I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter

by Erika L. Sánchez

  I go back into the dressing room, my eyes already brimming. I try to wipe away the tears, but they keep coming and coming. I feel a sob traveling up my body and stop it before it gets past my throat. I’m so frustrated, I don’t know what to do with myself. Sometimes, when I feel like this, I want to break things. I want to hear things shatter. My heart beats so fast and hard that I can hardly breathe, and I wonder if anything will ever get better. Is this really the way my life is going to be?

  I look at myself in the mirror one last time. I can’t help if my boobs are big. What am I supposed to do? Strap them down with bandages? I’m tired of people telling me how I should act and how I should look. Only a year and a half left until I leave home. Then no one will be allowed to tell me what to wear or what to do. Ever.

  —

  I have to borrow one of Lorena’s dresses, which isn’t easy because her closet is full of glittery clothes with wacky patterns. And most of them are way too small. Lorena and I are the same height, but she’s skinny enough to buy clothes from the kids’ section sometimes. The one I finally pick is black and stretchy. It barely fits, but it will have to work. It also has a slit up the side, which I think looks elegant. I have to borrow a pair of black flats, too, because heels are for suckers, I’ve decided.

  Lorena and I go to the dance with a group of girls—no dates allowed. She tells Carlos he can’t come, and Juanga has been MIA for a week, now that he ran off with some old dude from Indiana. I wonder if he’ll get kicked out of school. I try to act disappointed when Lorena tells me he isn’t going to join us, but she sees right through me.

  We meet Fátima, Maggie, and Sandra from our gym class by the entrance. They all have horrifying grammar, but they’re really friendly. Besides, I shouldn’t judge people for saying yous instead of you or mines instead of mine. A lot of people at school speak like that, so I should get over it already. Lorena tells me I’m too uptight, which is why I hardly have any friends.

  The flashing lights and smoke machine make it hard to see. When my eyes finally adjust, I notice people dancing so close they’re practically dry-humping. Someone’s going to come out of here pregnant.

  Lorena and the girls go nuts over a song I don’t recognize and run to the dance floor. I decide to stay behind, and after a few minutes, I start worrying about where I should look and where to put my hands. What if I stare at someone too long? What if I look like Frankenstein with my arms hanging stiffly at my sides? What if people think I’m a loser for standing by myself? As all of these stupid thoughts run through my head, Chris comes toward me, wearing sunglasses and a Scarface T-shirt, completely oblivious to how idiotic he looks. I’ve known him since grade school, and he’s always been an unbearable little numskull.

  “You look nice, for once,” he says, eying at my dress, but mostly my boobs.

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need to learn how to talk to women,” I turn away from Chris, but he keeps talking.

  “You, a woman? Ha.” He gets closer and lifts his sunglasses, as if trying to get a better look, as if I’m some chunk of beef on clearance he’s evaluating. “Why you gotta dress stupid all the time?”

  “Are you serious? You’re such an asshole, Chris. Don’t ever, ever talk to me again. Don’t even look in my direction, I swear to God.”

  “You’re conceited. That’s your problem. You think you’re better than everybody. You think you’re all smart, talking like a white girl and shit.”

  “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” I’m so angry, my hands are shaking. I want to slap his sunglasses off his face, but it’s not worth it. He’ll probably end up living in his mom’s basement until he’s forty. That should be punishment enough.

  I find the girls dancing like it’s their last day on earth, their hands flying in the air and their hips swinging back and forth. They form a circle and shake their butts against me, which makes me laugh.

  —

  When they finally turn on the lights, Lorena tells me that we can walk to the after-party because it’s only two blocks away.

  “Are you absolutely sure his sister is going to be there? Because you know I’m going to get in trouble, right? I didn’t tell my mom because she’d never let me go.”

  “That’s what Alex said. She’s supposed to be here.”

  I text Amá that I won’t be home until later. Not even three seconds later, I feel the phone buzzing, but I don’t pick up because I already know what she’s going to say.

  —

  People think Alex is so cool because he’s tall and good at basketball, and all the girls think he’s hot, but I would give him a C+ at most. He has nice teeth, but I don’t really see what the big deal is.

  Alex’s house is already bursting with people, which makes me think I’ve made a mistake. I don’t do well in crowds. Once, when I was little, I freaked the hell out during a parade, and my parents had to carry me home kicking and screaming. And sometimes I have trouble breathing in crammed elevators.

  The windows are steamy from so much body heat, and everyone is clogging the doors and hallways, making it almost impossible to get through. For a second, I think I might have a panic attack, but I calm myself down. I breathe slowly and tell myself it’s going to be okay. After getting past the crowd of people in the living room, we finally make our way to the drinks in the kitchen. The table is covered with all sorts of bottles, and there’s a keg next to the sink. Alex and the rest of the basketball team are smoking weed near the window. He asks us if we want to smoke or if he could make us a drink, which is nice of him because he probably has no idea who I am.

  The girls all choose Malibu rum, but I go for the Hennessy and Coke. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to mix the two, but the drink tastes okay. I finish it in three gulps. When I go for another cup, though, Lorena grabs my wrist and tells me to slow it down.

  I cut to the chase. “Where’s Alex’s sister?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her yet. Try to have fun, at least. She’ll be here.” Lorena walks away and gets lost in the crowd before I can follow her.

  I spend most of the night searching for Jessica. I don’t really remember what she looks like. I’m guessing she resembles Alex in some way. Lorena says her hair is dyed dark red, but I don’t see any girls with red hair.

  After about three more drinks, I start feeling a little more relaxed. Even though sometimes I have a big mouth, I find it hard to strike up conversations with people I don’t know. I guess that’s one thing Olga and I had in common. When I wait in line for the bathroom, I ask the cute guy in front of me who the funny-looking man on his shirt is, and he just mumbles something and walks away. Amá always says that women should never approach men, that we should be the ones pursued and courted, and maybe she’s right because this is totally embarrassing.

  After I pee, I find Maggie in the living room by herself and ask her if she knows where Lorena is. She shrugs and says she hasn’t seen her in a while. Maggie is sweet and cute, but there’s not much going on in her head. No matter what you’re talking about, even if you’re not asking her a question, she has a confused look on her face, and there’s a sort of blankness in her eyes I can’t explain. It’s not like Lorena, who only pretends to be dumb. Maggie’s stupidity is totally sincere.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay. I guess,” Maggie says, fixing her ponytail. “No cute guys, though.”

  “No. None. That dude over there looks like a scrotum,” I say, pointing to a bald guy with big jowls slumped on the sofa.

  Maggie laughs. “You’re crazy.”

  I nod. “Unfortunately.”

  As I look around the party, trying to spot Lorena, I see a couple making out in a bedroom through a cracked door. Not just kissing, though, I mean really going at it.

  “Whoa. Check that out,” I whisper to Maggie, and tilt my head in their direction.

  The girl is sitting
on the guy’s lap with her legs wrapped around him. Maybe it’s because she’s totally drunk, but I don’t notice any shred of shame or embarrassment, which I admire in a strange way. Their kisses are wet and sloppy, and you can see their tongues going in and out of each other’s mouths. The girl rubs herself on the guy as he starts kissing her neck and chest. The girls next to us are now scandalized, call her a slut, skank, whore, and so many other synonyms in both English and Spanish that it seems like they’ve consulted a bilingual thesaurus. A group of guys gather and try to snap pictures with their phones. The couple either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

  “That’s disgusting,” Maggie says. “She is so nasty.”

  “Yeah, so gross,” I say, but I’m wondering if anyone will ever touch me like that.

  After I use the bathroom for the billionth time, I finally find Lorena in the back porch, surrounded by a circle of cretins who are way too old to be at a high school party. They probably went to school with my sister, too. It doesn’t surprise me because Lorena loves attention from men, no matter how old or ugly. What kind of losers come to a party like this once they’ve already graduated (or dropped out)?

  “Where is Jessica? I’ve been looking for her all night. That’s the only reason I came.”

  “I don’t know. Alex said she’d be here.” Lorena shrugs. “Just chill, okay?”

  “No, I want to go home. Now.”

  “Yeah, baby, relax,” says a guy wearing a backward baseball cap.

  “Mind your business. And my name is not baby,” I tell him, and turn to Lorena. “Look, if I get in trouble, it’s going to be your fault.”

  “Give me five more minutes. Come on, don’t be like that.” Lorena is definitely drunk. I can tell by the way her mouth moves, as if it’s suddenly too heavy for her face.

  The house is beginning to clear out a little, so I give up and find a spot on the couch.

  Next thing I know, Lorena is shaking me and telling me to wake up, that we have to leave because someone called the cops. When I ask her what time it is, she says it’s 3 a.m., which means I’m screwed.

  —

  I’ve done the calculations and have figured out that from the ages of thirteen to fifteen, I’ve spent about forty-five percent of my life grounded. Seriously, what kind of life is that? I know I mess up sometimes, I know I can be a sarcastic jerk, I know I’m not the daughter my parents wanted, but Amá treats me like I’m a degenerate.

  Sometimes, when I’m punished like this, Amá doesn’t even let me go to the library, which I think is the cruelest kind of torture. What am I supposed to do if I have to sit in my room for hours and hours? I can’t get pregnant at the library, I tell her, but it doesn’t matter. Amá says I can clean, do my homework, and if she’s feeling generous, she says she’ll let me watch telenovelas with them, but I’d rather poke my eyes out like Oedipus than sit through an episode of that garbage. The acting on those shows is forced and stiff, and the characters are always slapping each other dramatically. The plotlines are always the same, too—a poor woman overcomes adversity and marries a rich asshole and they live happily ever after. All the upper-class people are white, and the servants are dark like me.

  I’ve always had trouble being happy, but now it feels impossible. Everyone in my family tells me what a difficult baby I was compared to Olga. When I was little, anything would set me off—a dirty look, a dropped cookie, a canceled outing. I remember I once sobbed because I saw a three-legged dog. I don’t know why I’ve always been like this, why the smallest things make me ache inside. There’s a poem I read once, titled “The World Is Too Much with Us,” and I guess that is the best way to describe the feeling—the world is too much with me.

  It’s not like my parents are happy, either. All they do is work. They never go out anywhere, and when they’re home, they hardly even talk to each other. I don’t understand why everyone just complains about who I am. What am I supposed to do? Say I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t be normal? I’m sorry I’m such a bad daughter? I’m sorry I hate the life that I have to live?

  There are times I feel completely alone, like no one in the world can possibly understand me. Sometimes Amá stares at me like I’m some sort of mutant that slithered out of her body. Lorena listens, which I appreciate, but she doesn’t really get it. She’s practically a science genius, but she doesn’t care about literature or art. I don’t think anyone likes what I like. Sometimes I feel so lonely and hopeless that I don’t know what to do. Usually, I just bottle up all of my feelings and wait until my parents go to sleep so I can cry, which I know is totally pathetic. If I can’t wait, I do it in the shower. It builds and builds all day, tightening my throat and chest, and sometimes I feel it in my face. When I finally let it out, it cascades out of me.

  On top of everything, I haven’t been able to sleep. Even if I’m completely exhausted, even if my body is screaming and begging that it needs to rest, some nights I just stare at my ceiling for hours and hours. I look at the clock, and it’s almost time for me to get ready for school. I hear the world go to sleep and wake up: the slowing of traffic, birds chirping, cars starting, my parents making coffee. I’ve tried everything, too—counting sheep, counting kittens, drinking hot milk, listening to relaxing music—but nothing helps. The times I do sleep, I have nightmares about people trying to murder me in an upside-down house or something equally weird. At least I haven’t had any more dreams about Olga.

  In the mornings, I’m a shred of a person. There are days I feel like I’m being held together by string. Other times I feel entirely unstitched or unhinged. I can barely keep my head up, let alone get good grades so I can get the hell out of here and go to college. I have only a year and a half left, but it feels eternal. It feels infernal.

  Today my Honors English class, the only class I enjoy, feels like a never-ending burden. Mr. Ingman is going over Huckleberry Finn, which I’ve already read three times, but I can’t pay attention. I look out the window, at two squirrels chasing each other in a tree, and think about our upcoming field trip to Warren Dunes. Sometimes nature makes me feel better, more human, like I’m connected to everything and everyone. Other times I want to lie under a tree and dissolve into the earth forever.

  Mr. Ingman asks the class about the symbolism of the Mississippi River, and though I know it inside and out, and no one else wants to answer, I don’t even bother raising my hand because I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll start crying like a loser and won’t be able to stop.

  After class, Mr. Ingman calls me over to his desk.

  “Is everything okay, Julia?”

  I nod.

  “Are you sure?” He crosses his arms. Ever since I told him my sister died, he looks as if he’s trying to stare into my soul or something.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry.

  “You don’t seem fine. You look really upset. I know you love Huck Finn because we’ve talked about it many times,” he says. Sometimes I stay after school to talk to Mr. Ingman about books and college. He even lets me borrow some from his personal collection and gives me a list of schools he thinks I should apply to, which is why he’s my favorite teacher. “You haven’t said anything sarcastic in a few weeks now, which is what’s worried me the most, to be perfectly honest.” Mr. Ingman’s smile is nice. I bet he was hot twenty years ago. I just wish he wouldn’t wear so many dad sweaters.

  “I guess you’re right.” I try to laugh politely, but the laugh doesn’t come out. “It’s just that I’m on my period, and it feels like someone is stabbing me in the uterus.” I grimace and make a stabbing motion with my hand. A few years ago, I learned you can get away with nearly anything if you mention menstruation to your male teachers.

  Mr. Ingman looks uncomfortable, but it’s clear he’s not going to let me go. “Is something happening at home? How’s your family doing since…you know, your sister and everything?”

  “We’re okay, I guess. It comes in waves for
me. Lots of waves. Big, big waves. And I guess I have this feeling, you know? That I’m missing something, that there’s something I should know, but I can’t figure it out.” My voice cracks.

  “Like what?”

  I’m not about to tell Mr. Ingman about the underwear and hotel key, so I just shrug and say, “I don’t really know. Something’s just off.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be so hard.” He crosses his arms and looks down.

  “It’s impossible…and sometimes I think it’s my fault. Like, what if I would have done something differently that day? Would she still be alive?”

  “You can’t think of it that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not your fault. You didn’t want your sister to die. Things like this just happen in life. Shit’s fucked up sometimes.” Mr. Ingman looks embarrassed for swearing, but doesn’t apologize. “My mother died when I was ten. Heart attack. Just collapsed at work one day. I had been awful to her that morning. I threw a tantrum about my lunch and told her I hated her, and then she died. Just like that.”

  “Whoa. I’m sorry.” I’m stunned. I don’t know why, but I always assumed that Mr. Ingman had an easy life. I imagined him growing up with a tree house or some shit. “Does it go away, that feeling?”

  “It gets easier, but I still think about her every day.” Mr. Ingman sighs and looks out the window. I get a whiff of his aftershave. Something about that smell—the smell of man—is comforting.

  —

  When I get home, Apá is on the couch, soaking his feet in his tub. Because he works all day packaging candy, he always has problems with his body—cuts, back pains, glue burns, and swollen legs, just to name a few. Some days he works twelve hours and comes back home looking like someone beat him with a bat. A few times a week, they force him to work the night shift, too. Apá doesn’t say much, but he always tells me, “Don’t work like a donkey like me. Be a secretary and work in a nice office with air-conditioning.” I never tell him I’d rather clean toilets than be some man’s assistant. Fetching coffee and being bossed around by a jerk in a suit? No thanks. Once, I told Apá that I wanted to be a writer, but all he said was that I had to make enough money so I didn’t have to live in an apartment full of roaches. I never brought it up again.