Mrs. Grew was suddenly standing right in front of me. “Miss Cruz.”
“Yes?” I set down my pen.
“Care to share your story?” She sounded genuinely interested, but still, no. I mean, there was no way I was going to share!
“No, thank you,” I said. But in case she was legit going to give me an F, I quickly handed her my pages so she’d know I’d actually written something. Mrs. Grew walked back to her desk, frowning. I tried not to look back at Rayshawn, but of course, I did. He gave me a look I couldn’t figure out. Did he feel bad for me? Did he think I was pathetic? Or was he just sleepy?
In the hall after class he tapped my shoulder. “Hey.”
“Oh, hey. Hi.”
“Don’t let her get to you. You know, Mrs. G. And just so you know, it’s not just METCO kids she’s mad awkward with.”
“She’s whatever.”
Rayshawn gave a half smile. “So, it’s been about two months now. How you liking Westburg?” When I didn’t answer, he pressed. “Wellllllll?”
“Sorry… Guess I’m still bugged out by Mrs. Grew.”
“Right.”
“Fine. It’s okay,” I said. “Well, some of it.”
“Like Dustin?”
My face went all hot. “Yeah.”
He smiled, or smirked. It was hard to tell. “Why don’t you come sit with the METCO table at lunch sometime?”
“Me? Uh… they weren’t exactly the best welcoming committee my first couple of weeks here.”
“You know how it is.”
“No… I don’t.”
“They’re just waiting on you.”
“For what?” Now I was the one smirking.
“See if you last. If you stay.”
Whaaa? They were waiting until… Huh. I’d never thought of that! I hadn’t even remembered that METCO kids could start the program but then quit anytime they wanted. Yeah, like my parents would let me—but it was technically possible.
Rayshawn put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not that deep. They’re just probably sick of opening up to people, only to have them leave. You feel me?”
“Do a lot of kids leave?” Actually, I could understand why. Too-early mornings. Aggy teachers. Long days.
“Yeah, actually.”
One of his basketball buddies bounced up and play-flicked him in the head.
“Later,” Rayshawn said to me.
“Later,” I said to the back of his head.
18
Just when it seemed like Tía and Tío would never leave, all of a sudden they were leaving, heading back to Guatemala. They must have all the money they need, I thought, again wondering how much “all the money” could even be. That made me kind of excited, kind of nervous. The Sunday before their flight, Tío R. surprised us all by making pepián. It was totally something Dad would have ordered in the Guatemalan restaurant in Waltham that we used to go to sometimes on special occasions. I’d never tried it. It was a stew the colors of an army jacket. And it took hours—apparently—to make, which meant Tío R. was in the kitchen for like the whole afternoon. He roasted tomatoes, crushed pumpkin seeds—even had Christopher and Benjamin help. Even though he’d said earlier that men didn’t belong in the kitchen!
Mom had to go to the grocery store three different times because he kept asking for certain ingredients like dried chiles and green beans, but not all at the same time. Mom didn’t complain, though. Somehow having these smells in the apartment put her in a good mood. Or maybe it was because we were all together, chopping and cutting and mashing and focused—finally—on something good that had nothing to do with getting Dad home. Jade came over for dinner and after one bite said the pepián was mad good and could she take some in a Tupperware to her grandmother, who was working late cleaning an office building. Of course Mom said yes. I wished they hadn’t waited to make Guatemalan food until they were leaving for Guatemala. That pepián was right up there with Vietnamese.
Once Tía Laura and Tío R. left, my brothers would get their bedroom back. But it also meant that things were getting real. I still had so many questions. So after they were finished packing, while my brothers were out playing on their scooters, my great-aunt watching them, I joined her. Dustin sent me a text, but I ignored it—I know! Tía drank her beer from one of those free plastic cups from the bank. Tío R. was smoking cigarettes with a couple of old dudes down the street. The streak of pink in the sky caught my eye. When I was little, Dad had told me it was the sun saying good night in sun-language. Good night, Dad. Then I sat on the steps beside my great-aunt.
Tía Laura must have seen me looking all thoughtful, because out of nowhere she said, “Don’t worry too much about your mother. She has depression, but it will pass. The sun falls before it rises once more. Así es.” She paused. “And don’t slouch, mija.” Why were people always telling you not to slouch?
So. Yes. My mother was depressed. I knew that. And it wasn’t going to pass until my father came home. So I asked, “Tía, I need you to tell me. Dad’s going to make it, right?”
She sighed. “Only God knows.” Well, that didn’t exactly make me feel better. She pulled a lime wedge out of the cup and began sucking on it, then pulled it out of her mouth and waved it at me. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Your father is smart—hard working and smart.”
“You always say that.”
“Well, it’s true. When his parents died, may they rest in peace, he was only nine. He made it three more years in school and then insisted on dropping out and working to help support the family. There was no budging him.”
“That doesn’t sound very… smart to me, Tía.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, your father found a job at a university. He cleaned the bathrooms, swept the floors. He didn’t mind. He talked to the students, and after their final exams, they would give him their books and notebooks. Your father taught himself a college education when he was only a teenager. And he got paid! That is smart.”
I picked at a crumbling corner of the stone step. “I guess. But—and I’m not trying to be rude or whatever—but then why did he have to move to the United States?”
She took another sip of beer. “Well, that… is a longer story. This was back during the war—”
My phone vibrated. Dustin. I put the phone in my pocket. A war? Did I know about a war in Guatemala? I knew Dad’s parents had died in a war.… But I didn’t want to sound like an idiot, so I bluffed with, “I actually don’t know much about the war.”
She made a face. “The civil war? In Guatemala and El Salvador? Your parents never told you?”
“Maybe… they forgot?” Or maybe I’d shown zero interest.
“Ha! Impossible. It lasted thirty-six years.”
Whaaa?
Tía spat. “There was a terrible, horrible rat of a general named Ríos Montt. He wanted to kill all the indigenous people.”
I stopped picking the stone. “Indigenous? Wait. Is my dad… indigenous? And, and, why did this guy want to kill them?”