Everything Within and In Between

by Nikki Barthelmess

  Grandma won’t talk about her past. She doesn’t want us to hang out with anyone in our neighborhood. And every time I’ve even come close to bringing up anything that could be remotely tied to learning about Mexico, Grandma quickly shuts it down by reminding me that I’m American. Which is exactly why I didn’t ask her to sign the transfer slip. I imagine her disapproving face, eyes narrowed, mouth puckered. We’re in America and need to act like it.

  I don’t have any other family who can teach me Spanish, no less other parts of our culture. Learning the language feels like the only piece of my heritage, not to mention connection to my mother that I can carve out for myself, the only thing I can control. Because with Grandma keeping such a massive secret on top of everything else, I’ve never felt more alone. She has lied to me every single day for the last two years by pretending she doesn’t know where Mom is. She must never want me to see Mom again.

  So I haven’t told her about Spanish class. Or that I know about Oxnard. And I definitely am not going to tell her about my plans, but I should stop keeping this bottled up inside. I can tell Brittany. I just need to say the words, make them real.

  “I want to see her.”

  Brittany leans a hand on my knee. “I will literally do anything and everything I can to help. I’ll drive you myself.” Brittany’s words quicken, as though she’s excited. “Need an alibi? I’ll lie to your grandma. Anything you need, I’m your girl.”

  I smile, a real one. “I’m so glad I have you.”

  Chapter

  Two

  I tell Brittany I still need some time before we go to see my mom. It’s been so long, and I just want to make sure it goes well, that I know what I want to say to her. And then there’s the thing I’m afraid to say, even after I told Brittany everything else.

  There’s still the glaring question, the one I’m scared to learn the answer to.

  Why did Mom leave in the first place?

  After Brittany drives off, I can’t seem to move my feet from the sidewalk outside my tiny salmon-colored house. I suck in a breath. I can’t avoid Grandma forever.

  I’m about to take a step when someone says my name.

  Tommy, the ten-year-old who lives across the street, waves to me from atop his bike in his yard. He’s shirtless and smiling. “¡Hola, Ri!”

  “Hey.” I don’t bother saying hola, even though I obviously know what it means. I don’t want people in my very bilingual neighborhood forgetting I don’t speak Spanish and trying to talk to me. Expecting me to speak it back. It’s embarrassing that I don’t. With all of Grandma’s efforts to make us more “American,” it’s just one more thing that makes me different from everyone else around here.

  Not speaking Spanish is the final nail in the coffin. The thing that puts me over the edge. I can’t help that people I’ve grown up around know I don’t speak Spanish. But if I keep my mouth shut as much as possible in Spanish class until I learn more, maybe I can keep Edgar and his friends from knowing. From thinking of me as I see myself—an outsider.

  Tommy’s mom waves from behind him, bringing me out of my thoughts.

  “Tell your abuela that we say hello,” she calls to me. “We miss her at church. If I didn’t see her at the market from time to time, I’d think she’d moved away.”

  Abuela. Such a normal word for pretty much every grandmother in my neighborhood but mine—who would never, ever let me call her that. I nod and smile, acknowledging Mrs. Sánchez’s words without actually agreeing to anything. She used to stop by our house and ask for my grandma, invite us over for Sunday brunch after mass for months after we stopped going in favor of attending the nondenominational church that meets in another part of town. Now that it’s been a few years, basically everyone else has given up on trying to socialize with my “abuela.” The one exception are her friends from the church we go to now, who she meets every week for their Bible study and knitting club. Always at one of their houses on the Riviera or the Mesa, or sometimes downtown, but never at our tiny place on the Eastside.

  But even after all that time, sometimes I see that little flicker of hope in Mrs. Sánchez’s eyes. I can’t bear to squelch it.

  My shoes crunch over the yellow, brittle grass of our front lawn. I jam my key in the door and wrestle it unlocked. Drop my backpack on the brown love seat—I’ve given up on trying to talk Grandma into getting a new one because it clashes with the pink carpet. Just another thing she won’t listen to me about.

  “I’m home,” I mutter.

  The smell of chicken enchiladas wafts over to me as Grandma opens the oven to check on the food.

  “Hi, baby! I hope you’re hungry. Enchiladas are almost ready!”

  I unclench my teeth, preparing myself for the usual pretending-I’m-not-infuriated-with-Grandma act I’ve been perfecting since I found out the truth. “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

  Grandma smiles, revealing the gap in between her front teeth. The imperfection made her even more beautiful in a photo I saw of her and Grandpa in Mexico when they were young and in love. She stood tall and thin, dignified, like a model. Now she hunches her back from years of hard work. But she still has the same smile.

  “Come on,” Grandma calls from the kitchen. “Sit down already.”

  I stare at the hallway, my feet still planted on the doormat, yearning to be in my bedroom with the door closed. Writing in my journal about Mom and all the things I can’t say to Grandma. Seconds tick by. Slowly, I walk toward her.

  The kitchen air is warm with the smell of chicken and melted cheese. Grandma bends to take the enchiladas from the oven. From this angle, with her black hair cropped short and her bony figure, she almost looks like a little old man. Her womanly curves have long since left her.

  I sit at the table, squeezed in the spot of tile in between our kitchen and living room. Grandma dishes two massive enchiladas onto my plate, covering them in sour cream, along with beans and rice, filling my plate to its limit. She halves one of the smaller enchiladas with a knife and puts it on her own plate, along with a spoon-sized helping of beans and rice.

  “Eat up!” She sits across from me. “We’ll save the leftovers. I’d say you can take them for lunch tomorrow, but I know how you and Brittany like to go out. Which reminds me”—Grandma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ten-dollar bill—“here. For lunch this week.”

  She grins as she hands it to me, not realizing that it would only cover lunch for a couple of days, not the week. She never eats out. Maybe if Mom were around, she would know these kinds of things.

  I push the money back to her side of the table. “Thanks, Grandma, but I don’t need it.”

  Grandma purses her lips and begins poking at her food. “Well, you might change your mind about that because I spoke to Mrs. Tanner and suggested she find a new babysitter.”

  I blink. Set my fork down carefully. “What?”

  Grandma’s eyes don’t leave her plate. “You’ve been so busy lately with babysitting, I thought you’d be relieved to have more time with Brittany. More time for school. And you can rejoin the cross-country team. You’ve seemed so upset lately, so I took care of it. I am doing you a favor.”

  “You’re not,” I push out through gritted teeth. “I want to babysit, and I wanted to quit the team—”

  “I talked to Mrs. Tanner, and we both agree that she should find someone else,” Grandma interrupts. “Your studies are most important. And so are school activities. They’re an important part of your applications for universities.”

  “Grandma—”

  “It’s done.” The cross Grandma wears every day dangles from her neck as she nods emphatically. “Mrs. Tanner already found someone to replace you from the youth Bible study group. You don’t need to worry about work until you’re older, baby. Trust me, you have your entire life after high school for that.”

  It’s as though the air is being sucked out from my chest. I sputter, but words don’t come out. Because I know before saying another word she won’t listen. Gra
ndma’s word is law and has been since Grandpa died.

  “You should rejoin cross-country.”

  My eyes stay on my plate. “I don’t want to.”

  Grandma huffs loudly. “You have time, and you love to run. That’s all you do when you’re not studying or writing in that notebook you love. You should at least be letting it count for something, for helping you get into a university. That is why I work so hard and sacrifice so much, Ri.” The annoyance in Grandma’s voice falters for an instant. “So you can get into a good university, one of the best, and do better for yourself, more than I ever could.”

  I look away and try to control my anger. The blanket Grandma knitted for me about a month ago lies atop the couch. She handed it to me proudly and said, “It’s Yale blue,” after our most recent argument about me getting into a “good” college; this variation was about her wanting me to do volunteer work so that it would look good on my applications.

  I didn’t tell Grandma it takes a lot more than volunteering—although that’s when I got my brilliant idea for telling her I want to go on the Mexico service-learning trip—to get into Yale or Harvard. Kids who get into schools like that are often prodigies or geniuses. They’re usually rich, which gives them the ability, from birth, to learn any hobby or skill to basically look perfect for college apps. They are legacies whose parents donate money to the school. Or they have a compelling personal story about saving people in a “third-world country” or something.

  But there’s no telling Grandma that. She thinks I’ve got the same chance at the American Dream as anyone else and won’t hear a word that says otherwise.

  “I have good grades, but it’s not like I’m going to get into an Ivy or anything,” I say. “And playing one sport isn’t going to make a difference.”

  I set my fork down. I don’t want to fight with Grandma, but it’s getting close to college application time next year, and she needs a dose of reality before it’s too late. “Grandma, what do I care if I go to Stanford or Yale? It’s so much money, and it doesn’t even really matter anyway.”

  Grandma slams her hand on the table. “It does matter. It’s the only thing that matters. Getting into the best university you can is how you get a good job, Ri. You know that.”

  My laptop with tabs open on the writing program at UCSB comes to mind.

  “My grades are fine, Grandma, and I’ll get into a good school,” I say, averting my eyes. Maybe not the school you’ll want me to go to, but a good one all the same. “I promise.”

  Grandma’s eyes soften and she gives me a small smile. “Good girl.”

  She takes another bite of enchilada, and I feel the room cooling down in response.

  Grandma eyes me for a moment before wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Eat, Ri, the food’s getting cold.”

  We eat in silence. I know I should tell Grandma about Spanish class, but the words don’t come easily. Especially given how worked up she already is about cross-country and college. I rehearsed what I was going to say to Grandma about transferring in my mind so many times, though.

  “So . . .” I begin, my voice unaffected, “there’s something I’m interested in at church.”

  Grandma sits up in her chair, her cross necklace swinging as she does.

  “The youth group is doing a service-learning trip to Mexico City, and I think it would be really awesome if—”

  Grandma sets her water glass on the table. Hard. “I know about that trip.” She gives me a pointed look. “They’re going to have some art classes and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ They’re not going to do any real work.”

  I open my mouth, but Grandma holds her hand up to silence me.

  “It’s not safe in Mexico.” She shakes her head. “We send you kids there, with your iPads and cell phones, and you meet some new friends and sing songs. And you’re a target for anyone who is poor, who has nothing to lose.”

  I sit up in my chair, my face burning. “Grandma, you’re the one who said I should be volunteering for college applications. It would be a great learning experience, and anyway, it would be totally safe. We’d have chaperones and—”

  “I meant you should serve food at a soup kitchen or clean up a park.” Grandma huffs. “Where I grew up, people stole; they hurt others if they wanted what they had. And it’s only gotten worse. If you’re in the wrong place, people will harm you. You’re a pretty young woman, so you’d be putting yourself even more at risk.”

  Grandma reaches over and squeezes my shoulder softly. When I stiffen, hurt flashes in her eyes, and she pulls her lips back into their familiar tense line.

  “I’ll just wrap these up for tomorrow,” she says, before heading to the kitchen.

  I stare at the long scratch down the center of the wooden table.

  I didn’t want to go, not really. I just wanted an excuse, a reason. My mouth opens and the truth tumbles out before I can stop myself. “I transferred from French to Spanish class today.”

  Grandma stops walking but doesn’t say anything. She’s still, her back toward me. I can’t see her face, but I know she heard me.

  “It’s already done, Grandma. Please don’t fight me on this.” Like a gust of wind, the words rush out of me. If I don’t say them now, I never will. “I just want to have some of my culture in my life. It’s ridiculous that we’re Mexican, but you don’t want me to speak Spanish.”

  Grandma puts the enchiladas in the fridge and closes the door. “You’re. Not. Mexican.” She turns to face me, her mouth set. “Ri, you’re white. Your father was a white man. Your mother was born in this country. I am Mexican. You are not.”

  I flatten my hands against the table, my chair screeching against the tile as I stand. I walk toward her in the kitchen. “Fine, I have Mexican heritage, or I’m of Mexican descent, a Mexican American, a Latina, whatever. My point is I’m probably one of the only kids who doesn’t speak Spanish in this neighborhood, and I want to.”

  Grandma sighs deeply before closing the distance between us. “Look in the mirror, baby.” She reaches a hand to pull a piece of hair from my face softly.

  And I deflate.

  “Do you think anyone would even consider the idea that you’re Latina without a second glance? Your skin is nothing like mine. Yours is fair—you have dark hair, sure, but what does it matter? To the world you’re white,” she says, standing so close that in her eyes, I see my reflection. I see me as she sees me.

  Even though my tone is more of a cool fawn, it doesn’t change where our family came from or our history. That doesn’t change who we are, who I am.

  “My name is Maria Fernández, Grandma.”

  She puts her hands on my shoulders, and under her touch I become smaller. “I know you’ve always wanted to fit in, and maybe this is you trying to do that.” She sighs and shakes her head to herself, like I’m a silly child she has to keep reminding not to do something obviously stupid.

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. How can Grandma brush this off like it’s about fitting in? It’s about my identity. My family—her, Grandpa, Mom.

  Unable to form words, I just glare at her.

  “Fine, if you care so much, stay in Spanish. But if you get anything less than an A, that’s it for you. No más.” Grandma stops, realizing she spoke Spanish, and says, “I’ve had a long day.”

  Though I should be celebrating this victory, my heart is still pumping wildly. I shouldn’t have to beg her to let me learn a language.

  “I will get good grades in Spanish,” I say through gritted teeth. “But I wouldn’t even have to be taking this class if you and Grandpa had taught me in the first place. You taught Mom.”

  Grandma blinks several times, her eyes wide as orbs. “Watch your tone with me, young lady.”

  My cheeks flood with heat. I never talk to Grandma like that. But maybe if I did, I’d get more answers.

  “Ri, you want to take Spanish class in school; I already said that is fine,” she says curtly. “But in this house, you will remember one thing: We ar
e in America and we speak English.”

  “Grandma, that’s so backward. You know—”

  The dishes clang as she piles them in her arms. They clatter as she plops them in the sink, and I walk my plate over to her as well. As I turn, Grandma mutters something in Spanish under her breath.

  “Grandma?”

  She shakes her head. “Ri, we share a last name, but you look how you do, and you sound like you do, and that will go a long way for you in life. Be grateful for that. There is no reason for you to make problems for yourself.”

  I open my mouth to tell Grandma that’s not what I’m doing when she releases a few more words, sharp as daggers. “Don’t try to be someone you’re not.”

  Grandma walks past me to the hallway, to shut herself in her room. And all I hear for the rest of the night is our argument on a loop in my mind. Grandma’s words about me not being Mexican, about how white I look. The worst part is, she thinks of it as a good thing.

  I massage my jaw. It hurts from clenching it so much. Grandma always says Mom left because she wasn’t ready to be a parent. It bugs me that I don’t know for sure. A part of me, the part that hates that I’ll never be what Grandma wants, has worried Mom had felt that I wasn’t good enough for her. But after tonight, I wonder if my mom left because Grandma was so controlling and stubborn.

  She practically blew a gasket because I had the nerve to transfer to Spanish class. There’s no way I can tell her about wanting to go to UCSB to study journalism now. What if Mom left because Grandma was going to squash her dreams too?

  Chapter

  Three

  I wake up before sunrise. Unable to get back to sleep, I stare up at the air bubbles in the ceiling for a long time. My chest feels like someone’s squeezing it. Today is the day, my first class in Spanish. I want to look good for it.

  After yanking my closet’s sliding door open, I reach for my favorite striped shirt and throw it on over a pair of tight jeans. Grandma’s gone to work by now, as always, so it’s not like she’ll be able to make any comments about what I’m wearing.