Barely Missing Everything

by Matt Mendez

  “Abortion?!” Her father looked ready to faint. “¿Qué dijo ella?” He looked at Gladi and then her husband, who were both staring hard at the ground. He wouldn’t look at Fabi. “What did she say?”

  “That I’m pregnant. What else could I be saying?” Fabi grabbed her purse off the table and looked defiantly at her sister. “Are we going or not?”

  Now Papá and Gladi were eyeballing her, trying to guess if she was serious or not. Fabi hated how quickly she said the craziest thing that came to her head. This, she supposed, was the real reason she never talked to Gladi. She hated the person she became with her sister around. Self-conscious and easily flustered. And stupid. A teenager all over again.

  • • •

  The chilaquiles were good. Gladi wins again. On the drive to L&J Cafe, she and Gladi had pretended like the scene in the living room hadn’t happened. That Fabi hadn’t turned down the invite. That Grampá hadn’t insulted the shit out of Fabi. That no one said “abortion.” Instead they had chitchatted about the summer weather in McAllen—humid, hot. Fabi had reminded her of El Paso’s—dry, hot. Papá and hubby had stayed behind, leaving Fabi and Gladi to themselves, something Mamá would have loved to see. The names Fabiola and Gladiola had been her idea. A flower lover, that was how she thought of her two girls: as a springtime she would enjoy even in the winter.

  “So, an abortion,” Gladi said, quickly shoving a forkful of chilaquiles into her mouth.

  Fabi guessed talking about the weather was getting too boring for her psychologist sister. “I don’t know,” Fabi said, glancing around uneasily, as if Ruben could be in the booth behind theirs. “I’m thinking about it, not that I have one scheduled or anything. But maybe. Soon.” Gladi swallowed hard and looked at Fabi in the way Fabi guessed she did with her clients—not a blank look, but a not-quite-smile-not-quite-frown look, an I’m listening expression she probably learned in a classroom.

  “I didn’t even know you were pregnant—” Gladi began.

  “You and Papá are the first people I’ve told,” Fabi said, wondering if dropping the news at the end of her second letter to Mando counted. “I’m not really happy about it.”

  “So . . . this wasn’t planned? It doesn’t sound like it.” Gladi took a sip of her coffee, then another bite of her breakfast. From a distance they probably looked like they were enjoying each other’s company.

  “No shit, Gladi. Who plans on getting pregnant just to get an abortion?”

  Gladi motioned for Fabi to stop, her hand up like a crossing guard’s. “Cálmate. I just want to help . . . if I can.”

  Of course she did. The great Gladi back in town to save her fuckup of a sister who was stuck in the exact same boat she was in back in high school. Only now that boat also had an eighteen-year-old facing a year in jail. A year. And for what? For being scared? For running? Fabi suddenly couldn’t eat. She dropped her fork and rubbed her face with the palms of her hands, enjoying their smooth cool relief for a moment. Juanito. She needed to find a lawyer. Had no idea where to even start looking. How could she even pay for one?

  “Do you need me to pay for it?” Gladi asked. “I can do that. It’s no problem.”

  Gladi was in her head now. Her sister must’ve had a time share in there. “How different would our lives have been if Mamá never got cancer? If she were alive?” Fabi said quietly, then glanced out the window. Cars steadily drove up and down Stevens Street, commuters making their way back and forth to the gateway and onto the interstate, past old Concordia Cemetery, with its hard dirt ground and scattered tombstones.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Fabi looked back at her sister. “Nothing.” Mando’s letter had been turning over in her mind. His idea of small truths—Mando’s overly complicated way of saying that the past mattered. That everything that had happened to her, every choice she’d made, was being passed on to Juan in some way, and would be passed on again.

  Gladi pushed her plate to the middle of the table, looking frustrated, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t live in that head of yours, Fabi.”

  “Back in the day you could have helped me, but you didn’t. It could’ve changed my life. Juan’s life too.”

  Gladi let out a long sigh. “What exactly could I have done, back in the day?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.” Fabi looked back out the window. “I just got abandoned by everyone back then. By you. Papá. Mamá.”

  “Mamá died!” Gladi picked up her fork, dug at her now-cold chilaquiles. “You always act like you were the only one who was going through shit . . . the only one whose mother died. I took care of Mamá pretty much alone until her last day. Do you ever think of that? That I needed you too? It was my senior year! And everything would be different if Mamá were alive, but she’s not.”

  Gladi tossed the fork and it clanked against the plate. The truth was, Fabi didn’t know what she wanted or expected from Gladi. She’d been angry and scared all those years ago. Alone. She was still those things. What she wanted, more than anything, was for her mother to be alive. “You’re right,” Fabi said. “My life just turned out so . . . hard. I should have done everything different.”

  Gladi took a sip of coffee, and as if searching for the right response, jumped right back inside Fabi’s head. “Fabi, what’s happening to Juan?”

  “He’s taking an algebra test today. He’s been worried about it.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  Fabi nodded, wondering if this was what therapy was like, having no clue why anyone would willingly do it. But she said, “He’s got court next week. He could face up to a year in jail.”

  “Ay Dios. What happened?”

  Fabi ran her hands through her hair. “That’s the thing. I don’t even know what he really did. He was at a party, doing what everybody does at a party. Stupid shit. Then the cops came. He ran away. Of course, they caught him, and I think they beat him because he was limping and had to go to urgent care afterward, and now . . . he could be in jail for a year. I don’t get it. He was just being a kid. I don’t have the money to pay for any of this, either.”

  “Kids do stupid things,” Gladi said, reaching to hold Fabi’s hand.

  Fabi’s hand went limp inside her sister’s. “I remember. Juan is the result of stupid things.”

  “That’s not true,” Gladi insisted. “Juan wouldn’t be here unless he was meant to be.”

  “You sound like a greeting card.” Fabi patted Gladi’s hand before pulling hers away.

  “And you sound defensive,” Gladi replied. “Look, Juan is going to be okay. Living back with Grampá is a good thing. He graduates this year, right? He can still go to college. I can help you with that. And I have a lawyer friend who lives in town. We can give her a call. I’ll pay for it—Juan is my nephew, after all.”

  Híjole, Gladi made everything sound so easy. Fabi knew her sister wasn’t rich, but she had money and seemed happy and maybe not evil (abortions and lawyers weren’t the best things in life, for sure not free, but people needed them and Gladi could afford both). Hell, the cabrona was even aging well, had Mamá’s smooth skin and soft face, her make-everything-better smile. And Fabi wanted her son to have a life like Gladi’s. If not the life he hung up for himself on his bedroom walls.

  “Can I ask you a question? And don’t get too mad?” The waiter was refilling their coffee.

  “Sure,” Fabi answered.

  Gladi patted her belly. “What’s up with the father?”

  Fabi took a sip of her fresh coffee as Gladi dumped pink packets of sweetener in hers. “We broke up. If you watch any TV while you’re here, you’ll see one of his stupid commercials. He owns a used-car dealership, EZ Motors. He’s Ruben ‘King of the Deal’ Gonzalez.”

  “So that was never going to work out.” Gladi leaned in close, elbows on the table, her head resting on the palms of her hands. Is this therapy or girl talk?

  Fabi slipped her hands around
her cup, enjoying the warmth on her palms. “I didn’t love him. Plus, his dumb ass got me fired. You can watch it on YouTube.”

  Gladi’s eyes widened. “Oh! That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah, well. Shit happens. Let me ask you something,” Fabi said, motioning at the nearby waiter for the check, then turning back to Gladi. “What’s up with marrying Seth? I thought you always wanted to marry Antonio Banderas. I remembered wearing Desperado out with you back in the day.”

  Gladi sheepishly smiled. “I always did want an Antonio Banderas type.”

  “So why didn’t you go and get one?”

  “They aren’t around. There were hardly any Mexicans at my college and none at my job. At least none working where I work, and I spend most of my time there. It’s where I met Seth. We just talked at first and then dated. The normal thing. It wasn’t what I dreamed of when I was sixteen, but it’s been good. He’s a good guy. And yeah, I love him.” She laughed. “Even if he looks weird in leather pants.”

  “And now you have Yorkies.”

  “True.” Gladi laughed again. “They were my idea. He wanted Chihuahuas, but I wasn’t sure if he was being racist or not.” Now Fabi laughed, a real laugh, and it felt good. She hadn’t noticed that L&J had become crowded; outside, people trudged up and down the sidewalks, going to work in the nearby printshops and convenience stores, the barely-hanging-by-a-thread antique shop. Everyone was getting on with their morning. It was amazing the way life pushed onward no matter what could be happening in any one person’s life. This used to bother the hell out of her, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Everyone pulling everybody else in one forward direction simply by continuing to live.

  “You know Antonio Banderas is Spanish, right? Not a Mexican,” Fabi said, reaching for the bill as the waiter placed it beside Gladi. Fabi wanted badly to rewire how she thought of herself, to stop hating the person she was, the girl she used to be.

  “Well, shit, my whole life’s been a total lie,” Gladi said, allowing her sister to take the tab, them both laughing, actually laughing. “And everything is going to be fine, Juan especially. Even with his algebra test. I just know it.”

  A TEST OF ALGEBRA

  Probability is an area of mathematics that uses experiments to yield chance results; however, the results over time do produce patterns that enable us to predict future outcomes with notable accuracy.

  Questions of Permutations and Combinations:

  Because of a mistake in packaging, 5 pairs of defective basketball shoes were packed with 15 good ones. All the pairs of basketball shoes look the same and have an equal probability of being chosen. Three pairs are selected.

  a) What is the probability that all three pairs are defective?

  b) What is the probability that exactly two pairs are defective?

  c) What is the probability that at least two pairs are defective?

  Answers:

  Extra Credit:

  What are the odds your má buys a pair of these reject kicks, them destroying your ankle and fucking everything up?

  FUCK YOU FOR EVEN THINKING IT.

  An exponential function is a function whose value is a constant raised to the power of the argument. f(x) = ax

  Questions of What Is Real:

  Hey, asshole, did you know the concentration of alcohol in a person’s blood is measurable? The risk R (given as a percent) can be modeled by the equation R=6ekx where x is the variable concentration of booze in the blood and k is the constant. You got that, stupid?

  a) Suppose that the concentration 0.04 results in a 10% risk (R=10) of an accident. Find k in the equation.

  b) Using k, what is the risk if the concentration is 0.17?

  c) If the law asserts that anyone with a risk of having an accident of 20% or more shouldn’t drive, how fucked up were you and JD when you wrecked? How lucky were you that the cops weren’t there to bust you again? How long do you think your luck will hold out? I bet you don’t even think you’re lucky, do you?

  Answers:

  Extra Credit:

  Graph the exponential function of your sorry-ass life.

  THE CONSTANT IS BEING FUCKED. THE ARGUMENTS FUCKING ME ARE NUMEROUS.

  A hyperbola is the set of points in a plane whose distances to two fixed points in the plane is a constant.

  Question of Applications:

  Suppose a gun is fired from an unknown source, S. An observer at O1 hears that shit 1 second after another at O2. Since sound travels at 1,100 feet per second, it means that the point S must be 1,100 feet closer to O2 than O1. So, motherfucker, S lies on one branch of a hyperbola with a center at O1 and O2. Tell me you got that shit? That you know the difference of the distance from S to O1 and S to O2 is the constant 1,100? If a third not-doing-shit-but-watching observer hears the same shot 2 seconds after O1 hears it, the S will lie on a branch of a second hyperbola with a center at O1 and O3. The intersection of the two hyperbolas will tell you the location of S, of the motherfucker shooting. That’s really what you want to know, right? Who the fuck is shooting at you? Or you could just run and say fuck the math. Hear those pops and fucking run. That’s the only answer, pendejo.

  a) Are you still having nightmares? Are you still underwater? Still being chased? Shot?

  b) Have you been watching the clock this whole time? You’re running out of time.

  c) You’re gonna fail.

  Answers:

  I DON’T HAVE THE ANSWERS.

  Extra Credit:

  Remember when you told Grampá you could be an engineer? You never believed you could, not for a second. What about going to some community college in Arizona after graduation to play basketball? What about balling out in front of some college coach that may not even exist because your current coach is a shady motherfucker and probably lying to you? You have a court date coming. There’s also that, don’t forget. What’s the probability all that shit works out for you? Also, isn’t your dad a murderer?

  Extra Extra Credit:

  Are you more likely to play pro basketball or follow your daddy straight to death row? What’s more in your bones? Remember to show your work.

  Oh, by the way, your má’s here. She’s standing at the door looking in. Man, she’s pretty fine, for an old lady.

  WHEN WE WERE FEARLESS

  (CHAPTER SIXTEEN)

  Fabi had the name of Gladi’s lawyer friend, Vanessa Peña. She remembered Vanessa. She was like Gladi—straight As, in all the nerdy clubs, and even beat out Gladi for valedictorian (Gladi would’ve had her if not for Mamá dying, resulting in a B in AP English). Fabi searched through Grampá’s old phonebook, wanting to see if she had an ad, but the thing was ten years old. She thought of Googling her, but of course her father didn’t have Internet and Fabi still had a flip phone. The one good thing about living in her old apartment had been that Flor never password-protected her Wi-Fi.

  After spending the morning talking with Gladi, she realized just how shitty the last few weeks had been for Juanito. She imagined his night in jail. How awful it must’ve been. How injuring his ankle and stressing about school were probably freaking him out. Even moving into a new house had to be hard. She hadn’t really talked to him about any of this; she’d been too busy dealing with her own shit. Fabi decided she could wait to call Vanessa. She wanted to spend the day with her son, to do for him what Gladi had just done for her.

  • • •

  It had been years since Fabi walked the halls of Austin High. The inside of the building was essentially the same, which at first she found comforting, then sad: The ceramic green tile along the walls and the black-and-white checkered flooring straight from the forties. The classroom doors heavy and wooden, with greening brass knobs. Her high heels echoed down the empty hallway as she made her way to Mrs. Hill’s room, Juan’s algebra classroom. Fabi had told the secretary at the attendance office that Juan had a doctor’s appointment for his ankle, though she wasn’t sure why she’d lied. It wasn’t like there was anyone for her to
get in trouble with. Fabi strolled the halls, not wanting to sit and wait for the student escort to return with her son—too excited about the day she envisioned with Juanito. Posters lined the doors to classrooms and were taped above water fountains. The say-no-to-drugs and beware-of-gangs posters that hung on the walls and classroom doors when she’d been a student were replaced by social media and cyber-bullying warnings, some with hashtags along the bottoms: #bekindonline and #sextingisforever. She wondered if the kids actually found the posters helpful, or, like when she was young, they were more for the adults, hanging posters much easier than actually having to talk about any of that stuff.

  Juan’s class appeared to be taking a test, everyone with their heads peering down at their desks, scribbling away. Shit. The test was still going. Juan was blankly staring at the clock. Fabi had also hated algebra; she remembered how nervous she used to get taking tests. She often knew the answer but got nervous about having to show all the right steps. Her work. Still, as she continued to watch through the small window in the door, she found herself wanting Juan to be like all the other kids and get to work.

  Before leaving the house Fabi had folded the notice for the arraignment, stuffed it back in the envelope, and tucked it in her purse along with the sonogram and her letters from Mando. She planned to talk to Juan about it and the lawyer they would get. She knew Juan had no faith in her, like she’d once had no faith in Grampá. But that’s what today was about. Fixing the past.

  “What are you doing here?” Juan hissed, closing the door to Mrs. Hill’s classroom behind him. He’d caught her peeking inside the classroom, bolted from his seat to the door. “You’re not supposed to be standing alone in the hallway, you psycho.”