“You can do lots of things, Anita.”
“Anything?”
I rub her chin with my thumb. “OK, anything you’re willing to work really hard for. You figure out what you’re good at, and then go for it.”
“And what about Mami and Abuela and you?”
I hesitate. What am I supposed to do with that question?
“Tía?” She’s watching me. I’m not going to get by with some bullshit answer.
“Yeah,” I say, “sometimes it just takes a lot more work than we think we can handle.”
“Well, I’ll be an art-test porque these uniforms are stupid,” she says.
“Good.” I pull my binder out of my bag and slide Anita’s last drawing out of the clear plastic cover. “I need a new drawing for my notebook.”
Anita begins her next masterpiece, and I flip through my binder. All of my old calculus notes are in here, but I haven’t even bothered bringing my book home since my dad vetoed the Jessica-babysitting scheme. These days avoiding Ms. Ford at school is like a second job.
I hate to admit it, but I think Anita’s little fiveyear-old questions might have me convinced of what Alan’s been trying to tell me all along. It’s time to suck it up and get back in gear. So what if UT didn’t take me? I can still pass the AP calculus exam. I can still be an engineer—or something. But sitting on my butt complaining about Ms. Ford and my tough breaks isn’t going to make it happen.
I pull out a piece of notebook paper and a pen.
————
Dear Ms. Ford,
I’m sorry for the way I talked to you after the last test. You were just trying to help me. I wish you knew how disappointed I am in myself for getting so behind in your class. I want to turn things around. But first I need to tell you a few things.
Last November, my sister’s husband Jose had a bad accident at work. A forklift crushed his legs, and now he can’t walk. They say it will be months before he can even try. Now my sister works at a gas station, and I take care of my niece, Anita, every afternoon.
At first I tried to do my calculus while I watched Anita because that was the only time I had. But you’ve got to understand that nobody, and I mean nobody, was paying attention to her. One day I just decided that it had to be me. I can’t let her down. She didn’t do anything to deserve all this trouble.
There’s that after school, plus the job I have at Kroger at night. And since I can’t work as much on weekdays, I have to take extra hours on the weekends. I cook for the family on most days because my mom doesn’t get home from the bakery where she works until after 11:00 P.M.
I know you’re thinking that I should explain to my parents how important this class is, how it will get me ready for college and all that. But I’ve been making good grades for years, and my parents still don’t get why it even matters. My dad thinks that college is just a way to put off working for the family.
So maybe you can understand how I felt like there was no way to make it. But I’ve changed my mind. I want to pass the class and the AP exam and be ready for college math. If you help me, I think I can catch up. I’m not just doing it for me. I want my niece to see that women just like her mom and grandma and aunt can do hard things. I want my dad to see it, too. My boyfriend already believes it. I know you thought he was distracting me, but really he’s the one who has been telling me all along not to give up.
I’m trying to think of some things that I could do to make up what I’ve missed in class. I have two other classes that I don’t need to graduate. Maybe one of those teachers will let me go to your room instead.
Will you help me?
Sincerely,
Marisa Moreno
————
chapter 17
It’s fifth period, and I’m counting down the minutes till Ms. Ford’s class, half excited, half terrified. Soon I’ll know what she thinks about the letter I slid under her door this morning. When the bell finally rings, I grab my things, blow Alan a kiss, and dash out. I’m in such a hurry that when I turn the corner into the math hall I crash right into somebody.
“Easy there, Speedy Moreno,” he says, grabbing my arm to steady me.
“Sorry! I wasn’t paying attention,” I say. I look up and see Pedro Jimenez, Jose’s cousin. I guess he does know my name after all. Probably just because we were both stuck in the hospital waiting room when Jose got hurt.
I’m blushing. I tell myself it’s embarrassment, but I’ve got to admit he’s what Brenda would call “heartbreak hot.” He has the kind of looks that almost make you forget you’ve already got a guy.
“You can bump into me anytime, Marisa,” Pedro says. His smile lasts a second longer than I expect, like he wants to make sure I didn’t miss it.
“Well, I—sorry,” I stammer.
“You dropped this,” he says, handing over my notebook.
“Thanks.”
“See you later, hopefully not at the hospital.” He winks and slips off into the crowded hall.
Ms. Ford is busy writing something on the board when I come in, but she pulls an envelope out of her clipboard and hands it to me. I can’t tell anything from her expression. Once I get to my desk, I tear the envelope open.
————
Marisa,
Yes, of course I will help you. Your letter reminded me of a quote I like very much: “Don’t ask for an easier life; ask to be a stronger person.” Your life is far from easy, but you can use this struggle to become even stronger.
I like your idea about coming in extra during the school day. Julio from your calculus class is my teacher’s assistant for third period. I can relieve him of his other duties so that he can help you go over what you need to make up. Let me know if that will work.
Your persistence makes me proud.
—Ms. F
P.S. One more thing. I was struck by how much of you showed in your letter. Your application essay was a fine piece of writing, but I wonder if it might do some good to send a revised version of the letter to UT. Sometimes they have a second round of decisionmaking to do, and if they have any sense they’ll see that you have the drive to make it. And I’m telling you, that’s an amazing engineering program. Sending the letter could be worth a shot....
————
When Ms. Ford starts the class with her usual joke, I’m grinning before she even gets to the punch line.
It’s surprisingly easy for me to talk my environmental studies long-term sub into letting me work in Ms. Ford’s room during third period. The real teacher is still out with health problems after having her baby, and the sub isn’t that impressed with the worksheets she left.
“Environmental issues?” he says. “What can this class teach you about pollution that you don’t already know from living in Houston? Go ahead, you’re not missing anything.”
So every third period, this guy Julio from my class and I pull desks out into the hall. He re-teaches me the material I missed, and he’s so patient I think he should be recommended for sainthood. And when Ms. Ford offers extra AP tutorials on Saturday mornings, I even manage to convince my manager Mr. Vargas not to schedule me to work then.
That last bit Ms. Ford wrote about UT gets stuck in my head and sets off a new chorus of maybes. Maybe a letter would make a difference. Maybe a spot in the UT engineering program can still be mine. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe . . .
I spend three lunch periods in a row applying online for financial aid, glad for once that I’ve been stuck helping Ma with the taxes for ages. I also type up a new letter based on what I wrote to Ms. Ford. I don’t say anything to anybody, not to Ms. Ford, not to Brenda, not to Alan, but a few days later I mail it off to the same address where I sent my UT application.
March
chapter 18
Alan drops me off at school on Saturday mornings for the tutorials with Ms. Ford on his way to work out with the baseball team. I leave the house in my Kroger clothes, even though I don’t go in to work until one o’ clock, because i
t’s the easiest way to keep my dad from grilling me about where I’m going.
Today we park at the front lot closest to Ms. Ford’s room. Her car isn’t here yet.
“Hey, I have a present for you,” Alan says. He reaches behind the seat and pulls out a package wrapped in Sunday comics.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Today’s the third.”
“But my birthday isn’t until August third.”
“No,” he says. “The third month we’ve been going out. Good excuse for giving a pretty girl a present.”
I tear into the wrapping and pull out a blue T-shirt screen-printed with a ketchup bottle. The label says “Butterfly Brand Catch-up, the #1 Calculus Condiment.”
I hold the shirt up to my chest. “I love it. I can’t wait to show it off. Ms. Ford is going to crack up.”
“She’ll get the butterfly thing?”
“Oh yeah, one day after school Brenda even told her that shit story Cecilia made up about my parents almost naming me Mariposa because of my stupid birthmark. What a load of crap—I wish it was shaped like a butterfly.”
Ms. Ford still isn’t here, so I slide over next to Alan and fit myself against him. We start kissing and don’t stop until we hear Ms. Ford’s car pull into the parking lot.
It’s 11:30 at night when my manager finally locks the doors at the front of the store, and I can feel the long day in my sore back and feet. I’m cleaning the last register when he comes out of his office and walks over.
“How was everything today?” he asks.
“Busy, like always,” I say. I lean down to scrub a sticky spot on the grocery belt. Mr. Vargas gives me the creeps, and I don’t like to look at him. “How are you, sir?”
“Fine,” he says. “You know, your dad came by today.”
“He did?”
“Came by this morning.”
“Looking for me?” I pretend to be focused on a nonexistent stain on the side of the register. I’m already wondering what kind of pissed-off Papi is going to be when I see him next.
“Yeah. He seemed to think you’d be working the morning shift, too.”
I look up. “Well, you know I used to—”
“He was real surprised when I told him you wouldn’t be in until later.” Mr. Vargas frowns. “I thought you needed the time off so that you could help out with your family.”
“On the weeknights I have to take care of my niece. That’s why I’ve been trying to pick up extra hours on the weekend.”
“Just not in the morning? We always need morning help on Saturdays.”
“It’s because I’ve been going up to school for tutoring,” I explain.
“Really,” he says without much interest.
“I was pretty behind, but I’m catching up.”
“Huh,” Mr. Vargas scratches his head. “As long as you graduate.” He cares more about fast scan times than he does about good grades. But every time I get finished with the tutoring with Julio or Ms. Ford, it’s like I’m reclaiming a little something for myself. The work is hard, seriously hard, but not like a double shift here at the store. It’s hard in a way that makes me feel like I’m on my way. Maybe I don’t know exactly where I’m headed, but at least I’m moving.
“Thing is,” Mr. Vargas says, “I mentioned something to your dad that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You know, if you could commit to more hours, you’ll make head cashier in no time. We’re looking to hire at least two more so that we can have a head cashier on the floor during every shift. You’d get to be in charge. Manager’s assistant, basically. There’s a pay increase, too. Two bucks more an hour.”
I can just see my father salivating at the thought of the extra money. “How many hours are you talking?” I ask.
“Thirty, thirty-five a week.”
I drop my rag and stand up. From somewhere in the back of the store the whirring of the floor-waxing machine comes up. “I’d really like to, Mr. Vargas, but I’ve got to get through this semester. Just a couple more months. Then I can do it. It’s just that right now I’m stretched pretty thin.”
He looks disappointed. “Your dad didn’t think there’d be any need to wait around.”
“I’ll think about it, but I just don’t see how I could.”
“Well, I need to know soon. I guess I’ll have to ask someone else.” He starts to walk away.
I go back to cleaning, then remember my paycheck.
“Mr. Vargas?”
“Yes?” He stops and looks all excited.
“Could I grab my check before I forget it?”
“Stop by the office when you’re done cleaning. And think about the position. It’s a good opportunity.”
Half an hour later, I’m tired, hungry, and cranky from waiting for Gustavo to pick me up. When he called back after my text, I heard laughter and music in the background. I’m not going to lie, it gives me some satisfaction that he has to leave a party to come get me.
Gustavo weasels out of jobs at home, never pulls his weight. Just about the only thing that’s changed for him since Jose’s accident is that he has to drive me and Mami around a little more. And that he drops his car and truck magazines off at Cecilia’s so that Jose can look at them. Wow, what a sacrifice.
The employee lounge is just a big closet with hard chairs and a rickety table. I cross my arms on the table and lean forward to put my head down, but the envelope in my back pocket digs into my butt. I pull it out and rip it open.
After taxes, I made $160. I think back to when I used to make twice that much, before I had to drop so many hours to take care of Anita. I crumple the envelope into a ball and stuff the check back in my pocket. Like always, it’ll have to do.
chapter 19
Sunday’s another long day—first Mass with Mami, then a double shift at Kroger. I’ve got that gritty, end-of-the-day feeling that won’t come off no matter how many times you wash your hands.
Alan and I both just got off work, and we’re unwinding over ice cream at McDonald’s. In the booth behind Alan there’s a bunch of boys, maybe twelve or thirteen, snickering and elbowing each other. I lean to the side to see what’s so funny. Big mistake. They’re squeezing ketchup out of packets and making designs with it on the table. Gross. Alan glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. “No home training, I guess.”
Then he launches into a round of impressions of the customers who came to the restaurant where he busses tables. He puts me into hysterics.
“Do the rancher again, please,” I say when I can talk again.
He shakes his arms out, then pulls his eyebrows down low over his eyes and hunches his back a little. “Hey kid, you go tell Loopy that I want one of them puffed-up tortilla thangs. What you call it, a soapy pillow? Gwon now, kid.”
I can barely breathe I’m laughing so hard. “No way this guy can be that ridiculous, I mean de veras?”
Alan scoops a bit of strawberry goo up in his spoon. “I think everybody’s pretty weird if you’re paying attention. And what else am I going to do while I’m stacking plates and wiping up globs of salsa?”
“What if you did cartoon portraits, like the ones at carnivals?”
“You mean where they make your head gigantic over a tiny little body?”
“Exactly. Give people something to remember El Ranchero by.”
“Jimmy’d never go for it. But I sort of made money off my art today.”
“Really?”
“Remember that drawing I showed you the Monday we didn’t have to go to school?”
“The one of Jessica?” I remember it perfectly.
“A while back this guy in my graphic design class said I should show it to Mrs. Green, the advanced drawing teacher, so I did. Well, she asked to scan it, said she’d see what she could do with it. I figured, why not?” Alan shovels in the last of his sundae.
“And what happened?”
“So Mrs. Green called me today, and the dra
wing won a prize, a partial scholarship to this design school here in Houston.”
“That’s amazing!” I hop up from my side of the booth and scoot onto the seat next to him so I can get my arms around him.
“I didn’t know I could do anything like that,” he says. “Not until you made me think of it, back when you got into U of H. I’m going to fill out the FAFSA, see if I can get some financial aid because the program costs way more than the scholarship. But it’s a start, you know?”
I think about the UT application I mailed out months ago and the wishful-thinking letter a few weeks back. I would have heard by now if they were going to take me. It looks like there won’t be any big start for me at UT, no Marisa-on-her-own fairy tale.
“I know, baby,” I say. “A start is everything.”
Mami is sitting at the kitchen table with a mess of bills spread out in front of her. There’s a faint burned smell in the air, like maybe the pot of frijoles on the stove boiled over earlier.
I kiss her on the cheek, pull out my wallet, and slide eighty dollars onto the table. I’ve been giving up half of my paycheck so long that she doesn’t even have to ask.
The lights are off in my parents’ bedroom, but shadows from the TV flicker on the wall. I can just make out my dad sitting in the middle of the darkened room, a bottle in hand. I’m praying he’ll stay there.
I slip out of my work clothes and into a T-shirt and jeans. I’m feeling responsible, so I stop to pick up some dirty clothes and papers off of the floor before I go back into the kitchen to help Mami.
When I come back out of my room, I see that my dad is at the kitchen table, too. Great. He holds up a bill and frowns at it like he can read it.
I pretend not to notice and start pulling out what I need to get dinner ready. I’m measuring the rice when Papi calls me over.
“¿Es todo?” he asks pointing to the four twenty-dollar bills fanned out in his hand.
What Can't Wait Page 8
