Not twenty minutes later, and faaaaar away from Guatemala, I was stepping through Holly’s front door. The smell reminded me of a dentist’s office. Well, a mix between a dentist’s office and pumpkin pie. Her house was massive. Like, it would take a hell of a lot of cardboard to make even a miniature replica of that house. Everything, and I mean everything, was a shade of tan—the paint on the actual house (three stories), the enormous front door, the wall-to-wall carpeting, the tiles in the kitchen. Even the towels in the downstairs bathroom were tan. A wooden-framed photograph of Holly and her little brother, Max, faced me when I sat on the toilet. In the photo they were laughing so hard, their eyes were nearly shut. I had to hit the bathroom as soon as we got there. Yeah, I was so worried that my pee would be loud that I ran the faucet. Even the bathroom had mad space. And no dog, thank God. Dogs basically freaked me out. Most of the ones I knew lived behind metal fences with beware of dog signs. No thank you.
Holly and her mother stopped talking the second I stepped back into the kitchen. The floor was so clean, it could have been in a Clorox commercial. Every detail competed for my attention—like when Holly’s mom kept calling us girls. I mean, obviously we’re girls. But she used it like this: “Would you girls like some snacks?” And she waved toward the island—yes, they had an island—in the center of the kitchen. Still, Mrs. Peterson seemed nice enough. Though—ha! She had beige hair! When we were driving here she had asked Holly about her day and then had let Holly play whatever playlist she had on her phone. When a rap song full of swears came on, Holly blasted the volume, and her mother didn’t even ask her to turn it down! My mom would have gone ballistic.
On the kitchen island were bowls and platters full of pistachios, chips (the expensive kind where every chip was a different shape), apple slices and cheddar cheese cubes, crackers with flecks of real wheat in them, a dark kind of peanut butter or something on the side, and two empty glasses.
“Thank you for the snacks,” I said.
“Would you like some milk, Lili, or juice?” Mrs. Peterson asked.
“Mom. Seriously?” Holly said, sighing dramatically and dunking her hand into the bowl of already-shelled pistachios. “We’re not in kindergarten.”
I rushed to say, “Oh… no thank you, Mrs. Peterson. Water is fine. I can get it.”
Holly’s mother beamed at me before turning to Holly. “Well… Lili certainly has better manners than you.”
“Whatever.” Holly dropped a handful of pistachios into her mouth. For a skinny white girl, Holly ate like she was anything but. I mean, she wasn’t anorexic-looking or anything, but she was thin. Thinner than me.
I ate a chip and looked out the big bay windows that banked the far side of the kitchen, showing off a wide, landscaped yard backed by dozens of tall trees that probably housed some fairy-tale land. I legit felt like I was in the woods, like when we went on a field trip to Blue Hills last year. The glossy leaves glistening in the massive yard—it all looked so perfect, I half expected Bambi would step out between the trees. My brothers would have loved it. And I found myself hoping for at least one huge snowstorm this winter. Preferably midweek.
“So how are you liking Westburg? And METCO?” Mrs. Peterson asked. “And you poor thing, the bus ride is so long! Tell me where you’re from again, honey. And do you miss your old school? It’s perfectly normal, you know.”
I didn’t know which question to answer first. And I didn’t have to, because Holly’s mother kept going. She held the horseshoe charm on her gold necklace while she talked. “When I was in high school, my family moved across the country. Can you imagine? It was an adjustment, but in the end, I was so glad we moved to the East Coast. I just fell in love with Cape Cod and the islands. We spend at least a week on Nantucket every summer. You should come with us next time! Anyway, is there anything else I can get you, Lili? Something sweet or savory maybe? I’m a decent cook but not the best baker. Although you’re probably used to some great cooking from your mom and all. You know what, though? I can make some mini PB&J’s?”
Wow! Her mom was mad extra.
“Mom! Please stop.” Holly turned to me. “Sorry. I don’t know why she’s trying out for the Martha Stewart award right now.” She turned back to her mother. “Can you, like, go now?”
I glanced uneasily from Holly to her mother. If I ever spoke to my mother that way, especially in front of a guest, she would probably pinch my arm and lecture me about who the mother was. Instead Holly’s mother reached for a bottle of hand lotion inside a coffee-colored wicker basket—of which there were half a dozen on that floor alone—and squirted some onto her hands. Cloves. That was it. The smell was dope.
As she rubbed the lotion into her cuticles, she told Holly that the pizza menu was in the drawer, and she’d be in her office if we needed her. Then she disappeared down the carpeted hallway. Her office. No lie, I had never been inside a house that had an office. I was actually dying to get a tour, but then I thought that might be rude to ask. So Holly and I hung out in her room instead.
Correction: suite. She even had her own bathroom! One that her uncle wasn’t stinking up on the regular, either.
“You even have your own bathroom!” I pointed to it as if Holly might not have noticed it before now.
Holly didn’t respond; she was too busy dumping out the contents of a pink wicker basket onto the rug. This family was seriously into their wicker baskets. “Fuck! I thought my charger was in here. I swear. If Max took it again, I’m going to kill him in his fucking sleep.”
“Must be a really good charger.” I sat cross-legged on the rug.
Time was suspended in Holly’s room, in her gigantic house, in the intoxicating smell of the pepperoni pizza her mother had allowed us to order for no special reason. “Look in the cash drawer for smaller bills,” her mother had instructed, her voice coming from down the hall, from her office. How cool would that be—to have my own office one day? I pictured myself spinning in a black leather chair, writing at my wide desk, pink and yellow Post-its fluttering around like confetti.
“What does your mom do, you know, for work?” I asked Holly.
We were eating slices right from the box. A string of greasy cheese hung from Holly’s lip as she answered, “Consulting,” as if that meant anything to me. I was too embarrassed to ask more, so I just reached for another slice of pizza.
Holly was scrolling through different playlists on her laptop. Everything from Taylor Swift to Cardi B to Fetty Wap to old-school hip-hop. I liked how she played music. I mean, she didn’t just hit play. She changed it up like a DJ or something.
I hesitated before taking the last slice of pizza. I felt like I should wrap it up in a napkin and bring it home to my brothers. At my house, ordering pizza was something that was reserved for nights like, well, when Dad got a bonus at work, or for my birthday. It was never casual, never, Well, the pizza menu is in the drawer.
Suddenly a loud sound, like an earthquake or something, came from under the floor. “What’s that?” I yelped.
Holly laughed. “You kill me. It’s called my dad coming home from work. You know, parking his car in the garage.”
I still found it hard to tell when Holly was being sarcastic. It seemed to be the general way she talked. About everything. Truth, I had never been inside a house with a car garage attached to it. Holly’s house had a triple car garage. What the heck would they need a third space for anyway?
A minute later, a sweaty boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, wearing hockey gear head to toe, appeared at Holly’s door, sticking his middle finger up at her. “Hi, buttface.”
“Get out of here, Max!”
Holly’s brother eyed me up and down. “Hey.”
Holly charged across the room and slammed the door in her brother’s face. Then she turned up the music even louder.
Holly was shouting over the music about what an idiot her brother was when we heard—barely!—a knock at the door.
“Ugh! It’s probably my dad,” Holl
y shouted. “He always has to say hello when he comes home.” She said this as if it was the worst thing in the world, to have your dad come say hi when he got home.
Another knock. “Coming, Father,” Holly sing-songed, hopping up to open the door.
“Hello, Lili,” he said after giving Holly a hug.
“Hi,” I said, back to feeling awkward. He looked like a principal—a suit and tie and everything. No—like a superintendent. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Peterson.”
“So, girls, how was school?” He smiled warmly at Holly.
“Fine. Um… what do you want?”
“What do you say we light up the fire pit out back? We can make Oreo s’mores?”
“Yes!” Holly slapped on the top of her laptop.
I was stunned silent. She’d just been totally rude to her father, and now he was basically rewarding her with dessert? “What are Oreo s’mores?” I asked at last.
“Oh my God. The best thing ever. S’mores, but instead of graham crackers we use Oreos. Insanely delicious. Come on.”
“I’ll be there in a sec,” her father said. “Let me change out of my work clothes.” He disappeared down the hall.
Sounded great to me. Holly led me down the wide curve of stairs to the pantry—a room just for food! She grabbed off the shelves—marshmallows, chocolate bars, and of course, Oreos.
She was just handing me the Oreos when Mrs. Peterson appeared out of nowhere, holding her cell phone. “Oh, here you are, Lili.” She gave me a careful look. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but, well, honey, your mom is looking for you. She sounds very concerned. I assured her you were fine but—” I could hear my mom’s frantic voice pushing through Mrs. Peterson’s cell phone.
My brain was instantly exploding. Dad. Had something terrible happened? Thoughts were wheeling in every direction.
“Mom?” I practically whimpered into the phone. I squeezed my eyes tight, silently praying this had nothing to do with Dad.
“Liliana! You were supposed to call and leave a message! I had to call the METCO office to track you down. You were supposed to call back!”
“Mom, stop freaking out,” was the first thing out of my mouth, my lower lip starting to tremble. Now, like dominos, my thoughts flipped backward. Holly’s annoying brother. Greasy pepperoni. Listening to music. You know, normal teenage stuff. Isn’t that what Holly had said? Going to a friend’s house after school was normal. Yes, unless your name was Liliana Cruz and your mother thought the only trustworthy people in the world were your teachers and family members. And even then you never really knew. Then I was back in the nurse’s office, me clutching her phone, asking Mom for permission to go to a friend’s house. Oh shit! Oh shit, shit, shit. She was right. I was supposed to call her back immediately and leave a message on her voice mail. I was supposed to give her Holly’s address, phone number, names of her parents, yes. I totally forgot. Damn!
“Excuse me? This is not a joke, Liliana. You get home right now. Do you hear me?”
“But we’re going to make Oreo s’mores.”
“Make qué?” Mom yelled. I pulled the phone away from my ear. I was sure Holly and her mom could hear every single word. They were both staring at me. My shoulders pinched. “S’mores… but instead of graham crackers, we use—”
“You get your butt home right now. I don’t know these people. ¿Entiendes?”
She had to be kidding. Basically, my parents—correction, my mother was the most paranoid person on the planet. Here I was, inside a picture-perfect town, at my perfect friend’s perfect three-car-garage house eating perfect (and healthy, if a little bland) snacks (except for the pizza, and now—well, not now—the s’mores). And I was just trying to be what every other teenager in America was: normal. But I couldn’t be. Of course Mom was a basket case. I got that now. But at the same time, did she have to ruin everything? And what difference did it make whether I was at Holly’s house or at art club?
“Fine,” I said, and clicked the phone off and handed it back to Mrs. Peterson.
“Everything okay, honey?”
“Yeah,” I said, breathing hard. “I just have to go home now is all.”
“Right now? But what about the s’mores?” Holly sounded like a little kid. And I felt even worse.
* * *
It was dark by the time I got home. Mr. Peterson had insisted on driving me, which was super nice of him. His car was nice too, and not beige. A black Lexus with caramel-colored leather seats and a sunroof. But I couldn’t really enjoy the ride because I was picturing Mom exactly as she was when we arrived at the apartment—standing, arms folded tight, at the top of the stoop. Really? Had she been there since we’d gotten off the phone? My brothers’ heads poked out the second-floor window, Benjamin’s mouth in a perfect oval, Christopher giving me a thumbs-up. Maybe one of them would fall out the window, and all the attention would shift away from me. I thanked Mr. Peterson at least five times for the ride as he looked toward my mom, slightly concerned. I said a fake cheery “Bye” and scrambled out of the car as he was saying I was always welcome to visit.
“Liliana!” Mom pulled me up the steps as soon as Mr. P. pulled away and squeezed me to her as if I’d been rescued from a war.
“Hey, Mom,” I said in my most good-girl voice. From the corner of my eye I could see Tía Laura and Tío R. coming down from our apartment, probably about to take their nightly walk. “I had a really nice time at Holly’s. We got a ton of studying done, and then we listened to music and ate pizza. I’m fine. Really.” But I wasn’t. My stomach was in knots because I knew she was going to lay into me. But what did she think could possibly happen on a suburban street in Westburg on a weekday afternoon? She had overreacted.
Sure enough, once we were inside, the lecture my stomach was in knots about began.
“What were you thinking, Liliana!” My mother’s eyes were wild. “What if something had happened to you on the way to this girl’s house? I had no idea where you were. None. I can’t just call the police. You know that! Dios mío. I don’t need this on top of everything else. You need to use your head.”
The police? Was she serious? Then she launched into lecture, part two.
“Or what if, God forbid, you all had gotten in a car accident? At least you’re okay. And who else was at her house? Does this girl have any older brothers? Older friends? You can’t trust anyone, you know.”
Now she was pacing. “You know what? No more TV. Nada. Forget it. From now on you just come home after school and do your homework, help me, play with your brothers. I’m serious. You have to be careful, mija. Just because men aren’t sitting around on their stoops in that rich town waiting for little girls to come home after school doesn’t mean they’re not lurking around somewhere else. Men are men. You have to be careful! ¿Entiendes?”
Me (finally): “I was at Holly’s house. We weren’t even outside! I told you that! But sorry I forgot to call back with her number. Anyway, Holly’s family is super nice. They’re not serial killers or anything. God! They have a three-car garage. What did you honestly think could happen? And what do you mean I can’t stay after school anymore? You think I’m going to get killed in art club? Wow. Oh, and by the way, Holly’s family is my HOST FAMILY. Do you even know what that means? You don’t!”
Now my mother’s eyes were filling with tears—and I instantly felt horrible, wished I could take it back. I’d said that to be mean. I’d sounded like… I knew what I’d sounded like. Like I was better than her, like I’d crossed an invisible line of knowing something she didn’t, and rubbing her face in it. I waited for her to let me have it. Instead she just stared past me, one single tear on the verge of sliding down her cheek. No lie—this was kind of worse.
“Por favor, Liliana. Just go to your room.”
“My pleasure,” I mumbled.
* * *
When Tía Laura and Tío R. return from their walk, I heard Tío R. ask Christopher and Benjamin to turn down the volume on their video games. I could just imagin
e their little faces. They had nowhere to play with Tía and Tío here. We were all on top of each other. I thought of Holly having her own bathroom—that sure would be nice—especially as Tío R. had just come out of our only one, and yikes. I decided to hold it for a while instead of going in next. After dinner, while Mom and my aunt and uncle played cards at the kitchen table, I went to take a shower.
On my way, I caught a glimpse of Mom’s face. She looked worried, and it didn’t seem like it had to do with the card game. So while the hot water fell over me, I came up with a new building idea: Sylvia’s Salon. Yes! Mom would love it. I rinsed super quickly and got dressed. Then I pulled the shoebox out from underneath the bed, the one with my cardboard scraps and magazine cutouts. First, I made a floor foundation (a heavier piece of cardboard). Then I noticed that the foundation had a tiny grease stain on it, so I covered the “floor” with plain white paper and drew tiles on it. Just like the tiles from the first time Mom took me with her to a hair salon, I realized when I was done. I’d sat on one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area and had watched as Mom was transformed—her hair pressed into thick, smooth curls; her eyebrows shaped and waxed; and her nails polished and shined. The whole time, she and the other ladies spoke in Spanish. Mom always seemed relaxed, almost floating, in a way I only ever noticed when she was in a beauty salon.
Next I glued on four walls, pressing each edge to the next, waiting for the glue to set in. Then I made little seats at a table, and even a small bouquet of flowers to put on it, drew miniature magazines on the table. It was getting late. Still, I kept going. I thought of Mom coming to this country all alone, not knowing English, working so hard to get by and then raise us with Dad. And it wasn’t like once they’d gotten here, they stopped working, stopped striving. Hello—signing me up for METCO, which Dad didn’t even know I’d gotten into! I wished I had money to send her to the salon. Before I knew it, it was eleven o’clock. And yes, they were still playing cards. I was halfway done with the miniature building.
Don't Ask Me Where I'm From Page 11
