I want to stay mad like I usually would be, but she’s being so sincere and open. This is nearly the most she’s ever said about their families. All I know is that there was some kind of falling out, that was all I could get out of her. But she has always said it didn’t matter, because Grandpa was her family. All she needed. Until my mom came along. And then me.
Grandma continues, her voice taking on a harsher tone. “You know, my life isn’t easy. People, when they think I can’t speak well, they talk to me slowly, like they think I’m uneducated, stupid, and some think I don’t belong here.” Grandma takes a long, deep breath, and I hold mine, not wanting to say anything that would get her to stop. She never talks about stuff like this. Like, really talks about it.
“Some people hold their purses close to them when I walk by them in Mrs. Reynolds’s side of town,” Grandma continues, “like they think I’m a criminal. Like I would steal from them.”
My head whips back. I know people can be assholes, but we live in California. I didn’t think that people here would be so . . . that they would treat Grandma so unfairly makes my blood boil.
“Grandma, that’s so messed up. I didn’t—”
“This is why you need to get an education,” Grandma interrupts. “Get a good job that can give you security and a future.”
There’s not a ton of financial security for journalists, but it’s a good career. One Grandma would be proud of me for, I’m sure, if I were to actually make it as one. I hadn’t planned on telling her, but Grandma opening up to me makes me feel brave.
I turn completely toward Grandma on the couch and am so daring as to look her straight in the eye. “I do want to go to college and get a good job. It just might not be what you had in mind . . .” I trail off, steeling myself. “You know . . . well, you know how I always write in my journal . . . I want to be a writer.”
Grandma’s lips pucker in confusion but I don’t give her the chance to interrupt. “Maybe I could be a journalist and write long-form stories, ones that take months to research from interviewing people and going to different places. I could go on adventures, travel all over, and write about people changing the world doing brave and important things.”
Grandma blinks but says nothing. Her silence scares me, but I push on.
“It’s what I love to do, Grandma, to write. I know it’s not what you had in mind for me and I’m sorry but—”
Grandma starts knitting again, not looking at me. “Do you think Brittany would like this hat for when the weather cools? You haven’t worn the one I made you last year”—Grandma tsks—“so I’d rather have it not go to waste.”
My mouth drops open. Grandma is seriously going to dismiss everything I just said to her, without a word? I poured my heart out to her, and that’s it? She wants to talk about a stupid beanie?
Grandma ignores my shock and keeps talking. “Well, if not Brittany, I can donate it through church. Our Bible study group is making blankets this year for the homeless. I’m sure I can add this hat to the pile.”
“Grandma!”
She blanches at my raised voice.
“I told you my dream is to be a writer, and you’ve got nothing to say?” I shake my head in disbelief, unable to form the words for the hurt I feel.
“Well, getting into Yale or Harvard is very competitive, and I’m sure it would be even harder to get in as a writer. Better to try for an engineer or another program that is more practical, don’t you agree?”
I grit my teeth and will myself not to cry. “No, I don’t agree! And that’s not how college works either!”
Grandma sets her knitting aside.
“I’m sure you love writing, and from what your English grades show me, you are good at it.” Grandma pats my leg and I bristle. “But we have to think practically. I need you to have a better life. You can’t make the choices your mother did, her head in the clouds not thinking of the future, getting pregnant when she was just a child.” Grandma stops abruptly to gauge my reaction.
“You, my sweet baby, are not a mistake,” she says softly. “You are a gift, and no matter the timing of when your mother had you, I will be grateful she did until the day I die. That is not what I’m talking about. Your mother made a lot of decisions for herself that had nothing to do with you. Decisions that I would never want for you. You will not ruin your future like she did when she—”
The shock on my face causes Grandma to stop.
“What do you mean by that, Grandma?”
Grandma shakes her head quickly and looks down at her wrinkly hands.
“Grandma, but Mom . . . what do you mean? What are you saying she did that was so bad? If you don’t mean having me . . . ?”
Grandma keeps her eyes on her knitting. Her voice rises. “I am not talking about your mother. I am talking about you, Ri. I want you to work hard and take advantage of what you have, being born in this country, with skin like yours that allows you the opportunities that so many would kill for.”
I . . . I don’t know what to say. She started to say something about Mom, but I know my grandma and I can tell she won’t give me anything else.
She bends her head and takes a deep breath. “I know I can be hard on you, baby, but I love you so much, more than you’ll ever know. More than my life. You’re what I live for, what I wake up for in the morning each day.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. It’s obvious she’s trying to guilt trip me. And even though she’s doing what she always does—hiding secrets and telling me to be who she wants me to be—I do feel guilty.
Grandma touches my cheek softly. “As I said before, I think you would do better to be in cross-country, to volunteer at the soup kitchen, because that will help you get into the best universities. You want to write, go ahead and write. But you must also be practical and choose a real career.”
I blink several times, my eyes unfocused, disappointment washing over me.
“Just think about it.” Grandma smiles. “Have a good run, baby. I’ll see you later.”
End of conversation. Masterful how she can do that. She found a way to make me feel bad for being angry but gets to have the last word about my future.
My future. Not hers.
I head for the door without another word. Ready to run off my hurt and anger. No matter how much Grandma says she loves me, would she still if I didn’t do the things she wants? If I study writing at a school that isn’t what she deems the best? If I speak Spanish? Or God forbid, hang out with kids who live in our neighborhood and look like us? Or her?
Phone in hand, I pop my earbuds in and shut the door behind me. My feet propel me, taking me away from Grandma. I run toward the hope that Mom is better, that she’ll actually want to know me. The real me.
I head for the harbor, like I’ve done since I was a kid. It started as something Nina and I did together, because she loved the Art Walk on East Beach. Every Sunday, for as long as I can remember, artisanal street vendors line the sidewalks, selling their creations to the tourists who walk by. Nina and I would linger around the booths, mostly because she loved staring at the paintings. She’d take extra care to study them and later try to re-create what she liked with a cheap watercolor set she got for Christmas.
I loved her paintings, all of them. They were so beautiful, so vivid and bright, even if she didn’t have fancy tools. For years, Nina gave me a new painting for my birthday. Ten, it was of the sunset over the beach. Eleven, it was of the eucalyptus tree that stood tall in her backyard. Twelve, it was the back of me as I jogged on the running path near the wharf. Almost as a joke, since we thought we were too cool for kid stuff by then, when we were thirteen, she painted the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for me, since we liked the movies so much when we were little. I kept every painting, hidden away in a box in the back of my closet, exactly where my friendship bracelet that matches hers ended up.
My feet hit the pavement harder, faster. Nina and I saved our birthday money and any loose change we could scrounge up to
see if we could haggle the pricing down on the cheaper items—no ocean landscape paintings for several thousand dollars, thank you very much. I still remember how excited we were when the old woman with the long gray braid saw us counting our change as we eyed her multicolored, beaded friendship bracelets. She smiled big and told us to pick one for each of us, no charge.
I smile as I run, just remembering it. Until I flash to the time I ripped the bracelet off my wrist after crying myself to sleep over Nina ignoring me. That’s when I tossed it to the bottom of the box of old memories.
Since then, I’ve run alone on Sundays, no Nina, no Brittany. It’s just me.
Once I jog past the railroad tracks and cross the street onto Cabrillo Boulevard, it’s like I’m in another world. Instead of broken-down cars, I run past palm trees lining the sidewalks, sand and ocean on my left and fancy hotels and restaurants on my right. My feet bring me to East Beach, like hundreds or maybe even thousands of times before. It’s full of college bros playing volleyball and tourists lounging on the sand. The calm ocean breeze wafts the smell of salt into my nose.
I slow my pace. Walking past the ocean always calms me. My thoughts. My worries. My breathing, even. I relax and I’m able to just be. That’s why I asked Mom to meet me at the harbor. It feels safe there. It feels like me.
At the edge of the boardwalk leading in is the sculpture of three life-sized dolphins that make up the famous fountain. Tourists pose for selfies in front of it as I pass by. Behind it, the boardwalk, full of souvenir shops and restaurants, is teeming with people. I hear a bark of a laugh and look beyond the walkway, where some kayakers are chuckling, as one of them almost fell overboard when he saw a sea lion ahead of them in the water.
Adjusting my earbuds, I turn up the volume of my music. I start jogging again once I pass the boardwalk and am back on the runner’s path. I wonder if Mom ever came to the wharf to kayak or eat lunch, or to run like I do.
I take care to keep my breathing even. I don’t want to work myself up before I even meet her. Soon, the ever-present fishy smell of the harbor infiltrates my nostrils. Boats that fishermen live in sit next to world-class yachts that cost more than I’ll ever make in a lifetime. Families, seemingly so much happier and intact than mine, bustle in and out of the maritime museum. I walk to the slice of sand leading into Leadbetter Beach. It’s my favorite spot because it’s often empty—most people move along for Shoreline Park’s benches and grass. Once I stop, I take a deep breath.
I wonder if my mom is nervous to meet me too, whether she might be here already. I whip around to scan the parking lot behind me. Several empty cars, some with the equipment to hold surfboards on them. No Mom. Not yet.
I stand toward the waves and watch them as the minutes tick by.
My thoughts race as I imagine what it will be like to see Mom. What will we talk about? Maybe she’ll tell me why she left and never came back. I bet she didn’t want to end up a glorified cleaning lady like Grandma.
I drop my head and pinch the inside of my hand with my fingers. That was mean. Grandma’s job is honest work, and she does it without complaint. Liar or not, Grandma does all she does out of love for me. What’s my mom’s excuse?
In my darkest moments, I ask myself what I did wrong for her to not want me. But lately, I wonder more and more if I had nothing to do with it. Maybe she wasn’t trying to get away from me so much as Grandma, with all her judgment and my-way-or-the-highway attitude.
I wipe a stupid tear from my eye and sit on the sand, settling in to wait.
The sun hides behind a cloud, and a car engine starts behind me as some people leave the beach.
I watch the waves as they come closer to me and then slink back to where they came.
I wait.
A family I watched walk into Shoreline Cafe comes out, having already been inside for probably at least an hour eating a meal. I check the time.
Mom’s really, really late.
My stomach plummets. What if she’s not coming?
I hadn’t considered the possibility until now. Of course she’d come, right?
The laughter of a few small children as they dip their feet in the water yards away makes me wince. I watch as their parents lead them back to their car in the parking lot.
I text my mother. I’m here, let me know if you have a hard time finding me.
No answer.
More time passes. Still no Mom.
“Hey.”
I didn’t expect that voice. Not here, when I’m waiting for my mom. I whip around to face Nina.
The wind blows a black waterfall of Nina’s hair around her face.
I stand. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, Nina asks a question of her own. “Remember when we used to come here all the time?” She smiles. “Running, hanging out at the Art Walk?”
My eyes dart to Nina’s right wrist, where she used to wear her friendship bracelet.
“That feels like a million years ago. I hardly remember it.” I shrug.
“You here alone?” she asks me.
“Uh, yeah. I always come here alone.”
“Me too, but usually not until later in the day”—she pauses—“when I think there are fewer people out and about.”
Nina smooths her hair away from her eyes. They’re lined with taupe and coral shadow. We both look at each other for a moment and then awkwardly look away.
“I’m glad to run into you today, actually.” Nina’s smile returns, but this time it’s small. Tentative. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that I think it’s cool that you transferred to Spanish. It’s been so long since . . . and you know, maybe it would be fun to hang out.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “But . . . but . . .” I don’t finish the thought. I don’t get it. Sure, she was fine to me in Spanish and invited me to play basketball. But now, reminiscing about the past?
Nina looks away, past me at the oncoming waves. “I’ve missed you,” she says.
My eyes start to water. Oh my God, I can’t do this, not here.
Because when Nina stopped hanging out with me, she broke my little kid-sized heart. Without warning. Without explanation. And now she’s acting like nothing happened. But why? And what if I do whatever I did last time to make her not like me? Will she just ditch me again?
“That would be fun,” I finally tell her. “Hanging out, like we did . . . before.”
Nina’s smile falters for a second. I’m such an idiot. Why did I say that? But then she looks at me and I look at her. It’s awkward, yeah, but her grin returns. And all I want to do is rush over and hug her, but that would be weird.
“Want to sit? I was . . .” I look toward the parking lot. Mom’s not here; she’s not coming.
I swallow, trying to not let thoughts of Mom intrude. I can’t think about her now when I have Nina standing right in front of me.
I take a deep breath. “I was just watching the waves. Enjoying the day.” The dumbest thing I could have said, I know, but Nina walks toward me and we both sit in the sand.
“I’m surprised to not see Brittany with you.” Nina looks at her gray Chucks, one of which is untied.
“Oh,” I say. “Um, she doesn’t come here with me, really. We mostly run around East Beach together.”
Nina’s quiet for a moment. “How’s she doing?”
A seagull flies overhead and I watch it pass by before answering. “She’s fine, same old. Her mom recently talked us into doing golf lessons with her.”
Nina snorts. “Typical.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah, Brittany’s mom’s kind of a lot. I mean, you remember?”
Nina nods. “Their house was so big. The first time we went over, it felt like being in a movie or something. Her nanny was nice, though. Miss Camila. Does she still work there?”
I shake my head. “She found another job a few years ago, when Tara cut her hours since Brittany didn’t need a babysitter anymore. Brittany misses her, though, I think.” Not that she’s
actually said that. “Or, well, she misses having someone around.”
Nina’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding, right? Her mom was hovering all the time when we were over there! Remember, always telling us not to touch anything so we wouldn’t break it? Or trying to hang out with us and get us to watch reality TV with her?”
I laugh. That was before Tara joined the country club and didn’t have many friends. Brittany was so embarrassed by her back then, but I bet she’d take back those days now that she can’t get her mom to give her the time of day.
“You should hang out with Brittany and me again sometime.” I turn toward Nina. “She’d love to hang out with you too, I bet.”
Nina chokes on a laugh. “I doubt that.”
I swallow. Before, I would have rushed to defend Brittany. I’d tell Nina that she was probably reading into something wrong. I’d say it was in her head. But I can’t do that now that I’ve started to notice Brittany . . . I don’t know what I’ve noticed, but it’s something.
“Oh . . . well that’s definitely her loss, then.” I pause, not sure how much I should say. “And I’m not . . . she’s not . . . I want to hang out with you.”
The quiet lasts for a moment, and I look at my phone. Still nothing from Mom. I don’t want this conversation to end. It’s a needed distraction from the sinking thought that my mom’s not coming. And it’s Nina. Right now, hanging out with me.
“Carlos and Edgar are cool,” I say, trying to get us back on track and away from the awkwardness that Brittany’s name brought up. “We went to lunch together the other day.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve been hanging out with Carlos.” Nina flips her phone around in her hands. “He’s okay and all, but I’d . . . I’d be careful with your heart.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I look at the water ahead, rather than at her, as I try to work out what she just said. Finally, I respond. “Are you saying that because of your friend Cassie? Didn’t there use to be a thing with them or something?”
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