by Shay Bravo
“The empress,” Alan says.
“The fairest of them all.” Carlos takes a swig of his soda.
“I hate you all,” Anna says, laughing, as she sits on the desk while the rest of the club members take seats in front of her.
As ridiculous as our club is, there are still some things we do the traditional way. We need community credit hours, so we help out at school events and promote ourselves as much as possible. There are volunteering opportunities at the local museum and the history department at the school, and we have fund-raisers and club parties every now and then. Really, the only weird thing about our club is our initiation process.
“So, our dear Soledad finally completed her challenge last week.” Rummaging through her bag, Anna takes out a printed picture of the selfie I sent her last Saturday. My side still hurts from the fall from the tree outside Ethan’s house.
My phone feels heavy inside my jean pocket. Ethan has sent me three messages in the past four days asking whether or not I’ve retrieved his house key, but I promised myself I wouldn’t contact him until I had valid information about his key in order not to give him information about myself. The more anonymous I am, the better.
“Now she is an official history club member.” Anna encourages everyone to give me a round of applause, which feels misplaced and puts me on the spot, but I try to own it and hope we never have to bring up again what I did for this organization.
After this we discuss hours and Carlos—who is the vice president of the club—and I sign up to help in the history department.
“Remember to ask your professors whether or not you can make an announcement about the club,” Anna says, taking a piece of onion from her pizza slice. “We need three more members to meet the requirements.”
“What requirements?” I ask.
“We need a certain number of members to be considered a school organization. If we don’t have that, we don’t get funding and we might not be able to participate in certain school events.” Carlos shrugs. “Or something like that.”
Alan, our unofficial graphic designer (because he’s the only one of us who can draw anything aside from stick figures and because he has an Adobe account), hands us all a couple of posters before he leaves. They are designed to look like Victorian-era ads, and would grab my attention if I was to walk by them.
THE HISTORY CLUB
Afraid of never being satisfied?
Hungry to spend time with dead people at the local museum?
Trying to find a way to kill time because you’re a lonely history nerd?
Fear no more! We’ve got the right answer for you!
Meet us each Saturday at 10 a.m. at LA 135.
The password is cornbread (don’t question it).
Seems legit. There is a bit of guilt in my gut at the thought of luring unsuspecting students to a society that asks them to do daring tasks in order to join; nevertheless, I place the papers inside my folder and then fumble in my seat to get my backpack. As I do so, Anna finishes up her conversation with Ophelia, and I stand to ask her about Ethan’s little problem.
“Is there a possibility of getting the Winstons’ house key back?” I say.
Anna reaches to the back of her head to undo a clip in her wig. “Forgot something in there? Interested in elderly voyeurism?”
“What? No!”
“I’m kidding. Not everyone shares Carlos’s tastes.”
“I heard that!” Carlos shouts.
“Anyway, why?” She pulls her wig off to reveal a cap covering her bright-blue hair.
“Their grandson. You remember I told you about him.”
“I happen to have a terrible memory.” It could be sarcasm, but I still don’t know her well enough to know for sure. When I first met Anna a couple of weeks ago she seemed a bit cold. Carlos assured me that’s the way she is, holding herself high as the face and leader of the club. Older members seem to really like her, though, so maybe I simply haven’t gotten to that point yet.
“He threatened to tell the police.”
“Ah, right, him.”
“He asked me to get the key to his house back.”
“Have you told him to change the locks?” Her hair comes undone, blue strands falling above her shoulders. In a way, I like how it clashes with the colors of her outfit.
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
She taps the side of her head, gathering some documents from the desk.
“Look, it is possible to give him the key back, but it’d be breaking club policy. The system we run is information sensitive, and we wouldn’t like word getting around to the wrong people about what we do.” A smile creeps up her lips. “Although . . .”
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
“If you recruit him into the club, all this would be fixed.”
Words are flying out of my mouth before I can thoroughly think about her statement. “That’s a terrible idea. Inviting him to join the club could not only put me in an awkward position, but he could also represent a threat to the whole club.” Not only would he get to see what we do inside the club, but if he wanted to, he could bring the entire Westray Police Department. Just because he didn’t call the cops on me once doesn’t mean he won’t be tempted to do it in the future. In the history of bad ideas that are very unlikely to actually work, this is up there with the Trojan Horse.
“If he wanted to, he would have already, don’t you think? Who knows? Maybe he’s more interested in us than we are in him. Besides, we need all the members we can gather.”
She pulls out a weathered envelope made of thick, cotton-like paper and that has a golden wax seal with the history club’s logo on it. It’s a direct invitation that is only given to top priority candidates. I’ve only seen a letter like that once, when Carlos presented me with one.
During my first semester I felt lost. Yes, I had Carlos and Diane, and I had my job, but it felt like I was spinning my wheels. Without Mom around, I lost a pillar of my core family—it was strange not having her here, and now that a new chapter of my life had begun, not having her here was startling, even physically painful at times. For someone who had never really met her extended family, losing my mother was like losing a part of myself.
I couldn’t leave Dad alone, not in that situation and not considering the amount of debt we were quickly looking to get into for legal fees in the future, so WCC was the only option aside from online classes. My future went from being an exciting adventure to look forward to, to me wandering aimlessly through a haze.
Carlos had made many attempts to get me to socialize more, but after the summer all I wanted to do was focus on school and not get into the kind of trouble that would worry my parents even more. So over winter break he showed up with an envelope, promising a place to hang out that wasn’t home or work—somewhere I could relax and see more people. A club that I was already overqualified for by being a history major.
Anna hands the letter to me. “Doesn’t hurt to try.”
I reluctantly take the envelope from her.
“If he refuses to join, I’m sure we’ll find the right arrangement,” she says.
“How can you be so sure?”
She shrugs, shouldering her backpack. “You aren’t the first member to get caught and you won’t be the last, Sol. Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to put your worries to rest.”
“That sounds kind of ominous.”
“We have our methods.” Anna winks. “The meeting is over, guys. Remember about your hours and that we’ll meet a week from now. If you have any questions don’t be afraid to message me or Carlos.”
Then she is out, looking as grand as she did when she made her entrance.
Once I’m in the hall, I take out my phone to text Ethan. Nothing too complicated or something that’ll alarm him.
Me: I have an update
on your key, can you meet at the café at Social and Behavioral Sciences tomorrow or Monday?
Carlos puts his arm over my shoulders.
“Where are we headed, Sor Soledad?” The corner of his Tesla moustache is slowly peeling away from his upper lip, and I have a deep urge to yank it off.
“Want to go to Starbucks and weird people out?”
“Hell yeah.” He holds out the crook of his elbow for me to grab. I take it with evil happiness. “It’s on me.”
“What did I do to deserve you?” I rest my head against his shoulder.
“Possibly sacrificed a person or two in your past life.”
“Nuns don’t believe in past lives.”
“That’s what makes you special, you’re a heathen nun.”
“Pray during the day and do brujería at night?”
“Exactly.”
I’ve known Carlos so long we should legally be siblings at this point. When I was younger, I’d ask my parents for a brother or sister, but it was only when I was older that I learned I had been a high-risk pregnancy, and that after three miscarriages the doctors had advised my mother to stop trying for her own health.
Then in sixth grade, Carlos and I became friends. I had other friends of course, but Carlos was like the brother I never had, as if my own wishes had taken form and stumbled into my second period science class, lost in school after moving to the United States from Sonora, Mexico. Carlos’s dad is an American, so he already knew English when we met, and they didn’t hold him back in the school system. We were both very far away from our extended families, and were only children, and for the last seven years we’ve always been there for each other during the lows and highs.
Even though I was dating Tyler when Mom was deported, it was Carlos who I called sobbing that night from the hospital. He stayed on the phone with me for five hours even though he was spending winter break in Mexico. In fact, Carlos was the only one who tried throughout all those months to help me through it all, since I didn’t want to hassle my parents with my volatile emotions. I honestly don’t know where I would be if he hadn’t been there with me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dad was the one who came up with the idea of morning calls with Mom. They happen twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it was his way of giving us a girls-only call so we could catch up on, as he called them, “women things.” He also said that as he walked out the front door waving me away when I asked him if he was going to get coffee on the way to work. There’s a possibility he also said that because once a couple of months ago I dragged myself in the kitchen complaining about cramps and he wasn’t sure about how to handle that.
We didn’t necessarily need an extra hour of talking. In fact, Mom and I texted and called each other a lot on our own terms, but she ran with it, and it was nice to have an extra hour in the morning two days a week dedicated to getting up to speed with her.
“Because Thanksgiving is an American holiday, I think I should visit you on Christmas.” I push the door of the fridge closed and carry the jug of milk to the kitchen counter where my bowl of cereal is waiting. “And I’d be paying for my plane ticket, you guys wouldn’t have to worry about the money.”
I had visited Mom only once since she “moved” to Mexico. That was the term she wanted to use and that was the term we settled on. Monterrey is a large city, and she lives in what’s called the metropolitan area. It’s the third largest city in Mexico, and about an hour and a half away from where she grew up before she was brought to the United States when she was six. When Mom returned, a distant aunt of hers helped her find an apartment and got it into someone good’s ear that my mother was an excellent English teacher.
We helped her move into her little one bedroom apartment and made jokes about it being like a holiday home, but when it was time to say good-bye at the door, Dad pretty much had to pry me and her away from ugly crying in each other’s arms. She promised we could come visit whenever we had time, especially for holidays—after all, I am a US-born citizen and Dad got his residency through the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 after working in agriculture in his teens. We could still visit her, and it was something we were looking forward to, but after a couple of weeks living by herself, she got a call from an unknown man telling her they knew she had family in the States and that they had her under watch.
Her aunt assured her those calls happened every now and then, usually from people pretending to be part of a cartel or other criminal organization in order to get money out of unsuspecting people, but Mom didn’t feel safe anymore, and she didn’t want me or Dad visiting as often.
“Hmm.” Mom’s voice fills the air, her cup of coffee the only image on my phone screen while she prepares her breakfast. “But who would your dad spend Christmas with?”
“He can come if he wants to, he’s a resident,” I reply.
“He already said he has to work, remember?”
“Yes, but I want to see you.”
My mother is beautiful, with thick black hair and skin that never seems to age. She’s forty-two yet could be taken for someone in her early thirties; however, lately I’ve begun to notice the signs of stress in her—the circles under her eyes and lines across her forehead as she furrows her brow and thinks about the risks of bringing her young daughter to a city many say is dangerous. I’m not scared, though. Carlos visits his family in Sonora every two months or so and is completely fine. It always feels unfair my parents have sheltered me this way, even if it comes from a place of love.
“We’ll see what happens. I don’t want Dad to be alone,” Mom says.
I shrug and eat a spoonful of my cereal. It’s not like I want to leave Dad alone on Christmas, either, but I didn’t visit her for the holidays last year, and it feels like forever since last February. Dad has visited her twice since everything happened, but I haven’t gotten a chance to see her since that day in her apartment, and I’m the citizen in our household.
“Aren’t you running late? Your students are going to get there before you,” I say.
“Ay sí, they should use the time I’m not there to actually do their homework instead of asking for an extension.” Mom teaches English classes at a private school in Monterrey, and while it does not have the best pay, it gives her enough money for rent. “How’s school going?”
“Good.” Responding through a mouthful of food is quite possibly not very ladylike, and she seems to share the same thought based on the look she gives me.
“Have you joined any clubs this semester?”
“The history club.” She glances quickly above her camera, something that shows I was right about her running late, but these morning calls feel like my life before everything happened, sitting down at the kitchen table in the old house, sharing breakfast before school, thinking over spring break plans or weekend family trips.
“Do you like it?”
“Yep, it’s fun and Carlos is in it.” He used to make more appearances in my house when we were in high school, after many assurances to my parents that we weren’t dating. Sometimes we’d even take him camping by the lake; after all, Dad appreciated having an extra pair of hands to look for wood and someone to go fishing with.
“That’s great. Corazón, I’ve got to go, I’ll message you later.”
“Okay, mami, be careful.” I send her a kiss and she returns it before hanging up, her image freezing and then going black.
Ethan and I had agreed to meet at a coffee shop at the school; that way I could work on my homework after he left. I have a bad feeling, and it’s not the fact that I probably won’t be doing my homework and instead will roam on social media for the majority of the afternoon. It’s easier to see other people be happy in their own posts—it makes life look easier and more bearable than what it actually is.
The envelope Anna gave me glares at me from the table. I open up my messages and read over the last
few.
Ethan: I’ll meet you inside then?
Me: Yeah, I’ll be there around ten
Ethan: Okay
Ethan: omw
Michi jumps on the chair next to mine, purring when I pet her head. I reach for the envelope.
“Well, here goes nothing.”
I push my hair away from my shoulder, looking around as I open the door of the café. There are a few college students typing away at their laptops and one or two elderly people, possibly professors, talking among themselves while drinking from their cups of coffee. The lighting is dim to allow the hipsters to thrive, and soft jazz music plays in the background, providing a study-blog aesthetic.
Ethan is wearing a denim jacket over a yellow shirt, the golden color of which nearly matches the rim of his round glasses. He looks up when I approach.
“About time. I thought I’d be late for class,” Ethan says as I take a seat in front of him and try to resist looking at his cup of coffee. Caffeine would be nice right now.
“What class do you have?” It’s such a student-y thing to ask. We are conditioned to look for classmates we can force into study groups. That’s how Diane and I first met, out of need for connection.
“Bio.” The material of the envelope feels like velvet as I place it on the table, golden wax seal shimmering slightly under the light from the lightbulb hanging above us.
“Oh, are you pre-med?”
“No, I’m computer science. What is this?”
There are only two exits from the café. One of them leads to the main lobby of the SBS building and the second one is an entrance to the outside patio area, which has metal tables covered by white umbrellas for those students who prefer to eat their six-dollar sandwiches surrounded by the sounds of nature. I make a mental note of these two glass doors lest this turns into an adrenaline-driven chase scene . . . again.
“Look, Ethan, this wasn’t my idea. None of it was. If you’re going to go fight someone, make sure it’s not me.”
“Why would I fight you?”