The Education of Margot Sanchez

by Lilliam Rivera

  Papi puts an arm around me and leads me back inside.

  “You seem to have way too much time on your hands.” He hands me a mop and a bucket of water. “This is for you. Aisle one.”

  Before I can defend myself, a toddler runs across the supermarket completely covered in what looks like jelly. A large purple splotch awaits me.

  I want to join the little boy and run screaming across the store too. Week number three sucks. I’ve made $660 but I can’t even touch that money. Papi embarrassed me in front of Moises and there are roughly forty days until Nick’s party. Practically a lifetime.

  Chapter 7

  Today I decided to venture out of the supermarket and cross the street to St. Mary’s Park. I pass a string of little kids lined up to buy coquito. They yell out their orders as if the louder they are the quicker they can taste the iced coconut treats.

  “Dame uno de cherry!”

  “I want one de coco!”

  Unfazed by the chaos, the vendor yells back while she adjusts the tiny umbrella that protects her from the sun.

  “Un peso. Un dollar!”

  I usually eat in the break room but Junior decided to pay the room a visit. The flirting and cooing back and forth between him and the cashieristas made me sick so I grabbed my lunch and snuck out the back. There’s an empty bench far away from the kids. I sit and make a call.

  Although I dialed Serena’s number, Camille answers the phone and in the background I hear laughter. Nervousness takes over. There’s no denying it. I’m missing out on good times and inside jokes that’ll be shared when we return to school this September.

  “Hey, it’s Margot,” Camille announces to the girls.

  Of the two, Camille is the bitchier one. I’ve never met anyone so hypercritical of everything (except maybe my mom). Sometimes my Bronx accent comes out too strong. Or the color of my lipstick clashes with my outfit. Camille never hesitates in giving her opinion. There are no filters. Serena warned me that Camille was hard-core. I had no idea how hard.

  Camille lives right in the city with her mom and stepdad in an apartment building that has a doorman. Her parents also own a beach house in the Hamptons and each year they go away on fancy European trips. She lives the most glamorous life. Designer clothes. A personal credit card. Everything I wish I could have. I tolerate her minor jabs at me because I want her life. Mami said to give Somerset time, while Papi’s advice was to stick with the kids who stood out. Camille, with her long thin legs, looks like a model. Girls and guys want her. I’m following their advice. I’ll win Camille over no matter what.

  “Who’s there?” I ask. My laugh is a little too loud.

  “Just some of the girls.” The receiver is covered. Are they talking about me? If they saw me they would. My dress is wrinkled and my perfume has been replaced with eau de bologna. I tug my stray hairs into the bun as best I can while I hold the phone.

  “Tell her Nick asked for her.” The voice sounds like Serena but I can’t be sure. I also can’t tell if she’s messing with me or if he really did ask.

  “Are you guys serious?” I ask. “What did he say?”

  More giggling. They don’t get it. Guys at Somerset always talk to them but I’ve been the ugly stepsister of the group, the one that’s barely noticed by guys or even girls for that matter.

  “He asked why you weren’t here.” Serena grabs the phone away from Camille. “He looks good. Some other girl is going to hook up with him and you’ll never have a chance. And he said—”

  Someone there interrupts by singing loudly and out of tune.

  “What did Nick say?” I beg. They keep singing.

  From a distance, I see Moises walking toward me. Of all the benches in the park, he selects the one right next to mine. Why? This can’t be happening.

  “That was it. He didn’t go on,” Serena says. “Be happy he remembered your name. Progress.”

  I feel self-conscious. Should I move so that Moises doesn’t listen to my conversation? Then again, why should I? He sat next to me. Screw that.

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask. “Should I send Nick a text?”

  “No!” Serena yells. “Get a grip, Margot.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

  There’s no reason for the way I act. Total amateur. Serena and Camille sing again. I won’t yell, not while Moises is listening to my every word like he’s my parole officer. Instead, I hum along to their song.

  “Oh my god, what are you doing?” Serena laughs and I think I hear a snicker from Moises. “I wish you were here! It’s not the same. We are having so much fun. Come out.”

  There’s a tightness in my chest. At least Serena misses me. That’s something.

  “I wish. I’m working on it. It’s complicated.”

  “Tell them the Hamptons is a mandatory school trip,” she says. “You’ll be suspended if you don’t go.”

  I got the idea of stealing Papi’s credit card from Serena. She said her parents never seemed to mind when she borrowed their credit card. After I pulled the card from Papi’s wallet, we met at Serena’s nice brownstone in Brooklyn. Sitting on her bed while Camille figured out my summer attire, I was able to bury the crime deep down because I belonged. Camille loved being my stylist and I loved the attention she gave me. That day I was no longer the quirky sidekick with the annoying accent.

  “If Nick doesn’t work out, there’s always Charles,” I overhear Camille say. Charles is the geeky guy they dared me to kiss. It’s a lame joke she always goes back to. Camille can be such a bitch.

  “Stop playing around,” I say. “Just say hi to Nick for me.”

  “I will,” says Serena. “I’ll give Charles your number too.”

  “Haha.” I can’t keep this up. They won’t share any more Nick stories now that Camille has brought up Charles. I’ve been the butt of the joke before. Camille disses me and then Serena joins in.

  “I’ll check in with you guys later,” I say, and hang up on their laughter.

  I turn to Moises. “There are like five hundred benches available. Do you have to sit here?”

  He scoots over and pulls out a small blue towel. He lays the towel out and pulls items from his messenger bag: a sandwich, a malta, and a bag of potato chips.

  “This is my spot. I come here every day,” he says. “I’m sure there’s another bench where you can figure out the whole Nick dynamic in private.”

  “Seriously?” I say. He doesn’t own this bench or this park. I pull out my salad and try not to take too big of a forkful. He, on the other hand, takes huge bites out of what looks like a Cuban sandwich.

  After a long silence, he asks: “So, how’s that working for you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nick? How’s your boy Nick treating you?”

  Of course he paid attention. I revert to my current defense mechanism when I feel cornered—I lie.

  “It’s great. I mean he’s great. He knows how to treat a girl right. Always buying me things. Jewelry. All kinds of stuff.”

  “That’s what you like?” Moises sizes me up. “Living that baller life.”

  “Yes. It’s nice. Not like the guys here. The idiots here probably just treat you to a White Castle hamburger and call it a day.”

  “Naw. We prefer McD’s. It’s classier,” he says. “So, Nick. What’s his background?”

  He flashes a sly smile. No way will I talk about Nick and my nonexistent relationship with him, even with that grin. I can’t stop staring at Moises’s lips.

  “Why are you in my business?” I ask.

  “Just looking out for a sister.”

  “I already have a deranged brother. I don’t need another one. Thank you.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Moises says. “Just curious. Somerset is an old school and they definitely lack diversity but you’re there so that means something.”

  “I’m not the only Latina there.” Another lie. The first day Papi dropped me off at school, he said with pride, “You w
on’t find any títeres here. Only blanquitos, white people.” Skin color matters to my parents. If you’re a little dark-skinned, a trigueñito, that’s bad luck. Lighter? You’re definitely blessed. My brother Junior takes after my mom. They are both Afro-Latinos. I take after Papi.

  “Cool,” Moises says. “So how long’ve you been seeing him?”

  Nick. Right. A vision pops up of Nick on the beach walking hand in hand with some other Somerset girl. They make perfect sense, like an Urban Outfitters catalogue spread.

  “You’re so nosy,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m just making conversation.” Moises raises his hand in defeat. “I’ll stop with the questions.”

  He goes back to his sandwich. I go back to my salad. This is awkward. I don’t want to talk about Nick but I don’t want to sit here in silence. It’s silly.

  “How do you know my brother?” I ask.

  “He used to hang with Orlando, back in the day.”

  “The brother in jail?”

  That was so rude. I can’t even control my mouth. What is wrong with me?

  “Sorry,” I say. “Someone mentioned it to me the other day.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. Everyone knows Orlando is in jail.” A flicker of sadness appears on Moises’s profile but only for a second. I don’t remember my brother ever once mentioning Orlando. My parents would never have allowed him to have a drug dealer as a friend.

  “The friction between me and Junior is nothing new,” Moises says. “We got history.”

  “History,” I say. “What kind of history?”

  I knew something was up by the way Junior went ballistic on Moises. I wonder how deep their connection is.

  “It’s buried. I no longer run in the same circle as he does.” He says this before taking a sip from his malta.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. Junior usually hangs out with a trio of guys who live in this neighborhood. As far as I know, they mostly go out to bars and nightclubs. Big-headed guys in search of late-night action but none of that involves drugs. Does it?

  “Junior and his boys are more interested in crushing than in causes. If I’m not collecting signatures I’m leading restorative justice workshops at the community center or voicing my opinion in some meeting,” Moises says. “There’s work to be done and I don’t have time to waste searching for the club life.”

  Always so serious.

  “Jesus, do you ever have fun?”

  He cracks up.

  “Sure. Most definitely,” he says. “In fact, I can show you a good time.”

  I almost choke on my salad. “Oh my god! You can’t be serious with that line!”

  “I’m dead serious, Margot.” His expression is poker-faced but there’s a glimmer in those eyes. He is totally messing with me. “Helping your brothers and sisters is fun. It’s the reason why back in the seventies people were down with the Young Lords Party, emphasis on the party. I bet you didn’t know that tiny bit of Latino history.”

  This time, we both laugh. He is funny. I like seeing that side of him. But it doesn’t last long enough.

  “You should come with me one day so I can show you what’s going on at the Eagle Avenue building where Carrillo Estates wants to build condos,” he says. “There’s Doña Petra. She’s a widow who’s lived in the building most of her life. The ceiling in her bathroom collapsed one day. She’s been having to go next door to a neighbor’s apartment because she’s too afraid to take a shower.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  I do feel bad for the old lady but the run-down building I should be focused on is my father’s supermarket so that I don’t have to continue to live in shame. Or better yet, find a way for Papi to sell it.

  “Don’t get me wrong, there are people there who haven’t paid rent in months,” Moises adds. “But those are just a few. You can’t judge a book. What happened in El Barrio is about to happen in the Bronx. The deadly G word.”

  “The G word?”

  “Gentrification. High-rises built on the backs of those living here for years.” He punctuates his words with his hands as if that will keep the anger from boiling over. “Carrillo Estates is the first of many. Who will stand for the Petras of this neighborhood? It’s on us to be their voice. We can’t be silent. Now is the time. You feel me?”

  I find myself caught up. It’s kind of hot to see a guy be passionate about something. Nick sort of acts that way when it comes to soccer. He bounces a soccer ball endlessly through the hallways of the school. He wears those super-thick socks and tight shorts. But I don’t think that’s quite the same thing. I also remember what Papi told me the other night, how new condos bring new customers. Does that make me, us, a sellout?

  “Yeah, we’ve got to add pressure. Let the community be aware,” Moises says. “So, what’s up? You got a man or are you holding out for your boy Nick?”

  Whoa, back it up. He’s so blunt and all over the place. It’s hard to figure him out when he switches back and forth like that. I’m not prepared for what’s happening right now, unless I count the recent list I wrote titled “Five Imaginary Conversations with Moises.” (Number three: If Moises says, “I like it when you wear your hair naturally curly. Forget what the beauty industry is trying to sell you,” your response should be: “I knew you would like it.”) The list is obviously pure fiction.

  “What’s so funny?” he says. “I guess I should say men.”

  “No! I’m not like that.” He thinks I’m some sort of a player. Me. I have zero game, minus-negative game. “I’m not like that at all.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says. “I’m just talking shit. The minute you feel I’m insulting you, you can hit me. The Sanchez family is known for their power punches. Seriously, I’m not trying to play you.”

  I search his face to see if he’s telling the truth. He sounds genuine. He doesn’t look away and neither do I. But eventually I do. I’m starting to feel something for him but that’s not a good thing. Nope. I grab my stuff to go.

  “Oh. You’re leaving already? I’ll walk you,” he offers.

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I think I can handle walking across a park.”

  “Can I call you, then?” he asks. “If it’s cool with you.”

  “No.” I sound annoyed although I don’t mean to be. A part of me wants him to call but the other part knows what’s up. “I’ll see you around, right? Right.”

  I get up and walk away. I could act normal but no, I have to be dramatically backward. I’m crossing the street to the supermarket when Moises catches up to me and hands me a book.

  “This is just a little something. Read it. I think you’ll like it.”

  I saw this book on that first day I met him, right on the table. It’s a collection of poems by Julia de Burgos, Song of the Simple Truth. Inside on the first page, I find his number and e-mail address with a note: Anytime.

  Chapter 8

  Jasmine waves me over as soon as I walk in the store from my morning break. I dread what “disaster” awaits me. Another busted jar of jelly? A group of rabid senior citizens searching for slices of ham? There’s the always-popular duty of cleaning up the break room’s disgusting microwave oven. With Moises out front, Papi’s bent on making sure my time is fully occupied. Jasmine flaps her hands wildly. The task that awaits me must be epic. I don’t care. I take my sweet time. Only thirty-eight days left until Nick’s party. Although my lunch with Moises keeps replaying in my thoughts, I have to stay focused.

  “Something’s going down,” Jasmine says when I finally reach her. “For real.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Shhh. Listen.”

  Even with the salsa music and the cash registers ringing, I can still make out Junior’s fist slamming against the desk and Papi yelling at him. A third, quieter voice must be Oscar. From what I’ve witnessed, he’s the calm, rational one. With Junior and Papi always at each other’s throats, poor Oscar must spend most of his time acting li
ke a referee.

  Jasmine leans in and says, “Someone’s stealing money and it ain’t me because if it were, I would take enough to get the fuck out of here.”

  Jesus. I stare at the workers. Any one of them could be stealing, even Jasmine. I’ve seen her paycheck. She makes close to nothing. Some of these workers raise families with what they make here. Not sure how that’s even possible. No wonder Papi’s been on edge.

  “How long has this has been going on? You’re looking at the damn books!” Papi yells. “We are not talking about pennies. This is a lot of money.”

  “Fuck. Oscar is looking at the numbers too. Why don’t you ask him?” Junior says. “Stop hounding me like it’s my fucking fault and let’s figure this out.”

  “Como qué this isn’t your fault? In the years I’ve had these mercados I’ve never had discrepancies. Not a one. I can account for every damn cent. Do you hear me?”

  “Blame me like you always do!” Junior yells. “I can’t do shit right no matter how many hours I work at this place. Can’t wake up early enough for you. Can’t manage the workers. It’s never enough. I will forever be a failure.”

  “How long have they been up there?” I ask.

  “Ever since you went on break,” Jasmine says.

  Customers notice the commotion. This is becoming a serious problem. They need to tone it down. It’s one thing to argue at home, enclosed where the shouting can be contained, but out in public? Mami would have a heart attack if she knew.

  “Who would steal from us?” I ask. “I can’t wait to find out so that we can haul their ass to jail.”

  “Bitch, it could be anyone! Do you see us living in luxury like you?” Jasmine says. “I’m not saying I’m stealing. I’m just saying you can’t blame a person for trying to get theirs.”

  There is no “getting theirs.” Papi works hard to provide us with everything. He lived in this neighborhood, got a job at this very supermarket and was able to save enough money to buy it from the owner. True, I’ve never had to deal with hard times growing up but we are not living in luxury. I wish. Jasmine justifies a crime simply because my family lives comfortably. We shouldn’t be punished for that.