Us, in Progress

by Lulu Delacre

  At the Lozano library she checked out a bunch of books and began reading. Then she went onto the computer and searched. She learned that her sister would not be able to work or drive. She lacked the documents—papers that said she had rights. Worse, she could be deported if she was found out. She could be sent back to a country she’d never known.

  As long as Carla could remember, she had wanted to be just like her sister: pretty, graceful, and popular. Esperanza seemed to make friends without any effort. Not Carla. There were kids at school who made fun of her, of how she dressed, of how she ate, of her eagerness to answer teachers’ questions. When Carla and Esperanza had attended the same school, Esperanza had come to her rescue more than once. Even if they didn’t spend time together anymore, Esperanza was there for her. Now that Esperanza was in high school, they had grown apart. Every time Carla walked by Dulcería Lupitas, she remembered how sometimes after school her sister would take her there to buy a paleta de tamarindo. Esperanza had a way of asking the shopkeeper that always resulted in them getting two tamarind lollipops for the price of one. But things had changed. Maybe now Esperanza wanted to be like her as much as she wanted to be like Esperanza.

  On her way out of the library Carla glanced at the Pilsen community bulletin board. A flyer caught her eye. Dream Relief Day, it read, announcing a gathering in August. At this meeting people could apply to stay in America. Carla suddenly remembered that, way before she knew about her sister’s status, she had read something about the president signing an order that would allow young law-abiding Latinos to stay and work in the United States as long as they were in school. This could be Esperanza’s chance to be legal, just like Carla. Carla stretched up on her toes to reach and tear the top flyer from the stack pinned to the board. She went to the listed website and read all about it. Carla needed to tell her sister about this opportunity, but how? She would have to admit that she had listened to their mother’s story. Maybe even say that she had read her sister’s diary. What if Esperanza got mad? What if she got so upset that she would never ever talk to Carla again?

  When Carla arrived home, Esperanza and Cindy were leaning against the white iron railing by the front steps of the brick building.

  “I don’t understand you,” Cindy said. “Why aren’t you applying? You’re the perfect dancer for this job.”

  “It’s not for me,” said Esperanza.

  “You’re wrong,” said Cindy. “This is a big deal. Just like last fall. The video job? You never went back. Why?” Cindy saw Carla approaching and waved hello.

  “I gotta go,” said Esperanza, going up the steps to the front door.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Cindy, walking away. “My shift starts in half an hour. I have a job.”

  Sighing, Esperanza climbed the remaining steps.

  Carla came up behind her sister and pulled her by the shirt. Biting her lower lip, she unfolded the flyer she had taken off the bulletin board and placed it into Esperanza’s hands. In the end she would rather have a sister who was mad at her than a sister living hundreds of miles away in another country. Esperanza read the flyer and looked at Carla. She slid against the door and sank down to the floor, burying her face in her hands. She started to cry.

  “I’m tired of making up excuses about why I’m not applying for jobs,” Esperanza wailed. “I wish I didn’t have to hide or lie and say that I was born in some random place,” she said, sobbing.

  Carla took out a tissue from her jeans pocket and handed it to Esperanza.

  “What am I going to do?” Esperanza asked, tears smearing her mascara.

  Carla sat next to her sister. “They say that if you’re in school and have been here for at least five years you can apply for a permit to work,” offered Carla.

  “How do you know all this?” asked Esperanza.

  “I read it on their website,” said Carla.

  “And you also read my diary,” said Esperanza. “I should be mad at you.”

  “I know,” said Carla. “I’m sorry.”

  Esperanza sniffled and smiled a little smile. “So, what do I need to apply?” she asked.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” said Carla. “The application fee is four hundred sixty-five dollars.”

  “What?” Esperanza dropped her head back, shaking it in disbelief.

  That evening Carla and Esperanza made a list of all the possible ways to raise money. They could ask Mami, but Esperanza didn’t want to. She wanted to raise the money herself. Besides, ever since Papi left them, Mami had worked two jobs and was always complaining about how hard it was to pay the bills. They could have a bake sale, but neither of them knew how to bake. Maybe they could wash cars. Esperanza had once seen a movie where teens did that. But where would they do this in the middle of the city? They would need the water, soap, supplies. It seemed complicated. Then Carla thought that they could ask the librarian at the Lozano library for a job. Esperanza pointed out that it was unlikely they would get one, since Carla was too young and Esperanza had no Social Security number. They needed a job where no Social Security number was required.

  “This might not work,” Esperanza finally muttered, running her fingers through her highlighted hair. “Ugh, my hair is a mess. I need to go to Tía Elsy’s for a haircut,” she said.

  “Tía Elsy!” Carla and Esperanza exclaimed in unison.

  They couldn’t believe that they hadn’t thought of the beauty salon before. Esperanza told Carla that the best part of this plan was that Tía Elsy already knew she was illegal, although they had never spoken about it. Yes, asking Tía Elsy for a job was a good plan. The sisters agreed not to tell Mami about it. They would go visit their aunt at her salon the following morning.

  For the next seven weeks Carla and Esperanza went to Elsy’s Salón de Belleza every afternoon. Esperanza swept the floors between clients, and on busy days Tía Elsy had her wash hair. That was the best part, because most clients liked Esperanza and gave her good tips. From the beginning Carla helped organize the products and magazines and would also fix coffee or tea for the women. But one day Carla grabbed an old issue of Selecciones and started reading aloud a story while a client was waiting for the color to process. The older women at the salon loved how Carla read, and from then on they requested that Carla entertain them as they had their hair or nails done. Each time they returned home, Esperanza hid all her wages and any tips inside her collage-covered box. Carla added her own tips. In time Carla saw the money in the box grow. And she realized that Esperanza was growing closer to her again.

  A week before Dream Relief Day, Esperanza counted all the money. She had $325.

  “It’s not enough,” stated Esperanza. “And we won’t be able to make up the difference by Dream Relief Day.”

  “Let’s ask Mami to pitch in,” said Carla.

  Mami was home talking with Abuelo, who had recently moved in with them and was settling in their little brother’s bedroom down the hall.

  “I told you I don’t want to ask!” Esperanza shouted.

  “¿Qué pasa?” Mami came into the room. “What is going on?”

  “Esperanza needs money for the application to become legal,” Carla spilled out.

  “What?” Mami asked. She listened to the whole story before sitting next to Esperanza. She stroked Esperanza’s hair, and Esperanza leaned on Mami’s shoulder.

  Abuelo had been standing in the doorway and stepped into the room.

  “We could pawn some jewelry,” he suggested.

  “That’s a great idea!” Mami said.

  On August 15 Carla and Esperanza woke up at four a.m., each having barely slept. The night before, they had compiled everything for the application: the report cards from ten years in US public schools, the Mexican birth certificate, Esperanza’s current high school ID card, and the $465 processing fee. Carla had helped Esperanza with twenty dollars of her own savings. Mami and Abuelo had added the difference from the pawned jewelry.

  Esperanza slipped into her worn backpack the sandwiches t
heir mother had made for them before going to work. Carla brought along the novel she was reading. The sisters ran out the door to catch the train on the Pink Line. They changed to the 29 bus and walked the rest of the way to the Navy Pier. By the time they arrived, a sea of young people were already in line. There were kids listening to music, twentysomethings on the phone, and even young mothers with babies in tow. Behind the sisters the line quickly lengthened into the distance.

  Carla saw Esperanza raise her gaze as if searching for something above her. A bright orange sun appeared against a pewter-and-lavender sky, painting the water below in soft hues. The Ferris wheel stood still on the pier’s skyline.

  The excitement of many thousands of young people around them was amazing. Carla and Esperanza could almost touch the energy.

  “I had no idea we were so many,” Esperanza mused. She walked a few steps as the line began to move and suddenly turned around to embrace Carla.

  “How about if when we get back home we go to Lupitas for paletas? My treat.”

  “Ay, ¡sí!” exclaimed Carla with a little jump. “¡Tamarindo!”

  Esperanza slipped Carla’s right hand into hers and twirled a little dance around her, bumping into a young man in front of them.

  “Sorry,” she said with a giggle. “I’m Esperanza.” Turning to Carla, she repeated, “Es-pe-ran-za.”

  “Yep,” said Carla, seeing in her sister’s eyes the joy of a new beginning.

  Hope.

  PICKUP SOCCER

  El fútbol es la única religión que no tiene ateos.

  And here I go running circles around my big cousin Hector

  down Valencia Street . . . first loop . . .

  techie dudes and start-up nerds going to play a game of fútbol

  at the Mission Playground . . . second loop . . .

  been practicing to be the game’s commentator

  for one, two, three weeks . . . third loop . . .

  becoming the Andrés Cantor of this century,

  recording on my phone . . . fourth loop . . .

  can’t wait to call play-by-play at the reserved brand-new turf

  on the old neighborhood field . . . fifth loop . . .

  going by the hood’s newest hipster coffee shop, I see a bearded guy

  in a techie shirt greets nerdy cousin Hector . . . sixth loop . . .

  Hector’s gotten the permit through a cool City of San Francisco app

  he found out about at his new start-up job . . . seventh loop . . .

  the bearded guy climbs onto his shiny bike and passes us

  on his way to the field—

  OOPS! I bump into Hector . . .

  “Hey! Stop running circles around me, Hugo! Walk normal, will ya?”

  Okay, okay, I get excited sometimes . . .

  calm down and scuttle by Hector’s side to cross Eighteenth Street

  looking up and down pricey condos that popped up where I used to live . . .

  fumbling with the phone in my pocket, I turn to scamper backward

  and grin at Hector . . . he rolls his eyes and shakes his head . . . I make him smile . . .

  and me eyeing the black-and-white ball in his hands,

  make a sharp turn onto Cunningham Place ahead of Hector . . .

  Hector turns the corner and I grab the soccer ball from him

  to dribble it just one last short block to the field . . .

  past the painted mural on the brick wall and

  a skinny guy smoking by the bar’s open

  back door and a grandma watering potted

  plants on the sidewalk across the alley that

  faces her pretty green house . . .

  I waver, with the ball under my foot, at the black iron gate

  of Mission Playground, framed by a big pink bougainvillea . . .

  I raise my gaze to see the dudes and nerds dressed in crisp T-shirts

  towering over my neighborhood friends in the middle of the field . . .

  Javi, Frankie, Beto, Marco, Willie, Pepe, Edwin, Martin, Chad, and Max,

  here for a pickup game, all look puzzled . . .

  me kind of puzzled too, look away and keep tight-lipped . . .

  and the bearded techie guy says that the bunch of kids don’t want to leave the field,

  claiming they’ve arrived first to play seven-on-seven fútbol . . .

  I dribble the ball around Hector one more circle . . .

  watching, listening, feeling nervous . . .

  Hector, who now looks pissed off . . .

  Hector, who has planned this soccer game for weeks . . .

  Hector proud of his new getting-out of-the-hood job, his going-places job, his

  I-worked-my-ass-off-for-this job, his I-finally-belong job . . .

  Hector, who’s turning red and green and shades in between . . .

  Hector, who searches deep in his backpack and pulls out the crumpled permit

  to brandish in front of my neighborhood friends . . .

  “Hey!” Hector growls. “We’ve got first dibs! Can’t you r-e-e-e-a-d?”

  Whoa, Hector! But dudes and nerds agree and curse and gesture and grimace and swear

  and tower even higher over Javi, Frankie, Beto, Marco, Willie, Pepe, Edwin, Martin, Chad, and Max . . .

  Max says the field has always been free . . .

  Chad adds no reservations were ever required . . .

  Martin asks what’s this permit app they talk about . . .

  Edwin asks who’s this app and what’s the fee? . . .

  Pepe says he came to play because

  he couldn’t stand being stuck

  in his tiny apartment

  with five other people . . .

  Willie dribbles his old soccer ball, practicing

  Ronaldo’s scissors move over and over again . . .

  Marco lies on his back staring at the sky . . .

  Beto ties his shoe, not wanting to get involved . . .

  Frankie leaves to look for his dad . . .

  Javi glares at me and asks . . .

  “Are you with these dudes?”

  Frankie’s heard this question and turns back around, zooming in on me . . . now I have thirty sets of eyes staring at me all at once . . . puzzled eyes and furious eyes and hurt eyes and tired eyes and can’t-believe-you eyes and you-better-do-something-about-it eyes and you’re-a-traitor eyes and who’s-this-kid eyes and you’re-a-poor-idiot eyes and who-gives-a-damn eyes and let’s-just-play eyes . . . and I stand at the edge of the field paralyzed and look at the thirty sets of eyes one by one and see without seeing and hear without hearing and feel bathed in so many icy glares that I kick the ball into the center of the group wanting to still do the play-by-play, to still be the Andrés Cantor of this century, but most of all wanting to . . .

  I pull my phone out, turn it to record mode, fill my lungs to the bursting point, and yell out:

  “LIVE FROM MISSION SOCCER FIELD, FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME . . . HOOD’S ALL STARS AGAINST START-UP TECHSTERS . . . C’mon, players . . . give me a ¡GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLL!!!”

  Silence.

  Then one techie dude laughs out loud.

  Soon laughter ripples throughout the whole

  soccer field.

  A nerd says let’s all play together.

  The neighborhood kids scream YES! ¡Órale! Finally!

  The players rearrange themselves.

  Hector looks at me kinda proud and—

  The game’s on!

  SATURDAY SCHOOL

  Ser valiente es tener miedo a quedarse sin hacer nada.

  I hate disappointing my parents. Education is important in my family. Three of my grandparents are university professors, and my parents are a doctor and a writer. So the other day when Mamá declared, You need to learn correct Spanish, Sandra, I did what I always do—keep quiet. And now, even though I’d rather not go to Saturday school, I’m on my way to Escuela Argentina on this chilly January morning.

  La
st Monday I heard Mamá talking on the phone with Abuela. “Speaking and writing are two different things,” Mamá told Abuela. “Sandra needs to read good literature and learn Spanish grammar.” Abuela agreed and loudly ticked off the benefits of learning correct Spanish one by one: it would enrich my education; it would make me marketable; it could even find me the right husband. Really, a husband? I’m only eleven! But the worst was when Abuela said that it would make me stand out in public school. I feel already singled out! Not because I’m a straight-A student and won first prize at the science fair, but because I’m the only kid in the neighborhood elementary school whose parents speak Spanish at home. I was born in the United States and my parents are from Puerto Rico. And although I speak Spanish with them, I’m much more comfortable speaking English. It’s the language of my friends. I want to fit in with them, but I want to please my parents, too.

  After an hour in the car, Mamá takes the ramp off the Beltway onto a street lined with tall oaks and maples and manicured lawns, and slows down before a huge lot with a double fence. I look twice. Two fences on the same lot? I’ve never been to this part of the county before. I see a white wooden rail fence by the curb, and a tall barbed-wire one twenty feet in. It’s almost like the people in there don’t know whether to welcome you or shoo you away. I start biting my cuticles.

  “¿Te pasa algo?” Mamá asked. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. I stare at a few castle-like houses set far apart from one another. Who are the kids who live in them? Are they friendly? I look down at my new red tennis shoes to make sure their laces are neatly tied.

  Mamá pulls into the driveway of a glitzy private school, explaining that the Saturday school is held here. The main office is identified by a flag, sky blue and white, trimmed in golden tassels. Once we’re inside, Mamá introduces herself to the secretary. The lanky woman immediately starts talking in that form of Spanish that Abuela and Mamá use. It’s not the Spanish I speak at home, the one I read in the children’s books my grandma from Puerto Rico sends. This is the other Spanish. I always thought it was a code language between Mamá and Abuela. I feel a knot in my stomach. Is this the form of Spanish I’m supposed to learn? I can hardly understand Abuela! Mamá turns to me after handing the signed paperwork to the secretary. Her eyes sparkle the way they do when she’s particularly happy or proud about something.