Where I Belong

by Marcia Argueta Mickelson

  “I don’t,” I say. “I don’t want him to draw any more attention to that horrible man.” Or draw any more attention to us, I add silently.

  “Okay, mija. It will all be okay.”

  I still want to dive under the comforter and hide. I promise myself that I won’t check Twitter and that I’ll try to forget what Michael Winter said about me.

  I expect Mami to tell me to come down to dinner, but to my surprise, she lets me stay in my room. After she leaves, I try to think only of turtle hatchlings and their tiny, slow bodies plodding through the cool sand. I remind myself that in just two more days, I can escape to the beach, where boundaries are not visible, where the ocean in front of me seems endless, where sea turtles are freed to find their way to a new home.

  As much as I try to focus on that, the words from the video won’t leave my mind.

  I shut my eyes and try to pull out my most recent happy memory. Charlie’s panini pops up. I focus on the image of Charlie slicing tomatoes and cutting the sandwich in two before handing me a half.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I spend most of the next day trying to focus on the chores Mami wants me to do. While she takes care of the Wheelers’ housecleaning as usual, we kids are in charge of keeping our own spaces clean, doing our laundry, and making meals with the food that Mami keeps in designated parts of the Wheelers’ fridge and pantry. We might be living here, but Mami will never allow us to “take advantage,” as she calls it.

  I’m glad to keep busy, but Michael Winter’s rant against me keeps replaying itself in my head when I let my guard down. Snippets of his words filter in whenever I’m not actively concentrating on pairing socks or vacuuming the guest bedroom. I hate myself for letting his words affect me.

  In the evening, I insist on finishing up the dishes so she can get the others ready for bed. I tell myself I really just want to help her out, give her a break—but deep down, I want to be in the kitchen when Charlie comes in.

  The sink is full of the dishes Mami used to make lasagna. Once the dishwater is going, I begin scrubbing a pot.

  “How does ham sound tonight?” Charlie asks as he comes into the kitchen.

  I turn around and smile. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Okay. So you liked the turkey so much, you don’t want the ham.” He walks over to the fridge and begins pulling things out.

  I laugh. “You really do this every night?”

  “Most nights, especially during tennis season.”

  I scrub the sides of the heavy pot, kind of wishing I were upstairs in the guest bedroom. I’m not even sure why I stayed down here. I should have just let Mami do the dishes. I don’t need to be here talking to Charlie Wheeler about his tennis team and basil pesto paninis. I’ve got too much else to think about—helping my mom, registering for college, and above all, the insanity that is following me around.

  As I hurry through the rest of the dishes, I tell myself that I won’t be back tomorrow at nine. I’ll stay in my room. I don’t want Charlie to think that I’m coming into the kitchen to see him every night.

  He closes the panini press and leans back against the counter next to me. “I’m really sorry about all this,” he says, probably for the hundredth time since our house burned down. “I heard about that new video. I didn’t watch it, because I didn’t want to give that creep more views. But I feel terrible about it. We all do.”

  I shrug, because what am I supposed to say? It’s okay. We’ll be all right. It’s not your fault. All of those sentiments are untrue. It’s not okay. I’m not sure we’ll be all right, and it is their fault. But I don’t say anything. I just keep washing the dishes, watching the water flow down to the dirty pots, washing away the tomato sauce, the bits of meat.

  “I think I understand now why you didn’t want my dad to mention you on the campaign trail,” Charlie says. “It seems like people like that Winter guy will use any excuse to go after someone, and they don’t care if they’re spreading lies or even putting people in actual danger. They just want a target.”

  I sigh. “Yep.” I hope he doesn’t expect me to be impressed that he finally figured this out. I’m finished with the dishes now, so I say, “Well, I’m going to bed. Good night.”

  “Night, Millie. Sure you don’t want a sandwich?”

  “No thanks.” I turn to walk toward the door.

  “I hope you’re not turning in early on my account. It’s only nine on a Friday night. We could watch a movie or something if you feel like staying up.”

  I stop at the doorway and turn around. Watch a movie or something. Those are words I would have longed to hear a few years ago, but I’m not sure how I feel about them tonight. “No, thanks. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  “Early on a Saturday?”

  “Yeah.” I’m not sure why I want to tell him, but I do. “I’m going to the National Seashore. They’re releasing the sea turtles tomorrow.”

  “The sea turtles?”

  “Yeah. The Kemp’s ridley sea turtles. They’re releasing some hatchlings into the Gulf of Mexico. Really early, like six-thirty.”

  “Wow. I’ve never heard about that. You’ve been before?”

  “I try to go once a year. I just love to watch the little guys work their way down to the water, disappear into the surf.”

  “That sounds really cool,” he says.

  He sounds so genuinely interested that I find myself blurting out, “Um, you can come if you’d like.”

  He looks pleasantly surprised. “Are you sure? Or are you just being nice?”

  I flash him a sarcastic smile. “Does that sound like me?”

  “So . . . you do want me to come?”

  “Yeah, I do. I’m going to try to leave at five-thirty. I want to make sure I don’t miss it. They might release them as early as six-fifteen.”

  “Five-thirty, then. I can drive, if you want.”

  I want to protest, but when I think about the gas I can save Mami, I agree to let him drive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I pad softly down the stairs to find Charlie sitting on the living room couch, tying his shoes. He smiles at me. “Hey. Morning.”

  “Good morning,” I say, wondering if anyone else is up. I told Mami when I went to bed that Charlie would be going with me to the seashore. She just said okay and didn’t comment further.

  “Do you want something to eat before we go?” he asks.

  “Nah, I’m not hungry. It’s too early to eat.”

  He gets up from the couch and walks toward the door. “Maybe we can grab something after?”

  I shrug and say, “Maybe.”

  He disarms the security alarm, and we go outside. The morning is cool, but the air is still laced with humidity. I pull my hair up with a hair tie, anticipating the moisture that inevitably accumulates at the base of my neck. Charlie opens the car door for me, the small act sparking a million questions about what this outing means.

  It’s not a date; he just wants to see the turtles. Charlie Wheeler cannot be interested in me. He sees me merely as a cause that his father is interested in, a cause he cares about. I’m nothing more to him than that.

  “So, what makes you want to see the sea turtles so much you’ll get up at five-thirty on a Saturday morning?” Charlie asks as we drive.

  “You sound like Chloe.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. She came with me last year. She said it’s too unspectacular to justify dragging her out of bed so early on a weekend. So she didn’t want to come again this year.”

  “But you think they’re pretty spectacular?”

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling. “There’s nothing like it. Tiny bodies moving slowly toward the water, finding their way. It’s pretty awesome.”

  “Well, I can’t wait then.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder how amazing it is down in the ocean?” I blurt out. “Way down there where we can’t even see anymore?”

  “I guess I never thought about it. Do you think about it a
lot?”

  I look out the window at Ocean Drive. It’s nearly empty in the predawn darkness, and I can see the moonlight reflecting off the bay. “It’s all I think about sometimes,” I say, not taking my eyes off the water that seems to go on forever.

  Charlie turns to get on South Padre Island Drive, which will take us to the National Seashore. “Have you been scuba diving or snorkeling?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say, taking my eyes off the bay just as it’s about to go out of view. I suppose that’s the kind of question one rich person asks of another.

  It’s a twenty-five-minute drive, over the causeway and through North Padre Island. Have we already hit a wall in our conversation?

  “Maybe we could go sometime this summer,” he says, “before we head off to college.”

  I decide to ignore this hypothetical invitation and just say, “Mami says you’re headed to College Station, going to Texas A&M?”

  He sighs. “I was going to. And that’s what my dad wanted me to do, but I’m going to Stanford instead.”

  “Stanford?” I ask, sitting up straight.

  “Yeah, Dad hasn’t really wanted me to be too vocal about it. He’s still pissed because A&M is where he always wanted me to go. He went there, my grandpa went there, his father before him. Our name is a big deal in College Station. Dad wanted me to continue the tradition, especially with the campaign going on. He said it would mean a lot for a Senate candidate to have his son attend school right here in Texas, instead of running off to California. Like his image is more important than what’s actually best for me. He also wishes I would be around to help campaign for him, said I should at least wait and transfer next year.”

  “That sounds rough,” I say. “Is he okay about it now?”

  He shrugs. “I guess. He’s still mad, but not like cut-me-out-of-the-family kind of mad. Just low-key passive-aggressive mad, so back to normal, really. He never misses an opportunity to point out what a good engineering program A&M has.”

  “Well, doesn’t Stanford have like one of the best engineering programs in the country?” I ask.

  Charlie laughs. “Yeah, they do. I remind my dad of that almost daily. It’s just this power struggle with my dad and me, you know. I’ve lived so much of my life the way he wanted me to. ‘Charlie, you need to try out for the tennis team.’ I just wanted to skate. He would take away my skateboard though, and I could get twenty minutes of it for every two hours of tennis I practiced.”

  “Sheesh.”

  “Yeah. And he wanted me to play the piano, so I took piano lessons for ten years. I wanted to take guitar lessons, but he only let me do that for about a year.”

  On one level, it’s hard to feel much sympathy for someone whose family can so easily afford sports equipment and musical instruments and endless lessons. But on another, I can see how the weight of his dad’s expectations must be unpleasant.

  “So Texas A&M was the last straw?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s funny. I think if he didn’t want me to go there so badly, I’d probably want to go there. When I toured the campus and met some of the professors, I was really impressed with their program.”

  “So, why not just go there then?”

  Charlie shrugs. “Because then he would win again. I’ve been doing what he wants me to do all my life. For once, I just wanted to make my own choice, you know.”

  I nod even though I don’t know. For me, it was different. I had to quit the swim team after Papi died. Mami had to work more hours, and I had to help watch the kids. I didn’t quit because Mami wanted me to, but because it’s what our family needed.

  Charlie parks the car; the lot is already filling up. As I step outside, the briny smell of the sea envelops me. Seagulls, looking for breakfast, tiptoe along the ground and then abruptly dash for the sky. In the distance, I can hear the lapping of the ocean waves. Charlie stretches his arms in the air and yawns as he comes around to my side, and we walk up the wooden steps to the small buildings that surround the wooden patio.

  “There are a lot of people up for this,” Charlie says, sounding impressed.

  “It’s a pretty big deal, Charlie. You’ll see.” I hope he won’t be disappointed—that unlike Chloe before him, he won’t think he’s wasted his time.

  We reach the top of the steps. To the left is a small gift shop and some picnic tables, to the right are the bathroom and showers, and straight ahead, there it lies. Beautiful blue ocean that goes on forever. So much prettier than West Beach where we usually go. West Beach is just bay water and it’s dark, stony.

  We head down the wooden walkway to a large roped-off area of sand. Two park rangers hold a large net in the air to keep away hungry birds that spy the turtle hatchlings from high in the air. The net sways with the strong wind that carries the smell of salt and sea.

  The wind pulls strings of hair from my hair tie and whips them across my face. Charlie and I walk halfway down to the shore and stand behind the roped barrier. One park ranger is speaking to the crowd, telling us about the Kemp’s ridley sea turtles, explaining the process of releasing them into the sea. About a hundred people have gathered, waiting for the first glimpse of the tiny creatures who have yet to make their appearance.

  Next to us is a man holding a sleeping baby in a carrier strapped to his chest. He cradles the baby’s head and bounces up and down to soothe her. Beside the man is a woman holding the hand of a little girl who looks younger than Ceci.

  “You ever bring your brother or sisters?” Charlie asks beside me.

  “I brought them once, but they weren’t too impressed, didn’t feel like getting up early today. That’s okay. I didn’t push it. I don’t mind coming by myself.” I turn up to look at Charlie. “But I’m glad you came today.”

  “Me too,” he says.

  A few more park rangers kneel in the sand, holding the hatchlings with rubber-gloved hands. They set the tiny turtles on the ground and urge them forward with gentle fingers and whispered encouragement. I bend down for a closer look, just as Charlie pulls out his phone and starts taking a video.

  The turtles begin their slow toddle toward the ocean. Tiny legs carry them inch by inch as they progress toward their new home. I can’t take my eyes off them as they move, bumping and crawling over each other toward the beckoning waves in front of them. A gloved woman picks up a turtle and moves it over, off a slower turtle that is in no rush to reach the crashing waves.

  I hear Charlie say “Wow,” but I don’t turn to look at him. I ease my way down along the edge of the roped-off area, following a small crowd of turtles. Collectively, the crowd moves closer to the waterfront, along with the baby turtles. The first few turtles reach the water’s edge and the crowd cheers. The rolling waves toss one turtle back, but after taking a moment to adjust itself, the turtle trudges forth, regains its momentum. I keep my eyes on that turtle as it inches into the surf, with no doubt of its purpose, determined to continue despite the strong waves lapping against it. I lose sight of it as the wave rolls over it. Its shell emerges for an instant and is quickly lost again, swallowed up, accepted by its new home.

  I turn back to look at the rest of the baby turtles, who will not stop until they’re completely submerged by the massive ocean. They vanish into darkened waters, not to return to the sandy shores until some of them—the mothers—come back to lay their eggs in the very place where they themselves have hatched.

  “This is pretty amazing,” Charlie murmurs. “Thanks for letting me come.”

  Minutes later, most of the turtles have been pulled into the deep, and only a few especially slow-moving ones remain. Some of the crowd has dispersed, but many of us have squeezed together to watch these unhurried creatures.

  Charlie stays by my side as I edge my way to the water, following the last of them. “Come on, buddy,” he urges the small one he’s filming with his phone camera.

  When the last turtle finally disappears, there’s a moment of complete silence. Our eyes all face the water’s edge, straining
for a last glimpse, but they’re gone, carried away in the vast ocean, headed to diverse places, unknown to us, unknown even to them.

  The watchers behind me begin moving away from the shore. The little girl yawns and turns away from the water, following her mother’s gentle pull. She turns back once more and waves her hand at the ocean.

  Charlie drops down to the sand and watches some of the footage he’s taken. “Want to sit for a minute?” he asks.

  I sit next to him, leaning back on my hands behind me.

  “It all happened so fast,” I say. “I wish it would last longer.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  The sun is just starting to rise, and I can feel its warmth on my back. “I just want to stay here all day and never leave.”

  “Well, I’m in no hurry.” He leans back and lies on the ground, his arms crossed behind his head.

  I want to lie down next to him, but even more, I want to just stare out into the ocean. I want to imagine what’s in there—the sea life that I’ve learned about from books and documentaries. An infinite number of species lives in there, simultaneously among each other, around each other. And they all belong in there; all of them.

  I look back at Charlie, and his eyes are closed. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but after a moment he smiles. “I can tell you’re watching me,” he says.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just trying to figure out if you were asleep.”

  “No. Just thinking.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “That I’m starving. Want to go get some breakfast?”

  I laugh. “And here I was assuming you were having deep existential thoughts.”

  “Hey, don’t blame a guy for being hungry.” He sits up and scoots closer to me, his knees bent and his arms encircling them. “So, I know a great little Mexican place that serves the best breakfast. It’s on the Southside. Do you like Mexican food?”