3volve

  I don’t know any of their favorites. What do they like to eat? Why do they love basketball so much? I don’t know who their friends are.

  All we have in common are the few holidays Mom dragged me to and when we played hide-and-seek. They were so small when I left for college, and now they tower over me. They didn’t grow up with all the damage on the street that I had to. Everything was so easy for them when they came along.

  I push any lingering resentment and guilt away as I begin breakfast. Sure, I may not know how to cook anything but chicken for dinner, but I sure as hell got breakfast down—now all I have to do is have them down here to eat it before we’re late again.

  In the two weeks since Vanessa and Charlie left, I have the whole cooking thing down. I can make great breakfast now. I drink my coffee at the kitchen table while I wait for them to come down.

  “I cooked breakfast!” I say, excitedly sipping my coffee as they come clambering down from the stairs to the table.

  “Cool,” Jeremiah says, sitting down to eat. His arm is curled around the plate to fit his large frame in such a small space—maybe I should think about getting a larger table.

  Jeremy leans against the entryway, crossing his arms. I can feel his attitude swelling every day. He hasn’t eaten my breakfast and I’m getting annoyed. At least I’m not letting them fend for themselves. Who the hell does he think he is getting off on treating me like some stranger? I made one wrong move not picking them up early, one day, and suddenly I started global warming!

  “Aren’t you going to try it?” I ask him, upset, but he just shakes his head. “It’s good, I promise. I’m getting totally better at this.” I pile food on a plate, waving it around in front of him, hoping the smell registers something.

  Jeremy shrugs. “I’m not hungry,” he says, pushing it away.

  “Okay…. Well, here’s lunch money,” I hand them each three dollars.

  “Thanks Cris,” Jeremiah says with a mouthful of eggs. He smiles and it makes me feel better. At least Jeremiah isn’t mad at me.

  Jeremy shoves the money in his pocket. “You’re not going to forget us again, right?”

  I sigh, disgusted, “I didn’t forget you. I had an accident. Jeez, that was weeks ago! You really need to let it go.”

  “Not to me.” He grabs his backpack and slaps Jeremiah on the back of his head. “Let’s go, before we’re late.”

  I rush to school, trying to make up time we lost with breakfast. My timing is still off. I hit the dash annoyed we’re late again. But what’s the point of telling them I’m sorry when they probably think I don’t mean it.

  I sign them in at the office and adjust their shirts before they leave. I smile, hoping they can see I’m not deliberately trying to make them late to homeroom.

  The attendance clerk waits for Jeremy and Jeremiah to leave the room before she perks her head up. “Three tardies will mean an absence, Ms. Escobedo,” the clerk tells me, closing the binder firmly.

  “Yes, I know. I’m trying, I swear,” I tell her, putting my driver’s license back into my wallet.

  “Perhaps leaving earlier?” she offers, clasping the binder to her chest. Her demeanor quickly changes with her stance, from firm to pity. “I know it must be hard, but if you don’t start applying yourself, then they are the ones who will suffer. We all have to be on the same page about their education.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, hurt with such an accusation.

  “If students are consistently late, then they will fall behind in school. You are responsible for getting them here on time. Otherwise we will have to take interventions to assure their education,” she says, handing me a yellow sheet of paper. “Consider this a warning. You don’t want them to fail in life, right?”

  I scoff, buildings may have gotten nicer, but school attitudes sure remain the same. I grab the sheet of paper: Attendance Policy, Parents/Guardians have been notified of the seriousness of regular, on time attendance of their student(s). Attendance is mandatory every day, please work with us to ensure the education of our students, so they may achieve success.

  She lays down another sheet of paper. “If you can sign that you have been given this notice.”

  I nod, signing the paper. She staples it to another sheet and files it away behind her in their school folder.

  I hang my head in resignation. “I’m sorry. You are totally right. I will try harder, I will,” I nod, turning around towards the now empty parking lot.

  “Another wonderful freakin’ day,” I whisper under my breath, kicking my tire.

  I throw the notice on my dash and then rest my head on my steering wheel, screaming all the frustration out of my system. When I pick my head up, there are a few concerned looking kids and a parent staring at me, eyes popping out like I’m in a wild cartoon—when is the anvil going to hit me? I shake my head at them, like “What, you’ve never seen a frustrated person before.” Ugh.

  I grab my phone and call Vanessa because I know she’ll know what to say to make me feel better.

  She answers on the first ring. “Chica, I’m going into work,” she tells me in a rushed tone. Yeah, she’s exactly who I should’ve called.

  “Nessa, I don’t know what I’m doing. They hate me,” I whine into the phone, abusing my steering wheel some more.

  “They do not hate you, you’re their sister.”

  “Ha. Maybe they need a reminder,” I roll my eyes, knowing very well she can’t see.

  “They need time.”

  “It’s been like three weeks and they still don’t want to talk to me. I can barely get a groan to register.”

  “They’re teenage boys, Cris. That sounds like an accomplishment for them.”

  I laugh, throwing my head back against my seat. “It’s hard.”

  “Suck it up and get a job!” she says facetiously.

  “I’m trying!” I cry out.

  “Sorry, tough love,” she says softer. “Look, I have to go. I packed all your stuff. So you don’t have to worry about it,” Vanessa tells me, talking over the large crowd in the lobby.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, closing my eyes to calm down.

  “You’re doing fine. Call me later, k?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Nessa.”

  “Sure. Bye!” she says enthusiastically, hanging up.

  I open my eyes. “I can do this. I got this,” I tell myself like it’s a mantra in my rearview mirror. I fasten my seatbelt, when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number but answer, hoping it’s not a bill collector.

  “Hello?” I ask cautiously. Answering phones lately hasn’t exactly brought me luck.

  “Hello, I’m calling for Cristal Escobedo. This is Mr. Rydel from Grocer’s calling about the application you submitted. Are you free to come in for an interview?”

  “Of course! Yes, thank you for calling me.”

  “Wonderful. I know this is short notice, but are you available to come now?” he asks gingerly.

  “Yes, I can,” I answer, looking down at my outfit. It’s not the best thing to wear to an interview, but it looks conservative and professional.

  “Okay, good. Do you know where we are located?” he asks.

  “I do.”

  “Good, good. So I will see you soon?”

  “Yes. Thank you, sir. See you soon.” I hang up the phone, squealing with delight that something good is finally happening.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I enter Grocer’s into my GPS and drive to the supermarket. Nervous, I pat down the wrinkles forming on my dress and pull back my hair into a tight bun. Walking into the store, I see the flies buzzing around the fruit stands. The line is long for a raspa. If everything goes well maybe I’ll treat myself with one. I smile, hopeful everything will finally go well for us.

  The interview goes absolutely perfect. Mr. Rydel provides me with two uniform shirts to wear and tells me I need to get some black pants, which won’t be hard considering the high school wardrobe filling my closet. He was very flex
ible with my work schedule, allowing me to work while the boys are in school.

  I walk out feeling relieved. Sitting in my car outside, I just know that my parents are looking down on me, gracing me with a little good luck.

  My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. Charlie sent me a text: I’m in town. See U Soon! :].

  I reply: I have great news! See you soon :).

  I still have a bunch of time before I have to pick them up, so I decide to pay my parents a visit before heading home. I pick up a nice flower arrangement across the street from the cemetery. I haven’t been here since the funeral. I drive into the archway, slowly driving through the winding pathway to their burial plot.

  I park my car along the edge of the tree line. Grabbing the flowers, I walk over to them, sitting down in front of their fresh graves. The plaque I ordered hasn’t been placed on their plot yet, so the cardboard name boards are still on a small piece of wood standing up in the ground.

  The wood looks like a toothpick. It’s too small to hold such important names as my parents. How can they just leave these sticks here? Can’t they afford more suitable name holders? I mean they charge more than enough for it.

  I start to feel the tears well up. Reaching out to touch their names, I see they are fading to yellow from being in the sun all day.

  I lay down the flowers between them, crossing my legs. “So I got a job today,” my voice croaks out, sounding weaker than I meant it to. I clear my throat and try again. “This is new to me, the whole talking to you thing. I uh…I feel like you both are looking over me, I guess to make sure I don’t screw anything up. But if you are, looking after me, thank you.”

  I place my palms over their spots. “I’m really trying here. I know the school looks at me and sees the delinquent, no-nonsense student who is stuck raising two burgeoning teenage boys. They must be so afraid I’ll turn them into me.” I laugh, trying to conceal my pain from them even though they probably see right through me.

  “But I do care about their education and I’m trying not to let you down, Mama. I just don’t think I have it in me,” I say, wiping my tears and leaning back against the grass. I stare up at the sparkling blue sky.

  As I lay here thinking of them both, the clouds decide to merge together—a melding of bodies and shapes. A cloud shaped like a seahorse is inching its way closer to a smaller looking flower. It swallows it whole. I know how you feel flower cloud. I turn my head to concentrate on the crisp blades of grass. Wouldn’t life be simpler being the morning dew on a blade of grass?

  Remembering I still have to greet Charlie at home, biting my lip, I stand back up and shake the dirt off my dress. Comforted that I finally saw them, even for a brief moment, I drive home.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Charlie is already there waiting for me on the stoop when I drive up. He’s wearing a nice gray and blue suit, so he must have come from the office. I’m happy he’s here but at the same time I feel so guilty. There are bags under his eyes that weren’t there a few weeks ago. I know he’s here because he’s just looking out for us, but the drive looks like it’s taking its toll.

  I stop in front of him, taking in his languish appearance. “You look like crap,” I finally say, sitting down next to him.

  He covers his heart. “Ooh the anguish,” he smirks. And I can see the light in his eyes flicker briefly before they wash over with exhaustion again.

  “You look tired.” I rest my hand on his knee.

  He places his hand over mine and squeezes my hand, “I’ve been putting in longer hours,” he says, pulling away from me. He shifts to look at me, “So what’s the good news?”

  I try not overanalyzing why he pulled away and look up at him, “Alright, brace yourself,” I say proudly. “I got a job!” I finish with a big smile. My face isn’t used to smiling as of late, so I can feel the push and pull of my muscles fighting to be used again.

  “Wow. That is good news!” He bumps my shoulder, “I knew you were going to get one sooner or later.”

  “Well I’m glad it happened sooner rather than later because I’m running low on savings.”

  “I feel like good fortune is headed your way sooner than you think.” He smiles, dimples showing. And I see him again, the person who doesn’t shirk away from my touch.

  “I hope so,” I say, getting up. “So what are we still doing out here?” I open the front door and throw my purse on the side table. “What happened to your key?”

  “I forgot it at…uh…you know, I don’t remember where I left it,” he stammers, setting his suitcase down by the door. He’s never forgotten his key. I turn around, eyeing him suspiciously, but he shrugs it off. “So what have I missed?” he asks, changing the subject.

  He thinks I don’t know he’s hiding something—little sneaky sneak. Fine. I’ll go along with it and ask Nessa later. “My cooking is off the chain now.” I throw my keys into the bowl.

  “Ha. Right. Now tell me what’s really happened this week?” he takes off his coat and hangs it on the coat rack.

  “Seriously,” I insist, pulling him to the kitchen. “Look,” I open the fridge to show him all the leftovers.

  “Color me impressed,” he says, grabbing a dish and warming it up in the microwave. He leans against the counter, crossing his long legs and staring at the clock on the wall.

  “You okay?” I ask, following his gaze across the room.

  “Uh huh,” he says. The microwave dings and he pulls out his food. “I’m expecting a call is all.”

  “Alright,” I shrug. Maybe it really is work stuff. I wave him off, instead of staying to keep him company, I walk to the stairs and sit down on the steps, pulling out my phone.

  I text Vanessa. What’s up w Charlie? I send, waiting for a response.

  When my phone buzzes, I click on the message. He has to tell you.

  I text back. Tell me what?

  Vanessa responds, I can’t. Ask him.

  Fine. I push in with force, pushing send.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie asks, towering over me. He’s eating out of the container. Ugh, such a guy thing to do.

  “What’s going on with you? I know something is up, I’m not stupid,” I say, putting my phone back in my pocket.

  He groans, “Later. I need to take a nap first.” He takes a bite of my chicken enchiladas.

  I haven’t been gone for three weeks and everyone is already keeping secrets. “Fine,” I say getting up and walking to my room. “You can sleep in my room.”

  He runs his hand through his hair, “Great, I just need a few hours to catch up.”

  “Then you’ll let me in on what you’re not telling me?” I ask, opening my door for him to walk through.

  “Yes,” he sits down on my bed, laying the empty container on the nightstand. “Wow, this room is clean.” He sounds surprised, running his hand over my clean sheets. He looks around my room, and I can see his facial expression change. He looks between the bathroom and the bed. A solemn expression takes form, lips puckered at some newfound information he’s not letting on yet.

  I choose to ignore his look of disappointment because he’s tired. “Don’t sound so surprised. I can clean,” I argue, stepping in front of the bathroom.

  He stops scanning the room, looking up at me—the look he gives when he knows I’m lying. “You know you shouldn’t be sleeping in their room,” he says, looking across the hallway.

  “I didn’t say I was sleeping in there.” I cross my arms.

  Charlie kicks his feet up and walks across the way to their room. He opens the door and sees the tangled up sheets and clothes on the floor. He doesn’t have to say anything; I can feel his thoughts intruding my head: You shouldn’t be sleeping in here. Why don’t you pick up your clothes, it’s not that hard? What are the twins supposed to think if you close yourself off in here?

  Instead of saying what I know he’s thinking, he pulls me into his arms. I sink into his embrace, pressing my face into his chest. His warmth was always a constan
t I knew I could depend on. I cling to the back of his dress shirt, not wanting him to let me go this time.

  “I know, I know what you are going to say, but I feel safe,” I whisper into his chest.

  “It’s not healthy. You should be sleeping in your room. It can’t be good for you in the long run,” he says, rubbing my back. He’s usually a strong and assuring presence, but now I can feel him starting to pull away. Even if he’s still holding me, I know he’s not here with me in the moment. He’s checked out somewhere else.

  “I won’t sleep in here forever. I just need it now,” I tell him, not wanting to let go of my hold on him.

  He looks around the room, not wanting to push it further, and says, “Okay. We both have secrets it seems.”

  What kind of secrets is he keeping from me? I look for answers in his moves in his sad brown eyes. Instead, he rubs his blood-shot eyes, walking back to my room. I follow him to probe him for answers. When I get to the room, I see him loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. I stop, turning around to close my eyes. “Sorry,” I tell him. Although, I’m not sure why I close my eyes—I already turned around.

  He chuckles at my sudden bashfulness. “You can turn around now.”

  I turn around to see him wearing a tight-fitted shirt. He lays down on the bed, hanging his legs over the edge, draping his arm over his eyes. Charlie pats the bed for me to sit down next to him.

  Reluctantly I sit down and roll on my side to look up at him. “So, why are you so tired?” I ask, resting my head on my elbow.

  “Long hours.” He peeks at me through the crook of his arm. He looks at me with a lingering stare. And I begin to feel uncomfortable, shifting in the bed.

  Why am I getting uncomfortable? This isn’t the first time we’ve laid next to each other except, before he never looked at me like he is now. Except before, I wasn’t wondering if he liked me. Changing positions, I move to lay back down on the bed, asking, “Why have you been working long hours?”