Despite his burning temperature, Apá insisted doctors were all quacks and that all they ever do is suggest Tylenol, rest, and plenty of water. It wasn’t until Amá raised her voice and scolded him about the poor example he was setting for his children that she finally got him to admit the truth: that he didn’t want to spend the Christmas money he’d set aside for the family on himself.
“Besides,” he had said, pointing to his so-called zipper on his belly, “I’m still paying for this visit, remember?” Amá didn’t laugh. As it turned out, the doctor found Apá had pneumonia, something Amá blamed on the long hours he spent working in the cold.
Apá was tough as nails. Seeing him cry like this meant things were really bad.
And it scared Efrén. Scared him a lot.
Six
Saturday mornings had always been special for Efrén. It was a day he could sleep in just a tiny bit longer. A day he could expect a steaming bowl of arroz con leche and a freshly baked bolillo loaf waiting for him when he awoke. Then he could go into his study, which doubled as the bathtub, hurry through any homework he had, and stay until he finished a whole book or until Max or Mía needed to go potty—whichever came first.
However, this entire weekend went differently. With Apá working overtime, every single moment was spent making sure Max and Mía stayed busy enough that they wouldn’t have time to miss Amá. It was something that required a lot from Efrén.
A lot of horsey rides around the apartment.
A lot of time pushing the twins back and forth on the school swing sets.
A lot of coloring.
A lot of time hiding and seeking.
A lot of everything.
So when Monday morning finally came around, Efrén didn’t complain. In fact, he looked forward to the rest.
Unfortunately, Monday morning didn’t exactly work out that way. Max was having a rough time, making the simple job of getting him dressed much, much more difficult.
“Come on, Maxie. You don’t want to go to school in your underwear, do you?”
Max crawled out from under his blankets, causing a sigh of relief from his big brother.
“Okay, better.” Efrén held the pair of pint-sized pants for him to step into. Only Max’s plans were different. He threaded his pudgy arms through the pant legs until his hands peeked out from the other side.
“No seas payaso. Please, put them on right now.”
Max pulled the arms out, only to stick his head in their place.
Efrén took a deep breath and massaged the sides of his forehead. He glanced over at the empty mattress beside him, trying to figure out what Amá would do.
Efrén looked straight into Max’s penny-like eyes. “How ’bout this? If you get dressed, I promise to give you a horsey ride all the way to school.”
Max shook his head no.
“How about . . .”—a crooked grin sprouted on Efrén’s face—“I let you wear your Superman pajamas to school?”
Max nodded. It wouldn’t be the first time Max went to school in pajamas—Ms. Solomon would understand.
Mía tugged at Efrén’s shirt. “What about me? Can I go in pajamas too?”
Efrén bent down to look at her. “Sure . . . why not?” Having Max and Mía show up to school in pj’s was the least of his worries.
Four days without Amá and already Efrén’s world was starting to fall apart. By the time he reached school, the late bell had already rung. He hoped to see someone else, even a teacher, walking in late as well—but the campus hallways were empty. Even David had apparently made it to class on time.
The second Efrén entered the room, Mr. Garrett turned; his bushy eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
“Mr. Nava. You’re late.”
Efrén lowered his head and signed the tardy clipboard nailed to the wall. He’d seen Mr. Garrett belittle everyone who’d ever tried justifying being late. “Excuses,” Mr. Garrett would say, “are like armpits. We all have them, and they stink.”
So under the section of the form labeled reason, Efrén decided he was better off scribbling in the word “unexcused.”
It felt like the whole class sat up, paying sharp attention when Mr. Garrett approached the center of the room. “Mr. Nava, this makes two infractions in a row. Is there something I should know?”
Efrén tried lifting his head and making eye contact like Amá had taught him to do with grown-ups, but the best he could do was shake his head. Besides . . . Efrén thought, it won’t make a difference.
“Well, then . . . Mr. Nava, why don’t you take a seat? And don’t forget, this second infraction now means you have detention after school.”
After school? There was no way. There was nobody else to pick up Max or Mía. Doña Chana had been scheduled to return to Guatemala that morning—some emergency with her parents.
Efrén stood frozen by the tardy clipboard, wondering how much, if any, of the truth he should tell Mr. Garrett. After all, he was a teacher. And according to Apá, teachers could never know about the family’s legal status. Efrén remembered Apá telling him about the time the state voters passed a law that would have forced all teachers—even nice ones like Ms. Solomon—to report any undocumented kids to the authorities.
Apá, of course, held a grudge, saying that even though the courts erased the law, the masses had spoken and revealed exactly how they felt.
So even though Efrén was a US citizen, his parents were not, and he could not say a word about that.
“Mr. Nava? Is something wrong? Did you misplace your seat?”
“No, sir. I . . . I was . . . just—never mind.”
And just like that, Mr. Garrett launched into a drawn-out explanation of how direct quotes were going to empower everyone’s essay arguments.
Later, as the next bell rang, he reminded the class that paraphrasing would be coming next. But Efrén barely listened. It wasn’t like him to disobey a teacher, but what could he do? He couldn’t stay after school. And he couldn’t tell the truth.
Efrén missed the old days, back when his neighborhood block made up his entire world, back when all he worried about was whether to play it safe with a game of marbles or brave a match of chicken fights along the monkey bars. It was all he thought about most of the day.
In seventh period, Mrs. Flores—the science teacher—had the entire class performing virtual dissections on worms. Efrén rushed through the lesson on account of Max and Mía. And when school finally let out, it was him leading the stream of kids off campus. More and more of them broke off into different neighborhoods with each block they passed. Those who veered off first lived in the fancy Floral Park block.
Those who were slightly less well-off disappeared into Washington Square, and so forth. So forth was where Efrén headed, right into Highland Street where apartment buildings and fruit trees made up most of the neighborhood. Reaching his block, he cut into the elementary school’s parking lot. There, in the middle of the kindergarten courtyard, stood Ms. Solomon blowing her whistle at cars blocking the entrance.
“Efrén!” she called him over.
He walked into a big hug. “Hi, Ms. Solomon. Have you seen Max and Mía?”
“Over by the benches. I had a bit of trouble with them today. Where is your—oh, my God! Did your mom get the job?”
Efrén crinkled his face. “Job?”
Ms. Solomon held her hand up at a car. “Yes, the other day, she told me she was going over to Irvine for a job interview at a new company that makes high-end women’s clothing. Said it was for a supervisor’s position.”
Efrén’s mind raced. That must have been when Amá got picked up. As much as it bothered him to lie to Ms. Solomon, he didn’t have a choice. “Yes, she started today. Says her boss is nice and that the pay is really good.”
Ms. Solomon paused, making Efrén nervous. He couldn’t help but wonder if she might be reading his face. After all, she’d known him since he was in her kindergarten class.
“Well, tell her I am so glad. Oh, and a
bout Max and Mía . . . they seem a bit emotional—especially Max.”
Efrén’s mind went into a panic. Fearful of saying the wrong thing, he simply shrugged instead.
“Well, maybe it was just an off day,” she said, waving another car through. “And be sure to thank your mom for her mole recipe. Tell her that the dinner was a real success, thanks to her.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Solomon.”
With that, he walked over to the play area and took a seat on a bench, watching Max push Mía on a swing before leaping onto her lap. Mía didn’t seem to mind one bit. Sometimes insufferable, always inseparable—like Ms. Solomon would joke. Efrén couldn’t imagine telling them about what had happened to Amá. But how long could he keep the truth from them?
He looked over at the clock hanging over the bathrooms. Three o’clock. He’d have to start thinking about what to feed them. He headed over to join Max and Mía. Just as he started pushing them back and forth on the swings, a thought crossed his mind. If Amá isn’t able to come back home, does that mean we might have to go to her? Will we be forced to leave too?
Efrén felt a tug at his side.
“I’m hungry.” It was Max, right on schedule.
“Yeah, me too,” called out Mía.
All the running around made the twins hungry. Now more than ever, Efrén needed to stretch his money. Every dollar saved meant a step closer to getting Amá back.
Fortunately, Don Tapatío’s food truck was a real bargain. But he’d have to be careful. Not everything there was cheap. He thought about the menu, crunching numbers in his head.
Carne asada tacos were definitely the best bargain. They were small but came with double tortillas. Efrén could take half the meat and turn each taco into two—a milagro of his own.
“Maxie, Mía, how about some tacos?”
Max shrugged. He was easy—ate just about anything placed in front of him. It was Mía who Efrén needed to worry about.
“So, Mía? Tacos okay?”
“No. I want some of Amá’s frijolitos with queso.”
This very mention of their mother set Max off. “When is Amá coming back?”
“Soon,” answered Efrén. “Soon.”
“You’re a mentiroso,” Mía said, digging her finger into Efrén’s belly. “You said she’d be back yesterday. You lied.”
Mía was right. He had lied. Worse, he would have to look the twins in the eye and do it again.
“The truth is that her sister, Tía Martha got sick. Amá is with her, making sure she gets better.”
Mía rested her hands on her hip and squinted up at Efrén. “How do we know it’s not a lie?”
Efrén held out his pinky finger. Mía smiled and hooked her finger around his.
“What ’bout me?” Max asked, holding up a chubby finger of his own.
Efrén offered his other pinky. “I swear, Amá will be back soon.”
With that, Efrén stopped by Don Tapatío’s food truck and fed the twins and himself. Using only six dollars, he turned three carne asada tacos into six and still managed to provide Mía the side of beans and cheese she wanted. If only he could find a way of getting Amá back home.
Seven
During bath time, Max had demanded a game of battleship while Mía reenacted the entire plot of The Little Mermaid. Too bad for Efrén, both games called for a whole lot of splashing. By the time Efrén got them into bed, he was as beat as he was soaked.
With the twins now asleep, he headed to the kitchen table to start the hour or so’s worth of homework waiting for him. But instead, Efrén pushed the thought of his assignments aside. He looked around at the apartment, thinking about the homes he passed each day to and from school. He thought about the grassy front yards large enough to play soccer in. He tried to picture himself running around like he’d seen the other kids at his school doing. Only, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to do it. His mind simply refused.
“Why?” it said. “What’s the point? You’re never going to have anything even close to that. Not you.”
Efrén shut his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight the churning feeling in his gut. He missed Amá. Her smile. Her laugh. Her cooking and her hugs. But what he really missed was the way she seemed to brighten the entire world.
Now that she was gone, his life felt . . . well, secondhand.
He scanned the entire studio apartment, looked up at the water-damaged ceiling, then at the mismatched pieces of furniture that littered the room—and of course, down at the two twin mattresses covering most of the floor. Never before had his home felt so small, so poor.
His family didn’t have much, but somehow, Amá had managed to keep this fact from really sinking in. Now, it would become his job to protect Max and Mía.
But how?
He unzipped his backpack and organized the assignments by degree of difficulty. Easiest first.
He stared at the sample sentence for language arts. Sally’s mother bakes wonderful cookies. “Mother” was the subject, “bakes” was the verb, and “cookies” was the direct object. He turned to the kitchen and wondered if Amá would ever come back. Ever step foot in this kitchen again.
Just then, he heard the rattling of keys and then the metal screen to the front door creak open. Apá!
Efrén greeted him with a hug. Apá squeezed back, holding on a bit longer than usual. “Here,” he said, handing him a pizza box. “Put this in the fridge. It’s for the three of you, tomorrow.” Apá turned toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Pizza! Max and Mía were going to be excited. Efrén peeked inside the box. Pepperoni and pineapple! His favorite.
He approached the window and saw Apá talking to a man. They were standing at the back of Apá’s pickup truck. The man wore jeans and boots like Apá and said something that made Apá shake his head. Then Apá said something to make the man nod before offering his hand.
Then two men climbed onto the back of the truck and unfastened the metal tool bin.
Apá’s tools? Efrén couldn’t believe it. They were Apá’s prize possession. No matter how much he used them, he always kept them looking new. Amá would sometimes joke, calling the collection his fourth child.
Not wanting to seem nosy, or metiche, as Amá would say, Efrén decided to get back to his homework.
Apá entered holding a check in his hand.
Efrén couldn’t help himself. “Is that enough money to get Amá back?”
“No. But it’s a start.” Apá looked over at the twins. “That’s what we need to talk about. I landed an overtime job at my boss’s headquarters, only it’s late at night. So I need to know if you can handle the little ones a bit longer.”
Efrén tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. “Yeah, but—wait, how are you going to work day and night? When will you sleep?”
“It’s only temporary. Besides”—Apá flexed his biceps—“your old man is made of steel. You don’t need to a worry about me, okay, mijo? I’ll be working as a súper for a cleaning crew. They’ll be doing most of the work. I’ll just be supervising.”
Apá went over to a drawer in the kitchen area and came back with a bagful of coins. Amá’s stash of laundromat money. “Here. For food.” He handed the coins to Efrén. “Between this and the check I just got, we’ll be fine. Now get to bed. It’s late.”
Efrén wrapped himself in his blanket and watched Apá spray on some deodorant, then grab a slice of cold pizza and head off to work.
Apá was super too. A real Soperman.
The next day, after dropping off the twins, Efrén hurried to class. The first bell rang, but he waited by the door, watching the other students enter. What was he going to tell Mr. Garrett about having missed detention?
“F-mon? Whatcha doin’?” It was David, riding in on his skateboard while bouncing to a reggae beat that only he could hear.
Efrén shrugged. “Enjoying the last minutes of my life.”
“What do you mean?”
“
I didn’t show up for detention yesterday.” Efrén sighed.
David picked up his board. “Oh, wow. How ’bout I go in with you? He might yell at me for bringing in my skateboard and forget all about it. Come on.”
Like most of David’s plans, this one didn’t work out either. Efrén entered the classroom. Mr. Garrett rose to his feet, looked up at the clock, and waited for the bell before saying a word.
“Mr. Nava. Do you mind explaining why you chose to disregard your detention yesterday?”
Efrén’s stomach twisted, and—for a tiny moment—he thought he might be sick. He took a deep breath.
But Mr. Garrett would not let up. “Mr. Nava. I’m waiting.”
Efrén’s blood boiled. After everything he’d been through, now this? He looked up at Mr. Garrett and glared. “Why?” he said, his anger spilling out. “It’s not like you even care.”
The class went silent. Students looked around, mouths agape—total disbelief.
Efrén’s chest rose and fell. All he could do was dig his nails into his palm.
Mr. Garrett’s stood there, perfectly still, perfectly silent. He eyed Efrén’s closed fists, wrinkly clothes, and sloppy, uncombed hair.
Efrén felt the room shrink and tugged at his shirt uncomfortably.
Strangely, though, Mr. Garrett’s scowl seemed to lessen. Perhaps he’d just come up with the perfect consequence for him.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Efrén?”
The class stirred once more. Not only had Efrén talked back, Mr. Garrett had actually let it go. Heck, he had even addressed Efrén by his first name. That simply never happened.
Efrén took a seat, aware that all eyes were now on him.
Mr. Garrett’s icy teacher voice suddenly returned. “Now, class, let’s begin.”
A half hour later, Mr. Garrett had completely filled out the whiteboard with a giant timeline of World War II. “Okay, now that I’ve gone over the material, go ahead and jot down the notes, silently.”
Efren Divided Page 5
