sunday night dinner is so important. Abuela would kill me if I missed that more than once every couple of months.

  Anyway, projects in grad school could be less tedious. I don’t think I’ve looked at this many case studies and this much market research since my sophomore year. This would all go faster if I could at least work with some more modern case studies. Why I got stuck with the only professor who’s trapped in the sixties, I don’t know.

  I look up from my papers to scan the kitchen of my apartment. The oven clock reads 11 p.m. Jesus fuck, and I still have four more of these to go before bed? I need some coffee.

  I get up from the table, shuffling toward the coffee machine. Out of habit, I pull out my phone and dial George’s number. She picks up on the third ring.

  “Class or girls?” she asks.

  “Hello to you too,” I say, wondering why she answers with those two words—well, technically three. “Is that all I call you for?”

  “You text the fun stuff,” George says.

  “Huh,” I say. “I need to shake things up then.”

  “Well, while you work on that, tell me what’s up now,” she says over the sound of my old egg timer ringing.

  She stole it from me a few months ago as I was moving out of my home of two years. She offered to lease my dump in exchange for a few cooking items. It works well for both of us. I have someone to look over the house while I decide if I want to just sell it or flip it and make some profit.

  “Baking again, Jones?” I ask.

  “Great minds think alike, Beltran,” she says.

  “And to what do we owe the honor this evening? Organizational Psych again?” I ask.