Better With You Here (9781609417819)

by Zepeda, Gwendolyn

  First of all, whatever you think about me, I have to tell you that Haley’s worse. I lied a little bit, after I first met her and Natasha. But she was lying to both of us the whole time. And I knew it, too. I could tell.

  Wait. Hold up. I have to ask you one more time and make sure. You’re not going to tell anybody what I’m telling you? Like the judge? Or Natasha’s ex?

  All right. I just wanted to make sure.

  Yeah, I think so, too. It’s going to make me feel better to tell somebody all this shit.

  Alex

  Today is stupid, because we have to review two-digit division and I’ve been knowing how to do that for a long time now, since Dad showed me. I already finished my worksheet, but Ms. Hubacek gets mad if I draw in her class. So I’ll cover my paper with my book, and then she won’t see me doing it. I’m going to draw Venom fighting Black Widow.

  “Alex.” Ms. Hubacek calls me. Maybe she’s going to let me be her assistant, since I’m finished with my classwork. No, she only lets girls assist her. She’s probably going to get mad at me for something. I leave my book on top of my picture and go to her desk.

  She says I have to go in the hall and talk to some lady. She says the lady has permission from Principal Moyers to be there.

  Out in the hall, there’s someone waiting, but I don’t know who she is. She’s a black lady and kind of fat. She looks like one of the ladies at my dad’s work, a little bit, but I don’t think it’s her, unless she got a different hairdo and put on red lipstick.

  She says, “Hello, Alex. My name is Miss Gloria.” She’s definitely not the lady from my dad’s work, because that one’s name isn’t Gloria. “Would you mind talking to me for a little while, Alex? I need to ask you some questions.” She has a sticky name tag, like the one that all visitors have to wear, and she also has another name tag with her picture, on a string around her neck. It says GLORIA JOHNSON, CPS.

  I say, “Are you a teacher?”

  She says, “Not exactly. It’s my job to help keep all the boys and girls in Dallas safe. I need to ask you a few questions to make sure you’re safe, okay, sweetie?”

  “Are you the police?”

  She says, “No, sweetie. But I help the police sometimes. Why don’t you come over here with me so we can talk real quick and then get you back to your teacher?”

  She sits in one of the hall chairs that kids have to sit in when they make bad choices or when they need to take a test. I follow her and sit in the other chair. She takes a pen and a paper out of her little suitcase.

  “Okay, sweetie. First question: Has anyone hit you recently? Has anyone been spanking you or hitting you anywhere on your body?”

  I think about Angelica’s mom hitting Monique on the butt, last time at the park. Is this lady going to talk to all the kids in school? I wonder what will happen if Angelica or Monique says that their mom spanks them sometimes. Will this lady call the police? I shake my head.

  “Second question: Has anybody been yelling at you or calling you names? Any grown-up, I mean?”

  Yes. I can think of two grown-ups who did that.

  “Sweetie, you can tell Miss Gloria anything. Whatever you tell me stays right here.” She does her hand on her mouth like it’s a zipper. “I won’t tell your mommy or your daddy what you say—it’s just between us.”

  Who is she going to tell, then? The police? Principal Moyers? She’s waiting for me to answer. I wonder what happens if I don’t say anything. Will I get in trouble?

  “Sweetie? Do you understand the question?”

  I say, “Sometimes Ms. Hubacek yells at me. Me and the other kids. And sometimes my dad yells at me when I don’t do good at football. But he doesn’t call me names. He just says, ‘Come on, Alex! Don’t be such a wuss!’”

  I want to tell her more about Ms. Hubacek being mean, but I’m afraid Ms. Hubacek will find out what I said and yell at me in class, in front of everyone. She’s already more mean to me than before, since my mom talked to her about letting me go to the bathroom.

  Maybe Mom sent Miss Gloria here to spy on Ms. Hubacek.

  Miss Gloria says, “Okay, honey. I understand. What about your mommy? Does your mommy ever yell or call you names? Or hit you?”

  Maybe she’s testing me now, to see if I’m telling the truth. I say, “No. My mom yells a lot, but not at me.”

  Miss Gloria leans down and makes the little chair creak. She says, “What about your sister, Lucia? Does your mommy yell at her? Or hit her?”

  “No. She never yells at Lucia. Lucia never even gets in trouble, and she does bad stuff all the time.”

  “But you do get in trouble?” Miss Gloria asks.

  “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “For what? What happens, when you get in trouble?”

  I think about the question. “Like, sometimes if I don’t finish my homework or don’t share with Lucia, my mom takes my video games away. Or she says I can’t watch TV. One time she unplugged the TV and the video games and made me and Lucia clean our room. But that was Lucia’s fault, because she put cereal on the floor for Mr. Beary.” Miss Gloria just looks at me, so I say, “That’s her teddy bear.”

  “Okay, sweetie.” She writes on her paper a little bit, then puts it back in her purse. Then she stands up, so I do, too.

  “Thank you, Alex. You did a great job,” she tells me. I’m glad. Then she says, “Sweetie, do me a favor and let’s keep this talk between you and me, okay?”

  I think she means that it’s supposed to be a secret. “You mean, don’t tell the other kids?”

  She says, “I mean, don’t tell anyone.”

  I say, “You mean, don’t even tell my mom and dad?”

  She says, “Well, not unless they ask you. Your mom probably won’t ask you.” Then she leaves.

  Angelica always sits next to Monique on the school bus. I’m supposed to sit with Lucia, but I never do. She likes to be up front with a bunch of kindergarten girls. Every time the bus goes over a bump, they jump up and scream. I like to sit with my friends in the back, where I can see everybody else. Like right now, I can see that Tiffany’s started sitting next to Lucia. And I see Angelica looking out the window.

  We all get off the bus at our apartment, with the other kids who live there. We say bye to Angelica and Monique. They knock on their door, and their mom opens it and waves to us.

  My mom has to go to a class tonight, for her job. I remember that now, because Miss Buena is waiting by our apartment door. Tiffany and Lucia run over to her.

  Miss Buena tells us, “Alex, Lucia, your mama’s not going to be home until later. Y’all come on up with me.”

  I have the key to our apartment in my pocket, for emergencies. I could go inside if I wanted to. “Miss Buena, can we stay here? Or can Lucia go with you and I’ll stay here?” If I stay here by myself, I can play video games for as long as I want without having to give Lucia her turn. I won’t be scared, as long as Mom comes home before it gets too dark. “I’ll keep the door locked until my mom gets home.”

  “No, m’ijo. You know I can’t let you do that,” Miss Buena says.

  I don’t even get to unlock our apartment and get my game. We have to go straight to Miss Buena’s apartment, on the third floor. At least we get to ride the elevator.

  It’s boring here when it’s only us. Lucia’s in Tiffany’s room, playing with all her dolls. There’s no video games and no computer, and there’s only one TV. It’s on some dumb show about fishing and we can’t change the channel because Miss Buena said Mr. Oscar is watching it. But really he’s just asleep on the couch. I can see his eyes behind his glasses. They’re closed. So I’m sitting here reading the comics from the newspaper. They’re boring, too. Miss Buena asked me if I had any studying to do, but I already finished all my homework in class today.

  I wish I could’ve stayed in our apartment by myself. Mom told me this morning that I’d be too scared, but I know that I wouldn’t be. I’m older now. I’m eight.

  Maybe if I go in the kitc
hen, Miss Buena will give me another brownie.

  The kitchen smells like a taco restaurant. Miss Buena’s cooking something on the stove with both hands, and she’s holding her phone between her ear and her shoulder, with no hands, so she can talk at the same time. It’s rude to interrupt grown-ups when they’re talking on the phone, so I wait for her to finish. Miss Buena’s kitchen is full of chicken decorations. The calendar on the wall has a picture of a really big chicken wearing an apron. There are X’s on the days that already passed. I can see that there’s four more days until Halloween.

  Miss Buena is saying, “No, that’s what I said. She doesn’t have to work because her husband pays for everything.…Right. Because he doesn’t know. But she wants to work.…No, you know. So she can be on her own. You know how the girls are now.”

  She says some words in Spanish, just like my grandma does when she talks on the phone. Old people like to do that. Miss Buena says, “Girl, I know. That’s what I’m saying. I’d live in a better place than this.” She nods her head yes, then shakes it no. “No, her and the other one get along good. They’ve all been talking together when they go to the park with the little ones.…Right. The one who works at the club.…Yeah, that’s what I said—that they’d all start getting along.…Mm-hmm.…What’s that?…Which one, esta Natasha?”

  She’s talking about my mom now.

  “Well, from what she’s told me, her ex has been calling about the boy.”

  She means my dad. He’s been calling Mom to talk about me.

  “Hold on a second,” she says. She turns around and sees me, then says, “Ruby, let me call you back, girl. I’m about to burn my chorizo over here.” She hangs up the phone and puts it on the counter. “What’s wrong, m’ijo?”

  I want to ask her what she was going to say about my dad. What has he been telling Mom about me? What if it’s something bad, like he’s mad about the accidents at school? Or about me not sharing with Missy’s baby?

  No, I change my mind. I don’t want to know. “Can I have another brownie, please?”

  She smiles and touches my hair. “Of course you can, m’ijo.” She turns off the stove and gets a paper towel from the roller that’s shaped like a chicken. Then she goes to the butcher block and lifts the big pink upside-down bowl that’s covering the brownies. “Do you want one with nuts or not a lot of nuts?”

  “Not a lot,” I say.

  She puts a big brownie on the paper towel and tells me to go sit on the couch and be careful not to spill crumbs. Then she goes to the doorway and says, “Oscar,” real loud.

  Mr. Oscar comes in. He’s yawning. Real fast, Miss Buena makes him a plate full of cut-up potatoes and eggs with orange stuff all over them. She opens her chicken-shaped basket and gets a tortilla and puts it on top of his plate. Then she opens a little chicken-shaped decoration that’s full of hot sauce, and he puts it all over his food.

  He looks at me and says, “You’re not eating chorizo and eggs, boy?”

  He sounds mean, but I can tell he’s not. Old people like to pretend to talk mean sometimes. I say, “No, sir.”

  He says, “That brownie’s going to rot your teeth.”

  When he talks, I can see that he has a gold tooth. Maybe from eating brownies. But he’s also kind of skinny, and my mom says brownies and cupcakes make you fat. I don’t say anything. We go to the living room and sit on the couch to eat. Mr. Oscar asks me, “How old are you, boy?”

  “I just turned eight.”

  He says, “Just turned eight, huh? You must be the man of the house, then.” I nod my head, even though I’m not a man. But I guess he knows that and he’s just kidding. “You help your mama? Help take care of her and your sister?”

  I nod my head again. But really, I don’t know if I do take care of them. Maybe I don’t.

  He says, “You bring any toys up here with you? Books? Cards? There’s nothing but girl toys in this house.”

  I shake my head. He said house, but I guess he meant apartment.

  He says, “Why don’t you watch TV, then? Put it on whatever you want.” He gives me the controller, and I put it on cartoons.

  Miss Buena’s standing there watching us, and Mr. Oscar starts talking to her about doctors and medicine. When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, and she follows him.

  I’m finished with my brownie. I pick up the crumbs that fell on the couch and take my paper towel to the kitchen to throw it away. When I get in there, I see Miss Buena standing at the sink looking down, like she was going to wash the dishes but she forgot.

  Mr. Oscar goes, “Vieja? Gero, you listening to me?” She doesn’t look at him, so he goes over next to her, where he can see her face, and says, “Gero, are you okay? When’s the last time you took your medicine?”

  She shakes her head and tells him, “I’m about to take it. I’m just thinking about Cristina.”

  Mr. Oscar says, “Ai, vieja.” He goes back to the living room.

  I have to hurry to the living room, too. I don’t like to see Miss Buena take her medicine. She has to give herself a shot in the arm, with a needle, like she’s a doctor. I don’t like to watch people get shots. And also, I want to get back on the couch before Mr. Oscar forgets what he said and changes the channel.

  Sara

  It’s not like I wanted to lie. At first I was telling the truth.

  When I first saw Natasha, I remembered her, right off the bat. She went to high school with me. We had a couple of classes together, but we never hung out or anything. The reason I always remember her was this one time in gym class. There was this gang of girls who hated my guts, and our class had to play dodgeball against theirs.

  None of my friends had shown up to school that day, so I was all by myself. And I was real skinny back then—even littler and skinnier than I am now. Don’t get me wrong—I could take anybody in a fight. But we couldn’t fight in gym, and these chicks were about to beat the crap out of me with a bunch of balls—those hard white ones that sting like hell.

  So I was the last one standing on our side, and I was getting my ass beat by these ugly east side chicks, with everybody in the whole gym watching—boys’ classes, too—when this chick Natasha stood up and walked back into the game. I remember she told me, “Don’t just give up.” And she started catching the balls and throwing them back at those ugly skanks. She was in sports or something, so she could throw harder than hell.

  The coach came over and told her to sit down, and Natasha started talking back to her, saying it wasn’t fair with twenty people against one. And she didn’t even get in trouble for talking back. The coach just told us both to sit down. And I remember thinking, That chick’s not too bad, for a schoolgirl. That was what we called them then, the chicks who never cut class or smoked or anything. The ones who followed the rules and did their homework.

  So when I saw her at our apartments, in the laundry room, I remembered her. And I thought it was kind of weird that she lived there, and I figured she had just moved in.

  Why? Because our apartments aren’t the nicest place around, you know. I guess I figured someone like her would be living in town, in a house or something.

  Someone like…you know. Someone who didn’t grow up broke and messed up, like I did.

  Yeah. I told her hi, remember me? All that stuff. I don’t think she did remember me at first, but then she said “Sara,” and I said right. She was looking at the sign Geronima had put on the wall for baby-sitting, and she asked if I knew anything about that. I’d been taking my kids to Gero’s for a couple of weeks by then, so I offered to take Natasha up to meet the old lady. So we went up, and Gero invited us to dinner. And that was when we met Haley.

  Yeah, that’s right. I mean, I had seen Haley in the hall and the parking garage, but I never talked to her. And Gero had mentioned her a few times. She’d say, “My friend Haley just moved here. She’s a real nice girl, with a little boy Monique’s age. You should meet her.”

  And I thought that was weird, rig
ht off the bat. Why would an old woman have a friend like Haley—young and rich—and why would someone like Haley be living there in those apartments with her kid? Natasha told me Haley thought living there was an adventure or some shit. She said sometimes rich people think it’s fun to pretend they’re poor.

  Haley told us later that her and Gero weren’t really friends, but Gero used to take care of her and work for her mom. Basically, Gero was Haley’s maid, back in the day. She told us that, and Natasha was like, okay, whatever. She’s like that—she just listens to whatever people have to say and doesn’t make comments or get all into their business about it.

  But I thought it was weird, so I asked Gero about it later. She told me, “Haley’s a good girl. She’s going through some hard times right now and really needs some friends. I’m glad she’s getting along so good with you and Natasha.”

  What did I think of that? I didn’t know. To hear her tell it, Haley had everything with her husband. A nice house and plenty of money, and she didn’t have to work. She didn’t even have to mess with her kid if she didn’t want to. She had her own maid and baby-sitter and all that. But she wasn’t happy. She was on pills and who knows what all else, and she didn’t want to be with that dude anymore.

  Why do I say that? Well, she told us about the pills, right off the bat. Her doctor gave them to her for depression or anxiety or whatever. But I kind of suspected, when we first met her, that she was a pothead, too. You know how potheads act real flaky sometimes? Haley acted kind of flaky, when she wasn’t freaking out about her kid. Then, later, when she had us over at her apartment, I knew it for sure. You know how potheads keep their places messy as hell and it has that smell? Well, she kept the living room and the kitchen pretty clean, but her bedroom was a total weed smoker’s room. Clothes all over the floor, little boxes and trays laying around everywhere. Now that I think about it, she probably had a maid come over to clean the other rooms for her.