“How about you, Elsa?” he asks when he realizes I haven’t said a word.
“It’s Ellie, and I’m finishing up my undergrad at Stanford.”
“I went to Princeton myself. What’s your major?”
“I’m a poli-sci/Spanish double major.”
His face briefly contorts before it smooths back into its polite façade. “How interesting,” he says like I’ve announced I have a contagious skin condition.
A waiter at my elbow saves me from having to respond. “Miss, some champagne?”
“Oh, no thanks. But I’ll take some orange juice, please.”
“Yes, of co–”
“Hey, amigo, I’ll take some of that,” Peter interrupts as he leans forward to pull out his wallet from his back pocket. Extracting a twenty dollar bill, he waves it at the server and adds, “And keep it coming, would you?”
The server’s jaw clenches slightly, but nods as he slips the money into his pocket before he fills Peter’s glass.
“Too early for you?” Peter asks, taking his first sip. It’s a long one.
“I don’t drink,” I inform him tightly.
“What, like ever?”
“Nope.”
“Can’t hack it, huh? Must get so boring at parties.”
I finger the butter knife and consider stabbing this idiot. If only these parties weren’t always filled with the same kinds of people. Absently, I wonder what my stranger in the gray hoodie would make of all this.
Scott
“Mijo.”
A hand nudges my shoulder gently.
“Mijo, despiértate. Ya son las seis.”
Las seis? Six? O’clock? Shit, it’s Monday. “Cinco minutos más,” I mumble.
“Okay, but that means no shower for you this morning,” my abuela warns, continuing on in Spanish.
I groan. My grandmother’s right. If I wait the five minutes, there’s a real possibility of being stampeded by my sisters before I make it to the only bathroom in the house.
Peeling my eyes open gives me a view of the dust ruffle that runs around our dated and well-worn sofa. A foam mattress may not be the most comfortable bed in the world, but at least down here on the floor I can stretch out. It’s so much better than the actual sofa.
By the time I’m on my feet, my grandmother is already rattling around in the kitchen, something for which I’m very grateful. It’s no small task taking care of our family, considering there are four generations of us living in this small, three-bedroom house. I have no idea what any of us would do without her. She’s our heart and soul.
After folding my bedding into neat piles, I take the bare mattress to the girls’ room. I push the door open quietly and ease the mattress in against the wall for storage. The sun is just starting to rise so I can make out my daughter, Rosa’s form, huddled next to her cousin, Daniela, on the bottom bunk while the top bunk is occupied by my youngest sister, Carmen. With them being so close in age, Daniela and Carmen are more like sisters to Rosa than cousin and aunt. Rosa is the baby at six, then Daniela at seven, and Carmen at eight. The three of them are always together.
I carefully take the work clothes I laid out last night from the dresser and then hit the shower. I make it quick because the contents of one hot water tank can only be stretched so far, and listening to my sisters whine about cold water will ruin my morning.
“Buenos días, Abuela,” I tell my grandmother in the kitchen, trying to hold back my amusement at the mug of coffee sitting on the countertop next to the assembly line of lunches she’s got going. It took forever, but I think I’ve finally convinced her to give up her wretched instant coffee and drink the freshly brewed stuff.
“Buenos días.” She gives me a warm smile as she adds an apple to each lunch box, mine included. “So, mijo, I need to talk to you about taking Daniela to the optometrist,” she announces in Spanish. “Her teacher sent a note home again.”
The stress on the word again makes me flinch, and I almost spill the coffee I’m pouring. “It’s still on my list.” I pause. “You’re sure we can’t take her to the community clinic?”
“I told you, they lost funding for that.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “You told me. I’ll take care of it.”
Flopping myself down at the old kitchen table, I push out a sigh.
“Gracias, mijo.” I feel her hand ruffle my hair. “That girl needs you. You’re a good uncle. And . . . ,” she pauses for effect, smiling sweetly, “the best grandson.”
I chuckle. “Are you sweet talking me, Abuela? Should I be worried?”
I catch a glimpse of her grimace as she sits in the chair next to me. “Perhaps. Yesterday, after Mass, I had an interesting conversation with Señora Alvarez.”
My brain flips through all the señoras at church yesterday. “Jorgie’s grandmother?” As I say the words, it all falls into place. Oh, shit. Here we go.
She nods. “It seems he got arrested on Friday.” I watch her shake her head with disapproval. “That family, I tell you.”
I grit my teeth. “You can’t blame them for Tío Javier’s death, Abuela. He made his own choices.”
Her lips compress into a straight edge, deepening the lines around her mouth. I know she’s holding back on starting an argument, one we’ve had a million times in the past. Her only son, my Tío Javier, came up in Los Santos del Diablo with Alejandro, Jorgie’s uncle. They were best friends until my uncle was killed eight years ago. I was fourteen at the time and his murder left a huge crater in our lives. He was the only thing close to a father that I’d ever known – and in an instant, he and his long-time girlfriend were gone, shot dead outside their house that’s not four blocks from here. They left behind their three month old daughter, Daniela, and now I’m the only thing close to a father that she’s ever known. The world is a messed-up place, but my grandmother’s need to place the blame on Jorgie’s family’s doorstep isn’t right.
“Well, I don’t see you getting arrested, now do I?”
My stomach clenches but I manage to keep my face neutral. She doesn’t need to know how close I came to landing my ass in jail right alongside Jorgie’s.
“I talked to Jorgie last night,” I say. “They didn’t file charges, so what’s his grandmother worried about?”
Her expression sours even more. “She seems to think that I’d be willing to ask you about getting Jorge a job at your company.” My grandmother never calls Jorgie by his nickname, it’s always the proper Jorge.
I laugh. “Jorgie? With a nine-to-five job? That’ll be the day.”
“That’s what I said. But then Father Martín added his support for the idea.”
My heart falls. “Father Martín wants me to get Jorgie a job?” This morning is going downhill fast. I can’t say no to Father Martín. I owe him. He was the one who got me my first construction job when I was seventeen. Without him vouching for me, I’d still be working for minimum wage at Walmart or something.
“Unfortunately, yes. He thinks that some structure will keep Jorge out of trouble.”