Where I Belong

by Marcia Argueta Mickelson

  After dinner, when Sele takes Javi and Ceci upstairs to shower and watch TV, I help Mami clean up the kitchen. Mami is officially back to work, resuming her usual housekeeping routine. The Wheelers told her it wasn’t necessary, but Mami’s still collecting a paycheck from them, and she’s determined to earn it.

  I’m wiping off the kitchen table with a yellow sponge when Dr. Wheeler comes in.

  “Thanks so much for dinner, Sandra. That was delicious.” She’s carrying three cardboard pizza boxes, which she sets down on the counter Mami has just cleaned. “Charlie’s having some friends over. I bought paper plates, so I told them no dishes, no mess.”

  “That’s okay, Belinda. It’s no problem.”

  “No, you go on upstairs. Charlie can take care of his own mess. I’m going upstairs too—just going to leave them to it. Once I’ve checked them for contraband, of course,” she adds with a little laugh. She starts pulling out paper plates, napkins, and cups from a cupboard above the sink. “Millie, you’re coming, right? Charlie said he was going to invite you.”

  “Oh, yes he did, Dr. Wheeler, thanks. But, I’m a bit tired, so I’m just going to head upstairs too.” I look over at Mami to see if she approves of my decision, but she’s drying off a large pot, not looking my way at all. I surmise she doesn’t care either way what I decide.

  “Well, if you change your mind, come on down,” Dr. Wheeler says. “I know they’d love to have you.”

  I’m not so convinced. I imagine they would tolerate it, would probably try to be nice, but they wouldn’t love it. “Thank you,” I say.

  I hear the doorbell and imagine my rich classmates coming in, taking off their shoes, and making themselves comfortable on the Wheelers’ leather couches. Probably Dawson, Mindy, other people who’ve tried to show me kindness over the past several days. Other people who can’t possibly understand what it’s like to live my life.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I tell Mami, putting the sponge back on the counter and quickly leaving before Charlie or any of his friends come in to get pizza.

  I hear laughter rolling down the hallway from the entryway and take the steps two at a time to get upstairs. Javi and Ceci are sprawled out on the bed watching the Disney Channel while Sele is folding clothes on the floor by the bed.

  “Did you guys have baths?” I ask, easing down to the floor by Sele.

  “Yes, they both did,” Sele says after I get no answer from the two little ones, who are mesmerized by the screen. “What’s going on downstairs?”

  “Charlie’s having some friends over, I guess. He invited me, but I didn’t want to go.”

  “Why?” she asks me.

  I shrug, trying to figure that out myself. “I don’t know. It’s not like he’s my friend, you know. He was just asking me to be nice. His friends aren’t my friends.”

  Sele folds a pair of her jeans in half. “Charlie’s okay, Millie. He’s . . . trying.”

  “I know,” I say throwing off my flip-flops and reaching for my new nail polish. “I just don’t think that means I owe him anything.”

  “Do you ever think, without the Wheelers where would we be right now?” my sister asks me. “We wouldn’t have anywhere to go.” She picks up another pair of her pants.

  “Without the Wheelers, our house would never have burned down. They’re the cause of everything.” I shake the nail polish bottle and open it slowly.

  “What Mr. Wheeler did wasn’t so bad,” Sele says. “He was trying to say that we’re good people, that our parents were good people when they came here without documents. How many white people do you know who think that, who would be willing to announce that to the world?”

  “Sele, it’s not as simple as that.”

  “Yes, it is. Mr. Wheeler is fighting for people like us. He’s making it a focus in his campaign. He’s not doing it for himself; he’s doing it for people like us.”

  Maybe so. That doesn’t mean I have to bend over backwards to make the Wheelers feel appreciated, to sacrifice my peace of mind for theirs, to make sure they feel comfortable at my own expense. “I really don’t want to talk about this, Sele. I’m so tired of talking about this.”

  I thrust the nailbrush back into the bottle and take it into the bathroom.

  “But Millie . . .”

  I close the bathroom door before she can finish. I have more than enough to deal with right now. I don’t have to listen to my little sister lecture me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next week, after dinner, I walk into the Wheelers’ kitchen, thinking about the looming deadline to register for specific classes at Stanford and the upcoming sea turtle release at the National Seashore and whether Javi is borrowing Charlie’s Xbox too often and a hundred other things. Mami is hunched over their granite countertop, wiping crumbs.

  “Mami, Ceci’s ready for you to tuck her in.”

  “Okay, mija.” Mami rinses the sponge out in the stainless steel sink and places it on the counter. The sink is still full of dishes and pots Mami used to make the Wheelers’ dinner.

  “I can finish those dishes,” I offer. “You should just relax.”

  “No. I’ll be back in a minute to finish them.”

  “Mami, come on. Just let me do them. It’s no big deal. I’d be doing them at home anyway.”

  Mami smiles at me and pats my cheek. “Okay, mija. Gracias.”

  All of the pots are stainless steel, and I think back to our pots—old, scratched. But those pots are gone now. Everything is gone now.

  The other day, Mami went with the insurance people to see if anything could be salvaged. She didn’t want any of us to come, to see everything, but she told us that whatever wasn’t charred or in ashes had been ruined by the heavy water from the fire truck hoses.

  I pick up the sponge Mami left on the counter and dig into the large pot where she cooked mashed potatoes. I run the faucet as I scrub the sides, letting the crusted remnants of potatoes slide into the sink and down the drain.

  I hear footsteps behind me and figure Mami has come back to instruct me on the particular way Belinda Wheeler likes the pots washed.

  “I’m already doing it wrong?” I ask without turning around.

  “Looks like you’re doing just fine.” It’s Charlie Wheeler’s voice, and he’s smiling when I turn around.

  “Oh, sorry. I thought you were my mom.”

  “No worries.” He’s wearing plaid lounge pants and a white T-shirt. His feet are bare, and I wonder how he can handle walking on such cold, hard tile. “Dinner was really good. Did you help your mom?”

  “No. I’m just on dish duty.”

  “She’s a great cook,” he says. “You’ve got a great mom.”

  Thoughts pop into my mind and break like bubbles, before they can float out of my mouth and do any damage. My mom is always busy cooking for your family, which is why I make thrown-together dinners for my family.

  “Yeah. Agreed.” I submerge the pot in the warm water and scrub it with my soapy hands.

  He walks over to the fridge and starts taking things out and stacking them on the counter. Suddenly I feel like an intruder on his privacy, his time to do what he wants in his own house. I begin to hurry, wanting to get the dishes done quickly so I can leave him alone, be out of his way. He’s probably been wishing me away since we all moved in here.

  “Want a sandwich?” he asks, carrying his stack of items over to the counter near the sink.

  “A sandwich? Didn’t you just eat?”

  “That was like two hours ago. I always need a little snack around nine.”

  “A sandwich is a little snack?” I rinse out the large pot and put it on the drying rack.

  “Yeah. Half sandwich—it’s just right.”

  I pick up the next pan and begin scrubbing it.

  “You like tomatoes?” he asks me. He pulls out a cutting board and a knife.

  “Ah, sure . . .”

  He cuts up a tomato, letting the thin slices fan out across the cutting board. “
Is turkey okay?”

  “I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to make me a sandwich.”

  “Turkey it is then. Provolone or Swiss?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He turns on a panini press and sprays it. As it’s heating up, he slices up some sourdough bread. “The secret ingredient,” he says, lifting up a small glass jar that says basil pesto.

  “You just showed it to me. It’s not so secret.”

  “I know, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t allergic or anything.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had basil pesto. So, you never know. I could be allergic.”

  He takes out a knife and spreads the basil pesto on two of the sourdough slices. “Good thing my mom’s a pediatrician then. Any allergic reaction and I’ll go get her.”

  He puts one fully assembled sandwich in the panini press and closes it. I’ve finished the dishes in the sink, so I reach for the knife and cutting board he’s been using.

  “No,” he says, putting his hand over mine. “That’s my mess. I always clean up after my nine o’clock sandwich.”

  “Okay,” I say, pulling my hand away. I look around the kitchen, but everything else is in order. I was thinking it was time to leave, but I guess I’m stuck waiting for the panini to be ready. I think I’m supposed to eat half of it.

  “Done,” he says a minute later. He lifts the lid of the panini press, slides the sandwich onto a plate, and cuts it with the same knife he used for the tomatoes. “We can let it cool off for a minute.” He pulls himself up to sit on the counter. “So, I guess our sisters have become best friends.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Two peas in a pod.”

  “And what is with the reading in the cabinet?”

  “Cecilia’s been doing that for about a year now. She just likes having a quiet place to read. She doesn’t have her own room—so she can go in there. No one bothers her.”

  “Those two scared the crap out of me the other day. I didn’t know they were in there and all of a sudden they burst out laughing.”

  “I hope your mom is okay with it.”

  “Are you kidding? Anything to get Caroline to read. She’d rather be drawing. Mom has to hold her markers hostage to get her to do anything else.” Charlie picks up half of the sandwich and hands the plate over to me.

  “Thanks,” I say and take a small bite. It’s delicious. Rich people have some weird taste, but wow it’s good. “Yum. The secret ingredient has won me over.”

  “Not breaking out in hives or anything, are you?”

  “I think I’m in the clear.” I take another bite and notice that he’s already practically finished with his. I bet he usually eats the whole thing. “It’s really good. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” He jumps down off the counter and starts putting the ingredients back in the fridge. While I’m savoring my sandwich, he washes the few dishes he used, cleans the counter, and uses the bright yellow sponge to wipe down the panini press.

  “Well, I think I’m going to bed,” I say as he takes my empty plate from me. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Millie. And just so you know,” he says when I’m already at the door, “I usually sneak in here every night for a sandwich.”

  Technically that could be a warning, like Please stay out of the kitchen when I come in to make my sandwich, or an invitation, as in Feel free to come by every night for a half sandwich.

  I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  Maybe it’s possible to be friends with Charlie Wheeler after all.

  ≈

  Dr. Wheeler has offered to let me use her laptop to write an English paper. Her office is on the first floor, just off the kitchen behind a set of narrow French doors. First thing after school, I sit down at her wide desk, which is bare except for the sleek white laptop.

  I sign in with the password she gave me and start working. Ms. Cope wants us to expound on the themes of The Hiding Place and how it resonates with us personally. The rough draft is due tomorrow, and I haven’t written a single word.

  My thoughts go back to the day in class when Charlie brought up Corrie ten Boom’s quote about how life is not measured by duration, but by donation. I think about Papi’s life, how its duration was short, but his legacy of love will endure well past my lifetime. Papi loved his family more than anything, and he thought of us before anything else.

  Papi’s job at the oil field was dangerous and stressful. He did the work because the pay was good enough for Mami to stay home with us when we were little. She started working part-time when Javi was old enough to go to pre-K, but if Papi could see how hard Mami worked these days, it would break him. He always wanted to provide for his family, to make enough money for us to be happy.

  When I was twelve, his arm was severely burned, which required trips to Houston for medical care. He came back from the last trip with two American Girl dolls for Sele and me. Mami was angry that he spent so much money on the expensive dolls, but it wasn’t the cost that mattered to me. Instead of focusing on his treatment, his thoughts were on us, on what he could do to bring smiles to our faces.

  That was Papi. He was always thinking about others. I don’t see that impulse in myself; I see it in Sele. When Mami told me about Oscar Zambrano and how he wanted to talk to me, she said it was my chance to do something for others—and now I wonder if I’ve done anything at all since meeting him. I did the interview, but has that really helped anyone? I really don’t think so.

  Once I’ve wrapped up the rough draft of my paper, I click on the already open web browser so I can log in to my email. Up pops an article about the separation policy at the border. Dr. Wheeler must’ve been reading this article earlier. There’s been a lot of backlash against this policy, and the article has pictures of protesters at the Texas border with Mexico, holding signs with messages about keeping families together. I zoom in on some of the pictures to get a good look at who these protesters are. A priest and several nuns. People of different skin colors, young and old, all photographed outside of a detention center in Potrillo, Texas.

  I open a fresh tab, log in to my email, and send my draft to Mrs. Cope.

  But after I log back out of my email, I find myself typing my name into the search bar.

  My eyes are drawn to the videos in the results. Somehow I knew there’d be another Michael Winter video—a new one, posted just yesterday. I shouldn’t click on it. I shouldn’t waste my time, my energy . . .

  I click.

  “So, this little illegal girl in South Texas recently got her family’s house burned down. How? She was dumb enough to go on a low-rating news channel and spout off about how illegals deserve a chance. How we should feel sorry for them,” he says, pretending to cry and wipe his tears.

  I should close the tab. I should walk away from the computer. But I can’t move.

  “So, her family is crying now that someone burned their house down. All of a sudden, they care about laws being broken. They didn’t care about broken laws when they were sneaking into this country. So, it’s okay for them to break the law by stealing their way into our country, but now someone breaks the law in a way that inconveniences them, and it’s not fair.”

  A picture of me pops up in the corner of the screen as Michael Winter keeps speaking. It’s from my Instagram account. Someone must have grabbed it before I deleted my account. “Millie Vargas is her name, high school senior, supposedly a straight-A student, but you know they dumb down those bilingual classes. Mother is a single mom of four kids. Four kids. The more kids, the more money they can scam out of our government. And you know they’re all single moms. The dads are in gangs or prison, or dealing drugs. And now the whole family is shacking up with the mom’s boss, bonehead wannabe-senator Charles Wheeler, in Corpus Christi, Texas. So, fellow Texans, we need you to be on top of this one. Make sure to vote against Wheeler come election time. And let’s spread the word on social media about Millie Vargas. We’re using these hashtags: #moochingmillie an
d #sendherhome . . .”

  My whole body is shaking. I think about all of the people who could’ve seen this video. I think of Chloe, at home, combatting the Twitter troll army that’s been unleashed by Michael Winter.

  The next thing I know, I’m running up to my room. I tell Sele that I’m not feeling well and ask her to let Mami know that I’m not coming down for dinner.

  I lie in bed with the covers pulled over my head, trying to clear my mind. About half an hour later, the door opens slowly, and I peek out from under the covers to see Mami walk in.

  “Mr. Wheeler just told me about that awful video, mija,” she says, sitting on the bed. “His campaign staff let him know about it. And Dr. Wheeler said you left a tab open on her computer earlier . . . I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “Mami, it was so awful,” I say, wanting to also bury my face in Mami’s lap, to let go of the tears I’m holding back.

  “Eso no importa,” Mami says.

  “It does matter, Mami! He told people where we’re living! People know where the Wheelers’ house is. What if someone targets us again, tries to . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence.

  “No one will get past the Wheelers’ front gate,” Mami assures me. “And if someone did, there’s the security system inside. We’re as safe as we can be right now, mija.”

  I’m not sure I believe that. Horrible images flash through my mind—somebody waiting outside the gate, ramming Mami’s car as it leaves or approaches . . . I try to push those imagined disasters away. “But he still humiliated our entire family, and he’s going to keep doing it.”

  “Humiliated? You have done nothing wrong. We have done nothing wrong.” I sit up, and she puts her arm around me. “We have nothing to be ashamed of. This man should be ashamed of himself for speaking so badly about others.”

  “But he won’t be! People like that don’t feel shame. And they don’t ever change their minds. I’m just tired of all this,” I say, throwing my arms up into the air.

  Mami looks at me steadily. “You keep your head up, Millie. You be proud of who you are. Mr. Wheeler said there will be plenty of people speaking out for you, for us, even if you don’t want him to make any official statements.”