by Shay Bravo
“Hey.”
The guy from yesterday leans against one of the trees, one earphone in while the other one falls across his maroon jacket, both hands in the pockets of his jeans. Since the current set of classes doesn’t end until 5:45 p.m., the sidewalks are empty. A few students hang out by the picnic tables, but they’re out of earshot. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s here—in fact, I’ve got to give it to him for thinking out this plan—but it does bother me a little that he thought about waiting for me in the first place.
“Should I get a restraining order?”
“Shouldn’t that be my line?” he responds.
“You’re the one who came to my work.”
“The library is open to students, which is what I am. You were the one who screamed like I was going to shoot you.”
The bike rack for the library is set nicely underneath a tree about ten feet away from me, so there is no easy way to ditch him. When I walk toward my bike, he follows close behind.
“Look, it was lovely meeting you again—” I move my hand in his direction.
“Ethan.”
“Well, Ethan, I have to go.”
“Are we going to ignore the fact you broke into—”
Whirling around, I make an attempt to slap a hand over his mouth but he deflects easily with a step backward. Still, though, my heart pounds a hundred beats per second as I try to figure out if any of the students close by could have heard him say that.
“Be careful what you say in public.”
“This could be considered assault.”
“You’re the one who’s following me around. That’s harassment.”
Ethan doesn’t look like he believes me at all, which is rude, and continues to follow me to the bike rack.
“Look, I didn’t call the cops on you last night.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. The lack of police officers within my area had given me a good idea that he hadn’t said anything, but hearing confirmation coming from him is a relief.
“That is greatly appreciated. Would you like a pat on the back? Some Skittles? A coupon for Burger King?”
“The key for my grandparents’ house would be more appropriate.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Bull.”
“I swear, I don’t.” My lock gives and the chain comes undone. Some people warned me about bike thieves at school, so Dad got me a good padlock and a thick chain to ensure my only form of moving around didn’t get stolen one day. “If I did, and I don’t, I’d give it to you. It wasn’t my idea to enter your grandparents’ house, but I can promise you it’ll never happen again.”
“But the thing is, shorty, that I don’t want a copy of my house key somewhere—”
“Wait . . . did you call me shorty?”
“You are pretty short.”
“I am five-five and a half.”
“I’m six foot two. That means you’re shorter than me.”
The sun filtering through the branches above us creates patterns over his skin and clothes. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite remember who. Possibly his grandparents, whom I have met before, or perhaps he and I met before and we forgot everything about each other; I’m not too sure. If he’s a student here, there’s a possibility I’ve seen him around somewhere and simply not noticed him until now.
“I know you don’t trust me—”
“I don’t.”
“But I promise on my honor that no one will break into your house from today onward.”
“Your honor?”
“Why is it that you make that word sound so sarcastic?”
A small breeze pushes through the campus, rustling some of the trees around us and making me wish I’d worn a hoodie. Our winters are mild enough that a light sweater or a long-sleeved shirt usually does the trick, but today has been a wild ride already, and I should have expected Mother Nature wasn’t done with me.
“I find it hard to believe that a person who broke into my house for a fork has much honor. You haven’t even told me why you needed the fork in the first place.”
“Do you think I’m going back to your house to steal your cat?” There’s no denying, that’s a possibility.
“He’s a twelve-year-old family relic. I have to keep him safe.”
“What’s his name?”
“I might tell you if you tell me your name.”
“I don’t fall for cheap tricks like that, Ethan.”
“Pity, I wanted to file a police report.”
Okay, he’s good, but I have no time to keep stalling here. Stealing a glance at the sky, I can see that the sun from this morning has turned to a gray afternoon, and with the wind blowing colder by the minute, I’m beginning to think a storm might be rolling in tonight. Rain is always bad news when I have to bike home, although I can bother Carlos or Diane if it gets really ugly.
“Fine, I’ll get you the key, but I won’t be able to get it until I meet with my cl—people.” Though getting the key from Anna seems impossible, considering all the club rules and traditions that she mentions.
“I don’t trust you.”
“You’re going to have to or call the police, as you said, though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” I take off my backpack and rest it in the back basket of my bike. The front one is small and can only carry a few things, but Dad pulled through and found me a large metal one that he welded to the back, and which allows me to carry a lot of things to and from home.
Before I climb on, I extend my hand to Ethan.
“Your phone.”
His brown eyes narrow but he removes his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me. I can tell by his body language that he half expects me to take off with his device. Can’t say that I blame him, but it is a tad dramatic.
I input my phone number, using the sun emoji as my name as an inside joke, since my nickname means sun in Spanish, as well as a way to keep my anonymity.
“Here. Send me a message and I’ll save your number. I’ll text you when I have the key.”
“When do you think that will be?”
“Whenever I text you.”
“You don’t reveal much, you know that?”
I can’t tell if the way he says that is with interest or annoyance, but either way, he takes a step back, allowing me enough space to push my bike onto the sidewalk. With a kick, I check that none of my tires have lost any air since this morning. My bike has gone through a lot of things this past year, so I’ve become used to checking it’s in top shape at all times.
I place one foot on a pedal. “A proper thief keeps her secrets well guarded.”
“I’m home,” I call when I push the door of the apartment open, plastic bags hanging off my arms. Michi runs toward me, meowing as if I’d left her alone for a decade instead of ten hours. “Hola, mi amor.”
Except for Michi, the house is empty. Dad usually gets home around six thirty or so, which means I still have time to make something for dinner or order pizza, depending on how lazy I feel. Mom used to have food ready by the time he got home, carne guisada, entomatadas, flautas, or even mole if she felt like it—all while she was a teacher herself and didn’t get home until about an hour before he did. While I know my concoctions are nothing compared to hers, I do the best I can.
My phone buzzes and I instinctively look at the clock.
Ah, she’s probably on the bus by now, I think.
Dusting my hands against my jeans, I open up the text message.
Mami: Just got out of work. How was your day?
Me: Good, I’m home. How’s the weather in Monterrey?
It happened too fast. People involved said that’s the way it happens these days.
Mom was teaching me how to drive to the farthest grocery store from home; I was getting good at it actually. The day was
sunny and dry, and the traffic was light for a Saturday afternoon. If the colleges I had applied to contacted me, my parents were going to help me get a small car.
We were on the freeway and a truck got off the highway at a faster speed than I thought it’d take and merged right into us. Our little Pontiac got so twisted that I wondered if the crash would have killed me if the truck had struck a bit before it did.
Everything kind of flew by after that, but I remember waking up and seeing Dad in the hospital, his hands over his eyes. They’d detained my mom—Immigration and Customs Enforcement, ICE—and she was being processed for deportation. She said that she was going to request a voluntary departure because the people who’d detained her scared her into thinking she’d never get a second chance if she didn’t.
“That’s illegal, isn’t it, though? We can do something about it—can’t we get a lawyer or something, call up Tio Ramon, or . . .”
“Nothing.” He’d shrugged. “They’ve processed her information already, there’s nothing we can do . . . nothing.”
He said that we couldn’t do anything about it.
I don’t think Dad ever cried over what happened. For my part, I tried to keep up the appearance that everything was going to be fine around him. If he was going to handle it well, so would I. Except when I was around Mom or alone at night—then the walls came down and the tears poured.
Michi pushes her head against my thigh, reminding me that she’s hungry and that I have not opened that can of tuna she’s been meowing at since I took it out of the plastic bag. Once I’ve put her meal bowl on the floor, I look through the new onslaught of messages that have come through.
Anna: Remember about the meeting this week. We’ll have a little costume party
Carlos: Anna it’s Monday
Anna: Only wanted to remind you in case you guys forgot ;)
Scott: Yo, can I dress up as Hamilton?
Alan: Dude I was going to dress up as Hamilton
Scott: I’ll dress as Lafayette if you dress up as Hamilton, bro
I mute the group chat while I get everything for dinner ready. They can all have my attention later. The door handle clicks and Dad walks in, toolbox in hand and his gray button-up shirt nearly black with sweat.
“¡Ya llegue!” I’m home.
“Welcome home,” I respond, unlocking my phone to see the new message Mom sent me.
Mami: It rained today. I miss you guys
Outside, thunder makes the kitchen window shake a little. The first few droplets of rain fall on the sidewalk outside. At least the rain unites us today, even if now she lives thousands of miles away.
CHAPTER THREE
A nun walks into the Liberal Arts Building.
No, that is not a joke. There is a nun in the Liberal Arts Building.
It’s me.
I’m the nun.
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you in Sunday school: nun habits are uncomfortable as hell. They’re heavy, hot, and surely were not meant to be flattering. Before anyone starts throwing stones, I grew up Catholic. (It’s rare not to be Catholic in a Mexican household.) I haven’t stepped foot inside a church since I was about twelve, though, and I’m fairly sure I will burst into flames if I do.
Why is it, then, that I am dressed as a nun?
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.
She was a badass mofo, I’ll tell you that. Born in the 1600s, she was hungry for knowledge, and joined a convent instead of marrying because, back in ye olde days, marriage would have gotten between her and her studies. Sor Juana was so smart forty (male) scholars were invited to test her knowledge. A philosopher, playwright, and poet, she wrote for the king of Spain and was renowned for her skill.
I could have bought a fancy old dress, like the kind she wore before she became a nun, but most of her work became known after she joined the convent. Besides, that would have cost more than this costume, which consists of white bedsheets and a butchered brown hoodie. Bless Diane’s heart for her sewing skills.
I must be offending so many people right now. I turn into the hallway that’ll lead me to the club room. It’s simply a classroom the history club occupies each week for its meetings. There is no official room, but it always happens to be the same one that is available for reservation, so we have somewhat taken over it every Saturday. In fact, Scott mentioned once that he was going to write our names under the chairs, but Alan reminded him that was vandalism. Carlos instead suggested writing “Property of the History Club” on a white sticky note and pasting it to the ceiling.
“Oh shit, no you didn’t.” Scott jumps off of the professor’s desk, on which he was sitting a second ago, and appraises a slice of pizza from the boxes he provided. He makes an exaggerated bow. He is wearing a white turtleneck and a blue coat—really, he’s in the same crafting department as I am (at least we tried). His blond hair is pulled back in a founding-fathers-but-make-it-fashion way, and I’ve got to admit, it looks pretty good on him. “Sister, what brings you here?”
“To smite your ass.” I move past him, making a beeline for the pizza.
“Oh, I would love for my ass to be smitten.”
“Goddamn it, Scott.” I give a small laugh. “Don’t make Alan jealous.”
Alan and Scott have a flirtatious friendship that I’ve quickly gotten to know in the past two meetings I’ve been a part of. When I finish my comment, Alan gives me a pointed look over the top of his cup.
“Don’t steal my man, Sol.”
“I could never,” I assure him, taking a slice of pizza from the box close to Scott.
The new members aren’t supposed to bring food, since it’s supposed to be a sort of party for us. While we don’t have that many members, I’m still surprised at the amount of food they were able to gather. Four boxes of pizza, four large bottles of Coca-Cola, orange soda, Sprite, and Dr Pepper, as well as a couple of bags of chips and a case of water.
Junk food is what college students are made of.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Alan leans on one of the chairs closest to the board. He’s dressed more like the version of Hamilton from Lin-Manuel Miranda’s play than the historical figure. He is part or fully Puerto Rican, from what I deduce from his Spanish, and his black hair nearly reaches his shoulders, so he, too, pulls off the look very well.
“Take a guess.” I mean, this is a history club. If they don’t know, I’ll be slightly offended. Carlos, who is sitting against the wall, opens his mouth, but I hold my hand up. “You’re not allowed to cheat, you’re Mexican.”
His mouth promptly shuts.
“That’s not fair. Do you have any idea how many nuns are famous around the world?” Scott asks, crossing his legs.
Anna struts in, followed by the other two missing club members.
“Oh, I know—”
“Sor Juana.” Anna answers before Alan can. Her chin-length blue hair is covered by a dark-brown wig that falls in waves over her shoulders. She’s wearing a yellow and white striped dress that opens up to show dark jeans underneath. Not what I would consider fashionable, but she manages to pull it off.
“That’s me,” I say. “But who are you?”
“Sylvia Rivera.” Anna pushes her hair with a flip. “A great figure for the trans movement and my queen.”
“I dressed up as Nikola Tesla because I think he was chill, had some really cool electrical engineering ideas, and I had enough clothes to pull it off.” Carlos shrugs, standing up.
“You’re such a party pooper.”
“I’m practical, unlike Sol.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you? Remember what happened in sixth grade?”
In sixth grade Carlos jumped out of his second-floor room’s window with an umbrella because he thought that Mary Poppins kind of had a cool trick and he needed to test it out for science.
“Hey, no abras la boca
o les digo que pasó en eleventh grade—” Don’t even open your mouth or I’ll tell them what happened in eleventh grade.
Long story short: we both got detention at school for “disturbing the peace of the classroom.” It was art class and when Carlos smudged blue paint on my white shirt, I had to take revenge—there was no other way around it, and the fact our teacher got between us was partially her fault.
“Boy, don’t even think about it.”
“Don’t you love when people start talking in a language you don’t understand?” Alan asks.
“Yeah, I live for it,” Ophelia, one of the club members who entered the room with Anna, responds. She always reminds me of ’20s art deco posters, except with long red hair, which is undone at the moment. She is wearing a gray dress that trails a bit behind her.
“Quick, Scott, say something in German.” Alan hits Scott with hits elbow.
“I don’t know German.”
“Anything works.”
“Ich spreche kein Deutsch,” he says.
Carlos and I stop to look at Scott, dumbfounded. Alan seems mildly impressed.
“What the hell did you say?”
“I told you, I don’t speak German, and I only know how to say that.” Scott shrugs, the buttons of his coat glinting as he leans back against the desk. “I know how to say that in most languages, in case I’m ever lost in an unknown place.”
“Oh really?” Ophelia has flowers in her hair, and now that I pay attention to her costume, it reminds me of the painting of Hamlet’s Ophelia by John William Waterhouse. “What about in Japanese?”
“私は日本語が話せません。”
Carlos grabs my elbow. “I somehow feel like he’s insulting us in different languages.”
“What about Spanish?” Alan takes a mouthful of chips as he speaks.
“Yo no hablo Español.”
“Well.” Anna straightens up and walks to the middle of the classroom. “Before Scott starts speaking in Vulcan, we should get the meeting started.”
“The boss has spoken.” Scott gets up and dusts off his shirt.
“The queen,” Ophelia says.