“Where are you going, mija?” she says suddenly.
“Where am I going?” I repeat, not knowing what else to say.
“You never do laundry on the weekends,” she says in a rush. “But yesterday I think you washed every piece of clothing you have.”
“Ma! It’s just laundry, it’s not—”
“I know, Marisa. Tell me where.”
I rub my eyes and shake my head.
“Is it like Vero? Please say no.”
“I’m not joining the army, Ma.”
“When are you leaving?” She stares right at me, and I know that she knows.
“Tomorrow morning, early,” I say.
She breaks out in fresh tears. “It will be so hard without you. I can do better for you here. Please, mija.”
I set down my bear and reach for Mami’s hands. “It’s Austin, not Germany. Just three hours away.”
She takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “I thought I could just keep you here, but no. I’ll be right back.” She stands up and walks slowly out of the room.
I’m afraid she’s going to get Papi, but I’m too stunned to move.
She comes back in carrying a shopping bag. “I have to let you live the right life for you, mija. So this is for you.” She pulls out a black overnight bag. “I know you need something bigger to move your things, but I thought maybe you could use this for when you come home to see us.”
“It’s beautiful, Mami. Thank you.”
Then I set the bag aside and stroke my mom’s hands while I try to take in what I just heard. Her skin is soft in places, calloused in others.
“Mira, tomorrow I’m going to pretend that I didn’t know nothing about this.” She holds me tight. “And if your father stays in the bedroom when you come home, qué importa? Not that different from how he is now.”
“Ma?”
“Sí, mija?”
“Can you do a favor for me? I’m making something for Anita. A present, I guess. If I leave it here with Paco, will you make sure she gets it? And I want her to have him, too.” I pat the bear’s head and try not to cry.
She squeezes my hand. “Por supuesto.”
“This means everything to me, Mami. The bag, but even more what you said.” I hug her again and try to pour every warm feeling I have into it. Maybe that way it will last until I can come home again. “You are the right kind of mom for me.”
chapter 37
Alan grabs my bags and lifts them into the truck. There’s a faint hum of insects, but otherwise the street is silent.
I stare at the house and hope that Papi won’t take his anger out on Mami when he realizes I’m gone.
“Ready to do this?” Alan asks. It’s too dark for me to see his face clearly, but I think that maybe he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind.
I hesitate. I can still go to U of H and stay in Houston with him. I can see his drawings and hear about his art program and laugh with him and take Anita to the park. I can show Jessica how to hold Katalina when she gets colic and be there when she eats her first solid food. I can go to Mass with Mami and serve Papi his silent breakfasts. I can make it here. It could be a good enough life.
“I’m ready,” I say. This is not just another day—it’s my day.
Alan starts the truck. “OK, then.”
I watch in the side-view mirror as my house shrinks and then finally disappears when we turn the corner.
Alan tells me to sleep, since I’ve been up all night packing. I mean to close my eyes for only a second, but when I open them, it’s full morning and there are already signs for Austin. Alan’s singing along with the radio.
“You’re killing me,” I say. I’m yawning and laughing at the same time.
“Do you remember choir freshman year?” he asks.
“Poor Mrs. Baxter! She tried so hard to be nice, but you, me, and Brenda, we made it really hard on her.”
“I’ll never forget the look on her face when she finally came to talk to us before the spring concert. ‘You three,’ she goes, ‘you all just mouth the words.’ I couldn’t stop laughing. She still gave us A’s, though. Crazy woman.”
We fall silent, and I stare at the dry hill country outside the windows. I feel the dark feelings creeping into the empty space between us.
I roll down my window and stick my head and arms out. The warm air rushes over my skin. I tell myself not to cry. I tell myself to be happy. I can almost feel a real smile fighting off the fear.
All of a sudden I feel a bunch of tiny slaps on my cheek. I open my eyes in time to see a floating black cloud swirling around me. Black flecks buzz and ping against my face and arms. Two of the bugs land on my tongue.
I duck back into the truck and spit into my hand. By the time the window is up, Alan is nearly in tears.
“It’s not funny,” I say, but I’m laughing too. I wipe bug goo from my cheeks.
“Your face, oh man,” he says. “I wish you could have seen it. You were all happy, basking in the sun like a little turtle, and then BAM, the lovebugs hit.”
“Lovebugs?” I say. Then I see why they’re called that. Because they’re not flying solo. Each bug has its legs wrapped around another one. I guess holding on too tight to what you love can be dangerous.
“Fatal attraction,” Alan says as half a dozen more pairs splatter on the windshield. “Hey, bug eater, check the directions. Is this our exit?”
We’ve already dragged my bags up two flights of stairs and into the room that’s going to be mine here at the College House Co-op. Now we’re standing by the window and trying to say good-bye.
“Well, here I am,” I say, pressing my fingers against the glass. It’s scorching hot, and I pull my hand back with a yelp.
“Silly girl,” Alan says. He’s right. It’s June, and I’ve lived in Texas my whole life; I definitely should know better.
He blows on my injured hand and points out the window. “Look how close you are to campus.” We can see the tops of the UT buildings, and all the people who pass on the sidewalks seem to be heading that way.
I try to imagine making that trip myself, or finding the engineering office, or registering for classes. I can’t see myself eating at the house’s long dining table or sleeping alone in this bedroom. I can’t see any of it.
“I’m scared.”
“You’ve still got me, OK?” Alan says.
“But—”
“You know me, all right? You know me.”
“Yeah, I know you.” He’s a hundred times more real to me than UT. I don’t even know a damn thing about engineering. I look away. “You’ll just get busy, with art classes and work and helping Jessica with Katalina and—”
“I won’t forget about you,” he says.
I sit down on the droopy couch by the window and close my eyes against the tears. This is probably the thirtieth time I’ve cried in the past two weeks, and I’m thinking maybe he won’t be that sad to be rid of me.
“Look at me,” he says.
I force myself to open my eyes. He’s sitting next to me, holding out a large blue jewelry box.
I must have a crazy look on my face, because Alan says, “Don’t freak out on me. It’s not that. Just open it.”
I reach for the blue box and lift the lid. Inside there’s a perfect origami butterfly. Its wings and body shimmer red, green, orange, and gold in the sunlight from the windows. I breathe out and it flutters, almost like a real butterfly.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper.
“Not finished.” He pulls a rolled piece of paper from behind him. “Go ahead.”
I tug off the blue ribbon and unroll the paper. I smooth it out against my thighs. The drawing is of Alan. There are his long eyelashes, his smile, his generous hands. From his heart there’s another image blooming. Dozens of butterflies perch on blades of grass in a field. Just right of the center, one butterfly lifts its wings above the rest. It’s red and orange and green and gold like the one he made for me.
“So
that you don’t forget me, either,” he says.
I press my face into his shoulder. I want him to promise that our lives will weave together and be beautiful like his drawings. But I don’t say it.
“Just keep being you,” he says. He pulls my right hand into his lap and uses one of his Sharpies to draw a butterfly onto my palm. He traces it with his thumb, and I can still feel the outline of the butterfly when we say good-bye on the front steps a few minutes later.
If this were a fairy tale, I’d know right now that all my dark feelings will go away and that I’ll make it here in Austin. I’d know that Alan will be a famous illustrator, that Jessica will go to college, that Anita will straighten out her parents and stop wetting her pants, that someday the cold thing inside my dad will melt.
But I don’t know any of that, so I tape Alan’s drawing up over my new bed, which isn’t new at all and smells kind of like moldy carpet. I put my clothes away in the dresser. And when something scurries over my foot, I act without even thinking. I kill my first Austin cockroach and get bug guts all over my UT course catalog. It’s gross, but it’s also kind of appropriate because I haven’t left the real world. There’s no magic here, just my own life.
acknowledgments
I owe a great professional debt to my agent, Steven Chudney, and to my editor, Andrew Karre, both of whom have been gracious guides to this most cautious of travelers.
This book would not exist without the many remarkable students I taught at Chávez High School. They told me about the book they wanted to read, and I tried to write it. In particular, I’d like to thank those who commented on early drafts: Krystal Chávez, Diana Alvarez, Karina López, and Jessica van Ravenhorst. Although they are now “grown,” the kids who had me for 10th, 11th, and 12th grades are still cracking jokes, doing SSR, practicing scholarly habits, and terrorizing the halls in my memories, especially Edith Barrón, Veronica Carbajal, Cínthia Carcamo, Baltazar Díaz, Pedro Galindo, Veronica García, Jonathan Guevara, Whitney Horton, Charlie Machado, Melissa Martínez, Rey Mejía, Alicia Perrett, Alejandra Quijada, Roxann Rodríguez, Kristy Solorio, Yuridia Treviño, Eric Vitales, and Jarol Wadel. A special thankyou to the D-house boys, who read this book to the end and then told me that it was the first they’d ever finished. (Don’t worry, J and M, I won’t blow your cover.)
My gratitude also to Linda Sue Alsup and the Greater Houston Area Writing Project for teaching me to share my writing with students; to Jane Eixmann and the librarians of Houston ISD, the Houston Public Library, and beyond; to Laura Furman, John Trimble, Karen Joy Fowler, and the many other mentors who took my writing seriously; to the members of OWL and to all the readers whose feedback helped shape the novel; and to Alisa and Mushu for walking the writer’s path with me every week.
Thank you to my El Paso family for telling stories and making tamales and pozole with chicken. Thank you to my Houston family, Sarah and Shelley, for a friendship that nourishes me and makes writing possible. Thank you to my mother, who has always told me, “It’ll be a crime if you don’t write a book”; my father, who has his eye peeled for a Pullet Surprise; and my brother, Justin, who never misses a thing. Thank you, Arnulfo: you are the one who keeps me running, writing, and living with a joyful heart. Liam Miguel, your smile writes its own books; thank you for giving Mami time to write hers.
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