I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter

by Erika L. Sánchez

  —

  I tell Amá I’m going downtown to an art gallery. I make something up about a new exhibit featuring female artists from Latin America. Sometimes I’m impressed by my own lies, but I can see the suspicion radiating from her eyes.

  “Amá, I’m so bored. Please.”

  “Why don’t you clean, then? There’s plenty to do at home,” she says. “Olga never wanted to go anywhere. Work, school, home. That’s it.”

  After I whine about my need for cultural enrichment and go on and on about how this neighborhood is going to suffocate me—both emotionally and intellectually—she finally lets me go. “You better not be lying. You know I always find out.” She points her spatula at me and turns back to the flautas frying on the stove.

  —

  I walk to the pharmacy to get condoms first. I don’t know if he’s supposed to have them or what, but I don’t want to take any chances. Will he think I’m a slut, though? Or what if a nosy neighbor sees me buy them? What then? I guess either scenario is better than ending up pregnant or infected with a deadly STD.

  I have to take three trains to get to Evanston. The houses are massive, and the streets are lined with looming trees. Bushes and hedges are trimmed with a precision that seems almost silly. I figured Connor’s family had money, but I wasn’t prepared for this.

  I’m supposed to walk east from the station once I get there—toward the lake—but I still get lost for almost twenty minutes, going in circles and ending up in a cul-de-sac. I’ve never been very good with directions.

  Finally, I find his block, so I pull out my pocket mirror to make sure I look okay. My eyeliner isn’t smudged, and my lip gloss is still intact. Thank God the gigantic pimple on my cheek is gone. I iced it for days, but it was super-stubborn, with roots so deep, they felt like they reached my skull. I was starting to think I’d take it to the grave. I almost named it; Ursula and Brumhilda were my top two choices.

  Connor’s house has a giant wraparound porch and enormous windows. It’s as big as our entire apartment building. Part of me wonders if I should go back home. I feel nervous and start tugging at my hair. My crotch is beginning to itch like crazy, too. I shouldn’t have listened to Lorena. Maybe she doesn’t know everything about sex.

  When Connor answers the door, I feel a surge of anxiety. He’s wearing a Foo Fighters T-shirt, pajama pants, and a pair of moccasins—total suburban white boy—but he’s so hot, I’d like him even if he wore a tattered garbage sack.

  “You smell like Mexican food,” he says as he hugs me. “Like fried tortillas or something. You’re making me hungry.”

  I laugh, even though I’m mortified.

  Connor gives me a tour of the house, which is two stories high, not including his giant bedroom in the attic. I try to play it cool and act unimpressed, but the only fancy houses I’ve ever seen in real life are the ones I’ve cleaned with Amá. Every room is expertly decorated and looks like it belongs on TV. The kitchen is the size of our apartment, and fancy copper pots and pans hang over two stoves (two!). They even have a fireplace and a giant black piano in the living room. These people must be rich as fuck.

  The mantle is covered with photos. There’s one of who I assume is Connor’s mom, laughing on a swing. They have the same light brown hair and crinkly eyes.

  “You and your mom are identical.” I turn to him and smile.

  “Yeah, that’s what everybody says. I think I look more like my dad, though. Jeremy is the male version of my mom, basically her with short hair.”

  “Is this your dad?” I pick up a frame of a tall man wearing a baseball cap in front of a stadium.

  “No, that’s Bruce, my stepdad. I haven’t seen my dad in five years. He lives in Germany now.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.” Connor’s never said much about his family. “What does he do there?”

  “He’s an engineer. Lives in Munich.”

  “When did they get divorced?”

  “I was six, and then Bruce married my mom when I was nine.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s pretty conservative, watches Fox News and shit like that. We don’t agree on a lot of things, but he’s been more of a dad than my real dad, that’s for sure.”

  I see a photograph on the mantle of Bruce holding a rifle in front of a giant dead animal. I can’t tell what it is exactly, but it looks majestic. Its long horns are twisted and beautiful.

  “What is it? The animal, I mean.”

  “Spiral-horned antelope.”

  I can see Connor is embarrassed, so I don’t ask him more.

  The Thai food he’s ordered is supposed to arrive in an hour. We watch music videos on his laptop while we wait.

  “You’re so pretty,” he says as he searches for a video.

  “Thanks.” I feel my face flush.

  “No, seriously. I really like you.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just look at my dry hands—one of my knuckles is cracked and bleeding from the cold.

  “I like you, too, even though you’re wearing those pants,” I tease.

  “What’s wrong with my pants?”

  “Where do I begin?” I giggle.

  “You’re horrible, you know that?” Connor says, trying not to smile.

  “I know. We already established that.”

  We both laugh, then get quiet.

  Connor puts down the laptop and kisses me, and though we’ve kissed many times before, my hands and legs begin to shake. I hope he doesn’t notice. We kiss and kiss for so long that my jaw aches. Then he lies on top of me and slips his cold hand under my shirt. After a few minutes, he tries to pull down my jeans, but I have to take my shoes off first. This is the part I was most afraid of. Every time I take my shoes off in someone’s house, I remember the time in kindergarten, a roach crawled out of my sneaker. Though it’s happened to me only once, I still worry about it every single time. What if there’s a roach nestled in there somewhere, ready to ruin me?

  “Wait,” I say.

  “What’s wrong?” Connor cocks his head to the side. He seems concerned.

  “Well…it’s just that…” My eyes dart around the room. I’m too nervous to look at him.

  “Oh shit, you’ve never done this before, huh? Are you sure you want to?” He holds my face in his hands and looks straight into my eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I nod.

  Connor looks skeptical.

  “Don’t you feel special? Since you’ll be the first? You can strut around wearing a crown, throw some confetti or something.”

  Connor smiles. “So you’re absolutely, one hundred percent positive? I don’t want to do it if you’re not ready. There’s no rush, you know.”

  “Yes. Really. Now shut up and kiss me.” I laugh and pull him closer.

  After we kiss for a while, Connor pulls a condom out from under a couch cushion. I guess he was prepared. I look away as he puts it on.

  My body tightens, bracing itself—it hurts more than I imagined, but I pretend it doesn’t.

  “Is that okay?” he whispers.

  “Yeah.”

  I’m not sure what to do. Am I supposed to say something or move a certain way? I hold my breath for a long time, my mouth against his neck. Then I wrap my legs around him, grip his back, and inhale. I don’t know how to describe his smell exactly—clean and sweaty at the same time—but I like it.

  Connor kisses my face and then bites my lip, which surprises me. I can’t help but gasp.

  “Sorry,” he says, his voice raspy.

  Though it hurts, kissing and touching him feel amazing. At the same time, I keep thinking I’m doing something dirty. So many feelings all jumbled together. There’s also this sensation building, like I have to pee or something. I’ve never experienced anything like that before. It’s not bad, just intense.

  Once Connor is finished, he kisses my forehead and sighs. I rush to put on my clothes. I’m suddenly so embarrassed, I can’t even look at him. I know that sex isn’t evil
, that it’s a normal part of being a functioning mammal, so why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong? Lorena is always going on and on about how great it is to come, but I don’t think I did. At least there isn’t any blood. I was afraid of that.

  Connor grins at me, which makes me feel shy.

  “What?” I laugh and turn away.

  “Nothing. I’m just looking at you. Is that okay?”

  “Absolutely not,” I kid with him.

  “Fine,” Connor says, and covers his eyes with his hands. “What do you want to do now? Watch a movie?”

  “I’ll only stay if you change those pants.” I make a disapproving face.

  Connor laughs and reaches his hand toward me, and when I get closer, he pulls me onto his lap. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder.

  —

  My parents aren’t home when I get back, thank God. I bet Amá could read it on my face. She claims she can tell a woman is pregnant just by looking at her eyes, so maybe she’ll be able to see that my hymen is gone now.

  I’m starving, even though I scarfed down all of my pad Thai, but there is nothing to eat. Maybe sex counts as exercise because I’m also tired as hell, like I just ran laps or something. I ravage the pantry and fridge, but we don’t even have tortillas—nothing except condiments, eggs, and one sad pickle floating in a jar. The freezer is just as disappointing. All I find are a bag of corn and a box of waffles so old I think they’ve been there since before Olga died. They’re freezer-burned, of course, so I’ll have to smother them with syrup. When I throw the box away, I notice something’s still inside. I pull out a small, knotted plastic bag full of two gold chains, three rings, and one key. Olga’s key. This has to be Olga’s key.

  I suddenly remember the time I was five and saw Amá put her jewelry in the freezer. When I asked her why, she said it was in case we were ever robbed. Even then I wondered why anyone would ever want to break into our apartment. We’ve never had anything worth stealing. Months and months of secretly searching the entire apartment, and I never once thought of looking in there.

  I have to make sure the key works. And it does.

  —

  That night I wait until my parents fall asleep and go back into Olga’s room. It’s completely covered in dust, so I know Amá hasn’t been in here. I write my name on the dresser with my finger, then wipe it away. It’s eerie, like going back in time or something. I take the laptop, underwear, lingerie, and the hotel key to hide in my room, in case Amá ever decides to come in here. I’ll make an extra copy of the key after school tomorrow.

  —

  Amá is crying on the couch with three cardboard boxes in front of her when I get home. At first I don’t understand, and I ask her what’s wrong. I assume it has something to do with Olga, but she doesn’t reply. Then I see one of my old shirts peeking out of a box, a faded red-and-blue button-down from the thrift store I was always too embarrassed to wear.

  Fuck. Shit. Fuck. My life is over. I’m basically a living corpse.

  “What are you doing? Why are all these boxes here?” I feel light-headed.

  Amá just shakes her head.

  “Why did you go through my things? Why would you do that to me? Why can’t you ever leave me alone?” I tug at my hair with both hands. I feel like I can’t breathe.

  “This is my house, and I will do whatever I want. I was going to donate these clothes to kids in Mexico, and look what I find.” She opens one of the boxes and pulls out Olga’s underwear and lingerie, the hotel key, and my box of condoms. “What is this?”

  She didn’t find the laptop because it’s still in my backpack. I carried it around all day in case I was able to see Connor after school.

  How do I explain that the underwear, lingerie, and key are my sister’s? How do I explain that I bought the box of condoms because I had sex and was terrified to get pregnant? How do I tell Amá that both of her daughters are and were probably impure?

  “They’re not mine.” My body tenses as if a wire were running through it.

  “Why are you always lying to me, Julia? What have I ever done to deserve this? I always knew you would do something like this. Ever since you were little, you’ve given me so much trouble, even before you were born.” Her voice cracks at the end of the sentence. Tears are streaming down her face, and her hands are shaking. She’s referring to the complications she had when she gave birth to me, as if it were my fault I almost died and took her with me.

  I don’t say anything. I just stare at a crack in the wall shaped like a letter Y.

  “What must your sister think of you right now? What a disgrace.” Amá looks away, disgusted.

  “They’re not mine,” I say over and over, my body trembling. “They’re not mine. They’re not mine. They’re not mine.”

  —

  Amá has taken away my phone, so I call Connor every day after school from what I believe is the only remaining pay phone in the city. I have to go five blocks out of the way and use up a lot of quarters, but it’s worth it. Sometimes I call him from Lorena’s phone. We haven’t been able to see each other in three weeks now, which sucks for both of us. Mostly, I tell him how miserable I am, and he tells me everything is going to be okay. He’s offered to come meet me after school, even if it means seeing me for only twenty minutes, which is sweet, but if Amá saw me with him, I’d be in even deeper shit. This is getting so frustrating. I should have known that everything would fall apart. It’s as if, when I was born, someone decided that I was not allowed to be happy.

  Connor is always a good listener, but today he feels distant, as if he were on the other side of the world and we’re talking through two paper cups connected by a string, like in cartoons.

  When I tell him how horrible my day was, he pauses for such a long time, I think maybe the call has cut off. Then I hear him exhale.

  “Julia, I don’t know how to help you.”

  My heart becomes heavy. “What do you mean?”

  “I care about you and everything, but it’s too much, don’t you think?”

  “What’s too much?”

  “I don’t even get to see you anymore. All we ever do is talk on the phone, and you’re always crying. I don’t know what to do. It’s every single day. It’s just a lot for me. I really like you, but…how can we do this? I want you to be my girlfriend, but I need to actually see you. You understand that, don’t you?”

  I begin to cry. A woman passes by and asks if I’m okay. I nod and wave her away. “I want to see you, too, but I can’t. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m suffocating. I can’t stand living like this anymore. Fuck, why does everything have to be so impossible all the time?” I kick the pay phone so hard it rattles.

  “I just don’t know how to help you, especially when I can’t actually be there. When will I see you again? Do you have any idea? You can’t be grounded forever, right?”

  I hear the ice crunch under my feet. I hate that noise. I can always feel it in my teeth. “I…I…” I take a deep breath and try to say something else, but nothing comes out.

  “You mean a lot to me, I swear. Please believe that.”

  “I don’t know when things will get better,” I finally say. “All I know is that I feel like shit, like no one in the world understands anything about me.”

  “I understand. I’m trying to, at least.”

  “How could you? Do you have any idea what my life is like? What it’s like to be me? To have your sister die? To live in a shitty neighborhood? To be scrutinized all the fucking time?”

  “I guess I don’t,” Connor says quietly.

  “No one does.” I say it so loudly that I surprise myself. I’m having trouble breathing at a normal pace.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to do. Have you thought about talking to someone, like a therapist or a counselor? What about that teacher you’re always talking about?”

  “All I do is fuck up. No one cares about who I really am.”

  “Stop, just sto
p, okay? That’s not true at—”

  “No one cares. No one cares. No one cares,” I yell, and hang up the phone.

  SIXTEEN

  I can’t leave the apartment again because Amá decided to ransack my room to make sure I didn’t have anything else that might be considered scandalous or immoral. At first all she found were an old clove cigarette and a pair of shorts she didn’t like. But then she tried reading my journals, even though she doesn’t understand English. Unfortunately, she does recognize bad words, so she ripped out all the pages that contained fuck, bitch, shit, and even sex, which were incredibly common, of course. I screamed and begged for her to leave my journals alone, but she went through them anyway and left me with only a dozen pages or so. I was hysterical and tried to swipe them from her hands, but Apá held me back. I cried on the floor in the fetal position for hours after. I couldn’t find the motivation to get up, not even when a roach crawled near my head. Life without writing doesn’t feel worth living to me. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to graduation because I feel like a husk of a person these days. Some of the poems Amá destroyed I had worked on for years, and now they’re gone. Poof. Just like that. I’ll never see them again. The one thing I loved most in life has been taken away from me. What the hell do I do now? I’m still lugging Olga’s laptop in my backpack, so she doesn’t know I have it, but that doesn’t even seem to matter much anymore.

  I don’t know if I’ll see Connor again. It’s been three weeks since our last phone call, and it feels like a lifetime. I miss him so much I can hardly stand it. I’ve almost called him many times, but when I get to the pay phone, I tense up and turn around. I have no idea what to say. I’m almost positive that I’ll just end up crying again because things are even shittier now. Besides, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be with me. Why would anyone want to put up with all my problems?

  —

  Christmas vacation was almost as bad as last year’s. I don’t know if it’s worse to spend all day in my room, or struggle through my classes and be forced to speak to other human beings. Sometimes I can’t make it through the day without losing it, so I have to take crying breaks in the bathroom, which makes me feel extra pathetic. Lorena keeps asking me if I’m okay and if she could do something to help me, and I say I’m fine, although I’m so far from fine that I don’t even remember what it is anymore. I feel like my heart is covered with spines.