I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter

by Erika L. Sánchez

  “Yeah, we got to ride elephants,” Alicia adds. “It was a-maz-ing.”

  “So what are you thinking for college?” Freddy looks uncomfortable. He can probably sense that they shouldn’t talk about Olga anymore. I think I might visibly recoil every time someone says her name.

  “I don’t really know. I want to move away to New York, I think. Somewhere with a good English program. But my grades haven’t been great lately, so I’m kind of worried. I really have to get my GPA up, or else I’m screwed.” When I remember the C I got on my last algebra test, it feels like snakes hatching and slithering in my stomach.

  “Well, listen, if you ever need help with your applications or have any questions, please let us know. We need more people like you in college,” Freddy says.

  “Totally.” Alicia nods, her silver hands swinging. “I can probably get you a summer job at my company when you’re old enough. It would look great on a college application.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I don’t know what Freddy means by people like me….What am I like? Why would anyone care if I go to college or not?

  There’s no one else I feel like talking to, so I go to the living room to read The Catcher in the Rye, which I had to smuggle in my bag because Amá always complains when I read at parties. Why do I have to be so disrespectful? she wants to know. Why can’t I just be at peace with my family? But I don’t feel like talking most of the time, and today everyone is going to be asking about my quinceañera. Besides, all of my little cousins are still trying to break the piñata, and I doubt anyone will notice that I’m gone. I just hope tío Cayetano doesn’t come in here when I’m alone.

  I get to read for a solid half hour before I’m interrupted. When I get to the part where Holden drops and shatters his little sister’s record, my dad and uncles pile into the dining room to bust out the expensive tequila from the liquor cabinet. I should’ve known. This happens at every party.

  Today the bottle tío Bigotes takes out is bright green and shaped like a gun. Like always, they sit around the dining room table, passing the tequila and talking about how great it was to live in their hometown of Los Ojos.

  “How I miss my little town, chingao.” Tío Octavio closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if reminiscing about a lost love.

  “Remember how we used to skip school and go swimming in the river?” tío Cayetano asks as he pours himself another shot.

  “I wish I never would have left,” Apá says quietly.

  If they love that town so much, why don’t they just go back and live there? I wonder. Always crying about Mexico as if it were the best place on earth.

  I go back to my book, but tío Bigotes motions for me to come near him. “Come here, mija.”

  I walk to the table and stand a few feet away, but he tells me to get closer. He pulls me toward him and puts his arm around my neck. His breath smells like tequila, cigarettes, and something deeper and more disgusting I can’t figure out. I try to pull back subtly, but it’s no use—his arm is locked around me. I wish Apá would save me, but he just looks down into his drink.

  “What were you doing here in the living room by yourself?”

  “I was trying to finish my book,” I explain.

  “What do you want books for at a party?” he slurs. “Family is what’s most important in life, mija. Go outside and talk to your cousins.”

  “But I like to read.”

  “For what?”

  “I want to be a writer. I want to write books.”

  Tío Bigotes takes another gulp of his drink. “Are you excited about your party?”

  “I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess? You should be excited. Your parents are making a big sacrifice for you.”

  Right, a sacrifice I don’t want.

  “You know, without family, you won’t make it in this life. And now that you’re older, you have to learn how to be a nice señorita just like your sister, may she rest in peace.” Tío nods his head dramatically, then looks me straight in the eye to see if I’ve understood his point.

  “But I want to finish my book, tío.” I stumble over my Spanish and feel my face get hot.

  Tío Bigotes takes another shot of tequila and lets go of my neck as Amá comes into the living room. She purses her lips like she’s just bitten into an onion and calls them all a bunch of sorry drunks.

  “Look at this one.” Tío Bigotes ignores her and gestures toward me with his glass. “With a cactus on her forehead, and she can barely speak Spanish. This country is ruining your children, sister.” He points at Amá as he gets up from the table.

  No one seems to know what to say. Apá is still looking into his drink, as if searching for some sort of answer. Amá crosses her arms and glares at tío Bigotes as he walks out of the room. Tío Cayetano pours himself another. This is number four—I’ve been counting.

  Everyone is silent until we hear the violent puking coming all the way from the bathroom. I touch my forehead and imagine a spindly cactus pressed there, my face bloody, like Jesus.

  —

  That night I dream I’m sleeping in Amá’s old room at Mamá Jacinta’s house when it catches fire. I run out into the street barefoot in a bright blue nightgown before it all burns down. I stand there watching the house as it crackles and sputters, the cool mud under my feet. Suddenly, Papá Feliciano, Amá’s dead father, is standing behind me holding a dead goat in his hands, its head hanging from its neck by a long, thin nerve. There is blood splattered all over his face and clothes.

  Everything is off, in the way dreams are—the house is much bigger than I remember, and there are giant oak trees everywhere. Some things are in reverse or upside down, like an empty car driving backward. I know I’m in Los Ojos, but it is so different, so deserted. The house across the street has been replaced by a field of sunflowers.

  “Where is Mamá Jacinta?” I scream at my grandfather, but he doesn’t answer. He offers me the limp goat in his arms. I scream and scream while he stands there, blinking at me. I don’t know if Mamá Jacinta is dead or alive.

  The fire begins to grow, so I run toward the river. I feel the heat on my back, singeing the ends of my hair. Rocks cut my feet. It’s night, but the sky is still bright somehow. The sound of crickets is almost deafening. It smells like wet earth.

  I jump into the water when the fire finally reaches me, near the abandoned train station. When I open my eyes, the water is thick and dirty, and a group of mermaids tangled in garbage and seaweed swim toward me, their long hair floating all around their faces. Their tails are iridescent green, and their breasts are small and bare. The one in the middle turns toward me and waves. It’s Olga. She has the same smile she had on her face when she died, and her skin is glowing, as if something were lit inside her.

  “Olga!” I yell, my lungs filling with cloudy water. “Olga, please come back!” The other mermaids gently take her away. I try swimming toward them, but my legs won’t work. It’s as if they’re chained to the bottom of the river. I wake up crying, gasping for air.

  SEVEN

  Lorena has a new friend at school who’s gay as a rainbow-colored unicorn. She met him in the lunch line when he complimented her ridiculous green heels. They started talking about clothes, makeup, and unfortunate fashion choices of the rich and famous, and that was that—best friends forever! He told her about the wild and crazy parties he frequents with his entourage of drag queens, which got Lorena worked up. All she ever wants to do is party. Now they talk all the time and even hold hands when they walk down the halls.

  When Lorena tells me his name, I refuse to believe it because it’s so utterly stupid. His name is Juan García, but he goes by Juanga, which is the nickname of Juan Gabriel, Mexico’s most beloved singer, who is flaming but has never officially come out of the closet. How can he compare himself to him? I mean, it’s like calling yourself Jesus Christ or Joan of Arc. So of course I hate him immediately. I can’t deny that I’m jealous. Lorena and I have been Siamese twins since the day
we met. Juanga better watch himself.

  —

  Our history teacher is sick today, which means it’ll be a free period. Our sub, Mr. Blankenship, breathes loudly through his mouth and wears a pilling green sweater two sizes too small. I can see his hairy belly when he lifts his arms. I don’t know where the hell they find these people. The last substitute had a lisp and wore a fanny pack.

  Instead of continuing to work on our research projects, he pops in a documentary about World War II, which we’ve already covered. Not even ten minutes into the movie and he’s fast asleep, snoring wetly. The whole class slowly sprouts into chaos. Some people play music on their phones. Jorge and David throw a miniature football back and forth across the room, and Dario climbs on his desk and starts dancing, flipping his hair, and pouting his lips. He does this every single time a teacher leaves the room. Something about the way he moves reminds me of a flamingo.

  “We have to go to a masquerade Juanga invited me to.” Lorena turns to me, her eyes wide. “Everyone, and I mean everyone, is going to be there. It’s at this fancy loft in the West Loop.”

  Just hearing his name chafes me. “Who is this ‘everyone’ you refer to? You know I hardly even like people. Plus, my mom would have a heart attack. No way.” Part of me is intrigued by the party, but the other part of me doesn’t want to spend a night hanging out with Juanga. He hasn’t reached arch-nemesis status, but I certainly don’t want to be friends.

  “Oh my God, just lie to her, stupid. You never learn, do you? Tell her we’re going on an overnight field trip to visit a college.”

  “That doesn’t make any damn sense. We’re juniors, remember? How would she believe that?”

  A bomb suddenly explodes in the video, and Mr. Blankenship wakes up for about half a second.

  “Here. Take this to your crazy-ass mom,” Lorena says, handing me a sheet of paper. “I already thought ahead. We have to go to this party.”

  According to the form, we’re visiting the University of Michigan to see what college life is like. We’ll be staying in the dorms, eating meals at the school cafeteria, watching a play, and taking a tour. Lorena translated it into Spanish on the back. She was even able to get it on the school letterhead, somehow.

  I’m in awe. “Where did you get this?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lorena says, smiling.

  “Seriously, this is really impressive. I had no idea you were this smart.”

  “Bitch!”

  “Well?”

  “Okay, I stole the letterhead from Mr. Zuniga’s desk and made up the rest.”

  “I guess you only play dumb, huh?” I try patting her on the head, but she ducks and swipes at my hand.

  “If you miss this party, you’re going to be sorry.”

  —

  When I give Amá the permission form after school, she says no without even looking at me. That’s what she always does. It’s like I don’t even deserve the dignity of eye contact. But I’m not surprised, of course not. I was prepared for this. I even wrote notes beforehand to help guide my argument. I beg and plead and tell her how much I want to go to college, how this will be a great opportunity, how I need this for my emotional and intellectual development. After about ten minutes of groveling, though, it’s clear she’s not having any of it.

  “No daughter of mine is going to be sleeping in the streets.”

  “The streets? That doesn’t make any sense. I’m going to be in a dorm.”

  “You think you’re all grown-up. You’re only fifteen. You don’t even know how to make a tortilla.”

  I’m beginning to froth with fury. Amá is so dramatic. Sometimes I want to run out of our apartment screaming and never come back. I don’t know what tortillas have to do with anything. “This is ridiculous. I want to go to college. I want to see the world. I never get out of this stupid neighborhood.” My bottom lip quivers. I’m almost starting to believe my own lie.

  “You can live here and go to college, you know? That’s what Olga did.”

  “Absolutely not. Never. I’d rather live in a barrel than stay here and go to community college.” Olga went there for four years and never even graduated. I’m not entirely sure what she was studying. Business something.

  “How come Olga never felt the need to be out in the streets like some sort of Gypsy? She was always so comfortable here at home, spending time with her family. Bien agusto, mi niña.” Amá looks up at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to talk to my sister in heaven.

  “She was not a girl. She was a grown woman!” I don’t know why that pisses me off so much. I run to my room and slam the door. I hate when Amá sees me cry.

  —

  The night of the masquerade I try to read in the living room, but I can’t concentrate because I’m so jittery. I’m just waiting until my parents go to bed so I can slink out of the apartment. On Fridays, they usually go to sleep at about 9, which is so depressing. I’d hate to be old and lame and never do anything fun on weekends. That’s why I won’t ever get married or have kids. What a pain in the ass.

  Half an hour after they’ve gone to sleep, I tiptoe to their door and listen. I hope to God I never, ever hear them having sex, because if I do, I might have to put poison inside my ears. Maybe they don’t have sex anymore, though. Who knows? Thankfully, I can hear them both snoring. I don’t understand how Amá sleeps through Apá’s terrifying growls.

  I creep back to my room and stuff my bed with pillows and an extra blanket. I take one of my old dolls and put it where my head would be. I cover most of it, but leave some strands of her dark hair out to make it look more realistic. I’m pleased with myself for being so clever. If Amá opens the door and doesn’t turn on the light, it will definitely work. I’ve caught Amá peering in here some nights. She is so paranoid. If, for some reason, she decides to lift up the blanket, I’ve left a note saying I’m with Lorena because she’s having a crisis and that I’ll be back soon, don’t worry. I doubt it would help much, but it seems better than nothing.

  Once I put on my only decent black dress, I text Lorena to come get me, and she says she and Juanga will be here in five minutes. I walk toward the door as quietly as possible. I’m afraid to even blink. It takes me an eternity to turn the doorknob because I don’t want to make any noise. When I shut it, I pray that I haven’t woken my parents.

  Now I have to wait on the steps in the cold until they arrive. The sidewalk in front of our building has been crumbling for years, and no one has ever bothered to fix it. The few trees on the street are scrawny and have already lost most of their leaves. I hope no one passes by right now. I’m so tired of being harassed by pervs around here. They’d probably bother anything with the semblance of boobs, human or not. I keep checking the time, silently cursing Lorena for lying to me about how long it’d take. What if Amá wakes up and sees me outside? What if someone notices me and rats me out? Our next-door neighbor, Doña Josefa, is always peering out the window and is the biggest chismosa I’ve ever met. I keep thinking and thinking of all the worst-case scenarios until I feel like a tornado of worry and consider going back to bed. This party better be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  Finally, I see them pull up.

  It turns out that Juanga doesn’t have a license, but he’s “borrowed” his dad’s car anyway.

  “Don’t worry, bitch, I’m not going to kill you,” he says, cackling like a maniac when he sees my worried face.

  We park in front of a gigantic warehouse just west of downtown. The street is dark, and the building looks ancient and abandoned. I’m convinced we’ll be raped and/or murdered, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to be a buzzkill. The only thing that comforts me is that there are a ton of cars parked outside, nice ones, too. Before we enter, Juanga hands us both masks. Mine is covered with peacock feathers and rhinestones, which is not really my style, but I’ll go with it.

  I’m totally wrong about the apartment. It doesn’t look like a crime scene. In fact, it’s unlike
anything I’ve ever seen before. I wonder what these people do for a living because this place belongs in a magazine—Chinese lanterns, what appears to be real artwork, and intricately designed rugs. God, I would love to live in a place like this all by myself. I can’t wait to get out of our dilapidated apartment one day.

  Everyone turns to look at us. We’re definitely the youngest people here. They can probably tell, even though we’re wearing masks. After a few minutes of awkward lingering, a large woman in a tight leather dress and red mask comes running toward us.

  “Hey, bitch!” she says to Juanga, and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hey!” Juanga squeals, and turns to us. “This is Maribel, our beautiful host this evening.”

  “Such a pleasure,” Maribel says, giving a dramatic bow. Her dress is cut so low that I’m afraid one of her boobs will pop out. “Make yourselves at home. Don’t be shy. There are drinks in the dining room.”

  The three of us make our way to the liquor. Lorena and Juanga pour some shots of I don’t know what. I refuse because the last time I drank shots of vodka with Lorena, I threw up so hard it came out of my nose. I open a beer instead, which I regret immediately. This must be what pee and bile taste like. The only other time I tasted beer was when I was twelve and secretly took a sip of Apá’s Old Style when he was in the bathroom. It was disgusting then, and it’s disgusting now. I drink it down fast without breathing through my nose.

  The mask is uncomfortable on top of my glasses, and it’s making me sweat and itch. I would have worn my contacts, but I ran out. I’m afraid it’s going to give me a pimple, so I take it off. I zone out, watching the skyline, when a man in a Phantom of the Opera mask pulls me out to the dance floor. I have no idea who he is, but I don’t have to worry because everyone here is queer or trans. It’s nice not to have to deal with creepy-ass dudes for once.

  The DJ is playing James Brown, and everyone is going wild, flailing their arms and screaming the lyrics. I’m not a good dancer, but I like the beat. Besides, I can’t look any worse than the man next to me, dancing like a Tyrannosaurus rex. After a few songs, I begin to loosen up. When I shake my shoulders like the drag queens, they laugh and clap. I’m fascinated by the women here. Even if they’re fat, they move as if they think they’re fabulous. I wish I could be like that.