by Lulu Delacre
“I’m thinking of granting custody to Doña Sánchez,” Mami continued, slumping on the sofa with a wrinkled shirt on her lap.
“Why are you saying that? Am I not good enough help for you?” Alina blurted out, sitting next to Mami. “Is it because sometimes I pick up Sofi late?”
“Like today. But no, linda, no,” Mami said, reaching for Alina’s chin. “It’s not that.” She tilted her head down. “I’m afraid I could be detained and deported, and you kids would be split up in foster care. I’ve heard horrible stories about that.”
“If you’re deported, we’ll go with you,” pleaded Alina. “We’re not splitting up. We could even join Papi in Honduras,” she added, trying to lighten her fear with hope.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Mami shook her head, rubbing her temples with both hands. “Gangs rule the streets in San Pedro Sula. I can’t do that to all of you.”
That night Alina couldn’t sleep. She thought that if Mami gave Doña Sánchez custody, it might make Mami less afraid of being caught by la migra. And if Mami was deported, how was Alina going to provide for her siblings? Was it true that they could all get split up and handed over to different foster families? She could not imagine being apart from her brothers and sister. Maybe if she were a better helper to Mami, Mami wouldn’t think of granting custody to Doña Sánchez. Alina was scared. And fear forced Alina to peek out of the fog in which she lived. This was her life. And it sucked. She missed talking to Jenny.
All week Alina was on time to pick up Sofi. She did extra chores at home. She mopped the kitchen floor, started dinner, and helped her brothers with homework, so Mami returned from work to find everything in order. On Thursday Alina found three dollars deep inside one of the pockets of her backpack and decided to buy cans of beans and coconut milk at the dollar store to make resanbinsi. Alina hoped that the special rice-and-beans dish would help convince Mami not to go to the Saturday event.
Friday afternoon when she went to pick up Sofi, the neighbor gave Alina some cilantro and garlic for her dish. At home, with Sofi playing inside an empty old box from the move, Alina started chopping onions and garlic, and measuring rice, water, and salt. She could barely concentrate: Her mind kept jumping from images of her dad in a crime-ridden country she didn’t know, to Mami’s foreboding words, to what a foster family might look like. With all the chatter in her brain she didn’t hear the doorbell ring.
“Alina!” someone called, knocking on the front door. Alina immediately recognized the voice. It was Jenny.
“I’ve missed you, girl!” Jenny said, hugging Alina tight the moment the door swung open.
“What are you doing here?” asked Alina. “And how did you find out where I lived?”
“I asked the Sisters at school, silly,” said Jenny. “They know we’re best friends. It’s been too long. And with our birthday coming up on Monday I wanted to see you! So I convinced my mom to drop me here for an hour while she runs some errands. Here, this is for you.”
Alina waved at Jenny’s mom as she backed out of the parking space. She looked at the birthday card in her hands and lifted her gaze to meet Jenny’s eyes. She smiled. Yes. It had been way too long. She pulled Jenny inside the apartment and crumpled on the sofa, tired and relieved at the same time. It was as though the months of silence between them had disappeared. The stories poured out of Alina. Alina told Jenny about public school, and life without Papi, about Doña Sánchez, and Mami’s words. And while both of them played with Sofi, Alina even told Jenny how she hoped her special meal would change Mami’s mind.
“Wow, I don’t know what to say,” Jenny whispered. “The whole thing sucks.” She hugged Alina again.
“I wanted so much to believe this was not happening to me,” Alina said.
“I would have felt the same way,” said Jenny. “Really. I hope your plan works. Hey, want me to help set the table?”
When dinnertime came, Alina mentioned Jenny’s visit to Mami. She described how they had decorated the rice dish together before her brothers arrived home from elementary school. Angel and Martin liked her resanbinsi so much that they scraped up all the bits of rice stuck to the bottom of the pot. Sofi smiled at each black bean she picked up and placed in her mouth.
“Gracias, Alina, you made a delicious dinner,” Mami said. She looked content.
“So . . . can we skip tomorrow’s event?” Alina asked hopefully, her plate untouched.
“Ay, linda,” Mami said. “Is that what all this was about?”
“No. I mean yes,” said Alina, on the edge of her seat. “What are we going to do?”
“We are still going, Alina.” Mami sighed. “Eat your dinner. You barely eat anymore,” Mami added as she picked up the dishes.
“I’m not hungry,” said Alina, feeling like a pierced balloon slowly shrinking. “I’ll get Sofi ready for bed.”
The next day a volunteer from Doña Sánchez’s foundation showed up in a van early in the morning to take them to la gran madre’s barbecue at her ranch house. On the highway Alina stared out the window listlessly, halfway wishing something would happen so they would never reach their destination.
Doña Sánchez’s ranch was beautiful. After they all greeted la gran madre, Alina’s brothers ran toward a rope swing. For a moment Alina stood there, overwhelmed by the sounds, sights, and smells of the party. The backyard was dotted with white folding chairs next to long tables dressed in pink plastic tablecloths. Blue, pink, and yellow balloons swayed in the breeze around the huge orange deck. A donkey piñata dangled from the basketball hoop. Farther out along a row of trees, a line of excited kids waited their turn for cotton candy. There were kids sharing the contents of their goody bags, playing with hula hoops, dancing to the salsa music, and racing one another. Alina felt like her surroundings were at odds with her feelings. And she wished for this woman to be less kind, less generous and welcoming.
“Go make friends, Alina,” Mami suggested, taking Sofi in her arms and walking toward a woman she seemed to know. Looking around, Alina was sure that most of the 150 kids scattered about were American citizens like her. Torn apart from a mom, or dad, or both. Her gaze settled on the short woman Mami was talking with and she recognized her as the one who would grant custody of her own children today. And the familiar knot in Alina’s stomach tightened.
Right after lunch Doña Sánchez gathered the adults on the deck. She waved a white form in the air and asked for those who were interested in her guardianship to follow her inside the house. Mami gathered her children. Alina felt her hands go clammy and held Sofi in her arms before stepping in.
Two other families were seated in the living room. When it was Alina’s family’s turn, they walked into the dining room in silence. Mami sat across from Doña Sánchez and a man. There were legal forms in English that Alina knew Mami could not understand. Mami kept saying the names of her children so Doña Sánchez could learn them: Alina, Angel, Martin, Sofi.
Then the man explained in Spanish what the legal paper meant and slid the form toward Mami along with a pen. Mami took the pen and turned to look at each of her children: Sofi, Martin, Angel, Alina. Alina locked eyes with Mami and felt Mami’s gaze melting her heart. It was as if Mami had spoken a thousand beautiful words to her without ever opening her mouth. Mami turned and slid the paper back to the man.
“I’m not ready,” she said.
And something broke loose within Alina; she felt like birds were tickling her insides. She looked up and laughed.
Her laugh chiming like silver bells, once again.
FIRSTBORN
Hay que coger al toro por los cuernos.
My older sister, Brígida, hated the move. We came to Florida from Puerto Rico last summer after my mother decided she had had enough of the locura of the island.
The last craziness happened when Mami was out on our front porch talking to the neighbor, and two thugs on a motorcycle rode down our street. One of them got off and asked Mami for her jewelry at gunpoint.
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“Hand me all of it!” he commanded, pointing to her gold necklace. Mami, worried about her inherited diamond ring, turned the stone toward her palm and hid it in her fist.
“Can you remove it yourself? I need a mirror to do it,” she lied to distract the thug. Amazingly, he believed her and took the necklace off.
These robberies had become commonplace on the island, and Mami knew how to handle them. She kept her cool right up until the mugger heard the piano. That was me inside busy practicing my piece with only our terrier, Pinto, for company.
“Who’s in there?” the mugger asked Mami, peeking in through the metal slats of the window. Mami became agitated. Pinto started to bark. The mugger must have thought he was too much trouble to deal with, ’cause he left.
Later, when I told Mami how the mugger had looked me up and down, Mami had a meltdown. By the end of the month, Papi had gotten a transfer to the Hyatt in Orlando and Mami had placed our house up for rent, setting in motion our move to the United States right before school started. Brígida seethed when she found out. It’s all your fault, Luci were her last words to me for months.
I’m glad we moved to Kissimmee. Here at Beaumont Middle School I met Karen in front of my locker. It’s right next to hers. She’s also from Puerto Rico. Her family moved to the Orlando area when she was little, so her English is perfect and she knows everything about being an American. We liked each other right away. We live in the same neighborhood, get hungry for garlicky plantain mofongo, and love Shakira. We became best friends on the first day of school, and, since that moment, we like to do everything together.
One Saturday Karen found this new Shakira video on YouTube and ran to my house to tell me about it. She was so excited that I quit my piano practice to go watch it with her on the family computer. We turned the volume up and went crazy trying out our diva moves.
“¡Ay, bendito, Luci!” Karen exclaimed. “Loosen up, nena!”
“Like this?” I asked, twirling my hips as fast as I could.
We sang the lyrics at the top of our lungs, pealing with laughter until Brígida got up from the sofa and turned the computer off.
“I need to study, Luci. Besides, have you seen your dance moves in the mirror?” she said with a sneer.
I opened my mouth in an attempt to respond with something witty, but, as usual, I froze. Puzzled, Karen looked at me and then at Brígida’s smirk.
A few days later, on the way to school, I told Karen the story I had always kept to myself—the story about Brígida’s made-up song.
“Brígida is a bully,” my friend declared in the tone of voice she had learned from her mother, a psychologist.
“Bully?” I asked as we were getting out of the bus. “What’s that?”
“Tu hermana,” Karen answered. “Your sister.” And she disappeared down the hall, late for geometry class. I thought about this new word for a long time. English was a language I was still learning. Back in Puerto Rico, I had never heard the word.
On my way to second period I spotted a couple of flyers on the wall. They had been there all along, but this time the word bully caught my eye. One flyer pictured school lockers spray-painted with names and slurs; the other showed a big ugly male cartoon character shoving a smaller one. Brígida didn’t write slurs or push me. She taught me to respect her because she was the oldest, the firstborn. Birth order seemed to be really important to her. It kind of allowed her special rights. She made sure I knew that.
I’d been about six years old the afternoon my mother caught me kneeling before Brígida, sliding her feet into her fuzzy baby-blue slippers.
“Luci, what are you doing?”
“My job,” I said, looking up at my sister. “Right, Brígida? ¿Verdad?”
Brígida had told me it was my duty to remove her shoes as soon as we got home from school. She was the firstborn.
“Brígida! What’s wrong with you? Don’t ask your sister to do that again!”
Brígida was mad. As soon as Mami left the room, she took the fancy taffeta-and-sequin gown Abuela had sewn for my Barbie doll and put it on hers. She declared that my doll couldn’t wear it again until she said so and threatened to never play Barbies with me if I told Mami. It seemed like forever before Brígida allowed my doll to wear the gown once more.
I don’t know why I told Karen about the song Brígida made up about me in Tórtola. It used to be a secret, a thing I was ashamed of. But Karen started asking questions on the bus, and it made me feel better to tell her. I had just turned eleven when we went on vacation. We were staying in a one-room cottage, and we sisters had finished settling in the common area. Looking for privacy, I turned my back to my sisters and faced the flamingo-pink wall to change into my bathing suit. When Brígida realized I was uneasy, she began chanting: “She’s hiding chickpeas, teeny-tiny chickpeas / but has no chickpeas, teeny-tiny chickpeas.” Her tune was as contagious as her laughter, and soon four-year-old Ani joined in a jingle she didn’t understand.
“Chickpea! Chickpea!” Ani shouted gleefully.
Brígida laughed and put Ani on her shoulders and spun her around and sang the catchy chant with her over and over again. I endured the chant day after day and grew so self-conscious that I started wearing a T-shirt over my bathing suit at all times. Finally, one afternoon I complained to Mami. Brígida was quick to say that I was way too sensitive for my own good, that it was only a joke. Mami believed her. I felt alone within my family and became an expert at hiding behind my piano whenever I was home, to avoid being Brígida’s target.
The school day flew by, and after gym class I picked up my things and headed for the bus. Karen was waiting for me at our usual seats.
“Hey, how about going to the movies later?” she asked.
“¡Sí!” I said at first. And then I remembered. “Oh no! I can’t. I have to babysit for Ani. My parents are taking Brígida to the employees’ party at the Hyatt, where Papi works.”
“You’re not going?” asked Karen.
I pouted. “They couldn’t find a sitter, so I offered to do it.”
“Okay, let’s do something tomorrow, then.”
“Seguro,” I said. “Sure.”
When I got home, Brígida opened the door.
“You’re all sweaty,” she said. “You smell.” She walked back into the hallway and stood in front of the full-length mirror, Pinto next to her. “You like my new skirt? Mami says I look stunning,” she bragged, checking her slender self from all angles. “Hmm, who knows the guys I’ll meet, right, Pinto?”
Brígida scratched Pinto just the way he liked.
Mami came down the stairs. “Luci, the piano teacher called. She thinks you might be the closing number at the end-of-the-year recital,” she announced as she picked up her purse. “Remember you’re in charge of dinner for both you and Ani! We’ll be back around ten.”
“Too bad you can’t go,” Brígida whispered. “No chickpeas allowed.” She laughed at her own joke and left.
I was upstairs getting out of the shower when my little sister knocked on the bathroom door.
“Luci! I’m hungry!” she called. “I want french fries. Please?”
“Later,” I said as I slipped into my shorts and tank top. “After I dry my hair.”
“But I’m hungry now!” she wailed.
I wrapped the towel around my long, dripping hair and climbed down the stairs to the kitchen. I took out a bag of frozen fries and placed it on the counter. Then I poured half a bottle of corn oil into the large frying pan on the stove. I turned the burner onto medium heat and left to blow-dry my hair while the oil got hot. Just before entering the upstairs’ bathroom I drew Ani’s attention away from Pinto and her cartoons to tell her that I would make the fries when I finished drying my hair. I was whistling Shakira’s “Waka Waka” song, with the dryer’s noise echoing around the bathroom tile, when I heard something that sounded like Pinto barking. Ani popped her head in the door.
“Luci,” she whined. “Pinto is going craz
y.” She coughed. “My eyes hurt. Is something burning?”
“The french fries!” I yelled.
I ran down to the kitchen. The room was pitch-dark. I flipped the light switch but it was already on. Out of the pan, flames rose into dark plumes of smoke that turned the kitchen ceiling completely black. At the top of the stairs Pinto barked frantically. Ani stood next to him, her eyes wide with fear.
“Take Pinto back to your room, close the door, and open the window!” I screamed, tying up my hair with the scrunchie on my wrist.
I grabbed the pan with my left hand and stood in the middle of the kitchen, away from any wood cabinets or furniture. The yellow-and-blue flames danced on the surface of the oil. I stared at them, thinking. How do I put out a fire? A frenzy of images flashed by, and I remembered a cartoon. Water. Douse it with water. I tightened my grip on the pan and reached over to the sink to turn on the faucet with my free hand. I filled a glass with water and poured it all at once onto the burning pan. Flames raged out. Bursts of oil scalded my hand and wrist, running up my arm and sizzling a wisp of hair just short of my ear. I did not drop the pan. I stood there petrified. Not knowing what else to do, I waited for the fire to die down. Breathing acrid smoke. Streaming tears. Choking.
My parents and sister returned home as soon as I called. Brígida was furious with me for ruining her night, but not as much as she was a few days later when she found out Mami would not allow me to help repaint the kitchen ceiling and walls because of my injured hand.
“You know,” Brígida said, glowering at me from atop her stool, “I’m the firstborn and shouldn’t have to do this.” She spoke in a way that made me feel like I had done the whole thing on purpose.
I spent the next few weeks applying ointment and dressing the burn on my hand twice a day. It had developed a hundred pearl-like blisters too awful to look at. I cringed each time I applied the soothing cream the emergency-room doctor had ordered for the third-degree burn. At least at school Karen made me feel good. She always walked in front of me in the crowded hallways, opening a clear path to prevent other students from bumping into my hand.