Where I Belong

by Marcia Argueta Mickelson

“Millie, I’m sorry. If I could take it all back, I would. I wasn’t thinking. I think so highly of your mom and this family. You demolish every single stereotype out there. People need to see that, to get a true picture of what immigrants do, what they can accomplish. But I’m sorry I used you for my platform without your permission. It won’t happen again, I promise you.”

  His words, his idealistic intentions don’t soothe me. My heart is still thumping. Inside, I am still screaming at him.

  “Millie, I can’t go!” cries Ceci from the bathroom.

  “Ceci, be quiet!” I yell down the hall.

  Mr. Wheeler frowns. “I’m sorry, Millie. I don’t want to make you late. Just know that I’ll do anything to make this better.”

  What could he possibly do to make things better? “Okay. I . . . appreciate it.” I reach for the doorknob.

  “There’s one more thing,” Mr. Wheeler says.

  I look behind me to see if the others are ready to go, but they haven’t made it to the living room yet. “What is it?”

  “One of my campaign staffers called me this morning. There’s a blogger turned internet troll from San Antonio named Michael Winter. He started tweeting lies and conspiracy theories about me when I first announced my campaign.”

  “What about him?” I ask. “Why are you telling me about him?” At this hour on a school day, I want to add. I resist the urge to glance at my watch.

  “I guess he was there last night,” Mr. Wheeler says. “He comes to some of my events, records them, distorts the videos and uploads them to YouTube. I guess he stayed around after my speech last night, and . . . I don’t know who he talked to exactly, but there must have been someone there who knows you, knows that I was talking about you. Somehow he got your name, and he uploaded a video . . .”

  “What kind of video? What is he saying about me?”

  Mr. Wheeler lowers his eyes. “He gives your name, and the video shows some footage of you last night. I don’t know how he figured out it was you I was talking about, and it must’ve just been a coincidence that he managed to get you in some of his footage . . .”

  My hand flies up to my face, and I hide my eyes behind my fingers, wishing I could keep them there for the rest of the day.

  “My staff are already starting to do damage control, but I wanted to let you know, so that it doesn’t hit you by surprise. Millie, I am very sorry. I never intended for this to happen.”

  I look up at him. I believe that he’s sorry, but his apology does nothing to allay my pounding heart or the sinking feeling in my stomach. I want to slam the door in his face and slide down against it on the other side, but I don’t. “Well, we have to go.”

  “Can we give you a ride to school?” Charlie asks.

  I shake my head without looking at him. “No, I have to walk Javi and Ceci to school.” Actually, there’s no time for me to do that now. Sele will have to take them on her own, and I’ll need to run to catch my bus.

  “We can take them too,” Charlie says, gesturing toward the silver Mercedes parked in our driveway.

  Mr. Wheeler nods. “Of course.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Okay, well, again, Millie, I’m so sorry,” Mr. Wheeler says.

  I nod, but don’t say anything. If he’s waiting for me to tell him it’s all okay, he’s going to be standing on our front steps for a long time.

  I close the door as soon as they turn toward their car.

  ≈

  I’m out of breath by the time I reach my bus stop, and I’m the last to board. Chloe has saved me a seat, and I sink down beside her, trying to catch my breath.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I shake my head and take a deep breath. “The Wheelers ruined my night and had to ruin my morning too.”

  I tell her about the Wheelers coming over and about what Mr. Wheeler said.

  Chloe’s face darkens when I mention the internet troll. “Who is this guy?”

  “Some blogger. His name is Michael Winter, I think.”

  Chloe pulls out her phone and does a search for Michael Winter and Charles Wheeler.

  Up pops a long playlist of videos. “One was just uploaded last night,” Chloe says. She presses play, and I grab the phone from her.

  The guy in the video looks like he’s in his early twenties. He’s blond and lean and seems to be holding a phone on a selfie stick as he talks. He’s on the street right across Heritage Park. “Failed attorney and senator-wannabe Charles Wheeler is here in his hometown of Corpus Christi tonight. I will be filming to make sure we get all of the points from his liberal agenda that he’s trying to bring to the good old state of Texas. Those of us who have been in Texas for generations do not want lefty politicians changing our sacred and time-honored beliefs. I am here to bring the truth of his agenda to all Texans.”

  Next, we see video of Mr. Wheeler onstage. He starts talking about immigration, and Michael Winter turns the camera to himself and shakes his head, slowly and firmly. The frame cuts back to Mr. Wheeler as he talks about his housekeeper, my mom, and Michael Winter scoffs softly in the background.

  Next we see Michael Winter standing on the steps where Mr. Wheeler spoke earlier. “So, I’ve been asking around about this wetback housekeeper and her daughter. I just asked some of the crowd, pretending I was interested in meeting this so-called admirable young woman. A little flattery goes a long way, and people start talking. Well, apparently her name is Milagros Vargas. That’s the girl. Her mother, the housekeeper, is Sandra Vargas.” The video cuts to a shot of the crowd that shows me talking to Dr. Wheeler. A digitally drawn red circle frames my face.

  I look away from the screen, feeling a sharp pain in my stomach.

  He continues, “I’m going to do some digging around, try to find out if they’re even legal or if we can call ICE on them. I’ll be back with more very soon. Thanks for tuning in. This is Michael Winter, truth-teller and justice-seeker.”

  “Ugh! Gross,” says Chloe. “This guy is disgusting.”

  After the video ends, another one automatically starts. It’s Michael Winter again, and I can tell from the date of the post that this is an older video. “In a big step last week, the White House set forth an important immigration policy. Illegal alien children crossing our borders will now be housed separately from their parents, often in different facilities. This step, already in effect, will deter future lawbreakers from illegally entering the United States. If they know they’ll be housed away from their children, then maybe they will stop illegally entering this country. Those are their consequences now, and the message is clear to illegals. Stay away.”

  Chloe turns the screen off. “Pendejos.” The one word in Spanish that she knows.

  In my head I see a vivid image of myself as a baby, being pulled out of my mom’s arms. I know that a lot of the people detained at the border are asylum seekers from Central America, just like we were. The idea that I could have been separated from my parents upon entering the U.S. is cruel, crushing. I think about those kids, scared, not knowing the language, feeling abandoned. How is this an acceptable way to treat people? I feel such a sense of despair, even worse than what I felt moments ago, when I was watching the video specifically about me.

  ≈

  I walk into class with my head down and slink into my chair, hoping for invisibility.

  Charlie swivels around to look at me. “I’m really sorry about last night,” he says.

  “Shut up, Charlie,” I mutter.

  Had Mami heard me say that, she would’ve popped me in the mouth. We don’t talk to the Wheelers that way. From the look on Charlie’s face, he’s probably thinking the same thing. Perhaps he’s never been talked to that way in his life. For the briefest moment, I’m afraid he’ll tell his father and it will get back to Mami, who will be furious and embarrassed. But Charlie Wheeler isn’t like that. He may be a spoiled rich kid, but he doesn’t think of himself as one. He thinks of himself as a good person. I’m sure that’s why he and his d
ad keep apologizing to me—hoping I’ll say that there’s no harm done.

  But there is harm done. That despicable man knows my name now, told all his followers my name, because Mr. Wheeler couldn’t resist using me as an example of a model immigrant. What he doesn’t get is that for people like Michael Winter, someone like me can never be a model immigrant. Nothing about me—my 4.0 GPA, my full-ride scholarship to Stanford, my U.S. citizenship, the values of integrity and hard work that my parents instilled in me—could ever convince him that I deserve to be in this country, that I’m the equal of white people. The Wheelers are more concerned with being on the right side of this issue, and feeling good about themselves, than they are about me.

  Chapter Six

  Somehow I make it through the day. When the bus drops me off after school, I don’t enjoy my walk home like I usually do. The stifling heat bogs me down, drains me of the last bit of energy I’ve managed to conserve.

  When I get home, I do something I never do. I greet the kids and go straight to the bedroom I share with Sele.

  I pull off my school jeans and put on a pair of cutoff jean shorts, cringing at the full-length mirror that hangs from the back of our bedroom door. It has a small crack on the bottom right corner, and every time I look at it I wonder if it’s bringing us bad luck. But Sele won’t let me throw it out; we both know we can’t afford a new one.

  I lie on the top bunk watching the ceiling fan rotate as it cools me. Every so often I check the time on my Mickey Mouse watch. Papi gave it to me for my ninth birthday. It’s been through various cheap watchbands, but the timepiece is valuable to me because I know how much it meant to him.

  Papi had a minor Mickey Mouse obsession, starting with a donated shirt he received in Guatemala when he was eight. Charities ship used clothes to Guatemala to give to poverty-stricken families, and he was the recipient of a purple Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Since the clothes came from America, he’d always associated Mickey Mouse with his dreams about life in this country. He brought that small T-shirt with him when we came here. I vaguely remember wearing it a few times before it was passed down to Sele and eventually disintegrated into rags. Upon first arriving in America and settling in Texas, Papi scoured flea markets and thrift stores for Mickey Mouse memorabilia that he used to decorate my room. All through my childhood, he called me Millie Mouse and kept finding Mickey-related gifts for me.

  I wonder what he would say to me if he were here now. If anyone could reassure me, make me feel loved and safe after the day I’ve had, it would be Papi.

  I’ve been lying on my bed for an hour, and I still don’t feel like going to the living room to make Javi and Ceci start their homework. I know Sele has probably finished hers and has even done her chores, but at the moment, I don’t really care.

  I hear a knock at the bedroom door before it opens. It’s Sele, and I’m surprised she knocked. After all, this is her room too.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, walking over to me.

  I sit up and let my legs dangle over the side of the bunk. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I’ve told her the short version of what Mr. Wheeler said about Mami and me last night. I hope nobody at her school stumbles across that Michael Winter video and shows it to her. It would horrify her.

  “I put some chicken in the oven for dinner and we can warm up the rice Mami made.”

  “Thanks, Sele,” I say, jumping down to the floor. “I guess I’d better go make the kids do their homework.”

  “They finished already. We saw the ice cream truck on the way home, and I told them I’d buy them ice cream if they promised to do their homework right away.” She walks over to the bottom bunk to get the fabric squares she’s turning into a quilt.

  “Wow. Thanks, Sele. I can’t believe they’re done. And you made dinner. That was really nice.”

  “It’s no big deal,” she says as she sits down on her bed to sort through the fabric. “There’s a voicemail for you on the landline phone.”

  “Who’s it from?” I ask.

  “Caller Times,” she says without looking up.

  I head to the kitchen, where a little green light is blinking on the phone. I press the button to play the voicemail. “Hello, this message is for Milagros Vargas. This is Ellen Ramos from the Corpus Christi Caller Times. I would love to talk with you about doing an interview for the newspaper. Please feel free to call me back at . . .” I delete the message. How did this reporter get my home phone number? We hardly ever use it unless there’s an emergency or one of our older relatives is calling from Guatemala.

  Well, there is no way I’m calling her back. I’m trying to forget my little brush with fame, not amplify it.

  I look behind me to see if Sele has followed me into the kitchen, but I’m alone. Javi and Ceci are still in the living room, and the sound of the Disney Channel filters through the house. Just as I’m thinking about getting my backpack to start my homework, the phone rings. The caller ID screen just says UNKNOWN. I stare at it for three rings before I get the nerve to pick it up.

  “Hello, could I please speak to Milagros Vargas?” It’s a man, and his voice sounds professional.

  “Who is this?” I ask.

  “My name is Gilbert Workman. I’m from KIIITV. I’m calling to see if we can get a comment about Charles Wheeler’s campaign. I realize we’d probably have to get permission from your parents.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t even believe you’re calling me.”

  “I understand. Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to your parents.”

  “My mom’s at work. I’m sorry, Mr. Workman, but I can’t talk to you. How did you even get this number?”

  “Well, Milagros, you may be aware that a certain political blogger posted a video that included your name. Your contact information isn’t difficult to find.”

  I feel physically sick. “I don’t want to give you any comments. I wish Mr. Wheeler had never mentioned my family and that this guy had never said my name.”

  “I do understand, Milagros, but I just don’t think this is going to die down. I suspect you’ll be hearing from several news outlets.”

  “I don’t understand why they would want to talk to me,” I say, frustration bleeding into my voice.

  “Well, with Charles Wheeler’s Senate campaign picking up steam, everything that he says is going to be very closely followed. He pointed to you as a shining example of an immigrant. Immigration policy is going to be a hot-button issue for some time, especially for us here in Texas. The public is going to want to hear from you.”

  “They’re going to have to find someone else, Mr. Workman. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “Thank you for calling. Goodbye.” I disconnect and put the phone down on the counter, trying to calm myself. The smell of Sele’s chicken is wafting toward me, and I start to set the table. That’s usually her job, but since she’s done mine today, I will do hers.

  ≈

  Calculus homework is killing me today, and I keep double-checking all my answers. I ignore Javi and Ceci bickering in the hallway and try to concentrate on the last problem, until I hear the sound that I most look forward to every day—the sound of Mami opening the front door.

  Javi’s and Ceci’s argument escalates, and I let Mami handle it.

  “Mija, let him finish first and then it’s your turn,” she says to Ceci in Spanish. The two languages are used interchangeably in our home. “Hola, mija,” Mami calls out to me.

  “Hola, Mami,” I say, looking out to the living room.

  She picks up Ceci, walks over to the couch, and sets Ceci on her lap. I can’t hear what Mami is whispering to her, but Ceci is happy now.

  I turn back to my homework, able to focus properly now that I have officially clocked out of my nonpaying job of taking care of my siblings.

  Once the kids are in bed, Mami comes into the kitchen and sighs. “Cómo éstas, mija?” she asks me.

  “Bien, Mami.” I’m not going to say
a word about the Michael Winter video or the calls I got.

  She walks over to the stove where Sele leaves her a plate every night. Mami warms it up in the microwave and brings it over to the table by me. Silently, she eats while I finish my homework.

  When she’s done eating, she gets up, washes her dishes, and places them on the drying rack. “Gracias, mija. Estaba delicioso.” She walks over to me and kisses the top of my head.

  “Sele cooked tonight, Mami.”

  “You taught her well!” She watches me for several seconds, during which I fake a half-smile.

  “Listen, mija. I met a man at the Wheelers’ today. His name is Oscar Zambrano. He’s a freelance journalist from Austin, and he would like to interview you.”

  I look up at her in alarm. “Mami, no. What did you tell him?”

  She wipes the counter with a sponge and leans back against it. “I told him I would talk to you. He’s staying with the Wheelers for a few days. He’s interviewing Mr. Wheeler about his campaign.”

  “What does he want with me?”

  “He’s heard about you, mija. He writes about immigration issues, especially immigration stories here in Texas.”

  “Mami, I don’t know. I just want this whole thing to die down.” I don’t want to be an issue. Why can’t I just be a teenager whose biggest problem is a giant zit on my forehead?

  “But it won’t. And he thinks you may have a lot to say that can help people.”

  I close my calculus book with three problems left. “I have nothing to say.”

  Mami sighs. “I won’t make you, but I really want you to think about it, mija. It might be your chance to do something for others.”

  Doing something for others. The discussion in Ms. Cope’s class comes back to me, but I shake my head. “No, Mami. I don’t think so. I’m just not comfortable with it.”

  That’s the wrong thing to say. I know it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Mami has spent her whole life doing uncomfortable things because she felt they were necessary and right.

  “He’s going to be here for another two days.” She walks over to her handbag on the kitchen counter. “He wrote a note that he asked me to give you. Read it, think about it, and tell me tomorrow what you want to do.”