“I will see you in one month,” her mother said, smiling, pulling back from Caridad. Her eyes were wet, but she was not really crying. Caridad was.
“I don’t understand why this is happening to me,” Caridad answered, hot tears streaming down her face.
“Please trust us, mi vida,” her mother said, giving her one more squeeze before ducking back into the car.
The airport was stuffy and crowded. Families milled about, babies wailed. Caridad found herself standing dumbly by her father as he spoke to one of the authorities, a large military man with a thick beard, much like El Comandante’s, a pistol strapped to his hip. Caridad’s father handed the man several papers and the man studied them. The air smelled of cigarettes and cheap cleanser. Caridad resisted the urge to take her father’s hand. She was too old for that now, and besides, part of her was still too angry at him.
Soon, however, she felt her father’s arms around her, her ear full of his instructions. Be good. Be safe. Do as you’re told. And then Caridad found herself in a holding room of sorts, surrounded by glass on all sides. Caridad’s duffel was searched by a different soldier, a gruff, pockmarked man with red cheeks.
“Do your parents ever speak ill of El Comandante?” he asked, shoving his grubby hands through Caridad’s clothes. Her lime-green sundress. Her flowered pajamas. Caridad noted the dirt under his uncut fingernails and resisted the urge to scowl as she told the man no. Then the man tilted her head forward without warning and picked through her hair like some sort of undomesticated wild animal searching for seeds in a field. Later on, Caridad would understand he had been searching for hidden jewelry woven through her thick dark locks.
At last that was finished, and Caridad eyed the crowd inside the fishbowl in which she was being kept. She noticed the room was only full of children, and at seventeen, she was one of the oldest. A girl several years younger than her gripped the hand of what was probably her little brother, their faces both white as paste. Another boy, maybe eleven or twelve, had managed to find a piece of paper and was writing messages and holding them up to the glass to be read by a woman on the other side, a woman whose tears had cut through her mascara, leaving coal-black rivulets running down her cheeks. Grade school– age children wandered around aimlessly. They sniffed and sobbed.
Caridad searched for her father and found him standing still on the other side of the fishbowl, staring at her. When Caridad was able, she moved to the glass and held her hand up, pressing it firmly toward her father in some sort of salute. Her father responded, his hand held straight up, a sad smile on his face, so handsome in his linen suit. And it was in that moment Caridad knew that her parents had lied to her.
This was not going to be a thirty-day visit to the United States. Perhaps she was not even going to return. That her mother and father believed she was young enough to still fool made her burn with anger at the same time that her throat ached with sadness at their last attempt to spoil their only child.
Years later, Caridad would think back on this day, on how after hours of nervous waiting she was led onto the airplane, the black letters of PAN AMERICAN on its side. She would remember how she searched for her father’s eyes one last time but was unable to catch them. She would recall the blond, slim-hipped stewardess not much older than Caridad herself, wearing a powder-blue suit and a big bright smile and speaking terrible, broken Spanish that made some of the younger children giggle. And she would remember the white squares of chewing gum—Chiclets—that the stewardess handed out, the first gum Caridad had chewed in so long. How sweet it was! How she had relished the crunchy peppermint taste in her mouth until it gave way to rubbery nothingness in a matter of minutes.
Years later in Texas, even after she began dreaming in English instead of Spanish, she would still be able to conjure up the rumble of the engine and the sudden lift of the plane off the ground. The sight of bright blue water below. She would remember all of this. And when she looked back on this day, on the day she was spirited out of her homeland, she would not know if what had happened to her was good or bad, lucky or unlucky. It would be a question she refused to consider. To answer it would hurt too much, dig too much under the skin. If life was going to push her along like a wave, Caridad decided, it was best to let it do it, filling herself to the brim with a seething rage, pulling a tight perimeter around the little she could control.
ELENA
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ONLY REASON I CAN WATCH THE FOURTH OF JULY fireworks each year is Mami knows I go with Joaquin, where the two of us find a spot on the beach and sit on one of our old ratty towels and maybe Michelle comes by to keep us company. Joaquin brings cans of Budweiser and he never lets me have one, and as soon as the red and blue and green starfishes and sunbursts cease exploding across the night sky over downtown, Joaquin stands up and says, “All right, let’s get back to the car fast and beat the crowd.”
The first summer we were allowed to go, I was eleven, and Joaquin and I rode down to the beach on our bikes, a smile plastered on my face. I was filled with the sheer, delicious delight of being let out of the house without Mami. Let out of the house to do something cool. I’m not sure how Joaquin convinced her to let me come along, but he did. How fun it was to spend the holiday with so many people, even if it was crowded and sometimes hard to find a seat.
I imagine the Callahans are spending this evening on the upper deck of their home in Point Isabel with a direct, private view of the fireworks. Matthew and Jennifer are probably dressed in crisp white shorts and red-and-white-striped T-shirts that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Maybe Mrs. Callahan has tied a big blue bow around Jennifer’s light blond curls, which even at eight still hold the softness of baby hair, so soft the headbands and hairbands I try to place there often slip out and go missing. I can picture Mr. Callahan, laid out on a deck chair looking all super prep, the Wall Street Journal resting open in his lap. He admires Mrs. Callahan’s tan, trim figure dressed in pink and green pastels as she makes cocktails. It’s so bonkers that Mami would think Mr. Callahan is cheating on Mrs. Callahan. She’s a bombshell, and so nice and sweet. Sure he’s gone a lot, but it’s so he can work hard providing for his family. In my heart, I know he and Mrs. Callahan will be together forever.
It may not be an upper deck in Point Isabel for us, but I hope Joaquin and I are getting to the beach early enough to get a good viewing spot for the fireworks. It’s a Friday night, so everything feels like it could be just that much more exciting. Joaquin is supposed to meet up with Amy. I managed to sneak a phone call to J.C. during Mami’s afternoon nap, and in between a long list of chores she wanted me to tackle, so I could meet up with him, too. I imagine kissing J.C. under the fireworks—far away from Joaquin and his girlfriend, of course. I imagine it will feel cinematic and thrilling. But first we have to pick up Amy, and I have to get into the back seat of our Honda like a passenger in a cab.
“Hey,” Amy says, sliding into the front. She gives my brother a quick peck on the lips as I glance outside, embarrassed. “You’re Elena, right?” she asks, peering over her shoulder at me. She’s wearing black lipstick.
“Yeah, hey,” I say.
“I’ve seen you in the halls at prison,” she says, then laughs at herself. Joaquin laughs, too, maybe a little too loudly. I laugh a few beats too late, missing the joke. School might be a prison to Amy, but I’m pretty sure Amy’s able to come and go from her house whenever she pleases, so she actually doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
The two of them disappear into their own whispered world, Amy digging through Joaquin’s cassettes and commenting on them. I stare out the window, trying to glimpse my reflection, wanting to look pretty for J.C. I grab the hairbrush I brought with me and run it through my hair a few final times. At last Joaquin finds a parking spot, and we hike toward the beach, Joaquin and Amy in front of me. She reaches out and grasps his hand easily, naturally. Joaquin glances over at her and smiles, happy. Amy might be weird, but I want my brother to be happy. If h
e’s happy, maybe he’ll stay.
“Is it okay if we don’t stick together?” I ask as we arrive at the beach. I scan near the lifeguard stand where I told J.C. I would meet him.
“As long as you meet me by the car right after,” Joaquin says. “And don’t do anything dumb.”
Amy shoves Joaquin in the ribs with her elbow. “Stop being so protective. Your little sister is entitled to a boyfriend, you know.” She sends me a wink in solidarity. I can’t tell if I feel embarrassed or pleased she knows about
J.C. and even called him my boyfriend. But I manage a glance of gratitude and I promise I’ll meet them at the car right after. Then I slip my flip-flops off and head across the sand, looking for J.C.
I spot him where I’d told him to meet me, but he doesn’t notice me approaching. He’s leaning against the tipped-over lifeguard stand, talking to another guy in board shorts and a white tank top who looks about his age. People are milling about everywhere—families with kids, young couples, old people struggling with their folding chairs. Everyone is trying to stake out the best spot for watching the fireworks. But through the moving bodies, I spy J.C. palming something the other guy hands him before slipping something out of his own pocket—it looks like a rolled-up plastic bag—and sliding it to the other guy in one practiced movement. He glances around like a bad spy in an old movie. He still doesn’t notice me even though by now I’m just a few yards away.
The other guy nods and disappears into the crowd, and I finally reach J.C. and touch him lightly on the shoulder. He jumps and turns to face me.
“Hey!” he says, too excited. He slides his arms around me and kisses me on my neck, and I lose myself in the good feeling for a minute. But I can’t blank out what I’ve just seen. “Hey,” I answer. “Who was that guy you were talking to?”
J.C. shrugs. “Just some dude from the beach. He knows Michelle, too, I think.” I blink, trying to refocus on the images in my mind. I know what I saw. But then I look at J.C. At his anxious, sloppy grin. His broad shoulders. His sweet, dark eyes. Maybe he sells pot, fine. The truth is, it’s probably better for you than alcohol. J.C. never gets mean and nasty when he’s high like Mami does when she’s drunk. And if alcohol is legal, why isn’t pot?
“Why don’t we find a place to sit down?” I ask, grabbing his hand, an act that still feels exciting and new. As the sun starts to set and dusk settles over us, we hunt down our ideal spot and spread out the ratty blanket I’ve brought along.
“Is Michelle around?” I ask.
“Haven’t seen her,” says J.C. He’s got a plastic bag with two Tall Boys, each wrapped in a small paper sack. He hands me one and I open it. I realize I didn’t really make plans to find Michelle this year even though normally she watches the fireworks with me and Joaquin. Guilt seeps through me. I haven’t been good at keeping up with Michelle these past few weeks, and I miss her. I know it’s because of J.C. But Michelle will understand, I think, that I’m lucky to have a boyfriend at all. Besides, once school starts up again, J.C. could leave. I tell myself that Michelle will cut me some slack. takes a sip from his can and leans back on his elbows. I drink down half the can as fast as I can, trying to ignore the taste. A soft numbness starts to settle over me. The image of and the guy by the lifeguard stand gets hazier in my mind. is so good-looking. So funny. And he likes me.
“Hey,” he says, knocking his knee into mine. “Where’d you get that scar?” He points to a faded white line on my chin, lets his finger graze alongside it until I shiver.
“Oh, that,” I answer. “I got it wrestling with tigers at the Houston Zoo.”
J.C. startles and looks at me, his brow furrowed. “What the hell?”
“Uh, I mean I got it parachuting out of a helicopter over a remote part of the Sahara Desert.” I grin.
“Are you fucked-up?” J.C. asks with a snort. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s just a game,” I say, taking a sip from my beer. “My brother and I used to play it. Sometimes we still do. We used to make up stories about our scars. I don’t know how it started.” I do, actually, but that’s not a story for tonight. Or maybe ever.
“So you just came up with bullshit for fun?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I tell J.C. how Joaquin and I played the game when we were younger, stuck in front of the television on Saturdays, bored out of our minds while Mami nursed a hangover or forced herself out of the house to do the grocery shopping. The scar from the time I burned my forearm on the oven became the time I defended myself from a rabid dog roaming the streets of our neighborhood. The patchy white circle on Joaquin’s knee from the time he had a wart removed transformed into the bite of an anaconda that he wrestled with his own bare hands while on a solo safari. The slim, crooked gash on my calf that had healed into a rubbery mark was no longer from running into the coffee table but due to a street fight between me and whatever scary presence was on the television news—Richard Ramirez, Gaddafi, some nameless Communist.
“That story almost makes me wish I had a brother or sister,” J.C. says when I finish talking. He drains his beer. “But really. How did you get the scar on your chin?”
I find my fingers resting there. The scar is so faded I can barely feel it. I tell J.C. that I don’t remember how I got it, and he believes me.
When it’s finally dark enough for the fireworks to start, J.C. and I cuddle up together. He kisses me and then, with a wink, he slowly reaches under my T-shirt and tucks his hand possessively around my left breast. His thumb worms its way inside my bra and he grazes my nipple once. Twice. My body grows warm and something pulses deep inside me.
“This okay?” he whispers into my ear. I nod because I can’t speak.
“I wish we could get away from here,” he says. His thumb moves again, gentle but sure.
“Me too,” I manage.
“We can walk back to my apartment from here, you know,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, my face buried in his chest. “I know.”
Suddenly, I hear a burst in the sky and a collective gasp of happiness. A little girl’s voice calls out, “Mommy, they’re starting!”
J.C. doesn’t wait for me to agree with him, really. He just stands up, and I find myself numbly following him through the crowd, stepping on other people’s blankets, getting annoyed mutterings from strangers. I only know J.C. wants to take me to his place and I need to follow. He has my hand in his, tugging me along. Wordlessly, we walk the block to his apartment, the smell of cheap fast food and salt water consuming the air. Cracks split the sky behind me, followed by a chorus of ooohs, but I don’t even look back as I make my way up the stairs and inside.
By the time I get back to the car, Joaquin is fuming and Amy is half a block up the street, I guess looking for me.
“Where the hell have you been?” my brother snaps. He hollers at Amy that I’m back before turning his full attention on me. A troop of teenage boys walk by—they look like tourists in their pressed Polos and Chinos—and they erupt into laughter at my expense. “Someone’s in trooooooubbble,” one of them singsongs.
“I’m sorry, Joaquin,” I say, “the time just got away from us.” And I am sorry. I really am. I thought I would be able to hear the fireworks end from J.C.’s apartment, and maybe I could have if I’d tried, but it was like I was lost in some fever dream once I got inside his place. We didn’t go all the way or anything, but it was the closest we’d ever gotten. Just thinking about it makes my heart start to race, and I have to look down at my feet. It’s too embarrassing to have those thoughts in the vicinity of my older brother.
“Jesus, I thought something happened to you,” he says, his voice furious. Guilt rips through me. I check my watch. It’s way past ten o’clock. I wonder if Mami is awake and wondering where we are. My heart still races but in a bad way now.
“When did the fireworks end?” I ask.
“Almost half an hour ago,” Joaquin snaps as Amy catches up with us, her face glowing with sweat under the str
eetlight.
“Hey,” she says, out of breath.
“Sorry you had to go looking for me,” I say.
“No problem. Joaquin wanted to do it, but I told him to wait by the car and calm down. I thought if he found you he might really lose his shit.” She knocks into my brother a bit and smiles. Under the glow of the streetlamps, her white teeth look even whiter against her black lipstick. “Come on, cut your baby sister some slack.” She tugs him toward the car, effectively ending the conversation between Joaquin and me. I meekly slide into the back seat.
“I gotta drop Amy off first,” Joaquin says in a gruff voice, and he drives toward her neighborhood. I peer out the window at mothers sitting on porch steps of bungalows and cottages, dressed in tank tops and denim cutoffs and smoking cigarettes. This area is working-class like ours. Little kids chase each other around in postage stamp– sized front yards, burnt sparklers clutched in their hands like magic wands. Joaquin parks in front of an old but tidy house and wordlessly gets out. Amy starts to follow but turns toward me first, smiling. “Hope you had fun with your boyfriend,” she says.
“Thanks,” I answer, hoping I don’t sound like some dumb kid.
I realize once they’ve gotten out of the car that Joaquin has parked a house away from Amy’s place. He doesn’t want me to watch him walk her to her front door. A few minutes later, he’s back. When he opens the driver’s side door he says, “You can get in the front seat, you know.”
The Liars Page 9