Before You

by Amber Hart

  Maybe it’s because I recognize a little of myself in him, or rather, I recognize who I would be if I didn’t have to live up to other people’s standards. His carelessness sparks something within me, stubborn embers that lately I’ve tried so hard to smother, to block out. Trying to forget the past.

  But it’s hard to be someone you’re not.

  From the other side of the room, Diego grins at me.

  One hand is holding his water bottle.

  The other is flipping me off.

  6

  diego

  Faith Watters is looking at me from across the lunchroom, her stare like cold fingers trying to touch me, to freeze me in the moment, to curl around my heart. Perhaps even break it.

  Keep your eyes to yourself, I mentally say.

  Who does she think she is? Blowing me off. And then she has the nerve to walk back to her table and make out with her boyfriend like she’s better than everyone else. Fine. She wants a reaction? Here.

  I flip her off.

  She turns back around. Her body speaks one language; her eyes another.

  Can she translate for both?

  “Come on, man,” Javier says, diverting my attention. “Don’t worry about her.”

  “I’m not worried. I just wish she’d mind her own business,” I say.

  “She makes this school and everyone in it her business,” Javier replies. “That is never goin’ to change. And what are you thinkin’, asking her out? She’ll sic her novio and the rest of the football team on you.”

  I cross my arms. “Let her.”

  I’ve been looking for an excuse to fight. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve had too much on my mind lately. I never expected to leave Cuba. Now I attend a school with overpriced food and girls who think the sun rises and sets on their perfect hair.

  Javier changes the subject. “How’s your dad?”

  “Good,” I say.

  His eyes say he wants to ask more but he knows this isn’t the place. There’s a whisper of knowledge there, knowledge like a virus. If it were to get out, it would contaminate everything.

  No one, besides Javier’s family and mi padre, knows my secret, my days with the cartel. I’m not proud of it, but in Cuba a drug cartel means protection from the streets, protection you can’t maintain on your own. A family of sorts, like a viper for a best friend.

  I’m not sorry. I lived the life that kept me alive, however dangerous it would one day become. In my hometown, all it takes is one moment, one mistake, and the cost is your life.

  Now I live in America, where people can dream about their futures like every day isn’t a fight to stay alive.

  “Mi mamá wants you guys to come over tonight,” Javier says. “She’s cookin’.”

  I miss Aunt Ria’s cooking. My mouth awakens at the thought.

  “Can’t,” I say. “Have to work.” I eat my overdone burger, thinking it tastes a little like dirt.

  “What about Wednesday?” Javier asks.

  “Sure.”

  Someone drops a tray near me. I snap around, ready to fight. I can’t help it. Side effect of years in a cartel. I’m in constant survival mode.

  “Just a tray,” Javier says, locking eyes with me.

  I can never be too careful. I’ve had many enemies. Still do.

  Luis laughs. “Jumpy ’cause it’s your first day, huh?”

  Javier and I know that’s not why I’m jumpy. Not even close.

  “Must be it,” I reply.

  I remain on guard until my meal is done. When lunch ends, I walk to fourth period. History. The class is beyond boring. From the first minute, I have a hard time concentrating, my thoughts wandering to someplace else. I’m used to being on the go, constantly on my toes. It’s hard to sit still.

  People were not meant to be boxed in.

  The moment the bell rings, I’m out the door. And wouldn’t you know it, Little Miss Faith Watters is waiting for me. I don’t understand why she hasn’t given up. Doesn’t she see that she’s not wanted? Her presence is irritating, jute against my skin.

  “Still here?” I ask.

  Maybe Faith Watters likes to make it known that she’s in control at this school by having students follow her around; worse yet, maybe she actually thinks she can make a difference. She must not know that people like me will always be dealt the lesser hand.

  I’ve tried living by the rules. It got me nowhere except dirt poor and starving, begging for work, a vulture happy for scraps.

  Without a word, my peer helper turns and cuts through the crowded hallway, leaving a narrow path for me to follow in her wake.

  I consider leaving, never coming back to this school, but mi padre would kill me. So I reluctantly follow her to my next class, and the one after that, and the one after that.

  When school ends, I walk to the city bus stop and catch a bus into town. The rough seat smells like sweat and metal, the threads stretched to the max, like my sanity.

  It takes fifteen minutes and three dollars to get to work. In the restaurant, a girl with platinum hair, a green polo shirt, and khaki pants greets me with a huge smile.

  “Welcome to—”

  I cut her off. “I’m here to see Bennie.”

  Bennie is my new boss. He seems pretty cool. So far.

  The girl walks away and returns with the manager. Bennie is a young guy, maybe thirty, with brown hair and a goatee.

  “Hey, man,” Bennie says with a smile. “Follow me.”

  I walk with him to the back of the restaurant, where he digs in his pockets and pulls out a key. Unlocks the office door, waves me in. It smells like dust, and is barely big enough to fit ten people shoulder to shoulder.

  It’s bigger than my room in Cuba. It’s bigger than some people’s houses in Cuba.

  Bennie shuffles through a box on the ground. “What size do you wear?” he asks.

  “Large,” I answer.

  He pulls out a shirt with the company logo on the left side.

  “Here.”

  I put it on. Attached to one of Bennie’s ears is an earpiece. He hands me one, as well.

  Electronics are a luxury for most.

  I can’t help my way of thinking. My body abandoned my mind in Cuba. I can’t get used to this place. I don’t want to get used to this place.

  “You’ll be bussing tables today. Whenever you finish a table, you press this”—he points to a little red button—“and tell the hostess it’s clean so she can seat more people.”

  We leave the office and Bennie shows me the proper way to sanitize tables and where things go, like the ketchup and salt and pepper. There’s an order to everything.

  Since learning how to clean a table doesn’t take me long, Bennie leads me to the kitchen. He gives me a tour: the cooler, the break room, the cooking line, the place they call The Box, a small five-by-eight armed metal fence around the back door. It protects the place from being robbed, and the workers sit back there on their smoke breaks.

  Next, we move to the prep line, where Bennie shows me how to cut veggies and portion side dishes. He has me work on that until six o’clock, when the restaurant fills with people. My boss hands me a small black tub for the dirty dishes, a towel, and a spray bottle. Tells me to go up front.

  I feel ridiculous, and a little like someone’s butler, as I clean tables in front of people eating around me.

  Back home, I would make double the money and be subject to fewer curious eyes. But that was dirty money. It feels surprisingly good to know that my paycheck will come from honest work.

  My eyes are pressed down by the weight of the bright lights that hang above every table, a sliver of electricity for their viewing pleasure.

  In between cleaning tables, I go to the back for a drink. Attached to the soda fountain are tiny triangle paper cups that look like they belong on the bottom of an ice-cream cone. I reach for a glass mug but someone stops me.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” says the blond hostess. She smiles. Steps closer. Wafts
me with her cherry perfume.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  She tilts her head toward Bennie. “Manager’s rule. We’re only allowed the small ones. They’re refillable, though. Saves them money.”

  They’re worried about mugs when there are a hundred lights, two fryers, two grills, two flattops? And zero consciousness.

  I have a hundred emotions, two regrets, two eyes to see zero hope.

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she says, grabbing a paper cup for me. “Which one?”

  “Coke,” I say.

  She fills the cone. Twirls the tip between her fingers. It’s the same motion I use when rolling bullets before loading a gun.

  “I’m Sabrina.” She smiles. I think maybe she’s flirting with me.

  “Diego,” I say, taking the cone. The thing holds about one sip.

  “Your accent is nice. Where you from, Diego?” Sabrina asks.

  “Cuba.”

  “Mmm,” she says, smacking her glossed lips together. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to kiss a white girl. I can see down her shirt, which she leaves unbuttoned at the top.

  “Sabrina!” Bennie yells across the noise of the kitchen. “If you’re in here, who’s watching the front?”

  “Later,” Sabrina says, and walks away.

  A guy in an apron approaches the soda fountain. “Be careful around that one,” he says. He looks my age. Judging by the chef’s hat, I guess he’s a cook.

  “Manuel,” the guy says, sticking out his hand. I do not shake many hands. Mostly, I break them.

  “Diego.” I meet his grasp.

  “Looks like Sabrina has her eye on you. She has a thing for Latinos, my friend,” Manuel says.

  “Familiarity talking?” I ask.

  “No. I have a girl. But the other guys say she’s fun.”

  Sabrina’s pretty, but I’m not sure I’m interested.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.

  When I hear Sabrina’s voice in the earpiece, calling out another dirty table, I make my way to the front. One restaurant, one job, one breath at a time.

  While I’m cleaning the table, someone walks behind me. Bumps me. I drop a dish. It shatters. Loudly.

  Everyone is staring. So many eyes. Glued to me. I want to peel them away.

  “Oops. I’m so sorry,” someone says.

  I turn to the sound of the voice.

  No way.

  It’s Faith Watters.

  7

  faith

  Diego curses at me and bends to pick up shards of glass.

  A million shards of glass splintering, a thousand emotions.

  I look at him, the broken dish, him again.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and crouch down to help. I didn’t mean to bump him. It was an accident.

  “What are you doing?” Diego hisses.

  I realize how close we are, only inches apart. People are staring.

  “Helping,” I answer. “What does it look like?”

  “You’ve done enough already,” he says.

  I put on my game face, like I’m not bothered by the people staring, or by him. I carefully grab broken pieces and place them in the tub next to him.

  “Please stop,” Diego says.

  Pause.

  He said please. So. He actually has manners under that armor plating.

  “Faith.” Jason’s voice, saying my name, the sound familiar, like a fuzzy blanket I might have outgrown. He holds out a hand. “Come on, babe. Let him finish cleaning.”

  I ignore my boyfriend and continue to help Diego. It was my fault the plate broke. Therefore, I will clean it up.

  “You should listen to your little boyfriend,” Diego says.

  “Little?” Jason says, stepping up to Diego.

  Diego stands. They’re the same size. Big. Liable to cause a scene if anything gets out of hand.

  “That’s what I said,” Diego fires back.

  Suddenly, Sean and Rob, two of Jason’s football buddies, are beside him. I stand and push a hand against Jason’s chest.

  “Lay off,” I warn. He’s mad. It doesn’t look like he’ll back down. “Please,” I add, stepping closer to my boyfriend.

  My leg brushes his. I press up against him and trail a finger down his neck. It distracts him.

  “I’ll meet you at the table in a sec,” I say.

  Jason leans down and kisses me. His mind is somewhere else now, content in the false reality I’ve created. I wait until he’s seated to turn back to Diego.

  Diego stares at me with angry eyes. “Figures,” he says.

  I ignore him and grab the last remaining broken pieces, contributing to an unfinished mosaic lining the dirty bottom of the tub.

  “What’s your problem, Faith?” Diego asks.

  It feels weird to hear him say my name. I try not to like the way it sounds.

  “I don’t understand you,” he says. “I try to get you to leave me alone, you don’t listen. I ask nicely, you still don’t listen. What’s it gonna take?”

  Tomorrow is my last day escorting Diego.

  “One more day,” I say. “That’s all it’s going to take.”

  I’m holding another broken piece when a guy with an earpiece approaches us.

  “What’s going on here?” he asks.

  “Nothing, Bennie,” Diego says. “Just a broken plate.”

  Bennie notices the glass I’m holding.

  “Oh goodness. What are you doing?” Bennie asks.

  “Helping,” I say. What’s the big deal?

  “You can’t do that,” he says. “Please put that down. Have you been cut? Does anything hurt?”

  “No,” I reply.

  He turns to Diego. “How could you make her help you?”

  “He didn’t make me. I offered,” I say, putting down the glass.

  “This is unacceptable,” Bennie hisses to Diego. “Guests cannot help you clean. What were you thinking?”

  “I offered,” I say again. “He didn’t make me do anything.”

  Bennie treats me as though I’m invisible. I almost wish I were.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” he says to Diego and walks away.

  The muscles in Diego’s jaw are constricted, like guitar strings strung too tightly.

  “Happy now?” he says. “My first day on the job and I am already in trouble.”

  The blond hostess walks up and trails a hand across Diego’s arm, batting her eyelashes, a clump of dark spider legs reaching for her brows.

  “Diego, sweetie, are you all right?” she asks.

  Her hand moves up his shoulder, down his chest. I can’t watch.

  Someone make it stop.

  “Looks like your first day on the job isn’t going as bad as you say,” I mumble.

  Diego’s eyes narrow but I don’t wait for his response. I walk back to the table to join my friends.

  “What the hell, Watters?” Sean says. “Are you trying to get us kicked out? I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’ll fight for you, but he doesn’t seem worth it.”

  I don’t correct him. Don’t say it was actually Jason who stepped up to Diego.

  Instead, I quickly glance behind me. Diego is gone.

  “Want some queso?” Rachel offers, her hair red like smeared raspberries, her face crowded with freckles. Also on the dance team, she dates Rob, who’s sitting beside her, his blue hat pulled tight around his fringe of black hair. When he smiles, you almost don’t notice the bump in his nose, left over from a hard hit during a football game last year. Broken once, bent forever.

  “Sure, I’ll have some,” I say, dipping a tortilla chip into the cheese, a gooey glob of melting wax. On second thought, I put the chip down. I’m not that hungry.

  I glance at Melissa. She’s looking right at me, grinning.

  “So, anyway,” Rachel says, “we were just talking about dance practice.”

  Rachel has a way of keeping conversation light, fun. I’m grateful for her presence.


  “Can you believe how Tracy Ram challenged you?” Rachel says. “It’s like she automatically vetoes everything you say just for the heck of it, no matter how great your suggestions are. Thank goodness Coach overruled her. That move was hot.”

  “You know what else is hot?” Melissa says, eyebrows dancing in mischief.

  “Shut up,” I warn under my breath. Melissa is sitting close enough to hear. Unfortunately, so is Jason. He gives me a weird look. Melissa ignores me.

  “That new boy, Diego,” Melissa says.

  Sean cringes. Poor guy. He needs to let it go. It’s never going to happen.

  “You serious?” Jason asks. “The guy back there with the tattoos and scars?”

  “Don’t forget the hot bod and sexy grin,” Melissa says. She’s the only one in our group who could get away with something like this. People expect it from her—crazy, wild Melissa. If I said it? Watch out.

  “You’re weird, Lissa,” Rachel says. “Is it just me who doesn’t see it? Help me out here, Faith.”

  My tongue suddenly feels thick, an extra coating of syrupy spinelessness.

  “What?” I say. She wants me to tell her whether I think Diego is hot?

  “Sexy or not sexy?” Rachel clarifies.

  “Come on,” Sean complains. “No one wants to hear you girls talk about hot guys. Unless, of course, those hot guys happen to be us.”

  “Let her answer,” Melissa says.

  Sean backs off, a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

  All eyes are on me.

  “I, um, we don’t need to talk about this.” I cannot possibly answer that question. If I lie, Melissa will know. I hate lying to my best friend. But if I tell the truth, Jason will get angry.

  Melissa answers for me. “Of course Faith doesn’t think Diego is cute. She’s Faith Watters. Stays on the straight and narrow. Dates reputable guys—” She pauses to wink at Jason so he doesn’t see the mockery in her statement. “She’d never even think twice about someone of Diego’s social standing.”

  I’m livid, my anger like hot lava, bubbling beneath the surface. And Melissa knows it.

  “Fine,” I say. “You want an answer?”

  “Oh no, honey. We already know the answer. It’s predictable,” Melissa says sweetly, but I hear her I-dare-you-to-say-it undertone.