“I need some lunch money,” Carmen said.
“So?”
“So, I need a couple bucks.”
“Y qué?”
“Diego!” Carmen said in that little-girl whine that used to work on her brother when she really was a little girl. But these days, ya, he was through with it.”
“Why didn’t you get money from ’Amá?”
“Because I didn’t.” And then, because her brother kept staring at her, “I forgot.”
“You forgot?” Diego plucked a five from his pocket. Carmen reached for it and Diego raised it over his head. At least two heads shorter than her brother, la chaparra reached for the bill but could never hope to snatch it.
“That should be my tip for not telling on you,” Carmen said. Diego paused, wondering if his sister really knew where he had gone earlier in the morning.
“How is Sonia? Did you carry her books to school?” Carmen asked, todo smirky. Her circle of friends eyed each other and began acting like they weren’t interested—which, of course, was a lie. They wanted to know all about Diego’s business. One began flipping through her math book, the other stared into her cell phone, and the third—oh, she didn’t even bother to pretend. She was staring right at Carmen and Diego like a little kid ready for what was next.
“None of your business, Carmensa,” Diego said. The girls exhaled an “ah,” which started at zero, zoomed up like a bottle rocket, and circled back, landing among them with a silent bang. In the short silence that followed, they looked at each other wide-mouthed, then burst out laughing.
“Mira, Dieguito is turning red,” one of the girls said. Patti, Mari, Alicia? Diego didn’t know which. They were all the same to him—annoying.
“Carmen, ven acá,” Diego said, using his older-brother voice.
“What for?”
“Just come ’ere.” When Carmen didn’t move, he added, “You want your lunch money, don’t you?” Carmen slowly stood up and walked away from the shade of the tree and from her friends to the center of the plaza with her brother. Students passed them like water around two stones, rushing from the parking lot to class, or stopping to meet friends on the steps in front of the school.
“Qué tienes?” Carmen asked.
“You need to quit.”
“Quit what?”
“You know.”
Carmen clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
“Everyone knows you like her, D. Get over yourself.” Diego didn’t know that everyone knew he liked Sonia. That made him nervous, but he pushed back to what he really wanted to talk about. “I’m not talking about her, I’m talking about ’Amá. You need to treat her better.”
“Says who?”
“Carmen! Things are messed up enough as it is. Why are you acting up?”
An old school bus lurched into the drive in front of the school, and Carmen watched the tired students drop from the bus one by one, trudging toward the school like zombies. “I don’t like how things are,” she finally said.
“Me neither, but you don’t see me acting all chiflada. You’re giving her an ulcer. Why don’t you chill?”
“Can I have some lunch money, or not?”
“Carmen! You don’t even know what’s going on.”
“Do you?”
Diego stared down at his little sister. He knew as much as his sister did about what had happened between their parents, which was nothing.
“She ruined everything!” Carmen finally blurted. “That’s what everyone says!”
“Everyone who? Who says that?”
“Tío Marcos, y las tías. All of them.”
“When?”
“Whenever!”
“You don’t know!”
“I know!” Carmen said as if that was all that needed to be said.
Diego knew that of all of them their tío Marcos was the worst. He was Ana’s older brother and always had something to say about everything. Diego also knew that his tío had—how they say?—good intentions. He had Ana’s best interests in his heart, even if what he said came out lopsided and served with a jab. He told Ana she was lucky to have a husband like Esteban—a good man, a good provider. Marcos made sure of it. He kept Esteban working steadily in his construction business, even in slow times. Esteban was a good worker, had good skills, and was a good man “in the old ways,” Marcos said. Diego believed all those things about his father, but he also knew his mother was good. She worked hard, too. She was the first girl in the family to go to college. It took her longer than most, because she was working and taking care of her babies—first Diego and then Carmen, two years later. At first, there was talk that Ana had no business going to school with two babies at home. But with Beatriz helping out and all her professors encouraging her, and Ana making herself ignore the heavy sighs when she asked a tía or a cousin to please, please, please watch her kids while she studied or went to class, Ana got through it. And wouldn’t you know—when Ana walked across that stage to get her diploma, all those clucking tías and cousins watched con todo cariño, tears in their eyes, saying, “Mira, la Ana. She really made something of herself.” A good husband, a good job at the university, her nice house, good kids—all those things spelled success to the family. Ana had it all. They had helped her get that life. Why would she want to give it up now?
What they—including Carmen y Diego—didn’t know is that it wasn’t exactly the life Ana wanted. She had wanted to study art. She wanted to travel and see all the world’s great museums. She wanted to run a gallery, or an art school, and learn how to paint. Maybe that would come after, Ana thought. After marriage, raising children, and taking care of all the other responsibilities the oldest daughter, a good wife, a good mother, and now a—cómo se dice?—a career woman … maybe that’s when all those other things would come. Ana carried those dreams burning like a vela. They brought her comfort. But as time ticks forward, dreams have a way of turning into regret, trampled under the routine of daily life, verdad? Ana would be the first one to say she had a good life. Pero it just wasn’t the one she was waiting for.
“Come on, D! The bell’s going to ring pretty soon,” Carmen whined.
Diego shoved the bill deep into his pocket as his cell phone rang.
“Tell Sonia I said hi!” Bianca said, as she walked up behind him. Diego ignored her and walked off to take his call. Bianca and Carmen walked back to the girls sitting under the tree.
“Tell her she can teach you how to dance at Carmen’s quince!” Bianca called over her shoulder to Diego.
“You’re having a quinceañera?” a girl in Carmen’s clica asked. The girls all looked at one another, each wondering if she were the only one out of the know.
“No!” Carmen said. “Shut up, Bianca.”
“Oh, please, please, please have a quinceañera,” one of the girls pleaded. “I’ll do it.”
“She’ll have one,” Bianca announced. “She has to!”
“No, I don’t,” Carmen said, plopping herself onto the bench where she sat before. “I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” another girl asked.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Yeah, qué tienes? Every girl wants to have a quinceañera.”
“I don’t.”
One of the girls gasped.
“It’s not that bad,” Patti or Mari or Alicia said. “I had one. The best part is picking out the dress.”
“That’s the first thing to take care of,” Bianca said. “And as you can see by my skills, I am the one to take care of designing the dress.” Bianca waved toward Carmen’s bag.
“You made that?” one of the girls asked. When Bianca nodded, the girls oohed and ahhed over it, while asking a thousand questions Carmen did not want to answer about the when and where of her quinceañera. Carmen glared at her cousin, but Bianca smiled like she didn’t know why Carmen was throwing her the mal de ojo.
Diego had made his way to the far side of the plaza and was leaning against a bike rack as he spoke on
his phone.
“Son, some of the men said you were looking for me.”
“Yes, ’Apá,” Diego said. “I thought I would catch you before you started work. But it was getting late and I had to leave for school.”
“Why didn’t you just call me?”
“Because,” Diego stammered, “because you always say important business is best discussed face-to-face, como un hombre.”
There was silence on the phone as Diego dug up the courage to ask his father what he wanted to know: Why did he leave, and when was he coming back home? But even with only his father’s voice to confront, Diego suddenly felt the courage he’d built up on the long walk to his father’s construction site sputter like a kid’s balloon.
“Qué pasó, mi’jo? Did something happen?”
Diego always felt the pressure to please his father, something that seemed to come easy to his sister. Diego cleared his throat and swallowed his questions.
“Diego, qué pasó?”
His courage shriveled, Diego said the first thing that came into his mind.
“’Amá wants to have a quinceañera for Carmen.”
“Okay.”
“Well, Carmen is being, you know.” If Diego thought he could get away with calling Esteban Ruiz’s little girl the Queen of the Cabronas, he would have.
“She’s disrespectful,” he blurted. “I try and tell her to be, you know, because, you know. Things are kind of weird now.” Pobrecito, his mouth went dry. “She won’t listen to me and she doesn’t listen to ’Amá.” When he finished, Diego cringed.
“Oye, son. I appreciate the call. I know you’re doing your best. I’ll take care of it.”
“But … okay.”
“Is there something else, mi’jo? ’Cause I got to go.”
“No. That’s all.”
“Bueno pues, bye.”
Diego starred at his father’s blinking number on his cell phone, another one of the daily reminders that his father was gone. He turned off the phone and slid it into his pocket.
“I would make better use of that phone,” Carmen said. She had just walked up to Diego, anxious to break away from the pack of chattering girls getting themselves more and more worked up about her quinceañera, thanks to Bianca.
“Yeah, well, ’Apá gave it to me to take care of business. You know. Since I’m at the house.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. Because you’re the man of the house,” Carmen said, todo smarmy. Diego turned red. Maybe Carmen should be the designated man of the house, the way she struts and swaggers, he thought. Maybe Coach should be recruiting her.
“Okay, Mr. Man of the House, can I please have some lunch money?”
Diego pulled out his five and handed it to his sister. “This is all I got. Bring me the change so I can eat, too.”
“Don’t worry,” Carmen said. Pero Diego already knew that Monday was Carmen’s lab day, so he wouldn’t cross her in the hall before his lunch period. He already knew he’d be hungry the rest of the afternoon, as he slunk off to class.
FIVE
Monday afternoon was as good a time as any to have a paleta break, Ana decided. At the end of the day, Cynthia did as Beatriz said and brought her boss a paleta with the colors of the Mexican flag: red, white, and green. She didn’t have to explain. Ana recognized it as pura Beatriz.
The day had been filled with meetings and phone calls. The expected and unexpected things that happen early in the school year had kept the office busy, especially with a distinguished guest in the department. Mocte had returned to the office after leaving in the middle of the day for his classes, while Cynthia managed to hold her own. At four thirty, when Cynthia walked in with the paletas, Ana said, “Ya!” and everyone stopped what they were doing to discuss what was accomplished and what was left to be done as they happily sucked on their frozen treats. Ana was about to return to her office when something peeking out of Cynthia’s bag caught her eye.
“What is that?” Ana asked. Cynthia turned to look.
“It’s Your Quince magazine.”
“Wow. Where did you get it? I want to plan a quinceañera for my daughter. This might come in handy.”
“I borrowed it from one of my girls,” Cynthia said, pulling it from her bag and handing it to Ana. “We’re trying to do more of those events.”
“More of what events?” Mocte asked from the corner of the room, where he was finishing off the last chunk of his mango y chili fruit cup.
“Quinceañeras,” Cynthia said, careful to say each syllable, ironing the “nyeh” with her tongue. “I’m in a mariachi, Las Florecitas Fuertes.”
“Really?” Ana asked. “‘Strong flowers?’”
“Yes. We were going for the paradox. But we might change the name.”
“No, I like it.”
“You play mariachi?” Mocte asked, with a little tip of his chin. “You like it?”
“What’s not to like?”
Mocte nodded with approval.
“How long have you been playing?” Ana asked.
“Just a couple of months, but we’re getting pretty good and we’re about to start advertising. We’re going to play this week at Cascabel’s for a birthday party. You should come hear us, see what you think. You know, the most important part of the quinceañera is the mariachi.”
“N’ombre, it’s the cake,” Mocte said. The two women turned to look at him. “That’s what my tía says. She’s the Q-Cake Queen.”
“Your aunt is the Q-Cake Queen?” Cynthia gasped. “Wow. I’ve seen her cakes! They’re like dancing sculptures. Almost like they’re on hydraulics or something.”
Mocte was impressed that this white girl from Kansas knew what hydraulics were.
“And they taste good, too,” he said. “The chocolate-raspberry rawks.”
Cynthia and Mocte continued to talk—she saying a recommendation from the Q-Cake Queen herself would help Las Florecitas Fuertes get work, and he saying that his aunt’s business was booming and that the rest of the family was joining in to build a cottage industry—dressmakers, limo drivers, hairstylists, caterers, designers, y más.
Ana got a little dizzy listening to them talk. The quinceañera she had in mind was small. She wanted it to be a time when she and Carmen could talk to each other all cozy like they did before the separation, when her daughter would speak to her without the fangs in her words.
“Buenas noches, miss,” Mocte said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Cynthia was right behind him.
“If that’s all, ma’am …” Cynthia asked.
Ana looked at the clock. It was already after five thirty. “Sure, I didn’t mean to keep you,” she said as she handed back the magazine.
“You can keep it,” Cynthia said. “That’s from last month. I have the newest one at home.”
As Ana walked down the hall to her office, flipping through the pages of Your Quince magazine, something wilted inside her. The young girls in the magazine looked like women, not girls. Sí, her little girl was becoming a woman. She knew Carmen would grow up one day, but with all the drama and Carmen working to send her poor mother to an early grave, Ana still found herself thinking, How did it happen so soon?
Ana was pulled from her thoughts by a ringing phone.
“Oye, mujer! I heard Steve Jordan is playing an extra show at Saluté! Let’s go!” It was Beatriz on the other end. “Come on. We work hard for the money, honey! And we can talk.”
Ana liked the idea of relaxing, listening to Steve Jordan draw fire from his accordion; always familiar, but always different, depending on his mood. It was, as Beatriz always liked to say, comfort music for the Tejano soul.
“I told you, I have a meeting with Esteban.” Ana didn’t like the silence she heard on the other end of the phone and changed the subject. “So, you’re coming Sunday?” Before Beatriz could answer, the other line was ringing and Ana put her on hold.
“Ana Ruiz.”
“Habla Esteban.”
Ana felt that quiver
. That piece of physical proof that she still loved him in spite of all that had happened.
“Oye, I’m on my way,” she said.
“That’s what I called about. I can’t come.”
“Why not?”
Esteban paused. “Este … you know.”
Ana heard the beep of his truck as he put the keys in the ignition, followed by the music of Esteban’s favorite Tejano radio station in the background. The quiver Ana first felt turned to an ember. Like always, she expected to fill in the blank as to why Esteban could not meet her, and because it was easier to do that than to keep trying to get a straight answer from him, she let it go.
“We’ve still got the house to discuss. The lawyer says—”
“The lawyer? Why do we need a lawyer?”
“Well, if you want to talk, let’s talk,” Ana said a little louder. “It’s just mortgage stuff. Don’t worry. I can handle it on my own. I do everything on my own,” she said, her temper flaring like a match.
“Ana—”
“I’ve got to go.”
Ana dropped the phone into its cradle and immediately switched into what Beatriz called heat-seeking mode, when she poured all her attention into one thing, blocking out the rest of the world. It had made Ana’s past bosses call her a go-getter, but it was also how she dealt with pain, anger, and disappointment.
Ana straightened the top of her desk furiously. Drawers were opened and slammed closed, old notes thrown in the trash, important papers swept into folders. She resorted the long line of files that ran from one end of the credenza to the other, working faster and faster, the rustling of papers like leaves in the wind.
As she worked, she got angrier and angrier. She saw a form that needed her signature, and when she picked up a pen to sign it, it was bleeding. It’s just a stupid ballpoint pen. They’re not supposed to bleed, she thought, looking at the gooey mess on her hand.
She stormed out of her office with her hand held out in front of her, down the hall to the supply closet. The office was quiet now. Everyone was gone. She found a container of wipes and cleaned her hands. The ink came off, except for a dribble of it that had seeped under her thumbnail. And something about that ugly stain of blue ink was enough to bring up the tears she’d choked down all day. She was tired of holding them back, and she let them come. She covered her eyes with her wrists. Gulping and snorting; her eye makeup drooling—she didn’t care anymore. After five or ten minutes of this, she took a deep, calming breath, ran her fingers under her eyes and through her hair, and pulled down the hem of her jacket. Her eyes were swollen, but she was at least presentable, she thought. And then, she felt—cómo se dice?—an eerie sensation. She could feel she was not alone.
Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz Page 4
