The Resolutions

by Mia Garcia

  “No.”

  “Well.” She wiped down the counter as La India shouted about mi mayor venganza over the radio. “That’s all I got.”

  “The convenience store next door is closing.”

  “Rogelio’s?”

  “Of course, claro, what other convenience store is there?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, apparently he’s divorcing, and also he’s a horrible business owner.”

  He really was—the store was barely stocked, dirty, and dingy. She rarely saw anyone go in there and usually warned people not to bother and just go to the much better family-run store up two blocks.

  “Who’s moving in?”

  “No one yet—they haven’t put it up on the market,” she replied. “But . . .”

  The pause made Nora turn, dropping the rag on the counter.

  “¿But qué, Mami?”

  She came up next to Nora. “What if we bought the store ourselves?”

  Nora paused. “Like move?”

  They were a little tight, that was true, but the thought of moving made Nora dizzy.

  “In a way.” Her mother smiled, eyes dancing with big dreams that always made Nora sigh. “More like an expansion!”

  “An expansion?”

  Oh no.

  “Piénsalo—we combine both spaces, tear down the walls, expand the kitchen, and add more tables. We can be an actual restaurant, even expand the catering!”

  Her mother kept talking, ideas for space, branding, and eventually her future. Nora’s future tumbling out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Amor, imagine how much we could grow!”

  Grow? She wasn’t sure if the “we” meant La Islita, or she and Nora, or both. And could they grow if Nora couldn’t even bring up new recipes? The tucked-away macarons said otherwise. La Islita would grow, her mother would grow, but would Nora?

  She imagined the long nights fixing up another place, falling asleep in class, trying to cram in everything into the small pockets of time she had. Asking her friends and Beth to revolve all hangouts around the restaurant. She saw the time to try out new recipes dwindling more and more until no new pages would be added to her recipe book.

  “What do you think?” Her mother’s face was filled with so much hope that it drowned out everything else.

  No, was what she thought, as a pit of worry settled in her stomach. But no would bounce off her mother and roll down the gutter. People telling her no was how she got where she was. No was a challenge—Nora needed facts.

  “Quizás,” Nora started to say, “pero . . .”

  “¿Pero qué?” Her mother’s shoulders straightened, preparing for the discussion.

  “We don’t have the money.”

  She waved the comment away, expecting it. “We don’t know how much they will value it for.”

  “True, but based on size alone we can guess. It’s twice the size of our store.”

  “Three times at least!” Offered Doña Rodríguez, living up to her notorious eavesdropper status. She motioned for them to continue as if someone had paused her favorite telenovela.

  Nora sighed but kept going. “Three times, then, so we can calculate how much it would cost, not to mention repairs. The place is a dump. I would honestly feel bad for whoever ends up with it.”

  A frown started to appear.

  YES, it’s working!

  “We can repair it!”

  Nora shook her head. “Not to our standards, Mami. It’s not like a paint job. We would need all new flooring, what’s in there now is torn and disgusting. I saw someone drop five dollars there once and just leave it.”

  “Que exagera.”

  “I am not. You know I’m not!” She couldn’t stop now. “We’d have to remove all the institutional lighting, probably exterminate, who knows what’s died there. We might even find a dead body—okay, now I’m exaggerating.” Then she smiled. “Or am I? Not to mention tearing down the walls—do we even know if that’s possible?”

  Her mother was smiling, and Nora wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “Where did you learn all this?”

  “You . . . and HGTV.”

  “Bueno. I’m disappointed, but proud.”

  “Proud?”

  She came closer, placing her hands on Nora’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “All that off the top of your head means you’re really getting it, Mija. La Islita will be yours in no time.”

  Nora’s heart lurched as her feet shifted toward the door.

  “It was just a thought—but you’re right, we probably can’t afford it.” Still, her mother paused again, not quite deflated. A pause that meant the idea still clung to her mind, not ready to let go.

  A pause that made the pit in Nora’s stomach grow and her eyes drift down to the hidden plate of macarons.

  “¿Mami?” she asked again, hoping to shake the pause loose and send it on its way.

  Instead her mother straightened, rubbing Nora’s shoulder. “¿Qué haría sin ti?” Then she returned to the kitchen to finish an order.

  Jess

  SHE’D SPENT TWO hours helping her mother reorganize the community center library, sorting out damaged books and jotting down which ones needed replacing. The “library” was only two bookcases long but a popular part of the center, next to the activity room. There was even a smaller library for picture books closest to the kids’ area, which would benefit from the Clorox wipe down Jess would give it in a few minutes.

  The creation of the library had been her mother’s idea, and even though it was only two bookcases long, you could tell as she dusted and sorted through old copies it still gave her a sense of pride. Her mother had loved working at the Latino Community Center of Denver so much she made it her full-time job, handling the budget and overseeing center activities. She saw it as a place to bring the Latinx community together to grow and support each other.

  A message that maybe not everyone in the community got. For example, the pair of chismosas that made sure to—loudly—comment on Jess’s tight jeans like they’d never worn a tight skirt when they were seventeen. Was it some weird rule that as soon as you turned a certain age you needed to judge other people for everything you did as a teen?

  “¿Se cree Jennifer Lopez?”

  That one was new.

  Jess almost turned around when she heard her mother next to her.

  “Ignore them, Jess,” she said. “They have nothing better to do.” Then her mother turned and addressed them like she hadn’t just heard them gossiping away at the back. Their tune changed quickly, and they greeted Jess’s mom with a warm hello and praise on the center’s last activity.

  Jess rolled her eyes. These women would fall all over themselves to bake something or volunteer for community events, but with their next breath they would say Jess’s running shorts were too tiny (she was inviting something with those, didn’t she know?), or how Nora’s Spanish could use some help (it must be tough with a single mother), or why didn’t Lee speak it at all (so sad about her mother, though), and snide comments on Nora’s and Ryan’s sexuality (fuck them on that, truly).

  On and on they went, like they were the protectors of the Latino community and anyone that didn’t fit their narrow definition was frowned upon. She wasn’t even sure Jennifer Lopez made the cut.

  They weren’t all bad, though. For example Doña Ines was an angel sent from heaven. But the chismosas seemed to outweigh them all and left a bad taste in Jess’s mouth.

  Jess scrunched up her face. “Why are they like that?”

  “Don’t let it get to you. It’s not worth it; they aren’t worth it.” Her mother helped her up and together they carried the garbage bin to the back of the building.

  “Gracias por ayudarme.”

  “No problem.” It wasn’t her favorite way to spend a Saturday, but there was something about the way her mother looked at her after a long day at the center that warmed Jess’s heart.

  And Jess didn’t mind helping
as long as it was far away from the toxic people.

  “I was thinking,” her mother said as they entered her tiny office at the back. “When you are done with the mini library, we could look at what new books we could bring in? We have a bit of a budget, and we could use a few updates! What do you think?”

  The smile on her mother’s face was hard to resist. “Sounds good.”

  “Fantástico.” Her mother clapped her hands together. She excused herself to attend a planning meeting and gave Jess free rein of her computer for book-finding purposes.

  One hour later she had a list of fifty new books divided by age range, and she’d managed to do two more SAT workbook pages.

  Her mother burst back in, dropping papers on her desk and slumping down on the chair across from Jess. “Bureaucracy is truly the enemy of progress, Mija.”

  “Long meeting?” Jess half stood, signaling the chair was hers if she wanted it, but her mother waved her down.

  “They all are.” Her mother stretched. “How did the research go?”

  Jess turned the monitor to show her mother the list of books she recommended along with links from where to buy them. “You should also check out Capitol Hill Books or Fahrenheit for their used book selection, though people might complain about too many English books in the library again.”

  Her mother scoffed. “They complain about everything. Nothing is ever good enough, but I like that idea. Would you like to spearhead it?”

  “Me?”

  “I know, I’m sorry. You’ve already helped enough.” Her mother stood, moving to file the papers she’d dumped on her desk. “We truly appreciate it, though, you know? Everyone at the meeting noticed.”

  “They did?” Jess warmed at the praise.

  “They did. We don’t get a lot of young people volunteering these days.” Her mother smiled. “It reminds us what we are working toward.”

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, Jess returned her mother’s smile. Despite the long hours and the run-in with the old ladies, today hadn’t been so bad. One kid even gave Jess a hug after she finished organizing the tiny picture book library.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t take away the next weekend, I promise. I know you have things to do.”

  True. It always seemed like she did these days, particularly now that she was cramming SAT prep into every free moment she could find. But then she came back to her mother’s smile and the fact that people seemed to notice her good work, and she was actually making a difference. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I even got a little SAT prep done while you were in your meeting.”

  “SATs!” her mother shouted. “I almost forgot. And feel free to say no, but everyone was so impressed with your work today and they know how smart you are. . . .”

  Jess could see a request coming a mile away and knew there was no getting out of it.

  “And they—we—were wondering if you’d consider helping out with some of the SAT tutoring these next few weeks?”

  “I’ve never really done SAT tutoring before. . . .” Helping Nora with the test didn’t count. Neither did being overly prepared for everything. “I haven’t even taken the SATs yet!”

  “Lo se,” her mother continued. “Think of it as a compliment, Mija.”

  How often would she have to tutor? How many? Would it mess up her own SAT studying? She was already wringing her hands, trying to fit everything into her schedule.

  “Think about it. I said I would ask and if you think it’s too much, you know I have no problem turning it down.”

  “Okay,” Jess said, knowing she’d have to say yes eventually. At least with a bit more time she could decide when she had time to volunteer.

  “Hey. Feel like taking a trip to one of the used bookstores now to see what we can find?”

  Jess was itching to look over her schedule and ease the doubts creeping in, but she nodded. They packed up and spent the rest of the day walking down bookstore aisles.

  The next day Jess added ten new books to the library, half of which went to the kids’ library. She didn’t fight the smile that came to her lips as she watched the kids find their brand-new—slightly used—books.

  Ryan

  HIS GRANDMOTHER WAS psychic. Most of the supplies he needed replaced for his first class he found in the boxes of gifts she’d sent. He’d have to thank her later and find a way to casually mention she didn’t have to buy the most expensive version . . . although suggestions were probably a bad idea. You never critique your grandmother’s gifts, especially to her face.

  He’d packed everything in his bag and so far he was doing a great job of not freaking out . . . until his car broke down halfway to the class.

  Classic.

  He texted the group:

  HELP! SOS. Car broke down and need to get to class. Any suggestions?

  Nora: Tow?

  Lee: Lyft? Cab it?

  Jess: Ugh. I’d come for you, but David has the car.

  Ryan: Fuck.

  He was ready to call it a message from the universe when a head popped through his window, startling Ryan so much he dropped his phone.

  “Fancy meeting you here, on the side of the road, on this random street.”

  Blake leaned in on the open window. He was wearing a paint-splattered tee and his purple hair was braided down the middle, the sides much shaggier than the last time Ryan had seen him. “Car trouble?”

  Ryan held up his hand. “Hold up, I need a second, my soul hadn’t returned to my body yet.”

  “I’ll wait.” He opened the side door and sat in the passenger seat. “Nice car.”

  Their gray, seven-year-old Toyota was hardly impressive, but it was usually more reliable than this. “It’s my dad’s—it was this or the minivan.”

  “Oh, I love a good minivan. They’re like the corgis of the car world.”

  Ryan laughed, his heart finally back to normal.

  “So you need a boost?”

  “That would be great—also, if you know how to do that, that would be even better.”

  He did not, and they ended up calling Ryan’s dad, who tried walking them through it until they realized they had no jumper cables. Ryan and Blake ended up pushing the car near the closest metered parking spot and leaving it for Ryan’s dad before hopping in Blake’s car.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Blake said as he took a curve a bit too fast, causing two empty coffee cups to roll around Ryan’s feet. “I would make some excuse about being busy, but it would be a lie.”

  Ryan smiled but glanced anxiously at the clock.

  “You’ll be like ten minutes late, it’s not a huge deal. You’ll probably miss introductions, but I can fill you in. There’s obviously going to be a Jenny, maybe a Matt. Totally a Robert, Robert is really into hot yoga.” Blake pulled up to the designated parking area, and despite his laid-back attitude, rushed up the steps with Ryan. “Good luck,” he called as he walked away to his own class.

  “Thank you!” Ryan called back, steps away from his classroom. He entered and tried not to look as flustered as he felt.

  “Can I help you?” A woman in cargo pants and a black tank top holding a clipboard turned toward him.

  “I—” Everyone was looking at him. Awesome.

  She looked down to her clipboard. “Ryan . . . um . . . Wang Mercado?” She tripped over his middle name as so many did.

  “Yeah,” Ryan replied. “That’s me. I’m sorry I’m late, my car broke down.”

  She waved it away. “Literally happened to me yesterday.” She motioned to the only empty seat left. “Get situated. I’m Candace, and we are just going around introducing ourselves.”

  Ryan hurried forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could still feel people looking at him. He shrugged it off as he took a glance around the room, noticing he was the youngest person by at least fifteen years. Everyone had out a sketchbook and a set of pens, so he did the same. He caught a few people’s names but was still too frazzled to store them properly.

  C
andace turned to him. He waved, regretting it instantly.

  “I’m Ryan,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

  Candace nodded, clapping her hands, bringing the attention back to her. “Great!

  “So you’re here because you haven’t painted in a while and are probably asking yourself, ‘Am I still an artist?’ The answer is YES, but I’m hoping that by the end of this class, you won’t care what I have to think and know for yourself.” She clapped again. “Let’s start with some basics—some stretching, if you will. Get those muscles going again.”

  Candace placed a series of spheres on a pedestal. “Is there anything more annoying than trying to draw a perfect circle?” A few people laughed, even Ryan cracked a smile, though he wasn’t sure if it was actually funny or he was just nervous and wanted to fit in. “In our first class I’m going to use this magnificent little timer to loosen those muscles and get you out of that ‘Am I an artist?’ spiral so many of us fall into. Let’s tap into muscle memory, shall we? Here’s how we’re going to go. You have thirty seconds to draw the items you see. When I say ‘time,’ you flip the page and start again. I say ‘time’ . . . that’s right, you flip the page and start again.”

  That seemed easy, so why was he gripping the pen so tightly he could break it? He took out his phone, looking over the texts he’d received that morning from Nora, Lee, and Jess. Twenty “you can do it” messages—why did it feel like they all needed them lately? Before putting it away he paused and typed out a message to Jason:

  Reclaiming artistic self about to start. Totally cool if I puke in class, right?

  His finger hovered over the send button. The whole art thing was never Jason’s thing, but he’d texted him about everything else. He’d even tried to plan a catch-up date while Jason was visiting for the weekend, but it turned out to be his parents’ something-or-other. He hit send and stashed the phone away. With a deep breath and exhale, he took out his black pen. Around him there were people with varying degrees of fancy pens; the fancier the pen the more embarrassed the person seemed to be. He would be in good company when he brought in more of his grandmother’s gifts. Ryan pulled the cap off, his hand shaking for a moment.