Everything Within and In Between

by Nikki Barthelmess

  Dedication

  For my grandma—

  Te quiero mucho, Abuelita

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty: Six months later

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Nikki Barthelmess

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter

  One

  Act natural, I tell myself as Mrs. Viola peers down at my transfer application. The scribbled forging of Grandma’s signature practically pops off the page, at least to my eyes.

  “Are you having problems in French?” The guidance counselor’s long fingers intertwine on her desk where she sits in front of me. “We’re only a few weeks into the new semester. I’m sure you can make it work if you stick with it.”

  I shake my head as I tap the wood in between us. “I’m not having a hard time in French.” I can’t quite meet Viola’s eyes. Instead I stare at the wall behind her, decorated with posters sporting the usual clichés of The future starts with you and Every morning is a new beginning.

  “French is great. It’s just that there’s this program in Mexico, through my church, that I’m hoping to do this summer.” The lie slips off my lips easily. “I figured now would be as good a time as ever to brush up on my Spanish.”

  Viola pushes her slipping glasses back into place and looks down at my transfer form. “Miss Fernández, if you ask me, you’d be better off staying in French. You could practice Spanish at home, with your familia.”

  My stomach lurches at the way Viola says my name, overly dramatic—smug, even.

  Her assumption crawls over my skin. Like this woman knows a thing about me or my family. I want to shake my head or wiggle my shoulders to get this feeling off me, but instead I stare at her blankly. Viola clicks at her keyboard and stares at the computer screen in front of her.

  She glances at me. “You do speak some Spanish, right?”

  “Yes,” I rush out. “But I think it’s really important for me to transfer. I realized that even though I’ve studied some French, the standards for fluency are much higher than what I’m learning. I doubt I’d become proficient by the time I graduate, starting from scratch. Since I have a much stronger foundation in Spanish, I’d rather make the switch, where I’m much more likely to actually become fluent, like by school standards. I think it would help with college applications.”

  I smile innocently. My grandparents never actually taught me, but they spoke it to each other and my mom when I was young. So that probably wasn’t the right thing to say, but I need to sell Viola on this. Wanting to be fluent in any language, whether I should already be or not, is something a guidance counselor won’t argue will help me get into college. It still won’t be enough to get me into the kind of college Grandma has her hopes set on, I’m sure, but it’s a reason Viola can wrap her head around at least.

  Viola nods. “Well, it’s good to hear that you’re so focused on your future. I’ll put you in Spanish Two, then, and if you have any problems, you can let me know.”

  Like that’s going to ever happen—I don’t ever want to tell her or anyone else how little Spanish I speak. I’ll just pick it up quickly. I’ll have to.

  Viola signs the yellow piece of paper allowing me to switch classes. But just as I’m about to grab it, she rests her hand on the transfer slip. “Just try not to get in trouble, Maria. The kids in Spanish class . . . a lot of them take the class for the easy A, since most of them already speak it. It’d be a shame to see such a good kid like you pick up any bad habits.”

  Like me.

  So the other kids, the ones who aren’t like me, are lazy? Not good kids? Grandma’s voice bursts into my thoughts. She’s telling me Brittany is a good girl and Nina isn’t.

  I narrow my eyes at Viola. “It’s Ri,” I say coldly.

  The bell rings and hundreds of students push through the classroom doors into the hallways of Riviera High School. School’s out for the day.

  Seeming to notice my change in demeanor, Viola fidgets. She looks to the door behind me. “Good luck in Spanish.” She nods in the direction of the hallway.

  I don’t thank her, not after what she insinuated. Did she think I’d take that as a compliment, her not throwing me in the same “category” as them? I snatch the paper from her and rush to the door.

  My irritation at Viola grows as I visit the Spanish classroom and pick up the textbook from Señora Almanza.

  Down the hall, I blink several times and stare at my locker. So much has felt off-kilter since I found my mom’s letter. Realizing Grandma lied. Realizing I have a lot less in common with my own family than I ever thought.

  My eyes have been closed to so much. And I wonder. Has Viola always been like that, and I’m just noticing now?

  My locker door slams into the one next to it after I fling it open, the sound reverberating mercilessly, just as Edgar Gómez approaches.

  With a tentative smile, he lifts his notebook in between us, as though it’s a shield. “Permission to approach?”

  “Sorry,” I exhale, before pulling my locker door out of his way. “It’s been a day.”

  Edgar nods as he opens his locker.

  “What kind of day are we talking here?” He puts his notebook inside and shifts a couple of books around, apparently looking for something. “Like you stubbed your toe or you just found out you’re allergic to puppies, killing your long-held dream of running a corgi farm?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “That was oddly specific.”

  Edgar shrugs. “My mom loves watching The Crown and is way into those little dogs the Queen has. If our apartment allowed pets, she’d for sure get one.”

  That gets me to pause. “That’s really sad.”

  “It is, but”—Edgar’s face brightens as I turn to face him—“I got her the next best thing.” He grabs his phone from his pocket and scrolls through until he hands it to me.

  On the screen, there’s a picture of a very fluffy, very cute, nearly life-sized corgi stuffed animal.

  I laugh, hard. Edgar beams. “Now she’s gotta share her queen-sized bed with that, but she’s good with it!”

  I shake my head at Edgar, feeling lighter. He and I don’t talk much more than the nods or the casual pleasantries we exchange whenever we run into each other at our lockers. But today, this was nice.

  I lift my Spanish book to put it away, smiling.

  “Hey, are you in Spanish Two? I thought there was only one period for that.”

  I pause, the book suspended in midair.

  “There is,” I say slowly. “I just transferred.”

  Edgar scratches his head full of thick and wavy black curls. “Me and a few of my friends are in there. It’s a pretty good class. You should sit with us. My friends and me, that is.”

  Sit with Edgar? I’ve seen him with Nina, and I’m sure she doesn’t want me around. Since she and I stopped hanging out in middle school, though, I haven’t really hung out with any other Mexican American kids.

  I star
e at Edgar for probably a second too long without answering.

  Edgar’s dark brown eyes hold my gaze. “If you want to, I mean.”

  I find my voice, though it comes out much higher than intended. “Of course, yeah, that would be great. Thank you!”

  Before I can think too hard on the fact that I don’t have any Mexican friends anymore, Brittany appears next to me—benefits of having a locker near your best friend’s.

  “Just saw you leaving Mrs. V’s. What’s going on there?”

  I look back at Edgar as he closes his locker. “See you in class,” he says.

  I wave as he walks away, before bringing my focus back to Brittany’s question.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just transferring to Spanish class. Remember that thing I told you about with my church’s trip to Mexico?” Without thinking, the lie I told to Viola comes out. My stomach sinks; I don’t want to lie to my best friend too.

  Brittany’s light brown hair cascades over her shoulder as she sweeps it out of her face. “Yeah, but I didn’t think that meant you were transferring. What about French?”

  I hold my locker door for a moment, readying myself. “I’d rather practice my Spanish.”

  Brittany’s eyebrows lift in disbelief. “You speak Spanish? Since when?”

  “I know some, you know.” My locker slams shut, and I wince. I did it again. My voice comes out calm, apologetic. “I picked it up at home, when my grandparents used to speak it to each other.”

  Brittany watches me quietly for a moment. No doubt trying to figure out what the actual eff is wrong with me. I’ve been off in other ways too, lately. I know it.

  “Viola gave me a hard time about it, and I’m just annoyed.” I exhale slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  Brittany keeps her eyes on me, not noticing a couple of senior guys checking her out as they walk past. “It’s cool.”

  “You ready to go?” I ask. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Brittany insists on driving me home most days, even though I only live a few blocks away. It’s mostly because we run together, after I quit cross-country and she quickly followed suit.

  “Right behind you, señorita. Should I start calling you Maria now too?”

  I push her backpack, nudging her forward with a smile.

  We follow the crowd through the hallway—everyone making a beeline out of the building.

  “So, what’s so important that you can’t wait for our run to tell me?” Brittany asks.

  “I can’t run today,” I sigh. “My grandma ended up getting the night off and she’ll want to spend time together.”

  Grandma’s a personal assistant to a seriously rich family in Montecito. Not like the kind of personal assistant that takes phone calls and schedules stuff, though she does that too. She does everything. Cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, errand running, phone answering, bill paying, you name it. She works twelve-hour days, often, five to six days a week. With rent prices in Santa Barbara sky-high, even for our tiny house, we couldn’t afford to live here otherwise.

  I know Grandma works hard and thinks that everything she’s doing is what’s best for me. But she’s wrong. I grit my teeth, thinking about the letter.

  “Her boss should go easy on her,” Brittany says, shaking her head. “Your grandma’s not getting any younger. I mean, that woman can afford to hire more help. Why doesn’t your grandma say something?”

  “Money,” I deadpan. As in, some of us need it.

  There’s a tense second when I stare at Brittany and she flushes, looking away.

  “I get it,” Brittany says, even though we both know she doesn’t. Or maybe it’s just me who knows that.

  Brittany sighs as we walk through the front doors and out onto the expansive lawn. “Although if I’d known you were going to bail on running,” Brittany says, in a singsong tone, “maybe I wouldn’t have quit cross-country.”

  Even though I know she’s teasing, I can’t help but glare at her. It’s not like I asked Brittany to quit when I did a few weeks ago. I wanted more time to babysit and make money to help my grandma.

  Brittany puts her hands up. “I got it, I got it, not your fault. I know I could have stayed if I wanted to, but it wasn’t the same without you. Who would I even hang out with at the away meets? You know us, we’re not great with other girls.”

  But that isn’t exactly true, at least not for me. I used to have other friends.

  As if on cue, across the school’s front lawn, I hear the once familiar sound of Nina laughing. I glance in her direction. The crowd around her is hanging out under the shade of one of the taller, thicker trees on campus, less than the distance of a classroom away. But we might as well be on other planets.

  Brittany digs into her bag for her car keys as we approach the parking lot full of luxury cars, like her Mercedes—a hand-me-down from her grandmother, as she likes to remind me—and beaters, like I would have if I could afford my own wheels.

  As we close in on Brittany’s car, silver and sleek, she turns to me, so close I could count the light freckles spotting her nose. “We’ll run tomorrow. I could use the time for studying tonight anyway. But you said you wanted to talk, so spill.”

  “Not here.” I open the car door, and once Brittany’s inside, I tell her to drive.

  I’ve been working up to this moment for weeks, since I found Mom’s letter. I wanted to tell Brittany, but I just couldn’t. Doing so would make it more real, would make me feel like I’d have to do something. And I just wasn’t ready. Not until today, when I forged Grandma’s signature and lied my way into Spanish class.

  “I didn’t tell you what happened on my birthday,” I finally say.

  Brittany stops at a red light and I take a deep breath. “Early in the morning, when she thought I was asleep, I saw my grandma. There was a box that I’d never seen before next to her. She was looking at a picture, sitting on the floor rocking back and forth, crying.”

  Brittany’s eyes widen. We both know how stoic my grandma is, so she’s probably about as shocked as I was. My grandma never shows emotion like that.

  “I knew she’d be embarrassed if she realized I’d seen her, so I didn’t say anything about it when we had breakfast together.” I keep talking as Brittany pulls onto my street. Selena’s “Dreaming of You” blasts from the Navarros. Mrs. Navarro always keeps the windows open when she’s cleaning inside.

  “She was acting like everything was fine. Which was dumb since her eyes were all puffy but whatever. After she left, I snuck into her room and found the box with the picture hidden inside.”

  I turn to look at Brittany, who I can tell is totally wrapped up in my story. “My grandma had been looking at a photo of my mom when she was pregnant with me. She was seventeen at the time.”

  Brittany parks in front of my house. Like ours, our neighbors’ homes are small, with varying levels of upkeep. Chipped paint, dead grass—we’re practically always in a drought in Southern California.

  I don’t make a move to get out of the car.

  “Seventeen,” Brittany repeats quietly. “Like you are now. Maybe that’s why she was crying.”

  I peel my eyes away from the kids playing on the other side of the street, to look back at Brittany. “Under the photo there was an envelope addressed to her. The return address, the name, it was my mom’s.”

  Brittany’s shocked face is as I expected. She knows I’ve googled Marisol Fernández probably a thousand times. My mom’s not on social media. She’s not online anywhere. It’s like she was a ghost until now.

  “My mom wrote my grandma this letter two years ago—two years!—saying she wanted to be in my life. She lives in Oxnard, less than an hour from here,” I say out loud for the first time.

  Every time Brittany and I shopped at the outlets, I was only minutes away from her. For all I know, she could have been at a nearby store. I could have been mere feet away from my mother and never have known.

  I think of all the time lost. The moments
I had with my mom when I was young that I took for granted, forever seared into my mind now, into my heart—the place that aches at the absence of her.

  I touch the ends of my hair. Images of Mom brushing and braiding it before I went to bed come to mind, hollowing out my chest. I remember sitting on the floor, leaning up against her on the couch, feeling safe and loved.

  Feeling wanted.

  I’ve had a mom who wanted to be in my life all along. And Grandma never told me.

  Brittany reaches for my shoulder and squeezes it. “That’s a lot,” she says.

  I shake my head, because that’s not all. It’s like a rock drops in my gut as I admit the next part.

  “The letter was in Spanish,” I finally say. “I couldn’t even read it myself, not without looking stuff up.”

  Recognition dawns on Brittany’s face. “Oh.”

  Silence stretches between us until Brittany recovers. “Why didn’t you tell me? I mean, not just about the Spanish and why you really wanted to transfer. But about your mom?”

  Brittany looks more confused than offended, her light brown eyes staring at me with concern.

  I offer a sad smile. “I was embarrassed.”

  Brittany scoffs. “You know better than to be embarrassed about family drama with me. Hellooooooo.” She draws out the last syllable. “I mean, have you met my mother?”

  A laugh bursts out of me. Brittany’s mom is hardly ever around. And when she is, she’s a bottle of wine deep with a mission to get Brittany to hang out more at the country club with her. She’s always trying to get Brittany to be some perfect image of what she thinks a daughter should be. But this is more than just family drama.

  I couldn’t understand the first words I’ve heard from my mom since she left when I was a kid. I had to look it all up on Google Translate. Grandma’s never wanted me to learn Spanish, even though it’s her first language—Mom’s, too, since my grandparents didn’t speak English well when she was a kid. Not being able to understand Mom’s letter made me wonder what she would think of me growing up completely isolated from something that must have been a big part of her life—her heritage.

  Because it’s not only about not speaking our language. Whenever I try to ask Grandma about any of it—anything at all related to her being Mexican or me being part Mexican American—she shuts me down. A few clipped sentences and a shut door. End of conversation.