“It’s good having you both here.”
Brittany twists her hands in her lap, her eyebrows furrowed. “About that.”
I hold my breath.
Brittany turns to Nina. “There’s something I need to say,” she begins. “I’ve been pretty awful with dumb stuff that I say to . . . I don’t know, feel better about myself. Trying to keep Ri from you because of my insecurities.”
Nina’s eyebrows shoot to the top of her head, and I get it. I wasn’t expecting this either.
Brittany looks at me and then back to Nina. “And not just lately, but back when we were younger too. I wanted to feel needed, and I pushed you out, Nina. Or I tried to.” Brittany swallows, visibly nervous. “And I only recently realized how messed up it all was, that I was using more than just manipulation, but like microaggressions, being shitty toward Latinos, to get what I wanted. I’m sorry.”
Nina stares at Brittany for a moment, no movement on her face except a blink. And then another. She lets out a long sigh.
“Okay,” Nina says. “Thanks for saying that.” Her words turn up almost as if she’s asking a question. “As long as you cut that shit out—like immediately—we’re good.”
It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, if I had a pin or that was actually something that happens rather than just a weird thing people say.
“And since we’re all sharing,” Nina adds, “I prefer the term Latinx, since it’s gender inclusive. Not Latino.”
Brittany nods aggressively. “Got it.”
Nina cracks a smile. My room is back to being eerily quiet. “Well, this got weird,” Nina says.
The three of us start laughing. So hard I have to clutch my side. Tears stream down my face, not sad ones, but good ones.
The doorknob turns, and I hear keys jingling on the other side. I stand as Grandma walks in.
“Grandma, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Grandma sets her keys on the table beside the door. “I thought I’d come check in on you.” She looks at Brittany and Nina and smiles. “I’m glad to see your friends came by.”
Grandma lowers her chin as her gaze homes in on Nina. “Actually, Nina, would it be all right with you if we talk? In private?”
I hold my breath as Nina slowly nods her head yes. No one moves until Grandma finally looks at me. “Ri, Brittany, could you girls give us a moment?”
“Oh!” I look at Brittany. “Let’s go to my room, I guess.”
Once the door is closed behind us, Brittany and I look at each other and without saying a word, crouch down and push our ears against the door so we can try to hear.
It sounds like Grandma leads Nina to the kitchen, where they presumably sit at the table.
“What are they talking about?” Brittany whispers.
“Shhh!” I push the side of my face closer to the door.
There’s some garbled talk for a moment, but then Grandma’s voice rings out.
“It was wrong and there is no excuse. You were a child and I am the adult, and I am so sorry, Nina.”
I accidentally bump my shoulder against the door and Grandma’s voice outside lowers. Too quiet to hear. Brittany tucks her feet underneath her legs as we both sit on my bedroom floor. She looks like she’s pulling herself together to say something.
I watch her apprehensively, waiting for her to speak. Brittany apologized to Nina, and I’m glad she did, but that doesn’t undo everything she’s done.
“I know I’ve been awful, not just to Nina but to you. I’ve been a terrible friend.” Brittany hangs her head. “I shouldn’t have made assumptions at Cassie’s party.”
I lean my back against the door, facing my bed rather than Brittany. “You were right to be worried about me trying drugs, but everything else? Who I am isn’t centered on your definition of me. Maybe I was someone else all along, and you just didn’t see it. Or didn’t want to.”
“I don’t believe that. At least not entirely,” Brittany says. “People change, that’s fine, but when I was trying to warn you about Carlos—”
I blow air through my nose. “Just forget about Carlos. He was dating other people but let’s not pretend like you knew or that was the only reason you didn’t like being around him. And yeah, you apologized to Nina, but what about Edgar, Cassie, and Miguel?” I swallow, closing my eyes. “And me? Because I’m like them too, even if I don’t look like it.”
I open my eyes to see Brittany nod. For once, she doesn’t rush to defend herself.
Brittany’s voice comes out softer. “I guess I wanted you to see yourself as more like me, so that you wouldn’t leave me for them. But”—she takes a deep breath—“I was wrong. Just because I was uncomfortable doesn’t give me a pass. To act like someone I’d never want to be. It’s not a good excuse . . . it’s not, I know.” She wipes off the tears that have started falling. “I get it now.”
I hear Grandma’s voice murmuring something to Nina in the other room. This moment doesn’t feel real.
“It wasn’t just you. Not now, and not back when we hung out with Nina. Your mom said stuff too.” My chest tightens. Because now I’m not just calling out Brittany. And though Brittany doesn’t get along with Tara a lot, she’s still her mom. “It didn’t just affect Nina back then. It hurt me too, even though I couldn’t admit it to myself at the time.”
Brittany goes still, almost as though she’s frozen. I don’t know how she’s taking what I’m saying, but I can’t stop now. I force myself to keep eye contact with her. Force myself to tell the truth, the whole truth. For once.
“I thought you only liked me if I acted the way you wanted, if I was who you wanted me to be. And because . . .” I pause, keeping my voice even as much as I can. “Because I don’t look like them. Because I’m white-passing.”
Brittany looks down. “You’re right—”
At that, my eyes widen.
She quickly adds, “About part of it. I mean, first thing is, yeah, about my mom saying stuff that wasn’t cool, I believe you.” She looks at me and her throat bobs. “I’ll talk to her.”
I inhale sharply, too nervous to speak.
“But about everything else, I mean for sure I wasn’t used to hanging out with people who grew up differently from me and who . . . who are Latinx. That’s messed up. I . . . I mean, even saying it out loud makes me feel wrong. Like, I never thought I would do anything racist before, but now I see that I was. Even if I didn’t know it.” She shakes her head, blinking quickly. “But mostly, I wanted to control things, to control you, I guess.”
I don’t say anything. Even though Brittany said as much to Nina, in a way, it still feels important hearing it from her.
She looks up at me. “I felt like I was losing you.”
I don’t know what I’d do without you. How many times has Brittany said that to me? My shoulders sag as I realize how heavily this fight must have weighed on her too.
“I remember how sad you were when Nina stopped hanging around. But I never thought she liked me. It was like she only put up with me for you. And then, when you started hanging out with Carlos and Edgar, I thought you’d ditch me for them.” Brittany twists her hands in her lap. “It seemed like you were embarrassed of me, like you didn’t want them to see me with you.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed of you. I was embarrassed and angry and upset by how you were acting. And that’s only part of the real problem,” I say slowly as I work out the thought. “I was ashamed of myself.”
Brittany gives me a confused look.
“I kept myself away from something in me for so long, like I was trying to erase it,” I continue. “I didn’t realize until recently that it meant I was erasing myself too, if that makes sense.”
Something clangs and whistles from the kitchen. The sound of a teapot, I think. Nina’s still out there with Grandma. I should probably go save her soon, but something keeps me tethered here, in this moment, with Brittany.
“Yeah, I get it,” Brittany says. “I mean, no
I don’t really get it because I can’t, but I think I understand how you were hiding your true self. And I hate that I’m part of the reason you felt you had to.”
The old Ri would tell Brittany it’s okay, she didn’t mean to, what she did wasn’t that bad. Or something like that. But none of that’s true. It’s not okay, and it was bad. So I hold my tongue, and as I let Brittany sit with her choices and her guilt, I feel stronger. More like me. Or the me I want to be.
“Look, I promise I’m not trying to be a . . .” Brittany hesitates. “A white savior or anything. But, about the other day . . . since my parents are members of the club, I wanted to ask you if it’s okay that my mom and I report that woman to the board.”
“White savior?” I lift my eyebrows. “You’ve been doing your homework.”
“Google has a lot to say on the matter. Who knew?”
For that, Brittany gets a smile.
She continues, “I know it’s your fight, not mine. But if I don’t say anything, I would be complicit, right? So, I found out the woman’s name, Lisa Williamson, and asked my mom how to file a complaint. So at least other people at the club will know they can’t get away with crap like that. If it’s okay with you, that is.”
“Yes,” I croak, surprised by the emotion I feel. “You should file a complaint. And thanks.”
“You don’t have to thank me; it’s what anyone would . . . well, a decent person should do. I’ll try . . .”
I put my hand on Brittany’s shoulder and she exhales heavily.
She finally says, “I’m trying to be better, Ri. I promise.”
Relief floods through me. Trying. From both of us. The truth, from both of us. Finally.
Steps sound in the hallway. Brittany and I both practically throw ourselves toward my bed and do our best to act natural as Nina appears in the doorway.
“Everything okay?” I ask, my voice coming out much higher than intended.
“Yeah,” Nina says, heading toward us. She gives us a smile that says she knows we were eavesdropping. “Couldn’t be better.”
Chapter
Nineteen
After Grandma’s off work later that day, she finds me in bed. Staring at my phone, waiting, hoping, praying Mom will call.
“Let’s go,” Grandma says. “I have something I need to show you.”
Before I get a chance to respond, she walks past me toward the door.
I follow Grandma to the car. She doesn’t say anything as we each buckle up. She doesn’t say anything as she pulls off our street, or when she gets onto the freeway, heading south.
“Where are we going?” I stare at Grandma’s face, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.
“To your mother’s apartment.”
“What?” I choke out. “Why?”
“I need you to see for yourself, baby,” she says. But that’s it. Nothing else.
This can’t be a good idea—John might be there—but Grandma’s mind seems to be made up. And I really want to see my mom.
When we pull into visitor parking at the apartment complex, I feel like I’m about to explode from all the nerves. Grandma kills the engine and marches to the front door, with me trailing behind her. She doesn’t even knock, just grabs the doorknob and twists it open.
No.
It’s like the air has been knocked out of me. I stumble back, and Grandma catches me in her arms.
The apartment is empty, cleaned out completely, aside from an overflowing garbage bag in the living room.
A sob bubbles out of me. “They’re gone.”
Grandma holds me tight as I cry into her shoulder. She rubs my head softly. “Shh. Shh,” she whispers.
Tears pour down my face, wetting Grandma’s shirt. I hold her tight, feel the bones in her back and cry harder.
I don’t know how long we stand there in that empty apartment. When I finally take my head off Grandma’s shoulder, I see pain etched all over her tired face. She takes my hand and kisses it softly. “Let’s go.”
The car chugs to life and Grandma puts her hand on my knee as she drives us out of the parking lot and onto the street.
“I came here earlier today. To see your mom, to tell her she had no right . . .” Grandma hesitates, and her voice softens. “She was gone already.”
My throat is throbbing, my head is pounding, but neither compares to the way my chest feels, like it’s closing in on itself. Mom couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Grandma looks back at the road as her voice breaks. “I didn’t know how to tell you. She’s your mother, and I can see how much you love her.”
A tear trickles down Grandma’s face.
“It’s okay, baby,” she says. “It’s going to be okay.”
I cry the whole ride home, and Grandma cries too. She says we are going to be all right, but after this, after Mom left us again, how can we ever be?
Grandma flicks on the lights as we walk into our house.
My mind flashes to Mom’s empty apartment, and I feel a hole growing in my stomach. I made such a mess of everything. And for what? For nothing. Because Mom left me again.
Grandma looks at me as though she’s trying to figure something out. She walks to the table and sits. “Come over here, Ri. It’s time we talk.”
I sit across from Grandma, at this tiny table where we share our meals and our arguments.
Grandma sighs heavily. “Baby, I should have told you more about your mother. I should have seen how desperate you were to know. If you knew more, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I watch Grandma’s face crumple. I’ve blamed her all along, but now . . . I don’t know. Everything is different.
“Maybe it wasn’t just for your safety that I kept the truth from you.” Grandma looks down at her fingernails, laid against the wood. “Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves, sometimes they aren’t exactly real. It felt easier to think that you couldn’t handle the truth about your mom than it would be to tell you. It felt easier for me, because I was ashamed.”
I scoot closer to Grandma, hanging on her every word.
“I thought you’d hate me if you knew I turned away my own daughter, my own flesh and blood,” she says. “But I was so worried that if you knew her, she’d have an influence on you. And I couldn’t bear to think that I’d lose you too, after I already lost both my daughter and my husband. I was afraid.”
I can’t stand the way she looks, like she’s breaking. “Grandma, I . . .” I don’t know what to say.
Grandma’s eyebrows knit together, and her eyes seem far away, as if she’s lost in thought. “I’ll be right back,” she says, before disappearing down the hallway and into her room.
Grandma returns with the box that she kept Mom’s letter hidden inside before all this started. I hold my breath as she opens it. She holds the fraying picture of Mom, when she was pregnant with me. Grandma looks at the picture, her face contorted with grief, before handing it over.
This young girl with the curly hair and a round belly is the same woman who grew up to leave me. I put the photo on the table. Grandma lifts a stack of envelopes—some look like bills and others like important documents—and sets them aside along with Mom’s letter, revealing a stack of photos I’ve never seen. She begins thumbing through them, smiling sadly. “I hold pictures like I hold memories, secret.”
Grandma shows me one of her and Grandpa holding a baby in between them. “I keep them to myself because of the pain I worry they will cause you, but not only that.” Grandma looks at me as she hands me the photo. “It’s because of the pain remembering causes me. That changes now—I think, for you to understand what happened with your mom, first you need to understand your grandpa and me.”
I stare at the picture. Grandpa looks so young and dapper, his dark hair slicked back. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, tucked into jeans. Grandma is young and beautiful, her hair longer, curling down toward her chin. She’s wearing a billowing blouse with long sleeves and cuffs that circle the wrists she uses to hol
d my mother.
“His parents did not want us to marry, they . . . they . . .” Grandma lifts her chin and stares at me. “They didn’t think we were a good match. They thought your grandfather could find someone better, someone prettier.”
I scoff, having never heard this before.
“Someone lighter,” Grandma adds.
My mouth drops open.
Grandma breathes deeply. “In Mexico, and even here with a lot of people from my country and Latin America, many people think you are attractive only if your skin is light. If you are dark, you are ugly. Your grandfather’s family had some Spanish roots. They were light and beautiful. I was not.”
My eyebrows furrow in shock. “Grandma, I’m so sorry that happened to you. But you are beautiful—”
“What you say doesn’t matter,” Grandma cuts me off. “It is not how people saw me when I was young. They called me fea in school.” Her tone softens. “But your grandpa never saw me like that. He loved me.”
My heart breaks for Grandma as she remembers, her voice full of emotion. “But his family forbade us to marry. They said he should focus on getting an education instead. My parents were poor, too, and I couldn’t offer anything in a marriage, nothing to make me more of an attractive wife. Because being darker in Mexico made everything harder. People would laugh at you. It could make it more difficult to get a job. And our children would be more likely to be dark, like me, his parents said.”
I realize with a pang in my gut that every time I tried to make her acknowledge me as someone like her, someone who is part Mexican, Grandma saw me as taking for granted a privilege she doesn’t have. Something that would have kept her from being bullied in school, something that would have made her husband’s family more likely to accept her.
Everything makes sense now. But it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be this way.
“Do you think Brittany is better than I am?”
Grandma blinks several times. “Of course not,” she says quickly, taken aback by my question. “I think highly of Brittany, of course, but you are my granddaughter. I love you more than I love anything or anyone in the world.”
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