Someday, Somehow

by Claudia Burgoa

  “No, worse,” she says. “Data Management.”

  I wince. “Ouch, you chose the worst possible concentration, didn’t you?”

  George continues with, “‘Pick a more technical concentration,’ my mentor said. ‘Anyone can say they have a business degree, but this will translate to reputable hard skills,’ he said.”

  “Well, he’s not wrong,” I add as I pull out a mug from my cupboard.

  It’s a novelty ‘Arizona’ mug that George gave me for Christmas last year.

  “And yet here I am, pulling out macarons from the oven late on a Tuesday night when I should be doing basically anything else,” she says, drawing a shaky breath.

  “Well, that’s fun,” I say, trying to offer sympathy.

  “Helpful,” George says sarcastically. “Come on, tell me your woes.”

  “No, I think my woes are similar enough that I’d rather focus on you,” I inform her.

  “Aren’t you nice,” she says sarcastically.

  “The nicest,” I infer. “What are you supposed to be working on?”

  “Does it matter? It’s boring. It makes me want to claw my eyes out. These macarons are much better.”

  I nod as I pour my coffee. It feels really good to hear George’s voice after a long weekend without it. She got a new job at some metaphysical shop on Pearl Street and my shifts at the restaurant are longer than usual.

  “Did you remember to let them set before baking this time?” I ask.

  “...Yes,” she says slowly.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that—”

  “Maybe I had to take them out of the oven a minute after I put them in but,” she pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing, “yes, I let them set for a half hour while I worked on the pie crust.”

  “Pie crust?” I ask, confused.

  That doesn’t sound good. How many desserts is she baking?

  “Yeah, well, we had some vodka lying around from Josey’s friends visiting last weekend, and I was thinking about how you made that pie crust with vodka last year. So, I tried it.”

  “Nice, so how’s that going?”

  She sighs. “I had to start over, but I think my second attempt looks pretty good.”

  I chuckle. “You tried kneading the dough again.”

  “It’s not my fault none of my aunties bake, okay,” she says, a tinge of apprehension in her voice.

  “It’s probably a TV show’s fault, honestly,” I say.

  She laughs. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  I sigh. Calling George is the highlight of any day. But I can’t help feeling that enjoying each other’s company is really all I’ve got going for now. School’s been more of an insurmountable debt-and-obligation generator this semester.

  At least last year I had electives I was interested in and George had general graduation requirements to get through. This year? I know why we’re trudging through what we’re doing.

  But is it worth it?

  At least for me, who already has a bachelors, is it worth it?

  Even dating lately seems to be more costly than enriching.

  “So, what are we going to do about school, huh?” I ask. “We’ve got two degrees to get through and apparently no fucks to give.”

  “Run away to Fiji?” she jokes.

  “I think Bali would have better food,” I imply.

  “Just because you can cook, it doesn’t mean you know where’s the best food. Or are you now a food critique?” she asks in a mocking tone.

  “Fine, maybe we’ll just have to go to Fiji and Bali to settle this,” I suggest.

  “And are you paying for this dream trip?”

  Yes!

  That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a while. Take my best friend around the world—show her how beautiful and delicious it can be. I’d rather spend time with people who matter than waste it on people who don’t.

  “Sure,” I say. “As soon as I can afford it, we’ll go on a food tour.”

  “Something tells me you could afford it tomorrow and we could just leave our crummy lives now,” George says.

  I roll my eyes. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

  “Never,” she says. “You can protest all you want. But you’re a little spoiled and you know it.”

  She’s right, but I was so much worse before she met me. My dad put so much weight behind his professional success and wanting me to carry on his legacy. But he also constantly reminded me ‘what’s mine is yours.’

  He had money that he worked hard for, so I had to reflect the lifestyle he created for his family. I had to make sure I was presenting myself as wealthy enough around his friends and mine. I didn’t have a job during my teenage years because he didn’t want it to look like I needed a job. That he couldn’t provide for me and my siblings.

  At some point in college, I felt too indebted to him. Everything I touch is his. I work and I repay everything but the emotional interest on every transaction—every item of clothing, every trip home, every necessity paid for—is too high.

  I can barely move without thinking about how it reflects him. Will he be proud? Does this live up to his expectations? How will this hurt him? Will I ever be my own person?

  “I wish it were that simple,” I tell her.

  “Fair enough,” she says. “Maybe you should use that mouth of yours and tell someone why it’s complicated.”

  “Someone like you?”

  “No,” she says. “But it could be.”

  “Maybe someday,” I promise. “I think I’m just too caught up in the moment to understand it fully.”

  Ten

  Auggie

  Winter, my favorite time of year. Sure, I freeze my ass off every time I’m too lazy to put a coat on to buy groceries, but it’s a pretty amazing season. The mountains are picturesque with snow capped peaks as the cities on the eastern side continue their business as usual.

  Fresh powder being within eyesight but at least an hour’s drive away makes going skiing more special. The air is crisper in the winter, oscillating with the bright winter sun, making what are other places’ darkest days into some of our brightest days of the year.

  When the world falls asleep for winter, that’s when I’m most at peace. This year’s expectations can wait until next year. The new year is just around the corner, serving as a reset button for all the bullshit I’ve been through since I graduated from college. Even the pressing issues, like how am I going to stand another Christmas hosting our entire extended family, don’t matter as much when I can escape into the cold.

  Winter is also the perfect opportunity to spend quality time with my siblings before they get busy again with school. One of Dad’s close friends has a private rink on their property that we’re allowed to use. It’s a bit smaller than a standard sized rink. But it’s big enough to do slow laps and it was good enough for the twins’ extra hockey practices growing up.

  At sixteen, Ben and Catalina have so much ahead of them. Ben’s strong jaw and curly hair make him look more and more like our dad every day. Catalina, Cat for short, is a mix of our parents. Her hazel eyes against her tawny beige skin are as striking as they are confusing to the casual onlooker.

  It’s crazy to think how much they’ve grown in such a short time. I remember how often we kept each other company when they were little. My dad and abuelos worked endlessly back then. Even when they were home...they weren’t entirely there. It was up to me to keep an eye on my siblings, to make sure they were entertained and loved.

  It was also my job to bridge the generational gap between our guardians and them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But ‘old school’ parenting doesn’t hold up anymore. I grew up internalizing things I wish I didn’t learn.

  So, it was up to me to shield my siblings from that. And when I couldn’t...it was my job to contextualize it for them. I couldn’t shield them from everything, but I could support them every step of the way.

  I was essential to them growing up into the a
mazing people they are now. It’s been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

  Ben’s more interested in graphic design these days than culinary arts. Cat doesn’t seem like she’ll follow the family business. Her robotics club takes up most of the time she isn’t spending on homework or prepping for debate meets to look at where she fits in the grand scheme of the family business. But that will be okay.

  The one dream I cherish the most is for them to have the freedom to do whatever they want. I’ve watched them grow up. I was there helping them every step of the way. Of course, I want them to flourish. How could anyone see what they’re capable of and want to limit them?

  Cat distracts me from my thoughts as she skates past me, gracefully turning around to skate backward.

  “Auggie, wipe that dumb look off your face,” she says.

  “Rude.” I glare at her.

  “It’s okay, you can be a sad old man some other time,” she jokes. “Come on, skate before Ben turns this into a hockey practice.”

  “Coward!” Ben shouts from the other side of the rink.

  “I’m not a coward!” Cat shouts back. “You’re just no fun.”

  Ben skates across the rink toward us. “How the fuck is tackling me into a goal fun?”

  “How is shot practice on a goalie who never lets you score fun?”

  Ben grunts. “That’s my whole fucking job!”

  I roll my eyes. They might be sixteen, but some things never change. They’re both incorrigible when it comes to each other.

  “Children, children, please,” I say. “Can’t we all just agree that you both suck?”

  They look at each other for a split second before jumping to tackle me. Twin telepathy will always be my downfall, I think right before my ass crashes into the ice.

  “Okay, this is why we can’t have nice things,” I say as I try to squirm away from their hold.

  Cat and Ben just laugh on top of me for a while. I can’t say I hate it. I really miss them when I’m not around. They’re growing up so fast. Soon they’ll be off to college and then who knows when I’ll see them next. It makes me wonder if the sacrifices I do with them in mind outweigh the absences I’ve had since college began.

  ✩✩✩

  “When do you need me out of the house?” George asks as we drive toward the property I want us to see.

  “Out of the house?”

  “Well, you’re selling it, right?”

  I chuckle. “We have a deal, don’t we?”

  “Yeah, I could lease it until graduation,” she answers, scrunching her nose. “Can you afford both houses?”

  I nod.

  “You could say Dad gave me a raise,” I explain, then I remember this is George. “My trust kicks in when I turn twenty-three.”

  “Trust fund baby,” she says, mockingly.

  I groan and feel as if the little respect she had for me is completely gone. But she squeezes my hand and smiles.

  “Hey, I know how hard you work for him. I just like to give you a hard time. So, this trust is now yours and you’re using it all to buy another house.”

  “It’s better than leasing, you know,” I say, not disclosing that I’m using a small amount to buy the house.

  Dad didn’t give me a couple of million. He made sure to give my siblings and me enough money to live comfortable for the rest of our lives. Which is surprising when he expects us to work hard for the same length. Contradictory at best, but I guess it gives him a piece of mind that we’ll be in debt with him forever and we’ll happily work for him.

  “What kind of house are you looking for?”

  “Close to downtown. I was thinking around Twenty-third Avenue,” I say as I merge onto the highway. “They’re selling a lot of homes around at a cheap price.”

  “Not another crumbling place, please. Why not buy something in the outskirts but close enough to the city?” she suggests. “You can have a big home, and right, it’s just you. Never mind.”

  It is only me, but if she decides to stay in Colorado after graduation, she can crash at my place until she’s ready to get her own. But I don’t tell her any of this because she’s going to think I’m thinking too far ahead. She has another eighteen months before business school is over and she’s still not sure what she’s going to do afterward. Knowing her, I’m pretty sure that when she finds her calling, she’s going to soar and be the best at it.

  We go through seven properties. But when we park in front of what’d be the eight one George says, “Look at that house.”

  I glance toward my left. It’s a brand new construction with a for sale sign, though there’re still workers coming in and out of the place.

  “Can you pull the specs for this house, Eric?” I ask our realtor.

  He looks at George and shakes his head. She can’t help it if she knows more about structures, plumbing, the electrical installation and mold. Her dad taught her well and none of the other properties were up to her taste.

  “It’s twenty-five hundred square feet. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a two-car garage. There’s an unfinished basement and it should be finished by the end of March. Would you like me to request a showing?”

  The timing is perfect, the price just what I was expecting to pay, and George…I turn my attention to her and she’s already gawking at the place. She doesn’t know it yet, but after she graduates, we’re moving in together.

  “Yes, I think we found what we were looking for,” I assure him.

  Eleven

  George

  I take the train to Auggie’s place on a Wednesday evening in a cold brittle February. I can barely concentrate long enough to get on the right line, but I do it. At first, the cold pricks me like a million needles against my skin. Now I feel the same externally as internally—absolutely numb.

  I watch as my college town races by the train. I stare at the changing scenery as the home I’ve known for the last three years fades. The sun is starting to roll down over the horizon, bathing the mountains in gorgeous hues of indigo, burgundy, and amber.

  Heading toward Auggie’s is the most relief I’ve felt in months.

  I’m so sick of my major. It’s not just the classes that have me fed up this time, it’s the fucking people.

  The train stop is only two blocks from Auggie’s place, fortunately. I take two stairs at a time sprinting up to his third-floor abode. I think my hand pounds on his front door loudly, but at that point I’m too distracted to be able to tell. I’m just so anxious I could jump after hearing a pinprick fall.

  “Coming!” he shouts from somewhere in the apartment.

  He throws the door open less than a minute later. His eyes widen.

  “Where the fuck is your coat?” he asks.

  Oh, right, maybe that’s why I feel numb.

  “Forgot it?” I say weakly.

  He ushers me inside. “Shit, let’s get you warmed up.”

  Auggie has me sit on the couch and wraps me in a few blankets. He comes back with one of his sweatshirts and pajama pants for me to wear instead of the thin shirt and jeans I’m currently wearing.

  “You can just change here,” he says. “I’m going to make you something. Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea’s fine,” I mumble.

  He starts to hand me the remote, but then he must think better of it because he just turns on the news and leaves the remote next to me. After a few minutes, I realize that the cold is radiating off my body like a force field. My skin is aching and sensitive.

  “How long were you out there without a coat, Jones?” Auggie asks me when he comes back with a mug of tea.

  I shrug. “I don’t know, Beltran. I walked from my place to the station like this, got on the train after two minutes, and then walked from the station to here.”

  He hands me the tea. “Drink, now.”

  I take a long sip. It takes like lavender-honeysuckle-chamomile tea. I grin, he knows how much I love those flowers. The warmth of the tea washes over m
e calmingly.

  “Fuck, that’s really good,” I say.

  He shakes his head as he sits down. “You’re fucking lucky it didn’t snow while you were out.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Why? What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t know, how about hypothermia,” he says with a sigh. “You could’ve gotten really hurt.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “My bad.”

  “What was the first thing I taught you about winters up here?”

  “Cold weather safety,” I mutter.

  “Exactly,” he says firmly, before leaning back into the sofa. “I’m happy to see you. But...what’s going on, George?”

  I sigh. “Well, Jordan broke up with me...And then proceeded to tell our entire business frat what an ‘easy lay’ I am.”

  He frowns.

  “That’s not even the worst part,” I say, because I don’t care what they think about me.

  My friends know who I am. Even if I slept around campus it’d be nobody’s business. But really, I’ve only gone out with three guys since my freshman year.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “What’s happening?”

  “My fucking special topics in macroeconomics professor is at it again. He accused me of plagiarizing my last essay because it ‘sounds too eloquent.’ He’s giving me one chance to ‘admit it’ and take a lower grade without going through a review with the judiciary committee.”

  “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  “Dr. Hall,” I say bitterly.

  “Fuck,” Auggie says. “That racist piece of shit?”

  “Yeah,” I agree because I’m not the first person of color who’s been targeted by his xenophobia. “It’s not like I had a choice in professors this time. He fit my schedule…”

  Auggie gets up and starts pacing. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do, lodge a formal complaint with the university—”

  “Auggie,” I say quietly.

  He waves his hands frantically as he paces faster. “A few people filed complaints last year... and the year before...and I think we can get some momentum online to get him fired—”