I roll my eyes at Grandma. But I remind myself she grew up in another time.
Grandma smirks at me. “Yes, yes, I know you don’t see the importance. But Grandpa worked so hard to learn English, we both did, and since the people he worked with in the fields mostly spoke Spanish, he needed all the practice he could get. Once he learned English, he hoped he could get a better job. And he did, working as a janitor at that office building, but that wasn’t the life he wanted for you.”
I can almost feel Grandpa, with his slicked black hair and serious expression, next to me. I remember him coming home bone-tired from long hours working the night shift cleaning conference rooms before he got sick. I hadn’t realized he only got that job after years of learning English. It didn’t come up in my conversation with Mom, I guess.
“You probably didn’t realize this, but your grandfather tried so hard to be taken seriously. Not as an immigrant but as a man.”
My eyebrows shoot up when Grandma continues of her own volition. I quickly rearrange my face.
“He would practice his voice so that it didn’t sound like him at all. And it worked, if he was on the phone.” Grandma nods at me solemnly. “Once, when we were overcharged on our phone bill, he called to try to make it right, sounding as himself, and the customer service person did nothing to help us. The next day, he called again and did his best to disguise his accent, and you know what?”
Grandma’s eyes lock with mine and I hold my breath, knowing without being told what must have come next.
Grandma nods. “They gave us our full refund.”
I remember once asking Grandpa why he wouldn’t let me speak Spanish with him. He scolded me, telling me if I were to make anything of myself, I better speak perfect English, I better dress just right, and I better make the right kind of friends, like the good girl he knew I wanted to be.
I was no more than five years old, and I didn’t understand why he got so upset all of a sudden. I started to cry. My grandpa looked sorry for a moment, but instead of scooping me into his arms, like I’d hoped, he leaned down and kissed my forehead before walking to his bedroom.
I remember that conversation more than I remember the movie dates he took me on, just him and me. I remember that conversation more than the times he told me stories about knights and princesses he imagined for me at bedtime, before tucking me in and kissing me good night.
“I . . . I didn’t know that,” I say quietly, not meeting my grandma’s eye.
Grandma adds a crispy tortilla to a plate. “When your mom was young,” Grandma says, keeping her eyes on the pan, “we hadn’t learned yet, so we spoke in Spanish. It was her first language. But we got better, and your mom learned English in school, in one of those ESL programs. But she liked speaking Spanish at home. It was what she was used to.”
I hold still. Like if I were to move, it might break a spell. Listening. Maybe, just maybe, we can talk about Mom. Maybe I can get Grandma to tell me the truth. I remain still and keep listening.
“When your mom tried to speak Spanish at home, after she learned English, your grandfather would stop her. We live in America and we speak English, he would say.”
Huh. I have Grandpa to thank for Grandma’s favorite saying. Still, I hold my tongue. Grandma continues, “Your mom would become so angry with him. And when he wasn’t around, she spoke Spanish with me.”
Grandma flips another tortilla. “I was easier on your mom, back then. I wanted to obey my husband—we had the same dreams for her as I do you, a good education and a good job, and that meant sacrifice. But I wanted to make my daughter happy, too, so I gave in a little.” She trails off.
My throat tightens. This might be my chance. Now or never. “I know you’ve always thought it was best to keep everything about Mom a secret,” I say. “But I’m not a kid anymore. I want to know what happened with her. I want to know why she left.”
Grandma shakes her head as she uses tongs to remove the tortillas from the pan. “We’ve discussed this, Ri, and you know all there is that you need to.” She looks away, busying herself putting the carnitas together.
“It’s not enough, Grandma. I know there’s more to it than that.” I say it with conviction. Because I do know.
Grandma’s back goes still. She abandons the food and rests her hands on either side of the counter. A moment passes before she speaks. “You might not like how I do things, Maria, but I am the adult here, and I make the rules. And one of them is that you stop asking about your mother. She wasn’t ready to be a parent, so she left. But that was her mistake, her loss. I’ve worked so hard to give you everything you need, Ri, to give you the future you deserve. We have built a life without her, and we are doing just fine.”
My mouth falls open. Grandma has been vague, she’s dodged my questions, but now she’s flat out refusing to talk to me about my mom. And I know now that she’s lying. She’s lying to my face, not leaving things out, but flat out lying.
Grandma sets a plate of carnitas in front of me.
“Whether you like it or not, Grandma, I am still her daughter. And that—”
The plate shakes as Grandma slams her hand on the counter next to it. “That’s enough, Ri!”
“You can’t just—”
Grandma cuts me off with a shout and I flinch. “End of discussion!”
I blink back tears. Grandma has never screamed at me like that before. I leave the plate of carnitas and walk to my room without a word.
Chapter
Nine
I spend the night tossing and turning. I’m awake before my alarm goes off but still not early enough to see Grandma before she leaves for work.
As I head to the kitchen for breakfast, my eyes land on the couch. The shawl is there. Grandma must have forgotten it. I pick up the soft fabric and look it over. She probably stayed up late finishing this, because there’s no longer a tear in it.
I call Grandma but it goes straight to voicemail. By the time she realizes the shawl is here, it might be too late to come get it without her boss noticing.
I look up the address for Grandma’s work in my phone. Grandma gave it to me in case of emergencies. I’ve never been there, but the last thing I want, even if we’ve been fighting, is for Grandma to get in trouble with her boss.
I call Brittany and ask if she’ll give me a ride there. Of course she agrees and is here in under half an hour.
“Thanks for doing this, Brittany.” I buckle in. “Grandma’s boss will be pissed if she doesn’t get this on time.”
“That lady sounds like a real bitch,” Brittany says. She puts the address in the GPS and we’re off, climbing the hill toward Montecito. I don’t tell Brittany about meeting my mom at the beach. I’d rather wait until after we drop this shawl off, so I don’t work myself up right before I have to see Grandma.
When the directions tell us we’ve arrived, we head up a long, winding driveway until we reach a tall metal gate. I hit the intercom and a woman with a heavy Spanish accent answers.
“I’m Ri Fernández,” I call over Brittany through her open window. “I’m Carmen’s granddaughter. There’s something important I need to give to her right away.”
There’s a pause. “Carmen’s granddaughter?”
“Yes, and I know she really needs this shawl. It’s for Mrs. Reynolds’s party tonight.”
I hear a sigh. “Okay, well, since you are Carmen’s granddaughter. Just this once.”
“Thank you!”
A loud beep sounds and the gate opens.
“Wow.” Brittany whistles as she takes in the Mediterranean-style mansion that expands almost as far as the eye can see. There’s a tennis court and pool to the left, and something that looks like a fancy barn, maybe a horse stable, beyond that.
“Yeah,” I manage. I try calling my grandma again, but there’s no answer.
We keep driving until we see a tucked-away lot where several cars are parked, including Grandma’s. “This must be it,” I tell Brittany. She pulls over and our f
eet crunch on the gravel as we make our way toward the nearest door.
“I feel like we shouldn’t be here,” Brittany says quietly.
And looking around, I agree, but we’ve come this far. I clutch the cashmere to my chest. I keep walking, and Brittany opens the door for us. “At least it’s not locked,” she says.
“Why would it be with that big-ass gate out there?”
Brittany nods. We walk inside and there’s marble everywhere. A huge, rounded ceiling way above. A tall metal structure with some kind of appendages shooting out of it on either side, which I can’t distinguish as art or a table, sits in the middle of the room. And there’s an imposing, winding staircase to the left.
Footsteps clap on the marble floor at the end of the atrium. A middle-aged man wearing a uniform similar to what Grandma wears—black slacks and a white button-down and comfortable-looking black shoes—stops in his tracks. This man does not look happy to see us. “Who are you?”
“My grandma, Carmen Fernández, works here.” I lift the shawl. “I need to give her this.”
The man doesn’t budge as he seemingly appraises us.
“My grandma forgot it at home, and Mrs. Reynolds needs it tonight,” I plead.
The man’s expression softens, and he beckons for us to follow him. Brittany exhales louder then she probably means to, and we walk down a long hallway with family portraits decorating the walls. The people in it, a man and woman and a younger man, probably the son Grandma complains about sometimes, look so serious, dressed up, not a hair out of place. None of them smiling.
He leads us to a small kitchen, not the kind of kitchen that I’ve seen before in other homes, but more like a . . . a . . . my mind struggles to find the word. A workers’ kitchen?
As soon as Brittany and I step in, the man retreats. It’s not hard to see or feel why when we notice how hot it is. Smoldering. There are no windows in the small room and the oven glows; something’s cooking in there and making the room feel like a sauna. Grandma is hunched over a large sink, dishes piled high. Fans blow at her from all sides, but she still pauses to use a gloved hand to wipe the sweat off her brow. She’s turning to load a plate in the open dishwasher beside her when she catches sight of us.
“¡Dios mío! ¿Qué pasa?” Grandma drops the plate in the dishwasher with a clang and steps toward us, fear lining her face. “Girls, are you okay?”
My voice cracks as I rush to answer. “Grandma, I called but you didn’t answer.” I lift the shawl. “You forgot this at home.”
Grandma’s mouth falls open in a silent O. She shakes her head, slowly, taking a moment before finally speaking. “You . . . you didn’t have to bring it to me.”
“I know how important it is for Mrs. Reynolds to have this tonight,” I say, tamping down my annoyance because I doubt it’s actually important at all. “You probably stayed up half the night working on it.”
I look to Brittany and she smiles awkwardly, her eyes darting around the room. She looks like she can’t wait to get out of here. I wipe off the sweat that’s started to pool on the back of my neck.
The double doors we came in from flip open as the man from before walks in, sheets and pillowcases piled so high in his arms we can barely see his face.
“Carmen, toma esto. Necesitas—”
“Ya sé,” Grandma replies quickly. She moves around us to take the load out of the man’s hands. She sets it on the countertop beside her just as a timer dings. “¡Aaay!” Grandma rushes to the oven, turning it off. She grabs the mitts off the handle and opens it, inspecting the large ham inside before waving her hand in front, letting some of the heat out.
My mouth dries as I watch my grandma struggle trying to do everything at once. In this heat. At her age.
“Gracias, I mean, thank you, Julio.” Grandma nods at Julio and he leaves.
Grandma keeps her eyes on the ham as she closes the oven.
Brittany pulls her hair off her neck and fans herself, before wrinkling her nose at the oven. “What are you making ham for this early in the morning?”
“Mrs. Reynolds wants ham sandwiches for lunch. Her friends are coming over for their weekly game of—” Grandma stops abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. Ri, put the shawl right there.” She points to the countertop. “Thank you for bringing it. As you see, I’m very busy. You have to leave. Now.”
Brittany takes a step backward and when I don’t move, she grabs my arm. “So sorry to bother you, Mrs. Fernández. We know the way out.”
“Grandma, I . . .” I don’t know what to say. Grandma spends her days like this? Working so hard, moving so fast, from early in the morning and sometimes late into the night? Grandma finally meets my eye. Her forehead is sweating. I’m sweating too. It’s so hot in here.
“I will see you at home, Ri.”
I follow Brittany out and it’s several moments into the drive to school before Brittany or I say anything.
“Well, that was weird,” Brittany offers.
I flinch. Weird. That’s what Brittany would call it. But for me, seeing Grandma—a little old lady—work so hard like that, like she must every day . . . I don’t have words for it. So I just repeat Brittany’s.
“Yeah. Weird.”
We make it to school just before the bell rings, and I plop down into my seat next to Carlos without a word.
“What’s got your panties in a twist this morning?”
“Got in a fight with my grandma,” I lie.
Carlos nods. “Aah, well. I’m sure it’ll blow over.”
That’s it. He doesn’t ask me what happened or say anything else before he resumes scrolling on his phone. And I’m not going to tell him about how I just saw my grandma sweating and rushed and stressed, and the way seeing her like that has me feeling guilty. How all I can think about is Grandma hunched over an oven, knowing that work is why her back hurts so much.
Every time I thought about Grandma before, I saw red. But how can I hate her now that I’ve seen what most of her days are like?
Because that life of hard work is what she sacrifices for me. And all I can do is argue with her about everything.
Class, the one I tell my grandma how well I’m doing in, goes by in a whirl, plenty of fast talking and r-rolling that just makes me feel even more like an idiot. A fake. I can’t roll a stupid r to save my life. I’m going to bomb that test tomorrow.
The classroom starts to empty around us after the bell rings. I bristle when Carlos puts his arm around me, and Edgar seems to notice, watching from his seat. Quickly, I explain myself. “Uggh, sorry, just anxious about that test. I’ve barely cracked the book open outside of class.”
“Don’t worry so much,” Carlos says. “Haven’t we all been speaking it our whole lives? What’s the big deal about writing down a few sentences the way Señora Almanza wants us to? This test will be easy, but if you want to study so bad, I got you next time.”
“I can study tonight,” Edgar says. “I can meet you about an hour after school ends, if that’s cool with you.”
Carlos clears his throat. “Nah, güey. I need you for this thing. I was hoping we could hang out after school.”
Edgar looks at his friend for a second, then shakes his head slightly, before taking in Carlos’s expression—I’m guessing. I can’t see Carlos’s face because he’s turned his back toward me.
“Okaaaaaay,” Edgar says slowly, as if he’s still not sure what Carlos is talking about. “Sorry, Ri. Listen, you’ll be fine tomorrow. I can send you my notes if you—”
But I don’t hear the rest of what Edgar says because my ears are pounding. Confused. Embarrassed. Annoyed. Carlos can’t ever make the time to hang out with me but is seemingly jealous enough to want to be the only guy I spend time with one on one. It’s like he’s into me one second but then acts like I barely exist the next.
And that’s just the half of it. This test isn’t a big deal to anyone but me, and I don’t need to make myself look even more pathetic than I am by worrying about it in fr
ont of them.
“I’m good,” I say much more brightly than I’m feeling. “Thanks, though!”
The end of the day can’t come fast enough. At my locker, after the final bell with Brittany, I tell her for the third time that I don’t want to talk about what’s bothering me.
“I know it was awkward with your grandma earlier, but I’m sure she’s not going to be that mad at you for dropping in on her like that. You were trying to help.” Brittany rests her hand on my open locker door. “She was just busy.”
That’s what she thinks is bothering me?
I shove my books in my locker. “That’s not even the point. It was just . . .” I nod for Brittany to move her hand so I can shut the door. I hold the locker for a second, paralyzed because I don’t know what I want to say. It’s more that if it weren’t for me, Grandma probably wouldn’t have to work half as hard. But would Brittany even be able to understand that?
“I’m walking home.”
Brittany looks as if she’s going to argue but then I give her a look. Not today.
Her shoulders sink in. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter
Ten
Today is test day in Spanish class and I’m staring at my exam, as though the harder I look the more likely it will make sense. The words start to blur and blend together the longer I look. I scrub out my poorly written answer.
Carlos looks in my direction and smiles. I’ve felt uneasy around him since yesterday. It’s not that I can’t study on my own, but it feels like he should want to spend time with me—if he actually likes me, that is. I snap my eyes back to my paper, filling in the last of the question-and-answer section and moving to the multiple choice. I know some of this stuff, maybe even more than I thought I would, but at times it’s like the information is on the tip of my tongue—words I know but can’t remember.
When the bell rings and Señora Almanza tells us to hand in our tests, I quickly fill in the last bubble on mine and march it up to her, like it was easy, like I could do this stuff in my sleep. When I turn back to my desk, Nina catches my eye and grins. I flush. I still don’t know how to be around her.
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