What Can't Wait

by Ashley Hope Pérez

  “Fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

  He stares at me. “That’s it?”

  “Thank you,” I add too late. “It’s a good idea.”

  “Yeah, I can tell you really think so,” he says, crossing his arms. “Look, I got to go meet Jimmy at the restaurant to set up for some big group coming in. You still want me to pick you up later?”

  I bite my lip, thinking of how fast I’ve managed to put a shit cloud over our night out. “Claro,” I say, pulling his hand free and holding it tight between mine. “I can’t wait.” I kiss him fast, in case Mami comes around the corner, and I can see that, even though he isn’t smiling, he wants to.

  chapter 14

  I tap my pencil against my calculus book and watch Jessica and Anita through the open doorway to the living room. They’re snuggled together on the floor, backs against the couch. They make a really cute pair, Anita with her tongue hiding her silver teeth, Jessica with a sweatshirt hiding her pregnant belly. Jess is using her cell phone to make little texts for Anita to read, things like, “That rat is fat!” Anita loves the attention.

  Jessica thought of that idea on her own when Anita started playing with her phone. Pretty impressive, especially since it’s only the second week Jess has been helping. Before, I thought I would need to teach her how to do everything and that Anita would be mad that I wasn’t spending time with her. But that’s not it at all. In fact, Anita hasn’t even looked my way all afternoon, that’s how busy she is having fun with Alan’s sister.

  I’m in the middle of a calculus problem when someone bangs on the front door. Nobody who knows us would ever use that door, so my heart races a little as I run over and look through the peephole.

  Staring back at me is a giant green eye.

  I swing the door open. “Seriously, Brenda!”

  She’s doubled over laughing. Behind her, Greg grins at me. Alan’s with them, too. He shrugs like he wants to say, “This was not my idea.”

  “Oh my god, Marisa, I swear I could hear your heart beating through the door.”

  “No, mensa, that was you beating on the door.”

  Brenda leans past me into the living room. “Hi Anita, hi Jess!” she calls and darts inside the house. I can hear her whispering to Jessica.

  “You’re under arrest, ma’am,” Greg says to me.

  I take a good look at Greg, who’s wearing a bomber jacket and black slacks. He has on shiny black boots, too. I guess he’s going for the rookie police officer look. He might have passed for one—in a dark alley, to a blind person.

  “Don’t make us take you by force. Step away from the door.”

  Brenda comes back over and gives me a little push forward. “Better do what the officer says. Get into the patrol car.”

  I shoot her a look. “I don’t see no patrol car. You can’t mean that old thing.” I point at Brenda’s Honda.

  “Undercover operation,” Brenda says, sticking out her tongue.

  “Alan, help me talk sense to these fools,” I plead.

  “I think you’d better go along with it,” he says and shoves his hands into his pockets.

  “Listen, you guys. I don’t have time to play cops and robbers. Come back and harass me after Cecilia picks up Anita, after I get off work, and after all my homework is done.”

  “You leave us with no choice.” Greg whips out a pair of handcuffs and slaps one onto my left wrist and the other onto Alan’s right.

  “There’s no stopping these two. Trust me, I already tried. You might as well try to enjoy yourself,” Alan says.

  Brenda locks the front door with my keys. “Vámonos!”

  “Hold up,” I say. “In half an hour I really do have to go to work. And Jessica shouldn’t be taking care of Anita all by herself.”

  “Anita hasn’t even noticed you’re gone. She’s totally cool. Little Mama Jess is doing a badass job. Now stop worrying.” Brenda steers me and Alan toward the car, and Greg opens the back door. I guess he pays attention when he watches Cops, because he pushes our heads down when we get in.

  Once we’re all strapped in, Brenda gives me an evil grin. “You wouldn’t give yourself a break, so we had to take one for you. Too much studying isn’t good for you.”

  “Remember Kroger? I’d still like to be employed there tomorrow.”

  “I took care of that, too.”

  “What did you do?” This is not good.

  “Mr. Vargas?” Brenda does her make-fun-of-Marisa voice. “Hi, it’s me, Marisa? I think I’m coming down with something, cough, cough, I feel pretty bad, cough, and I don’t think I can make it today.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Hell, yeah, I did. He ate it up,” Brenda says. She starts singing along with the radio.

  “Is that a chicken dying or you singing?” I say, poking her through the seat.

  Ten minutes later we’re driving down Texas Avenue. I haven’t been downtown since my sophomore art class came for a field trip to the Museum of Fine Arts. The sun is setting, and the mirrored sides of the skyscrapers reflect pink and orange clouds.

  We stop at a red light by a restaurant, and I watch men and women in suits and nice clothes lean close to each other over their fancy dinners. Soft music drifts out to the street. Maybe downtown Houston isn’t Hollywood, but compared to our neighborhood, it might as well be. I start to get dizzy when I imagine what it’d be like to work in one of the big buildings. I bet those people never think about ugly south Houston when they’re riding down in the glass elevator for their dinner dates. Probably all they’ve got to worry over is whose turn it is to pick the restaurant.

  When the light turns green, Brenda rounds the corner and pulls into a drive with a sign that says “Angelika Parking.”

  It turns out that the Angelika is a fancy movie theater Greg used to go to all the time when he lived with his dad. It’s student night, so the tickets are cheap, and we even get free popcorn and Coke.

  While we wait in line, Alan nudges Greg with his elbow. “Think the cuffs could come off?”

  “Guess she can’t run away now. I’ve just got to find the keys.” He pats down his pockets and searches around in the zippered pouch of his jacket. “Uh oh,” he frowns.

  Alan starts to look nervous. “Come on, man.”

  “Shit, I’m really sorry.” Greg winces. “It must be back at my mom’s place.”

  Alan just stares at him. He looks like a little boy who can’t decide between crying or punching somebody.

  “Hey, no worries, no worries.” Greg opens his hand and shows us the key.

  Alan breathes again, and as soon as the handcuffs are off, he excuses himself.

  Greg cracks up. “He thought he was going to have to take you to the pisser with him!”

  When we walk out onto the street two hours later, we’re laughing and repeating the best lines. Brenda’s even singing bits of the soundtrack.

  “I think I’m starting to agree with Marisa about this ‘singing’ business,” Greg says.

  Brenda chases him all the way to the car and whacks him on the butt with her purse.

  Back on the freeway, I roll down my window and stick my arms way out to feel the air rush past.

  Alan coughs. “This is Houston, not Wyoming, babe. That ain’t fresh air you’re letting in.”

  I roll up the window. “Killjoy,” I say. “For that, you have to get me ice cream.”

  At Baskin Robbins, Greg launches into a joke marathon, and for once I actually laugh at his bit about superheroes and sex on the beach. Maybe the chocolate sundae is affecting my brain. Or maybe this is what being seventeen is supposed to feel like.

  I break in with one of Ms. Ford’s jokes. “Why does everyone like to be around a mushroom?”

  “God, this is going to be a groaner. I can already tell,” Brenda says.

  “Cause he’s such a fun-gi!” I slap my knee. “Get it? FUN-GI . . . FUN GUY!”

  Brenda and Greg groan, but Alan laughs. I pull his face close and kiss him.

>   “You think we should get you home?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know, maybe.” I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time. I stop smiling. I forgot to turn the ringer back on when we left the theater, and now I’m staring at seven missed calls and a voice-mail message. All but one of the calls is from home.

  The other one’s from Ceci, who left a message an hour ago. “Look, I told Ma that Brenda was taking you somewhere, but you’d better call her soon. Papi wants to know where the hell you are. I guess he’s pretty pissed.”

  “Everything OK?” Greg asks when I set the phone down.

  “We’ll see when I get home,” I say. I force another bite of my ice cream, then push the cup away.

  When we pull into my driveway ten minutes later, I lean forward to hug Brenda and Greg. “You guys rock. This was the best arrest ever.”

  Alan opens the door and gets out with me. He rubs his thumb against my cheek. “I can come in if you want, you know, to help explain.”

  “Probably everything will be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll text you later.”

  “OK, babe. See you in the morning.” He tries to sound casual, but I know he’s worried.

  Brenda pulls the car out of the driveway, and I wave until it disappears around the corner.

  The front of the house is dark, but buttery squares of light fall through the kitchen window and onto the driveway. It’s cracked in a million places, but the landlord doesn’t care enough to fix it. Papi keeps trying to fill in the cracks with this black gunk. Looks like a giant spider’s web.

  Before I slide my key into the back door lock, I peek at my cell phone. 11:15.

  Mami and Papi are sitting at the table.

  My mom looks relieved. “Mija, you had us worried . . .” Her words trail off as Papi’s face goes dark.

  “¿Dónde estabas?” he asks softly. But not gently. The muscles in his jaw tremble and tighten. A vein stands out on his forehead.

  I try to organize my thoughts into words, but nothing comes out.

  He stands up. “Do I got to speak English for you to get it? Where. Were. You.”

  “Papi, I ...”

  “Don’t ‘Papi’ me. You left my granddaughter with a stranger so you could run off with your friends?” he says, switching his attack back to Spanish.

  “It was a surprise, they surprised me, I didn’t know about it until Brenda said—”

  “I don’t care what Brenda said. You listen good, hija. I have plenty desgracia with your sister. No more. I don’t need no more.”

  “Sí, Papi.” Suddenly I feel weak all over, like I can barely stand. I close my eyes, wishing I was back at the movies, wishing I could pretend for just a little longer that this is not my life.

  “Look at me when I speak to you,” my dad says.

  I lift my eyes.

  “You go to school. You watch Anita. You cook. You go to the store and do your hours. We will make this family work. And you will help. No more passing off our family’s business onto other people. No más.”

  “I’ve always helped, Papi,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady.

  Mami starts to say something, but Papi shuts her down with a look. He grabs the edge of my shirt sleeve and then lets it go like it’s too dirty to touch. “You have these big ideas that you’re too good now. Got it in school, maybe, or from that Brenda. You think you can run around like a sinvergüenza without a thought for your family.” The corners of his mouth tip down, and his nose wrinkles in disgust. He turns away from me so fast that he knocks over one of the chairs.

  “No more,” he says, looking back for a second. “No more.” He ignores the fallen chair and disappears into the dark hallway. The bedroom door clicks shut.

  I stare after him, vaguely feeling Mami’s hand on my shoulder. The fingers of her other hand wipe away tears that I didn’t even know were there.

  chapter 15

  “It’s all my fault,” Brenda says, sliding her lunch tray back and forth between her hands. “Look where my great idea got you.”

  “I was the one who kept us out for ice cream,” I say.

  “Jesus,” Greg says, “you went to a movie, for crap’s sake. You didn’t go to a bar!”

  “I might as well have, the way my dad sees things,” I pick at the crust of my sandwich.

  “Mexican papis are not like white daddies,” Brenda explains to Greg. “Mexican dads don’t want their daughters ‘running around.’ Sometimes they think they’re still living in Mexico in little ranchos where the women cook beans and make tortillas all day.”

  “You’re Mexican, but your dad isn’t like that,” Greg says.

  “Half Mexican,” she corrects. “And lucky you. It’s because my mommy is an ass-whooping Cubana who doesn’t take orders from nobody.”

  They start kissing, and I let the roar of the cafeteria erase everything in my mind. When I see Alan across the sea of tables, I take off.

  We sit back-to-back under an oak tree behind the school. There’s not much around but weeds, trash, and damp grass, but at least it’s quiet. I close my eyes, and Alan leans his head on my shoulder.

  “I should have told Brenda no, not to put you in that position,” he says.

  “I’m not a bad daughter,” I say.

  “You do everything you can. Sometimes too much.” Alan laces his fingers through mine.

  “I wish I could ignore the things he said. I shouldn’t even care. But it’s like I can never shake loose of him.”

  “He’s your dad, Marisa.”

  “Unfortunately. My mom is always reminding me about his bad childhood, how his stepmother barely fed him or his brothers, how he never had shoes.”

  “That could really mess a person up.”

  “But shouldn’t he want to be better? He’s always gone crazy when we broke his rules or even just because he got embarrassed. In kindergarten I made him this birthday card, in Spanish and everything. I was so proud of the picture I drew, and I couldn’t wait to show him. So I got home jumping up and down and shouting, ‘Read it, Papi! Read it!’”

  “Didn’t you tell me once that he . . .”

  “Basically he can’t read. Not English or Spanish. But I was just a kid; I didn’t know. That didn’t make any difference to him. He threw my card down, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door. He might as well have slammed the door on my fingers, that’s how bad it hurt.”

  Alan spits far into the grass. “It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to suffer for his past. If it makes you feel any better, my parents think you’re great. When my mom and my sister are fighting, it always comes back to what a hardworking, respectful girl you are, and why can’t Jessica at least pretend she cares about her life?”

  “Oh, God,” I groan, “No me lo digas. So now I’m causing trouble in two houses. You should tell your mom that Jessica did a real good job with Anita. She’s a natural.”

  “She liked it, too. She’s going to be sad to hear that your dad nixed the idea completely. It’ll be back to coming straight home after school. Like going to jail in Monopoly. Do not pass GO, Do not collect $200.”

  I scoot around so that we’re face-to-face and twist a strand of his dark hair around my finger. “Let’s talk about your family. You’ve got crazy shit going on, too.”

  Alan pulls back a little. “Why?”

  “I just mean . . . it just seems out of balance sometimes, like I’m always needing and you’re always giving. Maybe I should be more independent like—”

  “You don’t want me to help you? You don’t like that I’m here for you? That bothers you?”

  He asks so many questions, I can’t say yes or no without saying something I don’t mean.

  “Forget what I said, Alan. I wasn’t making sense.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s nothing.” But when I close my eyes right now I imagine the UT campus and classes and a life all my own. Even though I know I can’t do it, sometimes all I
want is to get away and just take care of me.

  chapter 16

  “Buenas tardes, Papi,” I say, standing up from the kitchen table and tugging Anita with me. Anita ducks her head. I wonder if he feels bad that his own granddaughter is scared of him.

  “Anita, saluda a tu abuelo,” I say.

  “Hola, Abue,” she says softly, staring at Papi’s shoes. She reaches over, pats the side of his leg, and pulls back quickly.

  “Did your tía feed you right? Is she taking good care of you?” he asks in Spanish. His eyes are trained on me.

  “Sí, Abuelo.”

  “Bueno,” he says, still staring my way, “she’d better.” He pours himself a glass of Gatorade from the fridge and walks out of the kitchen.

  As soon as he’s gone, Anita giggles into her hand for no reason, and I plop back down into my chair.

  “Let’s get back to work, missy.” We’re making syllables by pressing mini chocolate chips into graham crackers smeared with peanut butter.

  “So what about this one?” I hold up a cracker with a wobbly c and a.

  “Ca,” Anita says slowly. Then she bursts out laughing. “Caca! Ca and ca makes caca!”

  “Ay, chiquilla, poop isn’t that funny. Everybody makes caca,” I say. I grab the cracker and shove it into my mouth. “But not everybody eats it!” I laugh through the crumbs and rub my stomach.

  “Ewww,” she squeals. “I’m going to tell my mom that you ate caca!”

  “Go ahead,” I say. “It’s delicious.”

  We finish the rest of the crackers, and Anita picks up a book from our library stack. It’s one of those what-doyou-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up books.

  She stops at a picture of a grinning lady astronaut, a doctor in high heels, and a firefighter with a ponytail and lipstick. Anita looks skeptical. “Tía, what can girls do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What can we do?”