Historically Inaccurate

by Shay Bravo

  The problem is finding a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve the club or the key. It’d be strange to comment on the weather or ask about his day at the supermarket—it would feel too normal, and my relationship with Ethan has been anything but normal so far.

  “Night shift?” I finally manage.

  “Yup, the only one that allows me to go to school in the morning.” He’s nearly done, thank the heavens. “Making burgers tonight?”

  “How do you know?”

  There is a box of burger patties in his hands.

  “Oh! Yeah. I mean, I could be saving it for another day, but yes, we’re making burgers tonight.”

  Think, Soledad, make coherent sentences.

  “Thirty-seven fifty-five.”

  I insert my card, quickly type my pin, then look up so I can get my receipt. He makes direct eye contact while he hands it to me, and as he does, our hands brush. His skin is warm, and softer than I imagined, and for a second I feel out of place.

  “Thank you, have a good night,” Ethan says, and my throat feels sandy.

  “You too.”

  I hadn’t even noticed there was someone bagging my stuff and putting it back in my cart until now. As I’m making my way outside all I can wonder is whether or not he still thinks I’m weird. Not that I care . . . much.

  When we moved to the apartment, Dad had to sell his old grill, but we found one small enough to fit on the balcony, as well as a small table and one plastic chair. Dad usually eats standing by the grill while I sit and maneuver around the table to see which way my phone would fit the best for a night call with Mom. It’s a ritual that is as difficult as it is sacred, and happens many a times throughout the week.

  “¡Hola, mami!” I call as soon as the screen turns from dialing to my mother’s beautiful face.

  Mom waves at me from her table. The small replica of my face manages to show Dad in the background flipping one of the burger patties before looking over and waving as well. The lightbulb hanging over us does not give much light, but at least helps us see where the burgers are on top of the grill.

  “Hola, mis amores.” Mom looks tired, not that she has ever looked full of energy on a good day. Ever since I was little, she has always worked hard.

  She used to work with her parents in the fields, picking all sorts of fruits and vegetables. From Florida to Oregon, my grandparents used to take her on the road—she started working when she was about eight years old and her dad used to say she was twelve to stay within the laws. The people who hired him believed him—work is work. Once her parents actually settled in Texas she started cleaning houses with her mom and attended a public high school, and once she graduated, attended a community college and got an associate’s degree in English so she could work as a teacher’s assistant. Mom wanted to be an ESL teacher and help kids who came from different countries learn English, since she struggled a lot as a young child after only being spoken to in Spanish by her parents and peers. I don’t think Mom ever outgrew overworking; it’s in her genes.

  “How’s dinner?” I ask, balancing my phone on top of the table, using the salt and pepper shakers as a sort of stand so that we all are in a very long virtual table, together again, even if it’s for a short call.

  “Bien.” She lets out a yawn. “Caldo de pollo I made earlier this week.”

  Caldos are not exactly like soups; they have a lot of veggies and are often made on sweltering summer days by Mexican mothers when the last thing you want to do is have steaming hot soup. What I wouldn’t give to eat that with my mom right now.

  “Did you get the money I sent you?” Dad asks, taking his attention away from the grill.

  She nods. “I put it in the savings account. I’ll have to take out a loan if I get a cheap car since commuting is not the best.”

  “Traffic in Monterrey is so bad, though!” Dad takes a swig of his beer.

  Mom makes a face, pushing her dark hair away from her neck. “It is, but it would still be faster than taking the bus every morning and afternoon.”

  We carry on chatting back and forth in Spanish, and I wish I could tell her that she won’t need to buy a car in Mexico because I’ll get her papers, but I can’t do anything until I’m twenty-one. Dad and I have met with a couple of lawyers to see if anyone could take our case pro bono, but they’ve said there’s not much we can do until I am of legal age. I won’t turn nineteen until September, so that won’t happen for another three years, and even then it seems like a long, slow battle, considering the grounds for deportation.

  But because Mom willingly left the country they gave her a light sentence of ten years.

  Light.

  Mom, who had lived in the United States since she was six years old, is now thousands of miles away from me. I am still trying to find out how these things work. If Dad had been in the same position, I would have lost them both, and I’m still not sure if I would have been able to deal with a loss like that.

  There are people who have it way worse than me. I have heard the stories and seen the news. Mothers and fathers of large families being caught over minor issues and being deported within a week of being turned over to ICE. People who lived in the United States for ten or twenty years, sometimes even more, being deported in a matter of days, to places where they have absolutely no one waiting for them.

  In a strange, bitter way, Mom was lucky that she had extended family left in Monterrey, but it still hurts, and I can’t help feeling like the universe decided to kick me in the stomach. The physical injuries of the accident have faded, and while I still wake up in the middle of the night gasping at the sound of metal and glass slamming against my body, the pain of having my mother ripped away from me somehow hurts more.

  I take a sip from my glass of soda. The weather is nice enough to wear a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of yoga pants. My massive amount of hair is wrestled into a weird ponytail that lets the fresh breeze cool my neck. If I close my eyes, I can nearly ignore the static edge to her voice and pretend she’s still here, that tomorrow morning she’ll be up before me, making breakfast for Dad and giving me a look that says I overslept again when I walk out of my room.

  But I open my eyes and she’s on a small screen. So far away.

  Dad said the woman from the crash had called me and Mom illegals when he arrived at the scene and they were loading me onto a stretcher. He had to see the officers coming from Mom and the paramedics taking me away, all the while a woman was complaining about her being in the right to merge, and how some wetbacks had cut her off. He watched his family being torn apart.

  ICE is not very nice, even if you’ve lived here all of your life, even if your daughter is a citizen.

  “How was your day, Soledad?” Mom asks.

  I’m gripping my glass so tight my knuckles hurt.

  That call lasts about two hours, and that’s how long it takes for me and Dad to eat and wash dishes. By the time I go back to my room it’s nearly eleven thirty at night. Michi is sleeping on top of her tower, next to my desk. The fairy lights I strategically placed around my walls flicker lightly as I make my way in.

  When we moved in April last year, Carlos helped me decorate my room. In fact, he helped us move a lot of the stuff we brought over to the new apartment. Dad was extremely grateful for the extra muscle, and while we spent so much time making it as cozy and “me” as possible, it still doesn’t feel like mine. It’s only four walls that holds all of my stuff.

  I miss my old house, my room that had a view of our large patio, and the swing on the old oak tree. I miss being able to run through the house without fear of waking up the neighbors, and having my own bathroom. It wasn’t the fanciest of homes, but it was something my parents had worked for, and I had been raised there.

  Sure they were renting it, but they wanted to eventually own it. A far-off dream that would have become more possible once I was financi
ally independent from them and could help. A possibility that didn’t seem too far away back then, but that now feels like a completely different life.

  I miss when things were easy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It turns out not having a reliable computer when you are a college student is a very bad thing. So instead of waiting for Sunday to roll around, I whine to her enough during Thursday’s lesson that she agrees to take me laptop shopping Saturday before the club meeting. While we did go to a pawn shop and used her all-seeing eyes on the laptops they had there, we still end up at good old Best Buy.

  “It’s out of my budget.”

  “It’s only six hundred dollars,” she says, hands displaying the laptop in front of us. There is a worker who keeps eyeing us and walking around the perimeter, but they haven’t asked us if we want to get anything yet. It might be Diane’s energy, which simply radiates confidence in what she’s doing at all times.

  “It’s out of my budget.”

  “But look at the dedicated video RAM!”

  “Diane.” I grab her face between my hands, nearly resting my forehead against hers. “It’s. Out. Of. My. Budget.”

  “Fine, get lower graphics then.” With a huff she turns away and walks toward the other models in a section that is clearly marked For Students!

  Diane and I clicked in a strange way, like Carlos and me in middle school. We met in class but found ourselves spending time around each other because we enjoyed each other’s company. I met her ex only once before they broke up, and in the aftermath we hung out even more. She has such a relaxed and no-fucks-given attitude to life that it’s easy to tell her what is on my mind.

  The first time I invited her over to my place she noticed that only Dad and I lived in the apartment.

  “Divorced parents?” she’d asked as she petted Michi.

  “No, Mom got deported,” I’d said. We were in my living room, ready to start watching a show on my then-working laptop.

  She paused, holding a finger toward me, and added, “Yikes. My parents are on their second marriages, so I was going to say I understood if yours were divorced. But I’m here, if you need to talk about that sort of thing.”

  “Thanks, dude.” It felt genuine, a comment not made out of pity. “I’m here, too; must be rough.”

  “It’s good, I don’t live in my mom and stepdad’s house anymore. I love them but I couldn’t live with them any longer.” She waved her hand as if dispelling memories. “We’re fine, though; even my mom knows I’m gay.”

  I’ve never felt pressured into being someone I’m not or hiding anything from Diane, because I know she can see right through that, and respects my desire to keep some things to myself. While I know her relationship with some of her siblings is still rocky, I can tell she really loves her family and would do anything for them. If we ever do need advice or thoughts on a subject, we’ll be there for each other.

  “It’s not all about graphics,” I say.

  “I never said it was.” She pushes past me. “It’s important in general. How are you going to marathon new shows if it looks like you’re watching something straight out of Super Nintendo?”

  “Hey, those were good games.”

  “Did you even play them, child?” She pulls a hand up to her shoulder and gives me a look.

  “Of course I did, you old woman.”

  “Whatever. What’s your price range again?”

  “I’m not getting anything over three hundred.” I bump her away from the laptop she’s staring at, the card next to it clearly indicating that it is $130 over my budget.

  “You’re gonna kill me, girl.”

  “I know.” I wink. “That’s why you like me.”

  We leave the store without getting anything. I wasn’t planning on getting something today; I still need another week before my paycheck. And I haven’t told my parents that I will be getting a new laptop. It’s not like I need their permission, but it will raise questions if I arrive with a box and I haven’t discussed it with them. They want me to make good financial decisions, as impossible as that is.

  It took me about a month to convince them to get me a phone when I was a freshman in high school, and even then I got one of the cheapest ones that were around at the time. Mom and I had a small argument about whether or not I could update it a year later, and when I look back on it, those little petty arguments seem so stupid now. I’d give all my possessions away just to have her back.

  “How’s your brother by the way?” I ask, putting on my seat belt as Diane starts her car. The engine comes alive with a bit of a strain, sending vibrations through the whole vehicle.

  “Being an idiot, as usual, but he’s good.” She shrugs and fidgets with the radio until she finds the station that can connect with her phone’s Bluetooth. “He’s thinking about dropping out of school again, but Dad will kick him out if he does, and he knows I can’t help him much since I live in a shared apartment.”

  “Aren’t you worried about him?”

  “I said all I could to keep him from dropping out. He might go to Mom and my stepdad, but whatever he does, it’s up to him.” That’s the way Diane functions—she gives you the facts and then leaves you alone. She believes liberty is doing whatever you want with your life, even if that means screwing things up.

  “You’re such an old woman for an eighteen-year-old,” I say, looking at her profile while she drives. Her braids fall over her shoulders and the sun shining over her brown skin accentuates her features and brings out how beautiful she is.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Diane laughs, but it’s true—she’s very patient and knowledgeable when it comes to life topics. I wish I could set my eyes on the future like her, and not let the past drag me down as it so often does.

  “You’re my favorite old woman, don’t worry.” Before she can answer, I lean forward to turn up the volume, singing along to the soft R & B song playing even though I don’t know the exact lyrics. She flips me off, slows down at a red light, and lowers my ear-crushing music.

  I let my head fall back against the seat. The sun is high in the sky, making the shadows stark against the pavement, and the trees around us move slowly with the breeze. If I had my camera with me, I would take a picture—perhaps one of Diane concentrating on the road. There are countless moments I sometimes wish I could capture, not with my phone, but with a real camera. Little pockets of memories that you won’t remember later on but that are mesmerizingly perfect in the space of time in which they exist.

  “Okay, if this isn’t shady I don’t know what it is.” Ethan hands me the note that was taped to the door of the club room. I was surprised when I saw him waiting outside the room before anyone got there. I’m usually late to the meetings, but today Diane dropped me and my bike right outside the building.

  Morning meeting is canceled. Please meet at the back of Motel 6 by Main Street at 7:30 p.m.

  —Anna ♡

  I narrow my eyes. Anna had mentioned something about a swimsuit the last time I saw her, but I can’t remember whether or not Motel 6 has a pool, or where it is even located. There are a handful of hotels and motels around town, especially on the outskirts close to the highway.

  “Hey, guys, what up?” We turn to Scott, his backpack half falling from his shoulder. He has a somewhat messy American style, with his jean jacket and dark-blue shirt underneath; his pants are tattered and he wears brown combat boots. Today his hair is undone and it spills in golden locks past his shoulders.

  “Do you have any idea about what this means?” I pass him the note.

  He pushes his hair back, scrutinizing the piece of paper for a second before shaking his head.

  “Nah, man, I don’t know what’s going on.” He gives me the note back. “But I know that place, hooked up with a guy there once. Kind of a creepy place, but it was fun.”

  “Why hold a club meeting there?”
Ethan asks.

  “Beats me.” Scott shrugs. “But that gives me enough time to take a nap, so I’ll see you guys later.” He gives a salute before turning on his heel, steps sure and fast as he marches out.

  Ethan and I exchange a look before we stare again at the note in my hand. There are nine hours before the meeting starts, and I don’t have a ride to get there, aside from Carlos, who hasn’t answered the text I sent him earlier today asking him what the meeting would be about.

  “Are you going to go take a nap too?” Ethan asks while I tape the note back on the door, in the case other members come by. Thinking better of it, I take a picture of the note with my phone and quickly send it to the group chat.

  “No, I have to work and a class to attend. I’ll probably hang out at the library when I’m done with that.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” He pauses. “Wait, do you have a ride to the motel then?”

  “Ethan, there’s better ways to ask me out.” It’s an offhanded, playful thing I’d say to my friends, although he doesn’t appear amused by it.

  “You know Main Street is, like, six miles away, right?”

  I don’t even know where Main Street is, but Ethan seems to be pretty sure. Most of the time I navigate by places rather than street names since Westray is small enough to know where in the area you are.

  “I can make it.” This me speaking while typing a message to Carlos.

  He’s not answering. Ethan looks at me. Why am I nervous?

  Me: Carlos pls

  No answer. Dammit.

  “You know, I can give you a ride.” Ethan fixes the strap of his backpack. “I have a class before the meeting, so I’m going to be around campus, and my car has a bike carrier.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s not a bother, text me if you need a ride.” He pauses. “I don’t hate you, you know.”

  My fingers hover over my keyboard, the intricate message I was about to send still half-typed on my screen. I hadn’t expected that comment at all, and I’m not too sure how to handle it. “I never said you did.”