I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter

by Erika L. Sánchez

  “You can’t make any exceptions? I mean, she’s dead. Please. You won’t be violating her privacy. She’s not going to come back from the grave and file a complaint. I really, really need this information. I don’t think you understand how important it is. I’m very upset about my sister’s death and would really appreciate your help. Please, just give me more information.” I try to be as patient and polite as possible, even though I hate this woman.

  “That’s the school policy. No exceptions. You can come back in September and see if the office will release the information then. Until that time, there is nothing I can do. Now please move along. There are people waiting behind you.” The woman purses her thin lips and motions with her hand for me to get going.

  I feel the anger rippling throughout my entire body. I know that I have an awful temper that is often impossible to control, but this woman is something special. Relax, I tell myself. Get ahold of yourself, Julia. I wish Lorena were here. She would probably know what to do.

  “Do you have a soul? I mean, are you such a miserable sack of crap that you lack any kind of compassion? I guess I’d be upset, too, if I had a face like yours.”

  “Young lady, if you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call security. I’m not joking.” Her face is bright red now.

  “Oh, go to hell,” I say, and turn around. The woman behind me gasps as if it were the most scandalous thing she’s ever heard in her whole entire life.

  TWELVE

  The quinceañera hangs over me like the blade of a guillotine. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but I’m dreading it. Amá is making me take waltz classes with all my chambelanes, and I keep getting all the steps wrong. At first, I refused to do it, but then she said she wouldn’t let me out of the house unless I did. What kind of quinceañera doesn’t have a dance? What kind of daughter would refuse this tradition? I got so tired of her threats and complaints that I sucked it up and gave in.

  I’ve been to many quinceañeras, and they’re all the same—gross dresses, bland food, and odious music. My cousin Yvette played nothing but reggaeton at her party and then did a choreographed dance in an outrageous sequined outfit. I almost died of embarrassment for her.

  I typically sneak a book inside and hide it under the table and pretend that no one can see me reading, but this time I can’t because I’ll be the star of this disaster. I keep thinking of ways to get the party canceled—shave my head and eyebrows, get a face tattoo, break my own legs, give myself the flu by licking a pole on the bus—but the truth is that Amá would probably wheel me in on my deathbed. There is no escaping this. I understand that this isn’t necessarily meant as a punishment for me. Even though Amá doesn’t understand me at all, I know she’s not doing it to make me miserable. I’m not that naive. I know she feels guilty for not giving Olga a party because we were too broke at the time, but why should I have to suffer because of it?

  I kept asking Amá where she was going to find the money to pay for it, but she insisted it was none of my business. A few weeks ago, though, I overheard her and Apá talking, and it turns out that Olga had accumulated a few thousand dollars in life insurance while she was working at the doctor’s office. She also had some money in her savings account. Amá got the checks in the mail a few months after Olga died. Why couldn’t they put that in a college fund or at least buy an air conditioner so we don’t melt in the summer? Why couldn’t they find a better apartment than this roach-infested dump?

  —

  On Sunday morning, Amá makes me help her with the party favors. We sit at the kitchen table covered with tulle, figurines, ribbon, and candied almonds. I don’t know who would want such a gaudy souvenir. The candy is hardly even edible. What a giant waste of money, time, and resources.

  I look closely at the porcelain quinceañeras and realize that they’re all blond and their skin is literally white. They almost look like zombies.

  “They didn’t have brown ones?” I ask, holding one of the figurines up to the light. “This doesn’t look like me at all.”

  “That’s all they had,” Amá says.

  I want to throw them onto the floor and stomp on them, crushing their stupid little faces, but I do my best to keep calm because I know it’s important to Amá.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “La garra. Now stop asking so many questions and get to work.”

  I should have figured. Everything from my party seems to come from the flea market.

  After hours of gluing, stuffing, and tying, we hear the doorbell ring.

  “Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Amá says. “Tell them to stop bothering us. We’re Catholic. I’ve told them hundreds of times.”

  But it’s Lorena, wearing bright pink leggings and a furry white hoodie.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry I was being such a bitch,” she says, looking down at my bunny slippers. “I can’t stand this anymore. I hate it that we’re not talking.”

  I cross my arms. “Whatever.”

  “Look, I said I’m sorry. What else do you want?”

  “Why did you have to say all those things about me? Do you really think I’m stuck-up because I don’t want to have sex with any of the guys at school?”

  “No, of course not. I was just being stupid, but sometimes you are too judgmental. I get frustrated with you.” I don’t even know if I can argue with that. I do dislike most people and most things, which is something Lorena doesn’t understand. “Aren’t you sorry? You were a bitch, too.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m sorry, but I hate Juanga and I don’t want to hang out with him anymore.”

  “Are you a homophobe or something?”

  “Seriously? How many times have we gone to the Pride Parade? Who introduced you to Rocky Horror Picture Show? And the L Word? Get out of my face with that.”

  “Okay, okay. Sometimes Juanga can be a little bit of a sangrón.”

  Sangrón. That’s exactly right. The word is usually used to describe someone who rubs you the wrong way, a jerk, or a douche. I think it means someone’s blood is too heavy, or maybe it’s that they have too much blood.

  “A little bit?”

  “All right, all right. You’ve made your point. Juanga says that you intimidate him, though. Just try to be nice, okay? He’s really fucked up right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His dad…he beats him up. You know, because he’s gay.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, he calls him a joto and tells him he’s going to burn in hell. They’re some weird religion. I forgot what it’s called…” Lorena taps her chin with her forefinger. “Well, whatever, they even tried performing an exorcism on him. Or some shit like that. That’s why he’s always running away.”

  “Oh my God, really?” Now I feel guilty.

  “It’s okay. Just try to be nice from now on. Now get out of those stupid slippers, and let’s get some pizza. I’ll pay.”

  —

  Though we can go anywhere to get a slice, we take the train all the way to the North Side because we’re always looking for excuses to get out of our neighborhood. Life is much too boring otherwise.

  I order three slices—two for me and one for Lorena.

  “Two? Seriously?” Lorena raises her eyebrows.

  “I can eat three but didn’t want to embarrass you.”

  We sit at the only table available, next to an unattractive family. The three little kids are yelling and squirming all over the seats, and their sad, sloppy parents just ignore them.

  “I never want to get married,” I tell Lorena. “Look at that guy. He’s wearing sweatpants with elastic on the ankles. Jesus. It’s making me lose my appetite.”

  “I don’t want to get married, either. My mom and José Luis are such idiots,” Lorena says, putting down her pizza. I’ve never heard her talk about her mother that way.

  “Gimme juice! Gimme juice!” the toddler next to us screams, his little red face smeared with
grease and tomato sauce.

  “Oh my God,” I mouth to Lorena. She just shakes her head.

  I’m still hungry when I finish both slices, but I tell my stomach to shut the hell up.

  As we sit in silence, I feel sadness spreading inside me. I never know what to do when this happens. I try to convince myself that everything is okay, but I can’t. It must show on my face because Lorena asks me what’s wrong.

  “Do you ever hate your life? Because I do. Like, all the time. I know it’s messed up, but sometimes I wish I were dead, too. Why does everything have to be so hard? Why does everything have to hurt so much?” My throat aches like I’m about to cry, which startles me. I close my eyes for a second.

  “Jesus, Julia. What the fuck? How can you say that?” Lorena slaps me on the arm. She looks angry.

  “I don’t know.” I rub my eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll make it to college. I mean, I can’t take this anymore. It’s not like my life was great before, but then Olga dies and everything turns to complete crap. Why, though? I don’t understand. Nothing ever makes sense. I never get what I want.”

  “You’re so close, Julia. You’re almost out of here. You know you’re smart. You’re not going to live like this forever.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, though I don’t entirely believe her.

  “Please don’t ever say anything stupid like that again, okay? Promise?”

  “Okay, I’m fine.” I take a sip of my water. I know I should change the subject. “So, I tried getting Olga’s transcripts the other day.”

  “Where?”

  “The community college.”

  “For what, though?”

  “Because I’ve been realizing how weird it was that she never seemed close to getting her associate’s degree. There’s something that isn’t right. I don’t know what it is, but I have this feeling that won’t go away. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “You’re always so paranoid. Just because you found some underwear doesn’t mean anything. I told you already, all girls wear thongs. Well, except you.”

  “Yeah, because they’re stupid and uncomfortable.” I pause. “And what about the hotel key?”

  “She could have found it at work and used it as a bookmark or something.”

  “Unlikely. I hadn’t seen her read a book in years. And it was in an envelope.”

  “I think your imagination is messing with you. Some people are ordinary. I doubt your sister was living some interesting life. The girl was sweet and all, but she wasn’t exactly fascinating. She never even went out. You need to stop worrying so much about Olga. I’m sorry, but she’s gone and there’s nothing you can do about that. You need to focus on your own life now.”

  Even though Lorena is right, I already know I’m not going to listen to her. “Can you ask Juanga to get Jazmyn’s number from Maribel? You know, Olga’s friend from the masquerade. I keep thinking she might know something.”

  Lorena rolls her eyes. “How’s she going to help you figure anything out?” The toddler next to us starts screaming again, and his parents don’t bother to shut him up.

  “I don’t know. Maybe Olga said something to her. She probably doesn’t know anything, but I have to at least try. Promise you’ll ask?”

  “Fine.” Lorena sighs. “But I really don’t see the point.”

  —

  As I walk home from Lorena’s, I notice the house on the end of her block is covered with red and black graffiti so scraggly and lazily painted, it pisses me off. If they’re going to ruin someone else’s property, they should at least try to make it beautiful. What did they paint that with—their butts?

  When I cross the street on the next block, a car pulls up next to me. The driver lowers the window.

  “Hey, girl.”

  Sometimes I yell things back when guys try to talk to me, but I know I probably shouldn’t, because what if they come out of their cars and kick my ass?

  “I said hi. Didn’t you hear me?” the driver barks. “I have something to show you. You know, ’cause you have nice tits.”

  I don’t even know how he can make that sort of assessment with my jacket and scarf.

  “Yeah, didn’t you hear him, bitch?” The passenger has joined in now. Wonderful.

  I’m sweating even though it’s so chilly I can see my breath. It’s technically spring, but winter still has us in its clutches. Typical Chicago. The icy dampness in my armpits reminds me of the time in health class we learned that sweat from stress smells worse than the kind your body produces when you exercise. It’s because of some sort of hormone. I can picture the stink lines hovering above me right now. I look around, in case there’s anyone nearby, but I only see a couple of kids playing catch down the street. The car follows me as I walk.

  Halfway down the block, an old man comes out of his house. I stop in front of him, not knowing what to say, the words all coiled inside my mouth. What can this frail viejito do to help me?

  “What’s wrong, mija? Are you okay? You look like you saw El Cucuy.” His sunken eyes look worried, and I have a sudden urge to press myself against his withered, little body and bury my face in his shoulder. Maybe it’s because I never knew either of my grandfathers.

  When I was a kid, I assumed that El Cucuy was a hideous monster that hid under the stairs, not an actual person. I thought he was a creature covered in matted fur, his face grotesque and contorted, with giant fangs and bloody eyes. I was wrong. If only terror could be that simple.

  I point to the car, which has now made a full stop. The men stare at us, and I notice the driver has a neck tattoo, but I can’t tell what it says. I think it might be a woman’s name. How romantic.

  “What do you want with this young lady?” the old man yells, shaking his fist. He must be at least eighty. A light wind could probably knock him down and shatter his bones.

  “You got this old dude to protect you, bitch? I could kill you both.” The driver laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you again.”

  The car speeds away.

  “Are you okay?” the old man asks.

  I nod.

  “Do you need to call your parents? Or the police?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m only a few blocks away.”

  “I’m not letting you walk alone,” he says, shaking his head.

  I wish he wouldn’t, because if Amá sees us, it will be difficult to explain. But how can I argue with him? Maybe he saved my life. At the very least, he probably saved me from having to see that guy’s penis.

  We walk in silence until we get to my building. “Here it is,” I say. “May God repay you.” Though I don’t believe in anything, I know it’s important to sound religious when talking to old people. It feels wrong not to pretend after he protected me from those dirtbags.

  “May God protect you,” he says, making the sign of the cross the way my grandma does when we leave Mexico. She calls it la bendición.

  —

  On Monday, I get Maribel’s number from Juanga so I can call her for Jazmyn’s number. What I like about Maribel is that she doesn’t even bother asking why I need it. In fact, she says it’s none of her business, which is perfect, because I don’t feel like explaining. I can’t stand nosy people. I wish everyone would leave me alone. I guess it’s ironic that I’m all up in Olga’s business now, but she’s dead, so maybe it shouldn’t count. Everything about Maribel conveys confidence and independence, like she’s constantly giving the world the finger. I’ve never met anyone like her.

  “Honey, I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says in her gravelly voice, and hangs up.

  I get inside my closet and dial Jazmyn’s number. It rings and rings, and then it goes to her voice mail. I don’t want to be annoying, but I feel like I have to talk to her, and I’m tired of waiting. I dial again. Maybe she thinks I’m a telemarketer. Right when I’m about to hang up, she answers.

  “Hi, Jazmyn, this is, uh, Julia, Olga’s sister.” I don’t know why I’m so nervous.

  “Oh
, hi….How did you get my number?” She doesn’t sound annoyed, just surprised. I can hear a dog barking in the background. She tells it to shut up.

  “Through Maribel.”

  “Huh. Okay, so what’s up? What can I do for you?”

  I realize I probably should’ve been nicer when I saw her at the masquerade. I just didn’t feel like explaining about my sister. That’s not really the kind of news I’m eager to deliver, especially during a party. Plus, I was drunk. Plus, Jazmyn has a very irritating personality. I never liked her, and apparently, neither did Amá. She never knew when to shut up, always going on and on about pointless things. “Yeah, so I was wondering if you could tell me more about what Olga said when you saw her? Do you remember what year it was?”

  “That was a long time ago. I don’t remember. Why do you want to know anyway?” Jazmyn sounds suspicious.

  “Because, well…” How do I explain this to Jazmyn without telling her what I found? It’s none of her damn business, after all. “There are some things I’m trying to piece together, and I’m hoping something Olga said will help me.”

  “I don’t get it. How?”

  “Can you just please help me? I mean, my sister is dead.” Jazmyn is trying my patience once again. I hear Amá walk past my room. I hope she doesn’t come in here and ask me why I’m sitting in my closet.

  “I don’t remember exactly when. It was, like, four years ago, I think,” Jazmyn says.

  “Before or after graduation?”

  “I really don’t remember.”

  “So you don’t remember the month or anything?”

  Jazmyn sighs. “No.”

  “Was it hot or cold?”

  “It was spring, I think….Or was it summer? Hmm.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “I don’t remember.”