“Yeah, it’s good.”
“Is Mexican food similar to Guatemalan food?” he asks. I’m pleasantly surprised that he remembers where my family is from. Most people in South Texas just assume that I’m Mexican, which doesn’t really bother me, I guess. Or didn’t, before the note in my locker and arsonist’s message on our sidewalk.
“Some things are similar, but some are different,” I tell him. “Our enchiladas and tamales are different. We eat more black beans than pinto beans, more corn tortillas. But basics are still rice and beans.”
“Well then, how about breakfast?” he asks, dusting sand off his pants.
“You don’t have to take me to breakfast,” I say.
“Come on. You just let me tag along with you so I could see this incredible thing. At least let me buy you a little breakfast. One taco?” he says the word taco with his best Spanish pronunciation.
I laugh even though I know he wasn’t saying it that way to be funny. He just wanted to say it the right way.
“That’s all?” I say, standing up. I dust off my legs and bottom, trying to get all the sand off. “I show you the amazing Kemp’s ridley turtle hatchlings being released into the ocean, and that’s all the compensation I get?”
“All right, how about . . . three tacos plus rice and beans, and chips and salsa, and a freshly squeezed orange juice? Okay, two freshly squeezed orange juices. Those are tiny glasses.” He holds out his thumb and forefinger to show me just how small.
I smile at him as we amble back up the wooden walkway.
≈
The line of cars waiting for the restaurant’s drive-thru stretches all the way down the block, holding up traffic. Charlie goes around that lane and turns into the parking lot.
“Seems like a popular place,” I say.
“Yeah. Especially on Saturday mornings. So this should take care of any doubts you had about my taste in restaurants.”
Inside, a server shows us to a table and asks us in Spanish what we’d like to drink.
Out of habit, and because I believe it’s respectful to answer in Spanish if someone addresses me in Spanish, I say, “Jugo de naranja, por favor.”
Charlie asks for orange juice too, in his nearly perfect accent.
The woman gives us menus and tells us in Spanish that the drinks will be right out.
“Where’d you learn Spanish?” I ask Charlie, smoothing the paper napkin onto my lap.
“You’re laughing at me,” he says looking down at his menu.
“No, I’m not. It’s good. I was just wondering where you’ve learned it.”
“I’ve taken Spanish since seventh grade, and I speak to your mom in Spanish. She’s helped me with my homework before. I ask her how to say stuff.”
“Oh yeah—I noticed that.” Until we moved into the Wheeler house, I never thought about what his interactions with my mother might be. I guess I just imagined that she would do her work in relative silence around the family while they went about their lives. But that’s not how the Wheelers operate. The Wheelers take interest in those around them. Whenever I’ve seen Mr. or Dr. Wheeler they’ve asked me multiple questions about how I’m doing and what’s going on in my life. I guess Charlie is like that too.
“So, does my mom ever talk about me?” I ask him.
He looks up from the menu, a smile playing on his lips. “All the time. If you only knew the stuff she tells me.” The smile reaches his eyes, and he winks.
“Come on. Really.”
He shrugs. “She just, I don’t know, tells us when one of you does well at something. Like when Selena won the spelling bee or Cecilia became the top reader in her class or Javi went on that city council field trip. And when you . . .” He looks up from his menu again, his eyes right on mine. “When you went to get naturalized, got your citizenship.”
That was sophomore year. I took the day off school, Mami took the day off work, and she drove me down to the courthouse. It was such a day of pride for her; I don’t know why I didn’t feel that same pride. It was something I wanted—my American citizenship—but I just resented the long and complicated process it required. I wanted it to be mine already, like it was Ceci’s, Javi’s, and Sele’s. They’d all been born in the United States. It was something that was theirs automatically. Some would call me ungrateful, but I just call myself human.
“She talked about that for weeks before and after,” Charlie goes on. If he notices the change in my demeanor, the sudden onset of my discomfort, he doesn’t let on. “She was so happy that the two of you were finally going to be citizens. She told me about how it took years, most of your life, in fact, to finally get there. I think it’s her greatest source of pride—that you’re all citizens now.”
He says the last word more quietly, almost like he regrets it. And I know why. It’s been three years since my father died. He lived his life impeccably, wouldn’t go a mile over the speed limit, and couldn’t wait for the day when he could call himself an American citizen. He didn’t live long enough to see that day. We’re not all citizens now. Not him.
“So, what’s good here?” I ask quickly.
“I like the huevos rancheros, but all the breakfast tacos are good. Their potatoes are great.”
After the server takes our orders, Charlie says, “Your mom was also really excited when you got the full-ride scholarship to the Island University.” That’s what we locals call TAMU-CC. “She said it was like all her prayers were answered.”
I look down at my hands. “I actually got a full ride to Stanford.”
“Really? To Stanford? That’s amazing. Your mom didn’t tell me.”
I glance at his smiling face. “That’s because I haven’t told her yet. She still thinks I’m staying here.”
“When are you going to tell her?” he asks.
I sigh, trying to find a way to explain. “Well, after everything that’s happened lately, I’m not sure I can go after all. Mami needs me here to help her with the kids, especially now. The Island University is doable if I reapply next year. I could go to school there and still be around for Mami when she needs me.”
Charlie absorbs this for a moment before responding. “Millie, I’m sure your mom will be thrilled for you once you tell her about Stanford. She wouldn’t want you to give up your dream. Of course your family needs you, but they’ll manage.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I have to see what happens this summer—if and when we find a place. I have to see how Selena feels about me leaving, if she can handle it all. She’ll be starting high school. That’s a big thing; I don’t want to put too much pressure on her.”
“Selena is pretty amazing,” Charlie says. “If anyone can take over for you, she can.”
I smile at Charlie’s kind words. “Please, don’t say anything to my mom. I’m just not ready to talk about it with her.”
“Of course, Millie. Don’t worry about it.”
“Great. New topic?”
“Sure. Um, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” I say, noticing that he’s rolling a paper napkin between his fingers. “What is it?”
“So, I know you said you and Jay are done, but he still comes to find you every morning at school. Does he want to get back with you or something?” His expression is neutral enough, but his fidgeting continues.
I decide I don’t mind his nosiness at this particular moment. “Jay is still my friend. I don’t think he wants to get back together. And if he did, I don’t.”
A smile sneaks across his face. “Can I say good?”
I shrug the tiniest bit. “Sure, you can say that.”
“Can I say why?”
“Why I don’t want to be with him?”
He nods.
“He’s a good friend. He’s just a lousy boyfriend. He loves surfing more than he could ever love a girl, or at least love me.”
“Well, sounds like he’s kind of an idiot.”
I laugh and reach for a chip, quickly dipping it in salsa so I can prete
nd that the heat rising to my face is due to the spiciness. “Yeah, pretty much,” I say, bits of chip still in my mouth. I swallow and take a long drink of water. “We would have plans, you know, like an actual date planned with a set movie time, and he’d go surfing for just a couple hours, he would say. And then, it’s five minutes before the movie starts, and he still hasn’t picked me up. And then the movie time comes and goes, and nothing. He’s still surfing.”
“No way. He did that to you?”
“Many times. More times than I should have let him.” I dust some crumbs off the table and continue. “I’m sorry, he would say. The waves were so good; I lost track of time. So I kept forgiving him. It wasn’t like he was cheating on me. The other girl was the ocean. And in a way I can understand. I’d go with him sometimes, hang out at the beach while he was surfing. But I couldn’t go with him all the time. I love the ocean too, but I don’t let it affect how I treat other people, people I care about.”
“I’m sorry. You deserve better than that.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. It just took me a while to figure that out. And it’s not like I’m a clingy girlfriend. Go out, be with your friends, go surfing, just don’t make plans with me if you’re not going to keep them. If he were to tell me, I can’t see you this weekend; I’m going to be surfing, I’d say: fine, no problem, and make plans with my friends. But if he says, I’ll pick you up Friday night, then he should pick me up Friday night. So I finally broke up with him.”
“But you’re still friends?”
“Yeah, he feels bad about the way he treated me; he knows he was wrong. And so we’re still friends. I just know not to expect much from him. We hang out if we have the chance, but I never make plans with him anymore. He’s a good guy, you know. Means well. It’s just that surfing comes first with him.”
The server brings over our steaming, overflowing plates, and we dig in. “Well, hope I wasn’t prying too much,” Charlie says before he takes his first bite.
I shake my head and swallow a bite of beans. “That’s okay. So what are your plans for the rest of the weekend?”
“My dad wants me to go to San Antonio with him later today. He’s supposed to go to some dinner up there.”
“That sounds like fun.”
He shrugs. “I guess. Sometimes I don’t really want to go to those things, but it’s hard to say no to my dad.”
I know how hard it is to say no to his dad. Mami never says no to him. I wonder if anyone ever says no to Charles Wheeler.
≈
Inside the Wheeler house, all is quiet. It’s still early, and I figure everyone but Mami is still sleeping. Mami never sleeps in. I remember her saying last night that she wanted to take the kids to the park for a little while today, get them out of the house. She also wanted to take them to the thrift store to get some shorts for summer. I wonder if she’s still planning on doing that. I would love to have some time to myself.
Charlie and I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“Thanks again, Millie,” he says. “It was fun. I guess I won’t see you until tomorrow. I think we’ll be getting back late.”
“Okay. Thanks for coming—and thanks even more for liking it. I had a lot of fun with you.” I can feel myself blushing, but I try to keep my tone casual. “And you were right about that breakfast place.” I head up the stairs, but at the landing, I pause to look down. Charlie is still at the bottom, and he smiles up at me. I flash him a grin before rushing down the hall.
Chapter Eighteen
On Sunday, Charlie and his dad come back from San Antonio, bringing Oscar Zambrano with them. Mami makes a big meal of pot roast and red potatoes, and we all sit around the table to eat while Oscar tells us about what he’s been doing the past few weeks.
“I’ve been to Tornillo, to El Paso. Each time, I take a local member of Congress with me. We’ve been attending rallies to protest the separation of families at the border. The representative tries to gain entrance to the detention center to get a glimpse of the conditions, but the authorities won’t let them in. I’ve heard that conditions are deplorable, with no access to showers and with very little food. There have been reports of the children being abused or neglected. Young children are being put in charge of infants and toddlers. The whole thing is horrible, just horrible.” I notice that Oscar hasn’t even touched his food. It just sits there on his plate, getting cold.
Dr. Wheeler puts her fork down. “What is being done? Is there a group that can bring a lawsuit?”
Oscar nods. “A few immigrant-rights groups are working together on a lawsuit, but so much time has passed already . . . and the worst part is that the government isn’t keeping track of where these children are. Some of the kids are being shipped out of state, and parents don’t know where to reach them.”
“Oscar and I are meeting up with Congresswoman Martinez in Potrillo tomorrow,” adds Mr. Wheeler. “Congresswoman Martinez is going to demand to go inside, to get a look at conditions. All the local news outlets will be covering the visit, which will also draw some coverage for the protests in Potrillo. We have to continue to keep this in the public eye, to get more people speaking out, shaming this administration until they reverse this policy.”
Mr. Wheeler already sounds like he’s making a campaign speech. I imagine his supporters will love seeing him publicly taking a stand on this issue again. I bet even Sele would love it. Maybe I would too, if he were just a random candidate for public office and not someone so closely linked to my family.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Mami asks, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Yes, actually,” Oscar says, setting down his fork. “I wanted to ask if Millie would come with us. She has face and name recognition, and just having her present would add humanity to the event.”
The red potatoes feel like rocks in my stomach. I look at Mami, hoping she’ll tell him that I can’t go. She looks at me silently, with a question in her eyes.
I look back at Oscar, reaching for an answer. “I—I have school tomorrow.”
“Millie, there are only three days left in the school year. They’re not doing anything,” Mami says.
This seems incredibly out of character for her. She’s never let us skip school unless we were too sick to move.
I look around the table; every single eye is on me. That is a total of eighteen eyes. I wish Oscar had waited to ask me privately, not here at the Wheelers’ kitchen table. “I don’t think I can go. I don’t see how I could help. I can’t do anything there to change the situation.”
“Well,” says Oscar, “a lot of my fellow journalists and members of the media have asked me about you, about how you’re handling everything, how you’ve been since the fire. There’s still general interest about you. I’m hoping that your presence will generate more media attention and more coverage. The more coverage we can get, the better.”
My stomach tightens as I feel the pressure he’s laying on me. “I wouldn’t have to speak or anything, right? I would just go and . . . be there. No interview? No nothing?”
“No interviews. No speaking. Just your presence for a show of solidarity.”
I glance back at Mami to gauge her reaction.
“Sandra, if you want to go with her, I can get Jane to pick up the kids from school,” Dr. Wheeler offers.
“I can pick them up,” Charlie says. “Seniors have a field day tomorrow. It’s basically a half day. I’ll pick them up and stay here with them until you get off work, Mom.”
“Oh, Charlie, that would be wonderful. What do you think, Sandra? You want to go with Millie?”
Mami nods. “Yes, I think I should go with her.”
Mami coming with me makes it less scary. I want her with me, by my side, the whole time.
The rocks in my stomach remain rocks, though, and I block out the rest of the dinner conversation while I think about the daunting task of traveling to the border tomorrow.
≈
After dinner, Charlie finds me in
the kitchen. “I think it’s great that you’re going out there, Millie.”
“I wouldn’t use the word great,” I say.
“Well, I’m sure it’s going to be tough, but that’s why it’s all the more important to draw attention to it, right? I know you didn’t choose the fight, but the fight chose you, and it needs you. I think it would be really powerful for you to speak out.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can do it, Charlie. Not if it puts my family in danger.”
“You just don’t see how amazing you are, Millie. You’re Rosa Parks.”
“I’m not Rosa Parks,” I snap. “For one thing, she was already an activist when she got famous. She didn’t get caught by surprise the day she refused to give up her seat on the bus, you know. She planned it. I didn’t plan any of this.”
“Okay, so, maybe not Rosa Parks,” he says. “But you’re Milagros Vargas. And the world needs to know Milagros Vargas. It needs to see that undocumented immigrants aren’t drug runners and criminals, aren’t here for handouts and entitlements. Your family is like millions of others, here to work hard and make a difference. I see that, my dad sees that, and this country needs to see that, and you’re the person to show them that.”
“I’m not,” I say, despising his words, his campaign sound bite. “I’m just me. It’s not my job to convince people that immigrants are humans. Don’t put that responsibility on me.”
He looks surprised, even bewildered. “I’m sorry, Millie. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to say that it’s a fight worth fighting despite the costs.”
I almost let it go, let him say what he wants; it is after all, his house. But his last three words hit me, and I am not going to swallow my anger this time.
“The costs? By costs, do you mean watching my house burn to the ground? I get that it was a small, rundown house, nothing compared to this place,” I say, gesturing around me. “But it was our house. Everything we had was in that house. So, I’m sorry, but this fight is not worth the cost to me!”
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I get carried away with how I want things to be. Please, don’t be mad at me.”
Where I Belong Page 14