The Education of Margot Sanchez

by Lilliam Rivera

  Then there’s me. Struggling to maintain good grades. Trying to look like the others. Sound like them. So that I won’t be “that girl.” I’ll just be one of the girls. What matters is keeping the Sanchez dream alive. It might not be my vision of my life but it’s still a decent dream to have. It benefits everyone if I succeed.

  “If you want to talk to your papi about anything, you should tell him to stock up on some gourmet coffee instead of this wack Bustelo,” Jasmine says. “I’m just saying.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”

  • • •

  Dominic unloads the boxes while I stack the products in a typical pyramid. I work on a promotional stand for some new products: piña colada mixers, ready-made for lazy summer drinkers. It sounds nasty.

  For reasons unknown, I’m always paired with Dominic. And although I pretty much can’t stand his guts, I’ve been able to hold down my anger to the level that I don’t curse him out every single time he opens his mouth. Dominic enjoys getting a rise out of me. Since that’s his MO, I try my best to ignore him but there are times when I can’t even do that. His pants hang so low that I can see his underwear. He catches me staring.

  “What do you know about piña coladas, Princesa?” he asks. “We should do a little taste test. What do you think? You and me, out in the back. I promise I won’t tell your pops. C’mon.”

  Dominic has a girlfriend. I don’t take him seriously. Since I don’t pay attention to his dumb remarks, he reverts to reciting a rap song I’ve never heard before.

  The pyramid starts to shape up. Before stacking the last can, I take a good look at the ingredients listed in the drink. The contents are unpronounceable, with tons of sugar. Why can’t we sell organic juices? That would draw in the college students.

  There’s a community garden nearby that has a great selection of vegetables and fruits. We should figure out a way to buy our fruits from them. I don’t think Papi ever noticed the garden until I pointed it out to him on our drive in the other day. Papi should stop displaying pyramids of crap and start figuring out ways to amp up his grocery game.

  Junior walks over. We haven’t said much to each other since his run-in with Moises. Every day I scan for Moises’s table. It’s an automatic thing. I figured he would show up. Prove my brother wrong. I guess not.

  “Good job,” Junior says. For once I get some love.

  The tension in my shoulders relaxes. Maybe Papi will release me from my duty once he sees what an exceptional stock girl I’ve become. Every day I make sure to accomplish one minor thing, something that doesn’t involve too much hard work but has maximum advantage. Yesterday, I friended the scanning gun and priced the canned vegetables. Canned peas. Canned carrots. When Oscar saw my completed work he sang my praises up to Papi. Papi gave me a hug. Before he walked away I asked him about the Hamptons but he just smiled. Oh well, I tried.

  “Tomorrow, I want you to help at the deli,” Junior says.

  Sandwiches. Meats. Stinky cheese? The deli is one of the busiest departments. No. Please, no.

  “When am I going to be a cashier?” I say. “I can do simple math. I mean, how hard can it be to scan an item and punch some numbers?”

  “Go over to Roberto before you leave today so he can give you more details.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “You still don’t know anyone’s name.” Junior smacks the top of his head. He lowers his voice. “Princesa, try to make an effort. It’s not that hard.”

  Try. Like he tries to endear himself to the girls here. Is that what he means? I may not know people’s names but at least I’m not trying to screw them.

  “What’s up with you and that cashierista, the one with long black hair?” I ask. Jasmine didn’t say anything about talking to Junior.

  Dominic chuckles behind me. Junior’s face falls. His eyes are red. The shirt he has on is the same one from yesterday. How rough was his night that he couldn’t even change his clothes?

  “She was crying about you.”

  “Shut up and go to Roberto,” he says, and hands me an envelope. “And here.”

  “What’s this?”

  He walks away. I catch the glance he gives in the direction of cashier row. It probably wasn’t the right move to say something to Junior. Whatever. He should be aware that there are consequences for his lecherous actions.

  Although my money goes right to Papi, I’m being blessed with a pay stub detailing the money I make but don’t keep each week. There must be a mistake, the amount is so low. I should have made close to $500 for two weeks of work but this states I only made $447.70.

  “Where is the rest of my money?”

  “Uncle Sam,” Dominic answers. “Taxes.”

  This blows. How is anyone able to buy nice things? Imagine if I had to pay bills, like my phone bill. Two weeks and I barely make enough to buy one cute dress.

  “I’ll miss you, Princesa,” Dominic says. “Unloading boxes won’t be the same. Don’t forget the hairnet.”

  Who said anything about a hairnet?

  THREE THINGS I WOULD RATHER WEAR THAN A HAIRNET

  Dominic’s Yankees baseball cap

  A pointy elf hat

  A skull tattoo with the words “Save Me”

  Chapter 6

  Every time I try to direct the customers to pick a number from the ticket dispenser, they straight-up ignore me. I’m bombarded with deli orders at an insane pace in Spanish. I can speak Spanish, follow it, even read it but they speak way too fast. At Somerset, I was automatically enrolled in advanced Spanish only to have classmates correct my verb conjugations. There’s no time to figure out if I have the right accent here. I’m too slow. And the more I try to keep up the more impatient the customers become.

  “Por favor, repite su orden, señora?” I ask the abuelita to repeat her order. She scrunches her face. The wrinkles create an accordion of skin on her forehead.

  “Donde está Roberto?” she yells. “Roberto!”

  It’s only been a day since I started work at the deli section with Roberto. Unlike Dominic, Roberto doesn’t like to talk. He gives me side-eye for hours at a time until he’s exasperated. Only then does he come out from behind his workstation to talk to the bothered ladies who continue to barrage me with questions I can’t answer. They only want to talk to him, not to some strange girl in a tacky hairnet.

  I pull on the plastic gloves. It’s impossible to use my phone with them on, not that anyone is trying to contact me except for Elizabeth.

  Hang out after work? Paloma and I are heading uptown, Elizabeth texts. There’s a free concert at a park near you.

  Elizabeth met Paloma on the first day of school. For the longest time Elizabeth’s script was: “Paloma makes jewelry. Paloma is so talented. She is so funny.” This isn’t something I’ve admitted to Elizabeth but I’m jealous of some phantom girl I haven’t even met yet. It wasn’t long before Elizabeth sported a handmade necklace by Paloma. It’s a simple piece of jewelry with the word GATA etched on a silver cat-shaped pendant. I don’t know what it’s like to create a piece of art with your own hands. Right now the only art I’m producing is slices of cheese.

  I pull off one of the gloves and text her back that I can’t go.

  Elizabeth adds a bunch of silly faces and a funny video of her at the museum. Art. Art. Art. Then a severe close-up of her face, which makes me laugh. This, of course, pisses Roberto off.

  At least you’re looking at pretty things, I text back. Welcome to my world.

  I sneak a video of Roberto giving me the side-eye, my large plastic gloves, and the underutilized ticket dispenser. The story of my summer in one ten-second clip. Elizabeth responds with more funny faces.

  Haha. Doesn’t look that bad, she texts. Gotta go.

  A group of church ladies arrive and insist on speaking only to Roberto. Elizabeth is mistaken. This is the worst. I won’t get anywhere if I let them scream at me.

  “No Roberto today!” I yell. They stop. I announce th
at from now on we will use tickets.

  “When I call out your number, you can tell me what you want,” I say. “Number four!”

  They are not happy. One cries out to the Virgen María to aid her in securing her morning deli meats but eventually the ladies give in. When I call out another number, they scan their tickets and act as if they’ve won the lottery. There is progress. Soon they help other customers by alerting them to the new deli process. It works! It feels good to finally have control even if it is just deli meats.

  “Buenos días, señoritas!” Papi appears. “Have you met my daughter yet?”

  “Señoritas!” The church ladies tease him. “It’s so nice you allow your daughter to work with you.”

  Allow? Yeah, right. Papi grins widely. He loves having me here. His Princesa. His baby doll. His prize pony.

  “This is for now, but next summer, she’ll work at a law firm,” he says. “We need a lawyer to help me out of this business headache.”

  Now he’s placing bets on me becoming a lawyer. Last month, it was on me going to medical school. Every time he makes these proclamations, I cringe at the pressure. But there’s an opening in his statement so I take it.

  “Don’t you think he should let me have a little break before I start law school?” I ask the church ladies. “I should go to the beach. Have fun with my friends.”

  Papi’s smile stays plastered on his face while a couple of the church ladies cluck their tongues. Spending time with your family is what Jesuscristo wants for his beloved daughters, one of the church ladies says.

  Not Jesuscristo. I have no pull with this crowd.

  “Es verdad,” Papi says. “Besides, what would Roberto do if Princesa wasn’t here to help?”

  Roberto only offers a side-eye to the conversation and continues to slice up ham. And that’s when I notice him out the window. Moises is back and he’s setting up his table out front. This time he’s come with reinforcements. A muscular man with a few menacing tats carries a box while another guy follows him. Backup or not, Moises has some sort of death wish. Why else would he come back here?

  “Yo, Junior!” says Ray, one of Junior’s henchmen. “El pendejo ese está afuera.”

  A slight smirk appears on Junior’s face as he spots Moises. My palms begin to sweat underneath the plastic gloves. I look at Papi but he’s tied up with the church ladies. Junior walks down to the floor and conspires with the henchmen. Things are going to turn ugly quick. Right when Junior is about to exit the supermarket, Papi calls his name.

  “Did you fix that freezer back there?” Papi says. Ray and Junior look guilty. “Do it now.”

  “In a second,” Junior says. “I got to take care of this first.”

  “No. It can’t wait.”

  Junior curses while I let out a sigh of relief. The church ladies are all unaware of the drama that’s unfolded right before them but a glance from Papi tells me he knows what’s up. Papi excuses himself and walks back to his office. I have a tiny window to help free Moises from impending doom. I ask Roberto if I can go to the restroom, then take a detour outside.

  Moises seems so unaware of his fragile life. He casually talks to a group of emaciated, disheveled men. The dull gaze the men have as they circle around him makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, pana. I know what you mean,” one man says, his face pockmarked. “They’re always trying to bring us down, you know? Like me, man, they were trying to get me off the methadone, telling me I needed to follow the procedure. Shit.”

  Moises never diverts his attention although I can’t see how he stays there. Even from where I stand I can smell the man’s metallic stench. Moises doesn’t let on that it bothers him. He concentrates on what the man says and acknowledges his pain in dealing with a bureaucratic health system. Someone in the group notices my slow crawl toward them.

  “Wait, wait, I know you! Yeah, I know you. Your name is . . .” The homeless man claps his hands together with the hope that the thunderous sound will snap his memory back into shape. No such luck. Worried about the length of time he takes to figure out my name, I cut him a break and tell him.

  “Naw, that ain’t it. They call you Princesa.” He gives his partner a high five. “I know I’m fucked up but I ain’t that fucked up.”

  The men soon head over to the Drug Freedom Center and leave me with Moises.

  “Good morning,” Moises says. “You look different. I’m feeling your supermarket style. You are mercado ready.”

  Oh god. I forgot I’m still wearing the hairnet. Whatever. There’s no time for a fashion do-over.

  “Do you like getting into fights?” I say, exasperated. “That must be it. Why else would you come back here?”

  Moises does that thing with his chin, rubs it and gives me that puzzled look.

  “This is my neighborhood.” He points to the housing projects down the street. “I grew up there and I live a few blocks down that way. Why should I be afraid to come here?”

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe because my brother wants you out?”

  “I can’t control the future,” he says. “So I don’t live my life in fear of it. Do you?”

  What a strange thing to say. I spend my waking hours figuring out my future—what to wear, what to say, how to say it. There are scores of yellow pads with lists of things I plan to accomplish in any given day. A list makes me feel like I’m in control, even if it’s just lines of things I hate. I carry a miniature pad to jot down everything.

  “Do you know about the work being done at the Drug Freedom Center? Once a month they hold a family potluck slash jam session with live music. I host sometimes. Good music,” he says. “So, I haven’t seen you in a bit. Have you had a chance to think things through?”

  “What?”

  He grabs his clipboard and pen. “Say no to the Royal Orion.”

  This is what he wants. Moises is not interested in how I’m here to save his life. He wants my signature.

  “Oh yeah, about that,” I say. “There are two sides to each story so I can’t rightly commit to either. I heard that most of the tenants stopped paying rent. And that there are a lot of drugs in that building. It’s the reason why they’re being evicted.”

  From his expression I can tell that what I’m saying isn’t news to him.

  “Hmmhm.” He rubs his chin. “Maybe you’ve got a point there.”

  Is he teasing me? There’s no way he is giving up that easily. He returns to his table, pulls out a stack of pamphlets, and distributes them to anyone who’ll take them. Most people push his hand away.

  “If you want to have a serious discussion, let me buy you lunch,” he says. “I owe you.”

  I scan the area to make sure no one, not the church ladies or Junior, heard him. I can’t figure Moises out. First he schools me on social causes. Next thing I know he wants to hang.

  I shake my head.

  “Why not? What are you afraid of? It’s just lunch.” He chuckles. “I won’t make you give out pamphlets. Well, not until after lunch.”

  “I’m not afraid but I don’t know you. You could be some crazy, whacked-out person. Besides, I didn’t do anything.”

  My finger works overtime on my necklace.

  “You stood up for me.” He lowers his voice, all sexy and stuff. “I’m talking about sandwiches.”

  There’s a part of me that wants to go but I won’t. I can imagine what Serena and Camille would say. No matter how good-looking or nice Moises is he’s not elevated enough. Giving out pamphlets doesn’t sound like much of a life goal. My goal is clear. This year, I will be seen with the right Somerset guy, someone worthy of my time. A future lawyer or doctor can’t have lunch with some guy who collects signatures or hosts jam sessions.

  “Princesa, inside.”

  Junior stands by the supermarket. He does his street strut over to the table. My heart races because I’ve been here before and Junior looks primed to start something. But I refuse to move.

  “You can’t set up
right in front of my supermarket,” Junior says.

  Moises is about to respond but the muscular guy next to him presses his hand against his chest. The man extends his other hand.

  “My name is Douglas and this is Freddie from the South Bronx Family Mission. On behalf of Moises and the Mission, I would like to apologize for any misunderstanding that might have occurred the other day.”

  Moises keeps his eyes on me, not on Junior, which causes me to blush. If there is an apology being made Moises refuses to be a part of it.

  “There was no misunderstanding,” Junior says. “Your worker was causing a fire hazard.”

  Junior acts as if he had a valid reason for his bruto actions. What went down the other day had nothing to do with blocked entrances and everything to do with macho pride BS.

  A couple of people stand around in anticipation of another Junior freak-out. Junior can’t afford to do that, not after what Papi told him about how this situation can escalate into people turning on us. Customers chose to buy from us, Papi said, but they can easily go somewhere else.

  “We can set up our table right over there.” The boy named Freddie points to a few steps away from the store. “We’re not in anyone’s way and people can still receive the lowdown on Carrillo Estates.”

  “Does that work for you?” Douglas asks. He offers his hand again to seal the deal. Junior pauses before accepting it.

  “Make sure he knows what’s up.” Junior stares hard at Moises. “The minute he blocks the store is the minute I move him.”

  “You heard that?” Douglas asks.

  “Yes,” Moises says.

  Junior can’t stand him. There has to be more to their connection for him to be so pissed off at Moises. But what?

  “Princesa!”

  Papi stands by the entrance. I ignore him. Why does he have to come out at this moment? They’re both trying to play me in front of Moises.

  “Buenos días,” Moises says.

  “Don’t clog our entryways,” Papi responds in his mean voice.

  “Of course.” Moises hands out pamphlets with a smirk firmly planted on his face.