Where I Belong

by Marcia Argueta Mickelson

  I wrap a thick white towel around me and walk back into the guest bedroom. I am naked in Charlie Wheeler’s house, and it feels so strange. The Dillard’s bags are all lined up near the door. Selena has thoroughly examined hers. She’s refolded all the clothes she wants to keep and has put them neatly on the nearby dresser. I look through the remaining bags. There are at least five pairs of jeans, several shirts, and pajamas that I didn’t wear last night. I just wore the clothes I was already wearing, the outfit that Chloe dropped off for me to borrow.

  Another bag has a pair of Nike shoes I will never wear, packages of socks and underwear, and three bras. The bras are too big, but they’ll do. I guess Belinda Wheeler’s friends have thought of everything. Benevolence is their occupation, and they will surely feel good about themselves for a long time after this.

  The jeans still have price tags on them. A hundred and fifty dollars. I’ve never worn anything that cost this much, but this is what the Wheelers’ friends’ daughters wear, what they think everyone wears. The pants are a size too small, but I squeeze into them.

  I suppose that’s why they’d left the price tags on—so the clothes can be easily returned if they don’t fit. That’s a kinder and more logical interpretation than my initial presumption—that they wanted us to know how much we were indebted to them. I try to squash that thought, chiding myself for being unappreciative of what everyone is doing for us.

  I look through the shirts and put aside three in varying shades of pink. I don’t wear pink. Purple is my color, and in my mind they are not the least bit related. That leaves me with four other donated shirts. Besides the Nikes, there’s a pair of black slip-ons, but I only wear open-toed shoes unless it’s below forty degrees. I shove my feet into the flip-flops Chloe brought me yesterday and am about to go downstairs when a smaller bag catches my eye. Inside is an assortment of makeup—the expensive kind, not the cheap drugstore stuff I buy. I take the bag into the bathroom and spend a few minutes applying mascara, foundation, and blush, thinking about the thoughtfulness of Dr. Wheeler’s friends.

  I wish I could simply be grateful, or even just relieved. Instead I’m more uncomfortable than ever. We never asked for charity. And if Mr. Wheeler hadn’t planted the seed that had led that arsonist straight to our home, we wouldn’t have to accept it.

  I know the Wheelers feel guilty. I know they want to make it right, as Mr. Wheeler said. But part of me suspects that what these people really want, more than anything else, is to feel like the good guys in this situation. They want to give us these gifts, soothe their consciences, and then forget this ever happened.

  I glance at my watch and think of Papi. This Mickey Mouse watch might be the only tangible memory I have left of him. All of the photographs of him, the gifts, the mementos, his long-sleeved blue work shirts that Mami still kept starched and hanging in her closet, are all gone now. I’m grateful I have the watch, but I wish that everyone else in my family had something from Papi that survived the fire.

  I hurry to the kitchen. School starts at nine, and Charlie said last night that he leaves at eight-thirty. Charlie is seated at the kitchen table, and he smiles when I walk in.

  “Morning,” I say.

  He stands up. “Good morning. Did you sleep okay?”

  I nod and shove my hands into the tiny pockets of my too-small jeans.

  “Want something to eat?” he asks. “I picked up some breakfast tacos. There’s bacon and egg, and potato and egg.”

  There are two white paper bags on the table. Charlie has three tacos in front of him, and it looks like he’s just started eating.

  “Okay,” I say and sit down across from him.

  “Everyone else has already eaten,” he says. “So have as many as you want.”

  I nod. “You picked these up?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, this morning before everyone left.” He walks over to a cupboard and pulls out a glass. “Want some juice or milk?”

  “Water is good. Thanks,” I say.

  He walks to the refrigerator and fills the glass with ice and water from the door dispenser. “Here you go,” he says, putting down the glass in front of me and sitting back down.

  “Thank you.” I reach into the bag and pull out a taco. I don’t really care what kind.

  I take a bite. Bacon and egg, it turns out. I would have preferred potato and egg, now that I think about it. I’m not really hungry anyway, and I don’t feel like eating, but it seems that it’s what I’m supposed to do right now. And at the moment, I’m just trying to do what’s expected of me because I haven’t figured anything else out.

  I barely finish my taco in the time that Charlie scarfs down his three. I put away my half-eaten food and clean up the spot at the table where I was sitting. Charlie tucks the bags of the remaining tacos in the fridge and grabs his backpack off the floor. I look around, out of habit, for my backpack, until I remember it’s gone, left in the house. I have nothing to carry to school with me, not even a single pencil.

  The stark reality of the moment hits me so hard that I want to cry, but I don’t. I cannot cry in front of Charlie Wheeler. I cannot give him one more reason to pity me.

  ≈

  Charlie’s car is a Volvo sedan, one his mother stopped using last year. He probably could have asked for a brand-new car; the fact that he’s driving what’s technically a hand-me-down gives me a sliver of respect for him.

  He opens the door for me—one more reason to thank Charlie Wheeler, to feel indebted to him. He smiles as he closes the door and walks around to the other side. Once he’s started the car, he reaches behind my seat to grab something. I lean over toward the door to give him room.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a bright red backpack. “My friend Mindy dropped this by for you this morning. It’s her backpack from last year. She put some notebooks and supplies in there. She said sorry it’s not new, but she hopes it’s okay for now.”

  Slowly, I reach out to take the backpack. It isn’t heavy, doesn’t have textbooks inside. I set it on my lap and leave it there without opening it. “That was really nice of her.”

  “She texted me last night when she heard, wanted to know what she could do. I thought you could use a backpack for school.”

  I nod and turn to look straight ahead. Charlie puts the car in drive. Like the clothes from Dr. Wheeler’s friends, the backpack in my lap evokes an emotion I can’t describe. It’s something more complicated than gratitude.

  As we cruise through the security gate and leave the Wheeler house behind, I slide open the zipper of the red backpack’s main compartment. There’s a small binder full of blank loose-leaf paper, three spiral notebooks, a small pencil bag full of pencils and pens, and a calculator. Mindy is in my calculus class and has anticipated everything I might need. There’s also a small pink envelope with my name on it.

  I hesitate to open it in front of Charlie, but he’s distracted by the road or at least pretending to be. And I want to know what Mindy’s note says before I get to school; it’s not something I want to read in class.

  I slide my finger under the seal and pull out the small pink note card.

  Dear Millie,

  I am so sorry about what happened to your family. Here are a few things that might help. I know it’s not a lot and doesn’t begin to replace what you’ve lost, but I wanted you to know I’m thinking of you and hoping it will get better.

  Mindy Stincil

  I glance over at Charlie to see if he’s watching me, and he is, but only for an instant before he turns his eyes back to the road.

  “You have a very nice friend,” I say, wondering if she’s more than just a friend. But that is not my business and feels kind of trivial to be thinking about right now. So I just resume my silence for the rest of the drive.

  When Charlie pulls into a spot in the school parking lot, he asks, “Want to just meet here after school?”

  Part of me wants to take the bus home as usual, but the Wheelers’ house isn’t on my usual route. “Yea
h, that’s fine. Thank you for the ride.”

  “Sure.” We walk together toward the school’s main entrance. I see people looking my way. I wonder if they know about the fire or if they’re just wondering why I’m with Charlie.

  The red backpack on my shoulder seems foreign, and I want to throw it in the street and run as fast as I can to somewhere, anywhere but here. I don’t, of course, because I feel my mother urging me on. There is no time to feel sorry for myself, no place for self-doubt. Even after my dad’s death, she pulled herself up and continued on every day. That’s what she expects of me, but I am unsure if I can do what she’s done. I’m not the Milagros she expected. I am just Millie, and I don’t think I can do this.

  Just outside the main entrance, I stop mid-step, and Charlie stops just in front of me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I look back toward his car, wishing it could take me away, take me back, but I’m not sure where.

  That’s when I see the curls of Chloe’s long hair bouncing in the air as she runs toward me across the parking lot. My ex-boyfriend, Jay, and his best friend, Ivan, are right behind her, walking briskly.

  “Millie!” she cries out.

  In another instant, Chloe is flinging her arms around my neck. “You okay?” she asks.

  I nod, my head resting on her shoulder.

  “Hi, Charlie,” Chloe says, turning to him.

  “Hi, Chloe.”

  “Is she okay?” Chloe demands.

  “I think so.”

  Chloe looks back down at me, and I nod again. “I’m fine. It’s good to see you.”

  Jay and Ivan catch up to us. “Mil, how are you holding up?” Jay asks, pulling me into a hug. I haven’t had one of Jay’s hugs since I broke up with him last summer, but his arms around me feel good, safe, and I don’t want him to let go. He pulls away slowly. “I’m so sorry about your house.”

  Ivan’s frowning and rubbing his hands together in an absentmindedly anxious way. “Same, Millie. Can I do something for you?”

  “I’ll be okay,” I say, even though I don’t know for certain that I will be. I turn to Charlie. He looks like he doesn’t know if he should stay with us or keep walking to class. “The Wheelers are helping us out,” I say.

  He takes this as a cue to nod a greeting to Jay and Ivan.

  They nod back at him, and I don’t miss the way Jay eyes him up and down before turning back to me.

  The first bell rings, and we all go inside. The boys head off to their lockers. Chloe keeps her arm around me, and I feel strengthened by it.

  “Did you sleep okay at Casa Wheeler?” she asks.

  “It was fine,” I say. “They’ve been really nice.”

  “I can’t believe your mom made you come to school today. She should’ve just let you stay home, take some time.”

  “Do you know my mother?” I ask her, starting to relax for the first time this morning. Being around Chloe is soothing, like an old quilt wrapped around your shoulders. The world can go on now; I have Chloe.

  “I know your mother, and I love your mother, but you should be home right now with family, healing.”

  “Ha. When Sele broke her arm, she was in school the next day. Healing happens as you’re working, that’s what Mami says.”

  “What can I do, really?”

  “Just look for me in the mornings, walk with me. I don’t want to be by myself right now.”

  She nods. “I’ll walk you to your locker and then to first period.”

  On the way, several students I only vaguely know from my classes stop to talk to me. “Millie, you’re here!” “Millie, are you okay?” I know I should be grateful that people care, but it’s embarrassing to have the entire school know that we’re homeless now, dependent on the charity the Wheelers have offered us.

  When we reach my locker, I pause for a second, remembering when I found that note. That seemed like the beginning of all of this.

  I grab my English binder and hang Mindy’s backpack on the hook inside.

  “Where’d you get the backpack?” Chloe asks.

  “Mindy Stincil,” I say, looking around to see if she or any of her friends are within earshot. “She dropped it off at the Wheelers’ this morning.”

  “Lazy Layup? That was nice of her.”

  “Don’t call her that, Chloe. I feel bad now.”

  “That’s just your Catholic guilt, Millie. It’s not like we’re actually mean to her.”

  “I know, but I don’t think I can make fun of her anymore.”

  “All right, girl. Whatever you want. Let’s get you to English.” English won’t be so bad. Jen will be there. And after that—well, I’ll deal with it as I go along.

  By the end of the day half the student body, and every teacher I know, has inquired about my family and my house. Even Mr. Brody stops me in the hall to ask me how I’m doing.

  “I saw the segment on the local news,” he says, which makes my stomach flip. I hadn’t realized the fire got news coverage. “My heart just breaks for your family. Folks like you don’t deserve this.”

  I stop myself from snapping back, What kind of folks do deserve this? Immigrants who aren’t citizens? Immigrants who can’t find work? Immigrants who don’t get straight As?

  People like Charles Wheeler and Oscar Zambrano keep using me as a case study of an inspiring, admirable immigrant. But what if I were just an average student? What if I’d gotten a speeding ticket once? Every time someone says, look at her, look at all she’s achieved, they’re implying that if I achieved less, I would be unworthy of basic human respect. If my family weren’t such a shining example of Good Immigrants, people like Mr. Brody probably wouldn’t feel nearly as heartbroken to see us suffering.

  I bite my tongue. There’s some consolation in knowing that by tomorrow, most people will have already forgotten the fire. They won’t think to keep checking in on me, and I’ll be able to pretend things are somewhat back to normal.

  After school I automatically walk toward the bus line, but as I catch Chloe waving goodbye to me, I remember that I won’t be riding the bus home with her today. Today, I am going to wait for Charlie Wheeler by his car. People walk past me, streaming out the doors that lead to the bus lines. I’m thankful that they’re in too much of a hurry to notice me.

  I head to the parking lot. Charlie’s already there, leaning against his car talking to one of his friends, a guy named Dawson. They’re laughing, and I immediately wish for something to laugh at, something that will make me forget why I have to get a ride from Charlie Wheeler.

  Dawson says one last thing to Charlie before walking away. Charlie sees me and waves.

  “Hi,” he says as I reach his car. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, thanks again for the ride. I almost forgot and was heading out to the bus.”

  We get in and he starts the car. “Oh, no worries. And if you ever need to stay after school or to get here early, just let me know.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I strap my seat belt on and balance Mindy Stincil’s backpack on my lap.

  “How was school today?” he asks as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Was it too weird?”

  Who is he to ask? I think, but of course, I don’t say that.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “People I never talk to stared at me and asked me if I was okay. I guess that’s the standard protocol for when someone’s house burns down.”

  “They’re just concerned. They care about you.”

  I make a noncommittal humming noise.

  “I care too, Millie. I know this is hard, but I just want to be your friend.”

  I can’t let go of the blame I’ve assigned to the Wheelers. They’re the cause of everything bad that has happened to us in the last few weeks. I don’t want Charlie’s friendship. I don’t want anything from him, but I can’t tell him that.

  “I know. It’s just a really hard time for me.”

  “Well, I’m here if you want to talk.”

  I bite my lip. He
would not want to hear what I have to say right now. “Okay.”

  Charlie maneuvers through after-school traffic and makes it out to Ocean Drive. I look out the window, partly because I really love the scenery—the palm trees lining the drive, the bay stretching out along one side—but partly because I don’t feel like talking to Charlie. It’s not because it’s Charlie; I just don’t want to talk.

  A woman runs by in tiny running shorts, her blond ponytail swaying with each step. Just behind her is another woman pushing a baby stroller. People going about their everyday lives, their routines undisrupted by fear.

  There’s one immense and beautiful home right after the other, with backyards overlooking the bay. We pass several blocks of these expensive houses until we reach the Wheelers’ home behind its ten-foot fence.

  Charlie keys in the gate code, pulls into the driveway, and parks behind Mami’s Toyota Tercel.

  “Thanks again for the ride,” I say.

  “Sure. Same time tomorrow, I guess.” Charlie smiles, pulling his backpack over one shoulder as we walk up the stone path to the front door. The lock is another keypad, and I make a mental note to get this house’s various security codes from Mami.

  Inside, Mami has Caroline, Sele, Ceci, and Javi at the kitchen table doing homework. It’s so quiet that I can hear pencil lead on paper as Javi writes his spelling words.

  “Hola, mija. Hola, Charlie,” she says to us as we walk in. She leans in to give us each a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hola, Señora Vargas,” Charlie says. He puts his backpack down on the table and ruffles Caroline’s hair.

  “Stop it,” she says, swatting his hand away.

  Mami asks Charlie how his school day was. “Que tal la escuela, Charlie?”

  “Muy bien. Cien en mi examen de Español.” Wow, I think as he slides down into a chair next to Caroline. I wonder if this is a typical afternoon around here: Charlie telling Mami he got a hundred percent on his Spanish test.