Living Beyond Borders

by Margarita Longoria

  * * *

  ~

  The day is pretty laid-back, and I think I might even like all of my teachers and classes. No yellers or condescenders, thankfully. Brittney is in my math class at the end of the day, but I’ve been avoiding her because I don’t want her brainstorming other ways I can go to the dance. Besides being uncomfortable because I don’t know anyone, I’ll only be sad to see all of those girls in their dresses and me and my unintentionally ripped jeans and basic black tee, and see what I’ll never have. Who wants to put themselves through that? I have to accept that my quinceañera was only me and mama, carne guisada, flan, and a Titanic puzzle.

  Brittney is in the back and sends me a text, Yr mom change her mind about going?

  No.

  Be fun. Txt her again.

  I already tried, I text, half lying by not texting that I only tried that once. Mama hasn’t responded, and she won’t because she isn’t allowed to be on her phone at work; she’s afraid of losing her job and she has to be at that counter the whole time.

  “Miss,” Brittney says, “can the new student go talk to Mr. Puentes? It’s very important. I’m asking as her student ambassador.” Listen to Brittney flexing her title.

  I look over and mouth the word no. What does she think she’s doing?

  The teacher, who is checking her email, looks at us both and points to her wrist. There are only ten minutes left in the class, and as each teacher has posted in their classroom, that is one of the norms: bell-to-bell teaching (no leaving the last ten minutes).

  I don’t want to leave early anyway. What is the point?

  Friday, My Second Day of School

  It’s my second day as a Dennett Mustang and there are only two things on my mind: the quinceañera and the night before, when I waited as long as I could for Mama to come home before I finally went to bed. In my first-period class, Mrs. Perez, the teacher I didn’t meet yesterday, has us free-write a poem, a paragraph, a story, for fifteen minutes. It’s her “sponge activity,” which I know is supposed to mean we are being absorbed into the learning, but with her I can tell it’s to sponge up a little more silence so she can drink her cafecito and sit at her desk. Because I don’t have any paper and don’t want to ask anyone for some, I get out my half-sheet bus pass.

  I write:

  When I “double up” with family or friends,

  I live in spaces within spaces within spaces.

  The house → the room → my mind.

  Each space smaller and smaller,

  Like nesting dolls,

  Until I am the smallest,

  Invisible and quiet,

  But conscious, always conscious of the air I occupy,

  Our section of the refrigerator,

  The fifteen-by-fifteen bedroom

  I share with Mama.

  Mama came in last night after

  I was asleep.

  And in the morning I kissed her forehead

  While she was still sleeping,

  Curled up on the single bed,

  Trying to make herself small,

  Sleeping on her side so she won’t snore

  Through the door,

  Which I silently shut when I leave,

  Before I can ask her about the quinceañera.

  I spend the day with these words and go through my classes period by period, knowing the quinceañera is tonight, reminded by all the announcements they make about it throughout the day.

  The bell finally rings and I head out the front door to catch my bus, the half slip of paper in my hand from the day before telling me which route I am supposed to take, my poem written on the back side. I see crowds of girls heading to the band room where they’re supposedly getting their hair and makeup done. The girls’ locker room has been turned into a final fitting for their quinceañera dresses, all of which have been donated.

  I’m standing out there in the front with the other kids and the vice principals holding their radios and shouting over the sound of the diesel engines and all of the after-school chaos, when I hear Miss Yoli calling to me from the main door.

  “Leidy!”

  I walk over to her and say, “I’m going to miss my bus.” I just want to get out of there.

  She ignores me and sings, “Leidy!”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Ah,” she says, and sticks out just the tip of her tongue. “You probably never heard that song, have you?”

  “Oh, Miss, of course I have. Kenny Rogers. It’s an old joke, Miss. Sorry I can’t talk right now, but I have to go.”

  “Anyway, mija, Mr. Puentes wants to speak to you. We’ll hold the bus if we have to, but he wants to talk to you real quick.”

  I go through my quiet day, think about every word I spoke, every eye movement, every class I went to, and make sure that I haven’t done anything to get me a discipline referral.

  Miss Yoli walks me in and tells me to have a seat. She goes over to stand in the front office with Miss Esmer, where they are talking quietly like the adults do when they don’t want the students to hear what they’re saying. She keeps checking her watch, and I wonder if she’s helping with the quinceañera. Brittney is working after school as a student aide, stamping what looks like announcements that will be sent home at some point. She throws me a peace sign and winks as if she’s posing for a selfie.

  Then Miss Yoli gestures to Miss Esmer for her to turn around and see me by pointing her chin and eyebrows my way. She brings her hand in front of her body and swirls it around like Walter Mercado, the old TV psychic, and then blows me a chef’s kiss like she’s approving of a fine meal.

  “ ‘Mucho, mucho, mucho paz y sobre todo, amor,’ ” I say back to her like Walter always used to say at the end of every episode.

  They both start laughing. Miss Yoli then makes another announcement, telling all of the quinceañeras to go to the band room for makeup and hair, and the JROTC and Grupo Imagen to report to the small gym, that this is their final reminder. JROTC?

  Mr. Puentes opens the door and waves me inside. He’s smiling and twirling a lanyard of keys around his hand, so that’s a good sign. Maybe I’m not in trouble.

  When I walk in, there are even more white binders and papers on his desk, While You Were Out memos taped to his computer screen, and a blinking red light on his phone.

  “Siéntate, mija, siéntate, I have something for you.”

  I sit down, and he hands me a glossy card with a pointy lavender princess hat on it. It reads:

  Dennett Ninth-Grade Campus Second Annual Quinceañera

  Join Us for a Celebration

  In Honor of the Quinceañeras of the Class of 2025

  Friday, May 6

  Six p.m.

  Presentation/Presentación

  Blessing/Bendición

  Dinner/Cena

  Dance/Baile

  “Ay, gracias, sir, thank you. Brittney told me about it. I texted my mom about going as a guest and she didn’t text back, so I can’t go. I really appreciate it, sir.”

  “No, mija, you don’t understand.”

  “Yes, sir, it’s tonight. I saw all the banners; they told me about it. But I can’t go.”

  I get up to leave before I start crying.

  “No, mija, listen.”

  “It’s okay, sir. I hope everyone has a good time. I’ll keep this as a souvenir,” I say, and hold up the pretty invitation.

  “Mija, will you just listen? Por favor.” I wish he would stop calling me mija because it would make this easier.

  “Mija, your mama called and wanted to know more about the quinceañera.”

  “You mean she called the school?”

  “Yes, mija, and before she asked any more questions, I told her you could go if she was okay with it and if you wanted to.”

&
nbsp; “That’s great, sir, but I don’t really want to.”

  “Ay, mija.” Mr. Puentes lifts his hands up, presumably to heaven. “What I’m trying to tell you is that you are a quinceañera and I don’t care if you didn’t start the school year with us. You are one of ours now, mija, even if you didn’t join the Mustang family until yesterday. And we want you to have this. Miss Yoli and I have been making calls to the parent activity club and the dress madrinas. Normally, we start working on the list at the beginning of the year, getting all of the girls fitted and matched with a dress, but as soon as your mother called, all of the madrinas in the community came together to find you the right dress. Miss Yoli says you’re about her daughter’s size and they went from there.”

  “But, but, but . . .” I can’t get the words out. What I want to say is, But it’s too late. But it’s tonight. But I already had my quinceañera. But I can’t accept this. What does come out are the lágrimas—happy but sad tears that catch me by surprise—ones I don’t know what to do with. I didn’t wake up planning to cry today.

  “Leidy,” Miss Yoli, Esmer, and Brittney sing in the doorway.

  Mr. Puentes says, “I hope that’s okay, mija. Your mother really wanted you to go and was excited.”

  I put my face in my hands because I don’t know what else to do.

  Miss Yoli speaks and her voice starts out shaky like she wants to cry too, but steadies itself as she goes into power mode.

  “Okay, mija, apúrate. Vámonos, come on. It’s time to get you ready for your quinceañera. All of the other girls are already in hair and makeup and the guests will be here soon. The madrinas are waiting for you.”

  Brittney pulls me by the hand, and even though I’ve only known her for less than two days, I let her pull me along. She can’t stop smiling and making these little hop skips down the hallway. I still don’t know if she’s for real, because who acts like that, is enthusiastic for a girl she just met? You’d think it was her quinceañera. Maybe that’s why she’s captain of the Student Ambassador Club.

  Miss Yoli walks ahead of us down the nearly empty hall, and she takes us to the band room.

  I walk in and there, sitting in rows of chairs, are the other quinceañeras already getting their makeup done. The mood is festive and they’re playing music, but not too loud, as I can also hear the girls talking to the stylists, who range in age from señoras who are probably mom volunteers to professionals donating their time. A stylish petite doña in her forties, makeup done in a modern chola look, walks among them, obviously in charge. She checks in at each station and talks to the stylists, giving them pointers while touching the hand of each girl almost like she’s giving them her blessing.

  Brittney and Miss Yoli walk me over to an empty band chair where I see a young rockabilly stylist slapping a cape over the back. She smiles at me, and with her black-framed glasses, carefully applied makeup, real tattoo sleeve of patterns and flowers, and red bandanna in her hair, she’s more like a makeup tutorial artist than a señora they begged to do makeup for us girls.

  “Oh, I love her,” she says, putting my face in her hands. “My name is Beatriz, and we’re going to have so much fun. I promise you, mamas.”

  Beatriz goes to work and narrates the whole time, telling me exactly what she’s doing because I don’t have a mirror to see. I don’t normally wear a lot of makeup and have never felt I needed to. I don’t even know what to say. This is all happening so fast and I keep my eyes closed most of the time. Her words come in and out as her hands flutter over me with pencils and brushes and fingertips. Her words start to become a poetry of their own and they all come together in a combination of details and encouragement. Eyebrow pencil to fill in the eyebrows. They’re already such pretty cejas. Concealer, light sand, just a little for the base. Want your beautiful eyes to pop. Brush, then finger blend. Oh, mamas, you’re beautiful. You have a face made for the soft glam palette. Accent your inner corners, but no harsh lines. Shimmery, mamas, shimmery. Burnt orange. Dark brown. Transition color. Pero no harsh lines. It’s all about the blending. Glitter and glow. Do you want wings? Of course you do. Foundation. Beauty blender. More concealer. Bronzer. Now for the mascara. Oh perfecto, I can’t wait for you to see. Some blush for you but just a little. Highlights so you glow, mija. Some lip pencil. Color pop. Satin finish.

  “Now open your eyes, mamas,” Beatriz says, and busts out a hand mirror in front of me.

  Before my eyes is another girl who is me, but not quite me. I have no words. Miss Yoli holds her hands together like she’s praying. Of course Brittney takes a picture. This other girl who is not me, but is increasingly becoming me, is all those shades blending into each other where they’re supposed to, but also popping. I am glowing. My eyes start to pool and I try to keep it together. It’s like my recurring dream when I suddenly remember I can fly. This girl I see before me was always there.

  Beatriz takes a tissue and lightly dabs over my lashes.

  “Leidy, listen to me, mamas. You were beautiful before, and you are beautiful now. The makeup doesn’t change anything. It’s just showing a different side of you none of these people have seen. Princesa, today and forever. Now for your hair and your corona!”

  * * *

  ~

  When I’m all done, and I’m wearing my crown, my hair topped high in a bun with curls coming down thanks to the curling wand Beatriz used and lots of bobby pins, Miss Yoli and Brittney take me to a room that says COMMUNITY ENGAGEMENT on the door. Brittney is doing her little hop, and I can’t understand why she is so happy for me. Miss Yoli gathers all of the girls in front of the door and waits until we are all here.

  “Okay, princesas. Your dresses are in here. Look for your name. Leidy, please come to the front.” I make my way forward, and Miss Yoli winks at me as she unlocks the door.

  In this white room with the blinds closed, I cannot believe what I see. There, on various racks, are too many quinceañera dresses to count in pink, purple, lavender, and green in tulle, satin, and chiffon, sparkles, rhinestones, droplets, and ribbons. Each dress has a pink paper with a girl’s name safety pinned to it. There on the end, almost like it’s in a place of honor, is my name, Mileidy Dominguez, written in cursive.

  The rest of the girls rush forward, but I am planted there, unable to move.

  Miss Yoli says, “Go ahead, mija, go look at your dress. We hope you like it. We did our best with the time we had.”

  It is the deepest lavender, with embroidery and little rhinestones on the bodice that look like stars. It is off the shoulder with an open back, which is showing a little more than I’m used to, but I can’t deny it—this dress was made for me.

  Miss Yoli caresses the lavender fabric and says, “To accentuate your hair, mija.”

  * * *

  ~

  After all of the fussing to make our way to the locker room to change, and after we’re all dressed, Brittney says, “Are you ready?”

  I look around me and exhale. Am I ready? Am I really ready for all of this?

  “I’m going to head in now. They are going to present you all.”

  I panic. “The chambelán?”

  “It’s all taken care of. They get the JROTC boys to escort the girls.”

  I must have a confused look on my face, because she says, “I know, I know. Just go with it. A lot of them are actually cute. I’ll see you in there.”

  Miss Yoli says, “Ándale, muchachas, line up, line up, alphabetical order. Let’s go, let’s go. Everyone is inside waiting. Mr. Puentes can’t wait to present all of you.”

  The girls shuffle to their places, and I can tell they’ve practiced this before. We are in line in the long hallway outside of the gym. There seem to be about thirty or so of us. The JROTC boys are in their uniforms on the other side of the hall, waiting for the girls to finish finding their places. Even though my hair is in perfect place, I’m standing there by myself,
out of the line. I can’t stop from curling a strand behind my ear because I’m nervous, and I don’t have my phone to look at so I can pretend I’m bored with the whole thing. I have this fear that I won’t have a chambelán and I’ll be walking in there by myself.

  Once all of the girls are in place, the JROTC go to their quinceañeras. I curl my hair behind my ear some more, as I’m still not in line and don’t want someone to start asking who has a last name starting with D.

  Miss Yoli yells, “Leidy, where are you? Where’s Leidy?”

  “I’m here!” The volume of my voice surprises me.

  “Well, come over here, mija. This is your place.”

  The quinceañeras and the chambelanes smile and make way for me.

  She brings a JROTC boy over to me, and even though he is cute, with a nice, nervous smile, he’s shorter than me.

  “Ay, mija, I did my best,” says Miss Yoli.

  The boy blushes, because no boy I’ve ever known wants to go out with a girl taller than him.

  “It’s okay, king,” I tell him. “I’m good with it if you are.”

  He laughs and his laugh is real. “My name is Jaime, and I’m honored,” he says, and like a gentleman, holds out his left arm for me to hook my hand through. It’s like a real dama and chambelán, except this time I’m the quinceañera. Short king winks and smiles, and I notice he’s got dimples and braces.

  Past the open gym doors, I can hear Mr. Puentes announce us like he’s on the radio. I can tell he lives for this, Mr. Fun and Games style.

  “En este tiempo—at this time queremos presentar—we would like to present the quinceañeras del segundo anual—second annual Dennett Ninth-Grade Campus Quinceañera Celebration.” People clap and cheer, and I wonder if anywhere else in Texas, or even the country, do people talk like Mr. Puentes with both languages on mash-up in one sentence like that.

  The waltz song, “Balada para Adelina,” fades in and the first girl steps through the door as soon as her name is called. It’s this sweet, sad but hopeful, corny piano song, but we all love it. It’s supposed to signify that we are leaving childhood and entering the adventure of the great beyond.