“Mother,” Mom says. It’s only one word, but it’s loaded with fury.
Abuela forces her smile. “I bought everything at Dyess Air Force Base. Everything is cheap for a military widow. No taxes.”
“You’re spoiling them,” Mom sneers.
“That is what grandmothers do,” Abuela says. “Please let me do this.”
Sam opens the front door and waves. “I-I-I’m home.”
“Don’t you dare track those boots in here!” Mom shouts.
“I’m n-n-not.” He stands there, trying to pull off the knee-high black rubber boots from his new job. His white uniform is covered in green grass stains and dirt. He reeks of harsh, toxic chemicals, smelling the way a battery tastes when you lick the ends. He does lawn care, working from six in the morning till six at night, Monday through Saturday. All day long he sprays weed killer and fertilizer on people’s lawns. It sounds like an easy job, but he says its hard work.
When he finally has his shoes off, he comes inside. “H-h-hello, G-Gabriela,” he says to Abuela. He genuinely smiles and hugs her. “W-we’re s-so glad you c-c-could c-come.”
“Gracias. I am happy to be invited,” Abuela says.
For dinner, Sam decides to cook his favorite: sausage and sauerkraut. “I thought cooking was women’s work,” I say, trying to use his logic against him.
He snorts, shaking his head. “Th-this is German f-food. Man’s f-food, like th-the f-food my ancestors used to eat. W-w-we’re Vikings, right, Ford?” Sam flexes his arm.
“Veekings!” Ford says. He flexes too.
I almost correct Sam, that Vikings were from farther north. Their mortal enemies, the Saxons, were from Germany. Then I think better of it.
Mom serves dinner on paper plates. The wet food soaks straight through, so when I cut the sausage, it tears the plate, and the juices leak onto the table. Mom shrieks, “You’re making a mess!”
“Well, you shouldn’t serve soupy food on paper plates,” I say.
“Do you need me to buy you plates, hija?” Abuela asks.
“No, Mother, we have plates,” Mom snaps. “But I don’t like having to wash them every time we eat. Paper plates are easier.”
“We have a dishwasher,” I say. “And using paper plates for every meal is bad for the environment.”
Mom glares at me again. Strike two. I’m not doing it on purpose, I don’t think. But I do feel braver when Abuela is around. No one will hit me in front of her. They’ll wait till she leaves.
I don’t like this food, but Abuela gives me a look, saying, “Eat.” She eats every single bite on her plate. She always does. She uses the bread to soak up the last of the meat juices and catch the little pieces of sauerkraut. Like she appreciates every morsel. I know she was poor growing up in Mexico. I wonder if it was hard for her family to get food too.
After dinner, Abuela makes up a bed on the couch. Then, she insists on tucking me in. She closes the door gently and sits down on my sleeping bag with me. “Mijo, do you want me to buy you a bed?”
“No, Mom would get mad,” I say. “I’m fine on the floor.”
There are tears in Abuela’s eyes. She whispers, “You know how much I love you. I wish I could make your problems go away. But your mom—” Her voice trails away.
“I know,” I say.
“She is very proud, your mother. Stubborn.” She takes a breath, and her lips quiver. “So stupid. Why won’t she let me help?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Me either,” she says.
There are more tears in Abuela’s eyes now, but she smiles anyway. She leans in and hugs me for a long time.
FOR THANKSGIVING DAY, THERE’S NO WAY MOM WILL LET US COOK in the house. She insists it will make a mess, and she doesn’t want to clean. Instead, we go to Luby’s. It’s just like a school cafeteria, but for adults, and nicer. All the workers wear maroon aprons and funny chef hats and they say “Yes, ma’am,” and “Yes, sir,” to everyone, even to me.
First, you get a tray, then silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin. Then you go down this long service line, where they have all kinds of different foods laid out behind glass and hot lamps. If you want roast beef or turkey, they slice it right there, so it’s fresh. Or you can get chicken, either fried or grilled. They have all kinds of sides too, including four kinds of corn: on the cob, spicy, regular, or creamed. There’s also a bunch of salads, in big bowls, all surrounded by ice, but I never get that. Then they have all kinds of cakes and pies and puddings. It’s pretty amazing.
We come whenever Abuela comes to town. Usually, I get the Salisbury steak with cheese and little crumbles of bacon on it. But today, I get turkey and stuffing and all that stuff instead. Abuela speaks Spanish to the Luby’s line workers, saying, “¿Le darás más por favor?” I don’t know what it means, but they smile and give me an extra scoop of everything I order.
I ask, “Abuela, can I get dessert?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “Whatever you want.”
“He doesn’t need it!” Mom snaps.
“He is a growing boy,” Abuela says calmly. “Let him eat.”
As soon as we sit down, Ford and I start shoveling food into our mouths. Abuela touches my hand, saying, “Let us pray first.”
“Oh, yeah. OK.” I put my fork down and swallow what’s in my mouth. At home, we never pray before we eat. But with Grandma, she always asks us to. She goes to church every Sunday. Wednesday nights too. Mom rolls her eyes at the request, but Sam seems to enjoy the prayer.
“Dear God, we thank you for this meal that you have provided us. We thank you for each day’s blessings and for allowing us to be together on this wonderful day. We ask that you continue being bountiful and giving—” Abuela continues to pray for a long time. My mouth is watering, looking at all the food on the table.
But I’m also thinking, Why is Abuela thanking God for the food? She’s the one who pays for it. She worked four jobs to save up money and get out of Mexico, and she put herself through college, and now works, like, six jobs. And volunteers too. Then, she gives all her money away to her children and grandchildren. God doesn’t do that. Abuela does. But she thanks him over and over. I don’t understand. I don’t think he should get all the credit when she’s doing all the hard work.
So when she finishes her prayer, I add, “P.S.: Thanks to Abuela, for everything she does. She does more than anyone I know. Amen.”
Abuela smiles and says, “Gracias. Amen.”
Mom stares daggers at me, like I said something truly evil.
AFTER LUNCH, WE HEAD HOME SO SAM CAN TAKE A NAP. HE SAYS he’s tired from working long days all week. Abuela thanks him for driving us to a lovely meal. She can always find something nice to say to people, and she’s always real polite.
At our place, Ford sits on Abuela’s lap while she reads to him. I sit with them too. It’s a dumb baby book, but I follow along anyway. It’s nice to sit together, warm. Not like temperature warm, but nice warm. I’m not sure how to explain it. I guess it’s like a hug without all the hugging.
Mom watches from the other side of the living room, standing in the corner, staring at me, Ford, and Abuela. Like a tiger watching her prey. Finally, she walks real slow like and sits on the other end of the couch. She doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t watch TV or read a magazine. She just sits there. Watching us.
I can tell she’s mad about something. She’s boiling inside. I know a fight is coming, and all the warmth in the room goes away. Like Mom is vacuuming up all the joy. Mom never lets us have a nice day. She always wants to ruin it.
Mom is a bomb, just waiting to go off. It’s making me more and more uncomfortable, her watching us like that. I hate waiting for the big explosion, so finally I ask, “What?”
“What?!” she snaps back.
“Why are you staring at us?”
“You just look like you’re having so much fun,” she growls through clenched teeth.
“We are,” I say. “It’s nice to act l
ike a family.”
“Fine! If she’s so amazing, why doesn’t she raise you?!” Mom yells.
“Luciana,” Abuela says gently.
“I’m serious. I’m here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, raising these little brats! But you come around a few times a year, and they think you’re a saint! You’re so amazing, with all your clothes, and all your food, and all your gifts!”
“Luciana, stop,” Abuela says.
“I bet Rex wishes you were his mother!” Mom shouts.
“You know what? You’re right! I do! Because she’s not a crazy person!” I shout back. As soon as I do, I know I shouldn’t have. Strike three.
The bomb goes off. Mom explodes. She leaps off the couch and stomps into the kitchen. She opens the cabinets, pulling all of the new groceries out, throwing them into the trash. Screaming, “We don’t need your charity, Mother! We don’t need any of it!”
“Mom, stop!” I shout. I try to interfere, but she’s a storm. I grab at her hands, trying to pull the food away. Then I start pulling the food out of the trash, putting it back on the shelf, trying to match her pace. She shoves me, pushing me so hard, I fall backward, my head slamming into the wall. The room goes hazy for a minute, but this is nothing. I get up, and again, try to stop Mom.
“This is my house! I’ll do what I want!” she wails, pushing me back. “And I don’t want her charity. I don’t need her help! I don’t need anyone’s help!”
Ford starts crying.
I don’t know how, but Abuela stays very calm. She moves slowly, speaks softly. “Luciana, please. It is just food. I did not mean to upset you.”
“Everyone loves you. With your perfect job! And your perfect house! And your perfect money!” Mom bellows. “You’re just so perfect!”
“No one is perfect,” Abuela says. “I certainly am not.”
It isn’t enough to throw sealed boxes in the trash can. Mom is ripping open the cereal boxes and the bags inside, spilling the contents everywhere, so she can stomp on it. “I don’t want this! This is my house! Mine!”
“Stop!” I’m shouting, begging. Every time her foot comes down, I think of the meal she’s taking away from me, from Ford. “Stop it! What’s wrong with you?!”
“Wh-wh-what the h-hell is g-g-going on?” Sam shouts, annoyed that he’s been woken. He stumbles onto the scene, his beer belly hanging over stained white briefs, the only thing he’s wearing. He takes one look at Mom and he shakes his head. “Wh-what is this?”
“Mom’s gone crazy! She’s throwing away all the groceries Abuela brought!” I shout. I can’t stop shouting. It’s like when Mom goes crazy, so do I. Her insanity is contagious.
Sam yells, “L-L-Luciana, st-st-stop it!”
“No! This is my house!” Mom shrieks as she rips open a bag of rice and pours it into the sink. “She can’t come in here and buy everyone’s love!”
“I said, st-stop it!” Sam growls.
But she doesn’t.
Sam grabs her arms, pinning them while she kicks and screams and shouts. When she wiggles a hand loose, she slaps at him. Hard, across the face. He grabs that hand, but the other gets free. She claws at his chest, drawing blood.
Abuela sits down, putting her hand over her mouth. She’s trying not to cry. “I am sorry. I will take it back. I will take it all back.”
“You can’t take it back!” Mom screams. “You can’t take any of it back!”
Sam wraps his arms around Mom from behind, picking her up. She kicks and bucks, so he drags her, thrashing and flailing, to their bedroom. He slams the door shut and locks it. He’s shouting, and she’s screaming. The walls shake and the floors tremble. Then the familiar sounds of violence start, the fleshy thuds I know too well. Even without seeing, I know the sound of slapping, of punching.
I look at the mess of food crushed all over the kitchenette, crunched into dust on the linoleum. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Such a waste.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I say to Ford and Abuela. They are both in tears. “Come on. Walking outside helps. Trust me.”
I lead my grandmother and my brother outside. The skies are blue, the grass is green. There is a cool breeze in the air. Abuela holds my hand but doesn’t speak. Ford stops crying when I point out a butterfly.
We leave the apartment complex, and walk to Liam’s neighborhood. As we walk, I peer inside people’s windows. Families are sitting around a table of food, eating and laughing. Others are still cooking, chatting in the kitchen. Some are finished, or haven’t started, and sit on their couches watching football or the parade. Everyone is content. They are happy. Thankful.
Me? I don’t have anything to be thankful for.
SPELLING
“Transform,” Mrs. Winstead says.
That’s easy. Transform. Like Transformers—the cartoons and toys and the animated movie that was real dark—but without the “e-r-s” at the end.
“Possess,” Mrs. Winstead says.
That’s easy too. Bunch of scary movies have that word in their title, like Possession. Drop the “i-o-n.”
I’m in English class, taking a spelling test. I’m not that smart, so I have to study pretty hard. Luckily, I have this thing I do in my head, like a memory thing. Any word the teacher says, I think of a TV show or a movie or a song or a video game that has the same word. Then I know how to spell it.
“Controversy.”
That one’s harder. But it’s always in the news.
“Evolve.”
That word is like evolution, which is in about a dozen science-fiction books I’ve read.
“Agony.”
That word I know. I don’t know how, but I do. It reminds me of home. So I write it fast and try not to think about that stuff.
“Marvelous,” Mrs. Winstead says.
That one is super easy. Like Marvel Comics. But add an “o-u-s.”
“Poverty.” Mrs. Winstead looks at me when she says it. She does that on purpose. I know ’cause she looks right at my shoes. They’re too small, and one of them split at the front, so you can see my sock. I curl my toes to hide them.
I had new shoes for almost a whole day, but Mom made Abuela take them back. She made her take everything back. The clothes, the toys for Ford, the books for me. The only thing we got to keep was the food. Sam made my mom keep the food—what was left of it.
But she made Abuela leave. Abuela had to drive home after dark, all three hours by herself, back to Abilene. That night I barely slept. The idea of Abuela having to drive home with a car full of gifts made me so sad I wanted to cry, or hit something. The next few days, I refused to talk to Mom. Not one word.
She didn’t care.
The Monday after Thanksgiving, I went back to school and Sam went back to work. When we came home, all the food was gone. Every last Cheerio, vanished. “Don’t bother looking for it in the dumpsters either,” Mom said with this real gloating smirk. “I drove that crap to another apartment complex to dump it. You’ll never find it.”
She and Sam got into another huge fight that night. Usually I try to stop it, to calm down the screaming before it turns into hitting. Not this time though. Instead, I took Ford to Benny and Brad’s. I thought, Let them fight.
I know that makes me a bad person.
But I can’t help it.
I’m so sick of living like this—so full of hate.
I hate Sam cause he beats Mom. I hate him even more for beating me. I hate Mom for beating me. And I hate her even more for going crazy all the time. I hate that they don’t have money. I hate that they always fight about not having money. I hate that all the kids at my school seem happy all the time. Sometimes I hate the whole world. Sometimes I don’t know who to hate. I guess, most of the time, I just hate myself.
“The next word is Vagabond.”
She probably doesn’t think I know the definition, but I do. It’s another word for homeless. It may not be a nice place, but I have a roof over my head. I can’t see my own face, b
ut I feel it turn red. Mrs. Winstead squints her eyes at me, so I do it back at her.
I don’t back down when Mom or Sam glare at me. I’m not going to when some crotchety old Mrs. Winstead does it.
“Vagabond,” she repeats.
I’m so mad I want to throw my desk at her. I don’t though. I write down vagabond. I double-check to make sure I spell it exactly right.
“Savage.”
I don’t look up this time. If she’s looking at me, I might explode. I try to tell myself that I’m not like Mom, that I’m not a bomb. But I feel like I am.
“Eyes on your own paper, Mr. Ogle,” Mrs. Winstead says, poking her finger on my desk.
“I was looking at my own paper,” I say.
She clears her throat, adding, “Loathe.”
I want to write on my paper: I know what you’re doing. I wish I could. But I’d probably get in trouble.
The old bat is like a hundred years old. Wears her gray hair up in a big beehive on her head. Wouldn’t surprise me if actual bees lived in there. They wouldn’t make honey though. They’d make poison.
“Forsaken,” she says. She has to be doing this on purpose. She has to. Just to piss me off. “Forsaken,” she repeats. “OK. Pencils down. Pass your spelling quizzes up.”
She lets the class free read for ten minutes while she grades our papers. The whole time, I’m so mad I can’t focus on my book. I read the same paragraph about twenty times before I finally give up.
Mrs. Winstead passes the quizzes back. Her red pen gives me an 85, saying I missed three words. There’s no way. I double-check. I triple-check. They’re all spelled exactly right. My insides are on fire when the bell rings.
The other kids rush out of class. I stomp straight over to Mrs. Winstead, and slam my quiz down on her desk. “These are right. I made a hundred.”
“Clearly you did not,” she says.
Without looking, I spell out loud. “Erupt. E-R-U-P-T. Cultivate. C-U-L-T-I-V-A-T-E. Quest. Q-U-E-S-T. See? I know all these in my head. Easy. I’m not stupid.”
Free Lunch Page 10
