by JB Salsbury
“No, I mean, not yet, but it’ll happen eventually.”
Her shoulders deflate as if our conversation is exhausting. “She needs to get used to living the life of a typical teenager. And if it makes you feel better, going to school was her idea. It’s what she wanted.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Milo—”
“No, I’m . . . I’m not tryin’ to be a dick here, but she’s in special ed, and I don’t know—it doesn’t seem like she’s slow or anything.”
She looks over toward the back door of the house as if contemplating how much information to give me, then she turns back with a sad smile. “She gets nervous around groups of people.” She seems satisfied with the little she’s given me, while I’m so frustrated I’m tempted to shake Mercy’s story out of her. She chuckles. “Your wheels are turning. I can almost see smoke coming out of your ears.” She jerks her head toward the house. “Come on. I’m sure you’re starving.”
I am. “I’m gonna drop my bag, and I’ll be right in.” I scoop my backpack off the ground and head to the garage. “Don’t wait up. I’ll be a second.”
“Okay.” She waves over her head as I dig my key from my pocket to let myself into my room. I drop my backpack on the desk and switch on the in-wall AC to cool the place down.
So Mercy’s not used to people, and she’s stronger than she appears. What could that mean? I stare at my single window toward the back of the house. The window blinds are open, and I watch as everyone sits down for dinner.
“What are your secrets, Güera?”
And why do I even care?
Thirteen years ago
TODAY MUST BE a special day.
This isn’t like the regular visits I get from Señora. On most days, she brings my food and my lessons for daily study. Every other day, she shows up at night after my meal to give me a bath. But today, she’s combing through my hair with smelly oil. It’s the same oil she’s been rubbing on my back every night for the past five sleeps. It hurts when she rips through tangles, but I don’t care so much. It feels nice not being alone.
I pick at my soft nightgown. “What is today, Señora?”
She tugs at my hair. “Silencio.”
I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. Silencio. It’s one of the few words I hear from the only two people I know.
“Papa will be here soon to explain.” She gathers my hair tightly then twists it before rolling it into a ball at the back of my head and stabbing it with pins. “There.”
Her voice doesn’t sound like mine. She and Papa speak words I don’t understand to each other, but sometimes I can tell by the way Papa’s face gets red or the way Señora’s mouth gets little that they’re angry with me. I just never know why.
“Turn around.”
I stand and turn, but my feet get lost in the bottom of my gown, and I stumble. It’s not what I usually wear, but Señora brought it in special for me today. The white dress is soft against my skin, but the back is open, and the cool air makes me shiver.
Señora’s eyes widen when I look up at her, and for a second, I fear she doesn’t like what she sees.
“Am I okay?” I whisper.
She blinks, and her lips get skinny, but not in the angry way. She seems sad. “Your papa will be pleased.”
I nod and take a deep breath because I want him to be happy with me. When he’s pleased, he is very nice. When he’s not, he can be very mean.
I wonder what I should do now, but I don’t dare ask. I wait for instructions and try to breathe through my mouth and hope I don’t choke on the oil that smells like the dark tea that comes with my dinner.
She puts away the brush and hairpins and straightens my bedroom. My tummy hurts, so I curl my toes into the soft dress under my feet and pretend I’m standing on a fluffy cloud. I’ve seen tiny glimpses of them from the window and wondered what they would feel like if I reached up and touched one. But I’ll only ever wonder, as going outside is forbidden.
Papa says the sun kills my kind.
That’s why I’m kept here—inside, where it’s safe.
I hear a knock on the door, and the beat in the center of my ribs gets faster.
“Entre!” Señora pulls the bed sheet one more time then moves to stand behind me. Her warm hands rest on my shoulders, which helps me to relax when Papa pushes through the door.
From this distance, I’m unable to make out his face. I only pray he likes what he sees. The door closes, and his form moves toward me, the sound of his shiny shoes clicking against the tile as he walks. When he’s close, I lean back and have to tilt my head to see his eyes. He is very tall. I shouldn’t be scared. If he doesn’t like me, it’s not my fault. He stops and crosses his arms over his chest. His dark eyes get little as he inspects me. “Turn around.”
Señora helps by lifting my dress so my feet don’t get tangled while I turn my back to him. I hear more footsteps, and I breathe. He makes a noise like the one I make when I get fed after having to wait for a long time.
“Angel.”
“Yes, Papa?”
“How do you feel?” His deep voice sounds different than Señora’s—thicker in a way that makes it harder for me to understand him.
“I’m scared.”
His hands rest on my shoulders, and he turns me back around to face him. I stare at the silvery buttons on his shirt until he bends to squat so I’m looking right into his dark eyes. He smiles, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. His skin is dark like Señora’s, but then everyone’s skin is dark compared to mine. “You have nothing to be scared of. It’s my duty to protect you, and I have, yes?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Then tell me why you’re afraid.”
“I . . .” I’m suddenly thirsty and swallow what little spit is in my mouth. “I want to make you happy.”
The crinkles around his eyes go away, and he cups my cheek. I lean into his hand. His touch makes my entire body feel warm.
“You make me very happy,” he says.
“Thank you, Papa.” I tilt my head to feel more of his touch, to soak in his approving caress, but he pulls it away too soon.
“Now, come kneel at the bed. We need to talk.” He motions for Señora to help me sit as she taught me—knees together, back tall, hands clasped in my lap. Papa sits on the bed in front of me. “I’m taking you from your room today—”
“Outside?” I cup my hand over my mouth and bow deeply at his feet at the sharp look in his eyes. “Please forgive me.”
“You must learn to control your impulses. Do not speak unless I ask you a direct question. Do you understand?” The softness in his voice from earlier is gone.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Eyes on me.” He shoves his hand through his thick dark hair then blows out a breath, and when he talks, his voice is soft again. “I am taking you to another room where you’ll stay for most of the day.”
My tummy flutters. I’ve never left this room before, and I’m excited but also nervous, because Papa always says it’s not safe for me outside this room. I know from the sounds I hear that where I live is just a small part of something bigger. I hear voices outside my door, sometimes music, but I’ve never seen beyond these walls.
“Do you remember what I told you a couple weeks ago, Angel?”
It’s a test. I roll my lips together and close my eyes to think back to all the things he’s told me. He had me look through many books. Most I couldn’t read because they were written in funny words, and the ones I could read I read slowly, sounding out every letter, but I remember the pictures.
I look up at him. “My wings.”
He makes a quiet sound and smiles. “Yes, Angel. Your wings. They are to come in today.”
I want to jump up and down, to shout how happy I am that I will finally get the wings Papa said I would, but I will not make him angry again, so I hold back my excitement. Does this mean I’ll get to fly? Finally get to touch the clouds? My eyes burn with the joy that wants to b
urst free.
“Does this news make you happy?”
I nod very fast, and his smile gets bigger.
“Good.” He looks over and nods to Señora. She moves to the table across the way, where a teapot and cup sit. “You trust me to take care of you?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“I’m going to give you some tea that’ll help with the pain.”
Pain? I don’t dare say it out loud, but my lips move with the word.
“These things can be painful, but I’ll be there with you, and I’ll do what I can to keep you from feeling too much.”
“Okay.”
“Good girl.” He takes the tea from Señora, pulls a tiny glass tube from his pocket, shakes some powder inside, and stirs it in.
Señora doesn’t look happy, but when she sees me looking, she smiles a little. Everything about this confuses me, but when he holds out the cup, I take it in my hands and sip. My throat pushes back the sour liquid, but I lock it behind my teeth and force it down.
“You must drink it all.” He tips the cup against my lips, forcing the fluid into my mouth.
I don’t dare spit it out, and I squeeze my eyes closed, swallowing what I can.
“Yes, there you go.” He takes the cup from my hand once I’ve finished.
He and Señora go back and forth in their own special language, and they start to sound funny as my eyes get tired.
“Lie down.” Papa’s face blurs, and the weight of my head pulls me to the cold ground. “There you go.” He pets my head, and my eyes flutter closed. “You’ll be okay, my angel.”
Milo
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you don’t just pay the twenty bucks to have this shit done for you.” Damian’s sprawled out on a lawn chair in his front yard with his sunglasses pointed at the sky as he drinks a Dr Pepper. His stepdad likes working on cars and has the garage stocked with tools, so I do my own oil changes here.
I have the day off, so I dropped the boys at home after school before heading to Damian’s not only to work on my car but to indulge in Tia Carla’s famous flautas.
I drop the hood and wipe my hands on a shop towel. “I like doing it myself. Besides, those places always try to sell me stuff I don’t need.” I hate that.
“Noticed you’ve been ditching us to spend the lunch hour with Carrie all week. If you’re hoping to keep it on the down-low until she’s legal, you’re failing miserably.”
With my ass against the Explorer’s wheel well, I glare at my nosy cousin. Truth be known, I’ve been eating outside all week to avoid seeing Mercy again. After what happened the first day, I made sure I’d never get caught off guard like that again by staying as far away from the cafeteria as possible. “Not my fault Carrie finds me irresistible.”
Not that she’d know the first thing about me. All she ever does when she hunts me down at lunch is gossip about her friends—who’s sleeping with who, who’s getting a nose job, and “Did you know so-and-so had an abortion?” I mostly tune her out and make sure to nod every few minutes so that she thinks I’m listening.
“But there’s nothing to hide because nothing’s going on between me and her.” Yet.
He frowns but nods. “You better be right. You know her weasel ex would love to rat you two out.”
I shrug and grab my own Dr Pepper, now warm from baking in the sun. “He can try, but other than a kiss, we can easily deny anything he might say. How ʼbout you? Find a date to prom?”
“Not yet.” He shifts as though his chonies are filled with thorns. “My mom’s trying to get me to take Suzette.”
My eyebrows pop high on my forehead. “Suzette? Your ex-girlfriend’s best friend?”
He shrugs. “Her mom and my mom met at the PTA or some sh—”
“Stop right there.” I’m laughing. “PTA? Your mom’s setting you two up? When did you become so white, ese?”
“Laugh it up all you want. Suzette’s fine.”
“I’m not sayin’ she’s not fine, but she’s like an iceberg, all nonthreatening on the outside when the real danger lies hidden. Didn’t you see Titanic?”
He flicks invisible lint off his shoulder. “So you’re sayin’ I’m Juan Dawson.”
I chuck the rag at him. “You go with Suzette, and Lena is gonna make your life hell. You’ll be begging to be let off that floating door to drown in freezing water just to save yourself the trouble.”
“Lena’s cool. She won’t care.”
“That’s BS.” I take a sip of my soda. “They always care. Even if they say they don’t, they do.”
“Emilio!”
I turn to the sound of my tia calling my name just as she emerges from the open garage. “You’re not answering your phone, sobrino.”
“It’s in the car. Is everything okay?”
She props her hands on her hips. I can smell spicy beef and vegetable oil wafting off her, and my stomach grumbles. “Laura called. She said she needs you to swing by the drugstore on your way home. She said to check your text messages.”
“All right.”
She motions to the garage door. “I’ll wrap up some food for you to take home.”
“Gracias, Tia.”
“Si, bomboncito.”
I snag my cell, and sure enough, I have two missed calls and a text from Laura asking me to pick up a prescription for Mercy on the way home.
“It’s tampons, isn’t it?” Damian shakes his head. “I hate it when they make me run out for tampons.”
I shove my phone into my pocket and go about putting all the tools back where I found them. “No, dickhead. It’s not tampons. But I feel for you. Living in a house full of women sucks for you, ese.”
“No shit.”
“Damian! Beses a tu madre con esa boca?” Carla’s giving Damian the look, the one that says if she wasn’t holding a tinfoil-covered platter of hot food, she’d smack him upside his head.
“He does kiss you with that mouth, Tia, and I’ve heard him say much worse.” I take the tray from her and kiss her cheek. “Thanks for this.”
She’s still glaring at her son, who, like a dog, has lowered his eyes in submission.
“Why can’t you be more like Emilio, huh?” She smiles up at me, and I do my best to look innocent while Damian gapes in my direction. “Always so respectful.”
“Gracias, Tia.”
She pinches my cheek. “You’re a good boy.”
“Oh, give me a break—” Damian says.
She silences him with a fierce glare.
“I’m sorry, Ma.”
She mumbles a string of Spanish and shakes her head before going back inside.
“You need to watch your mouth, cuz.”
“Fuck you,” he says softly, though I don’t miss the way his eyes dart to the garage door to make sure his mom didn’t hear him.
I’m still laughing when I climb inside the car, and I flip Damian off as I pull out of the driveway and head to the drugstore.
THE SUN IS setting by the time I get back to my neighborhood. Tia Carla’s flautas sit on the passenger seat, and I managed to fight off the urge to eat one up until I left the drugstore. The rich scent became too much to avoid, so I figured that one for the ride home wouldn’t hurt. There have to be at least three dozen here. Surely, no one will even notice I helped myself to one.
I’m shoving the last of it into my mouth as I pull around to the back of the house—shit! I slam on my brakes.
“Fuck!”
The tray of food slides off the front seat to the floorboards, along with the little white pharmacy paper bag.
“Julian!”
Scared brown eyes matching my own shine in my headlights.
My little brother pedals his bike back into the driveway. I pull up behind him and slam the car into park then jump out.
“You know you can’t ride your bike in the street!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve gotta look where you’re going. I almost hit you!”
“You always park in th
e front. I didn’t see you coming around the corner.”
I run a hand through my hair and try to breathe through my heart attack. “No tienes dos dedos de frente!”
“I said I’m sorry, Milo! I’m not stupid!”
“Eyes forward when you’re on your bike, and where the hell is your helmet?” I cringe at the parental tone of my voice. I never wanted to be a father to my siblings, but here I am sounding like the dick of all dads, raining hell down on Jules for being irresponsible with his damn life.
Laura comes running out of the house and immediately to Julian’s side. “Hey, what’s going on?”
I stab the air with the full force of my arm toward my little brother. “He shouldn’t be riding out here this time of night. I almost hit him!”
She looks down at Julian as his bottom lip starts to shake. “Julian, you know you can’t ride when it gets dark out.”
“It wasn’t dark yet,” he whispers.
She affectionately rubs his head. “Go inside, and wash up for dinner.”
His shoulders slump as he walks his bike to the side of the house and drags his feet inside. I lace my fingers on top of my head and pace for a moment then blow out a hefty breath, feeling a little better as my blood pressure comes down out of the clouds. I dip into the passenger side of the car and snag the flautas, thankful that only a couple fell from the tinfoil to the floor. There are plenty still left to feed everyone—God bless a Mexican tia. I hand the white prescription bag to Laura.
“Thanks for getting this.”
“No problem.”
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him.”
She’s probably right. “I hope you didn’t cook. There’s enough food here to feed ten people.”
She squeezes my shoulder in a way that says she understands, then her eyes widen at the platter in my hands. “Yum. I love Carla’s cooking.” She holds the back door open for me.
I put the tray of food down and toss the bad flautas as Laura goes about filling a water glass and shaking pills into her palm.
That’s none of my business. I shouldn’t care. Hell, I don’t care. I step to Laura’s side to grab plates for the boys when the question falls from my lips anyway. “Mercy sick?”
