“Give me some examples of that.”
“Well, we hear over and over again that all illegal immigrants are criminals—drug dealers, gang members, or simply people with no regard for the law. But more often than not, the people detained at the border are trying to escape gangs and drug dealers. And they bring their children in the hope of securing a safer, better life for them. Sebastian, I wish you could be with me as I travel around the country, meeting young folks, young immigrants who were brought here by their parents, as some would say, illegally. They are doing amazing things. We want these bright young people in our country. There is so much they can accomplish, so much they can contribute.”
“And there’s one in particular you want to tell us about. Is that right?”
“Yes, I want to tell you about Milagros Vargas.”
Sele lets out a little squeal, which brings a rare smile to Mami’s face. Javi jumps off the couch and punches the air. I feel like punching something too, but all I do is sit there, wrestling with the knots in my stomach as I absorb the fact that people throughout the state are watching this, hearing my name.
“Milagros, or Millie, as she prefers to be called, is an eighteen-year-old immigrant from Guatemala. She has lived in Corpus Christi, Texas, almost her entire life. She’s about to graduate from high school and has been given a full-ride scholarship to a prestigious university. She and her parents were undocumented when they arrived here, and they applied for and were granted asylum because her parents were able to prove they had been specific targets of gang violence. It’s extremely difficult to meet the government’s criteria to receive asylum; her parents had to prove they’d never been involved in any gang activities—even coerced cooperation with gang members, which happens routinely in Central American countries. And they were lucky that they were deemed ‘members of a social or political group’ who were at risk of persecution. Often, even people who are in grave danger are denied asylum because they don’t fit a narrow interpretation of this requirement.”
“So you’re saying that Millie’s family easily could’ve been denied legal status, simply because immigration law is so restrictive.”
“Exactly. Luckily for Millie, her family did receive asylum status, which made them eligible to apply for green cards. She is now a citizen and has a bright future ahead of her. But many young undocumented immigrants are not so lucky, through no fault of their own.”
“That’s fascinating,” Sebastian says. “And tell me why this story is so relevant right now.”
“Well, Sebastian, whenever I hear someone say that the people detained at the border deserve to be sent back, deserve to be separated from their children, because they, quote, broke the law, unquote—families like Millie’s come to mind. Millie is living proof that immigrants are not a threat to our country. They’re an asset to it.”
“Thanks for joining us, Oscar. We’d love to have you back again with more about this.”
“Thanks for having me, Sebastian. Thanks for letting me tell you about Millie. There are many others who I’d like to tell you about, but most of them are still undocumented, and frankly, they’re afraid of being found out, of being deported. I’m really thankful to Millie for letting me share her story with you.”
Sebastian concludes the segment by showing a clip of my interview. When the show cuts to commercial, I look over at Mami and she dabs at her eyes. She smiles at me and nods, and then she goes into the kitchen. I hear the faucet turn on.
Javi comes over to sit by me. “So, you’re famous now, right? Are you going to be rich?”
I laugh. “No, Javi. Of course not. I wouldn’t even say that I’m famous.” The opposite of famous is actually what I prefer to be. If no one in Corpus Christi watched Sebastian Smith’s show tonight, that would be awesome.
“Oh well,” Javi says and gets up to change the channel.
“You did great,” Sele says. “It’s just what everyone needs to hear. I think it could help change a lot of people’s minds.”
“I’m not sure of that, but I hope so,” I say as I get up to go to the bathroom.
“Don’t be scared, Mil. Anyone who thinks anything bad about you after they watch this isn’t someone worth knowing. All the people who know you and love you always will. This won’t change that.” Sele should’ve been born first. She always thinks the right thing, which is the opposite of what I tend to do.
Of course, if Sele had been born first, she would’ve arrived in this country without documentation too. Maybe if that were the case, she’d feel differently about this.
Just as I enter the bathroom, I get a text from Chloe that just says hugs and a heart emoji. I respond with a smiley face. I’m not in the mood for many words, and by the look of her text, she already knows that.
As soon as I send her the text, I get another one—from Charlie Wheeler. I’m not sure how he has my number; I’ve never given it to him, but I suppose it isn’t that difficult to get. After all, he sees my mother every day.
Charlie’s text is wordier than Chloe’s. I saw the segment on Sebastian Smith. You were great. I just wanted you to know that.
It sounds exactly like what Charlie might say to me in person. Perfect words from the seemingly perfect guy. I quickly type the letters t and y.
I pull my hair up in a bun to wash my face with my five-dollar facial scrub, wishing I felt better about the interview. I still hear Oscar’s voice in my head: There is so much they can accomplish, so much they can contribute. We have to be the hardest workers, the brightest students, the biggest achievers, if we want to belong here. We can’t just be human beings who mean others no harm.
I try not to think about it anymore, to focus on the ordinariness of my evening routine. After I brush my teeth, I sit on the linoleum floor to scrub the remnants of purple nail polish off my toes. Painting my toenails is the one beauty ritual I never forego. Maybe it’s because I wear flip-flops almost every day of the year. That might seem excessive to some people, but not to my ex-boyfriend, Jay, who I’m pretty sure owns more than fifteen pairs. It’s just one of the things we had in common. Spending hours together at the beach was another. It made us the perfect couple up until it became the reason we broke up.
By the time my polish is dry and I slip into our tiny room, Sele’s pulling clothes out of her dresser for tomorrow, and I start to do the same.
“How was school today?” I ask her, wanting to talk about anything other than the interview.
“Okay. We’re almost finished with the first half of our quilt.” Sele and two of her friends started a quilting club. They meet at lunch in their school’s art room to work on it. “Ms. Morales said we could bring squares home to work on and then put them together at school.”
“Did you bring it home?” I ask her as I take off my Mickey Mouse watch and lay it carefully on top of the dresser.
She pulls the square out of her backpack and hands it to me. “We don’t have much time to finish it before school ends. Ms. Morales wants to hang it up in her room to teach next year’s classes about patterns.”
“This is really neat.” I examine the tiny blue and green triangles. On the back of the square are tiny, flawless stitches. “And you do this all by hand?”
Sele nods as she takes back the unfinished square. She’s easily embarrassed by praise, so I don’t say anything else. But I keep thinking about that quilt square as I pull off my clothes, toss them into the hamper in our tiny closet, and put on my purple nightshirt—a find from Goodwill, where we shop often. Sele has put so much patience and care and skill into that project. It’s at least as much of an achievement as my top grades and career ambitions, though it will never draw the attention of someone like Sebastian Smith.
I climb to the top of our bunk bed and lie on the comforter, feeling the warmth in the air of our tiny room. I have only one chapter of The Hiding Place to read for school. I imagine Charlie Wheeler reading this same chapter. The words are exactly the same, yet his analysis and understanding of the
m will be so different than mine. In Betsie and Corrie, he sees a sense of worth that comes from helping others. I see the pain and sacrifice of their family.
≈
Just before first period, Ms. Cope is standing by her classroom door talking to Mr. Brody. I slip by them, hoping they won’t notice me, and it works. Charlie’s already in his seat, and I dig through my backpack as I walk past him, looking for nothing in particular, but making sure to look focused.
“Hi, Millie,” Charlie says as I drop into the seat behind him.
“Hi,” I say, waiting for him to turn around and say more, but he doesn’t. He keeps his gaze on his notebook in front of him.
I look around the class to see if anyone is watching me, but everyone is occupied in their own thing and for a minute, I think I’m home free. Until Ms. Cope comes in, slaps her hands together, and walks toward me.
“Millie Vargas, our star. Did anyone see Millie mentioned on Sebastian Smith: In Perspective last night?”
A few people murmur in response, but several others seem completely oblivious. Ms. Cope takes a few minutes to summarize the segment for those who weren’t aware of it, while I just stare at the back of Charlie Wheeler’s head.
“I think you’re very brave to do that interview, Millie. It’s going to reach a lot of people.” Ms. Cope comes over to me, taps my shoulder, and says, “I’m very proud of you.”
I force a smile and drop my eyes to the desk. Charlie doesn’t turn around to look at me, for which I’m grateful.
Ms. Cope walks to the front of the room. “Well, from one brave heroine to the next. Today, we’re going to finish our discussion on Corrie ten Boom.”
Being called a heroine is unsettling. I certainly don’t think I should be compared to Corrie ten Boom. All I’ve done is submit to one embarrassing interview.
Mindy Stincil leans over to me, her long blond hair waving in the space between us. “It was a great segment, Millie. My mom and I watched it last night.”
I know that the Stincils are good friends with the Wheelers, so this doesn’t surprise me. I smile at her briefly before turning my attention to Ms. Cope.
By the end of the class, the pricking feeling of having all eyes on me starts to subside. I gratefully escape to the chaos of the hallway where I hope to quickly become anonymous once more.
Chloe is standing outside my classroom door, popping her gum and wildly scrolling through her phone. “Dammit. Damn. Damn.”
“What’s up, Chlo?” I say, approaching her.
She grabs my arm and pulls me against the wall next to her. “You know this world is full of pricks, right?”
I look at her phone screen. Instagram always gets her fired up. She essentially has a nonpaying part-time job defending Jennifer Lopez on Instagram.
Four hundred sixty-two comments. It’s getting serious. “What are people saying about JLo?”
Chloe shakes her head. “It’s you, Mil.”
“What?” I grab her wrist and angle the phone toward me so I can see the screen better. It’s my Instagram page, which I never check, which I don’t even have access to on my prepaid phone.
“Trolls,” Chloe says. “They found you yesterday after the interview. They’re commenting on all your photos.”
“What are they saying?” I ask, snatching the phone from her hand.
“Stupid stuff about immigration, illegals, the usual crap. I’m fighting with like six different jerks right now. Some of them are probably bots. Not even real people.”
I scroll through the comments.
Ruining our country.
Taking opportunities from our people.
Illegals are committing crimes.
Just cuz she’s pretty doesn’t mean she should get to stay.
Go back to where you came from.
Get out of my country.
For each angry and hurtful comment, there’s an equally angry response from Chloe. I scroll through her comebacks. “When did this start?” I ask.
“Last night, I think, or like the middle of the night. I just noticed it this morning.”
“Chloe. I can’t believe this. Why are they doing this?”
“They hate their lousy lives, and they’re always looking for people to put down. Obviously they don’t have anything better to do with their time.”
“When did you have time to post all of your comments?”
“Last period. I hung out in the bathroom.” She pulls the phone gently out of my hand. “I can keep this up all day.” I watch as she types another reply, letting expletives fly.
“I don’t want you to have to do this, Chlo.”
“It’s fine. I already reported these pricks to Instagram. Maybe we should set your account to private?”
I glance over Chloe’s shoulder as another cruel comment appears. “I just want to get rid of Instagram completely.”
She looks over at me and slides her arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mil. You don’t deserve this.” She logs out of Instagram and hands me her phone.
I quickly log in and delete my account. I hand her back the phone and lean against the wall. Chloe puts both arms around me. I close my eyes. The loudness of passing period dissipates as the last tardy students scramble to their classes.
“Mil, don’t let it get to you. You are a million times classier, smarter, and less loserish than these trolls.”
I open my eyes and try to smile.
“Besides, before we know it, we will be so out of here, on our way out west. We won’t be stuck here forever.”
≈
The last problem on the calculus test keeps running through my mind as I walk down the hall to my locker. The prospect of a B looms before me and collides with the vivid memory of Mami telling Mr. Zambrano that I have never brought home anything but As on my report card. I focus on that, trying to shut out the Instagram disaster from earlier today, as I open my locker.
A folded sheet of paper that had been hanging from the top vent of my locker falls to my feet.
I pick up the paper and look down both ends of the hallway. I catch Charlie Wheeler’s eye as he approaches me. He quickly averts his gaze and looks past me at something at the other end of the hallway. The thought of how I last spoke to him days ago has stayed with me and probably with him too.
I open the folded sheet of paper. In black pen are scrawled the words: Go back to Mexico. My first thought is that it’s meant for someone else; I’ve never even been to Mexico. But in a split second, the realization hits me that these ugly words are meant for me. I stare at the message in shock.
“Millie.” Charlie is beside me, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I’m still frozen, unable to respond, feeling a sob building deep in my chest. He takes the paper from my hand, reads it, and crumbles it up.
“God, Millie, I’m so sorry. Whoever wrote this is an idiot.” He stuffs the crumbled sheet of paper into his jeans pocket. “Are you okay?”
I choke back my tears. “Yeah, fine,” I say.
“Let’s take this to Dr. Gomez,” he says.
I nod numbly. The principal should know about the note. But I can’t move. I look around the halls, wondering who it could have been.
Charlie gently guides me forward with the hand that’s still resting on my shoulder, and I silently walk with him to the office. The halls are clearing out now; most students have made it to their classes.
Charlie lets his hand slide off my shoulder as we walk into the main office. The Wheeler charm turns on. “Hi, Ms. Torres,” he says to the admin assistant. “Can we see Dr. Gomez? We have an incident to report.”
Ms. Torres looks from Charlie to me and back. “He’s got someone in there. Should only be a few minutes. Have a seat.” She motions to two worn chairs across from her desk.
Charlie smiles and thanks her. We both sit down. I’m sitting outside the principal’s office. I’ve never had to sit outside the principal’s office before. Charlie reaches into his jeans pocket a
nd pulls out the crumbled piece of paper. He smooths it down on his pant leg and folds it in half.
“You don’t have to stay here,” I say.
“If it’s okay, I want to wait.” He leans over, resting his elbows on his knees. “I want to make sure Dr. Gomez is going to do something about this. I’m going to tell my dad what happened too. In a way . . .” He hesitates. “In a way, this is his fault. He’s the reason you started getting all this attention. My dad has a way of trying to fix things and messing them up more.”
I don’t argue with Charlie’s assessment. If it weren’t for Mr. Wheeler, all I would be worrying about right now would be a calculus problem.
Dr. Gomez walks out of his office, followed by a freshman with low-riding pants. Charlie stands up right away, walks over to Dr. Gomez, and hands him the folded piece of paper.
“Dr. Gomez, Millie found this in her locker.”
Dr. Gomez looks at the note, folds it back in half, and motions for us to come into his office.
Charlie waits for me to enter and closes the door behind him. I’m still not sure if I like Charlie being here, but a part of me is grateful to not be alone in all this.
Dr. Gomez sits down behind his large wooden desk, layered with binders, loose papers, and Styrofoam coffee cups. “Do either one of you know who wrote this?”
Charlie says, “No,” and I shake my head.
“I’m sorry, Millie. It’s disheartening that we have students in our school who would feel this way, much less write something like this.” He turns to me. “And it was in your locker?”
“Yes, I think someone pushed it in through one of the slats,” I say.
“I’m going to personally visit each classroom and have a discussion with the students.”
I squirm in my seat. I don’t want him telling everyone what the note said. I’ve already had too much of my personal information made public lately. And the last thing I need is more pitying looks like the one he’s giving me. “What are you going to say?”
Where I Belong Page 6