What Can't Wait Read online

  She’s writing down the appointment in blue crayon before I even respond. She can never find a pen when she needs it.

  “Fine, I’ll write the essay.”

  “Of course you will,” Ms. Ford says. “Oreo?”

  The fight in me is all used up, so I take one.

  The cafeteria is mostly empty, and I spot Brenda right away. Next to her, some white guy I don’t recognize is playing a guitar. She’s laughing and leaning against the far wall, which is just one huge, greasy window that faces a scrubby courtyard with picnic tables. The afternoon light angling in behind her gives her a sort of glow, like La Virgen de Guadalupe in a church painting. But this is all show. Brenda is so not the virgin in our friendship.

  Most of the time I’m fine with how I look. Average build, average boobs, average brown eyes, broad Mexican nose, and black hair. Whatever. But when I walk toward Brenda, I suddenly feel awkward and embarrassed to be wearing my polo shirt for work and no makeup. One look at her and you’d know what I mean. Brenda has perfect caramel skin and these big eyes, plus a delicate little nose and a smile like she’s already got you figured out. Then there’s her body. Picture the Latina Barbie doll minus the plastic and ugly clothes, and you’re on the right track.

  The guy with Brenda has his head bent over the guitar, and I think maybe she has finally met her match. This guy is hot. His body is seriously built under that white T-shirt and jeans, and his face is straight out of an Abercrombie ad. He’s laughing when I walk up. His blond eyebrows shoot up, and he tilts his head back. Even his Adam’s apple is sexy. I don’t blame Brenda for not noticing me until I’m right in front of them.

  “Marisa!” Brenda throws her arms around me like she hasn’t seen me in a week. She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before she’s pulling me closer to the guy. “Hey, this is Greg; he just transferred from Lamar. Greg, this is Marisa, my best friend since forever.” He grins, and I think he’s already in love with everything about Brenda, right down to the way she says his name with a touch of an accent. He leans the guitar against the window and sticks out his hand for me to shake.

  “Hey Marisa,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

  He surprises me by getting my name right on the first try. A lot of white people say my name all ugly and flat, with an “uh” at the end.

  “Greg’s got U.S. Government with us,” Brenda says. “I promised Dominguez I’d help him catch up.”

  “Lucky Greg,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Greg just nods and says, “Yep, lucky me.” He’s still smiling.

  I stick my phone in Brenda’s face to show her the time. She reluctantly detaches herself from Greg, but not before she adds his phone number to her cell and gets him to promise to show her how to play something on his guitar tomorrow. Brenda has this way of making things happen. Me, I just stand around fantasizing about touching Alan’s hand.

  She shoots Greg a few sexy looks over her shoulder as we walk away. “Dominguez really did ask me to show him around, no lie.”

  “Yeah, that’s noble of you. What a sacrifice.”

  “Well, he’s going to need some help, you know, to fit in. What is he, like the sixth white guy in the whole damn school?”

  Whatever, güerita. You’ll make him feel right at home. You’re every white boy’s secret fantasy.”

  Brenda’s hands go right to her hips. “Hey, just because I got green contacts don’t make me güera. I’m as Mexican as I am Cuban, and plenty proud of mi cultura.”

  “No te creas; I’m just kidding,” I say fast. “But maybe I should warn Gringo Greg about your man-eating past.”

  “Be careful, I am your ride,” she says. As if she’d leave me behind. But she does change the subject. “Seriously, what is Ceci’s problem? Qué pendeja. When you were texting me today, I almost got my phone taken up in English because I started cussing at it. Thank God I’m an only child. I mean, to just leave you stranded at the library, and after she promised!”

  “Oh, it gets better. The dentist told her a while ago not to give Anita milk at night before bed, but of course she didn’t listen. So Anita’s front teeth got really bad and they had to put silver caps on. I guess Jose said something about how they look, and now Anita’s too embarrassed to smile. She wouldn’t even let me read her funny books at the library, and she puts her hand up in front of her mouth when she’s talking.”

  A bunch of guys from the basketball team are hanging out just inside the gym as we go by. LeRoy catches sight of Brenda and steps into the doorway. “Looking fine, Bren,” he says. “Where you been?” He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s fidgeting with the basketball in his hands and he grins at Brenda way too long. Desperate’s the word.

  “Can you play with that thing in?” she asks, pointing at his mouth. Brenda’s interest in LeRoy lasted about five minutes—and it ended about the same time he got himself fitted with a gold grill studded with rhinestones.

  Brenda doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “See you, LeRoy,” she says, shoving him playfully back toward the gym before she grabs my arm and tugs me on toward the door.

  “God, too much BET or what? I cannot get past the grill,” Brenda says once we’re outside.

  “Well, I remember when you were talking about what beautiful caramel-colored kids you guys could have someday....”

  “Shut up, that was ages ago.”

  “Try two months ago.”

  “Maybe,” Brenda says all serious, “we should take some pictures of LeRoy’s grill and tell Anita that some people put metal on their teeth to be cool. Think that’d make her feel better?”

  I laugh. “Can’t you just hear her? ‘Teeth jewelry, Tía!’ Then she’ll want diamonds.”

  “Speaking of diamonds, a certain second baseman was looking for you today.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saw him.”

  “You’re smiling!” Her voice is singsong.

  “He just gave me our econ notes,” I say. “That was it.” Brenda is not exactly subtle about these things, and I don’t want to give her any new ammunition.

  “How muy, muy thoughtful,” she says and elbows me. “Just say the word and you’ve got Cupid Zepeda at your service.”

  chapter 3

  I hold the back door open for my mom. We’re both yawning, and as soon as she gets inside, she kicks off her shoes and drops into a chair. “Another day finished, gracias a Dios,” she says. I grab the lotion from the counter and sit down next to her. I have to massage her feet because by this time of night her hands hurt too much to do it. She’s been working at the bakery forever, and all the kneading she does with dough turns her arthritis murderous. Her feet swell up bad from standing so long, and I stare at the floor while I rub them so I won’t have to see them all puffy and twisted.

  There’s a crash in the living room.

  “Boo!” Anita shouts as she jumps into the kitchen. She drops on all fours and scoots across the floor on the knees of her pajamas.

  “I thought I smelled a rat!” I wipe my hands on a napkin and reach out for a hug.

  “Just a little ratón.” Anita covers the two silver teeth with her tongue and wriggles her fingers from her cheeks like whiskers.

  “What are you doing still awake, mija?” Mami asks her. “Ya es muy tarde.” She can’t stand to see Anita run loose. Plus, if she wakes up my dad, there’ll be hell to pay.

  Anita runs to the door, picks up the shoes from where Ma dropped them, and places them neatly against the wall.

  “I been helping my mommy,” she tells me. “Can I help Abuelita too?”

  “Ask her. You know how.”

  “Abue, ¿Puedo ayudarte en algo?” Anita asks in her shy Spanish.

  “No, gracias. Vete a dormir, mija.” Ma waves her away, but not before she pulls down the hand that Anita has over her mouth.

  “I’ll put her to bed,” I say. “Come on, little ratón.”

  “Mommy’s getting pretty,” Anita whispers as I steer her toward the living room.

/>   “Oh really?” I know what’s up as soon as I see the stupid bouquet of flowers on the coffee table. They’re pink roses, Cecilia’s favorite. They already look a little brown at the edges, and I can just see Jose picking them up from the “Reduced for Quick Sale” table in the Wal-Mart floral section. Here we go.

  I turn out the living room lights and settle Anita in her little corner sleeping spot.

  “Paco?” Anita looks around for my old teddy bear. Paco was Cecilia’s first, then Gustavo’s, and then mine. Now he gets a good dose of Anita whenever she’s here.

  “Hang on, chiquita.” I find Paco in the hall. He has two hair clips attached to his ears like earrings. The bathroom door is open a little, and I can see a slice of Cecilia’s hand holding a mascara wand.

  I carry the teddy bear back to the living room, tuck him into the covers with Anita, and stroke her hair until she falls asleep.

  “Hey,” Cecilia says when I push the bathroom door open.

  She doesn’t look away from her reflection.

  “¿Qué haces?” I ask.

  “Just spoiling myself a little.” She streaks eyeliner under her left eye.

  “Do you have anything to say to me?”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry about earlier. I got caught up and . . .”

  “Cut the crap. Did you talk to the lawyer?”

  “Maybe,” she says. She sucks in her breath to find her cheekbones and dusts them pink. She looks totally uninterested in what I just said.

  “Hello?” I wave a hand between Cecilia and the mirror. “What are you going to do?”

  She shrugs. “Jose’s going to stop by on his way home from work.”

  “So what are you going to say? What about the div—”

  “Shut up!” she snaps. “It’s my business, entiendes? Jose and me just got crossways is all. He already called and said he was sorry. He means it; I know he does.”

  “I bet. And he also said he’s going to help around the house and stop boozing during the week and quit smoking pot?”

  Cecilia shoots me a look. “I never said he was perfect. But he wants me to go back to school. He’s going to work more hours so that when Anita starts kindergarten we’ll have money for me to do a cosmetology program.”

  “You can do that without him, Ceci. You know you can. Don’t put Anita through this again. She’s not a baby. She’s too big for you to just stick her in her room like nothing is happening while you two are going at each other.”

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” Cecilia’s eyes narrow. “One day maybe you’ll have your own fucking problemas to worry about. Then we’ll see who’s so smart.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve. A shitload of nerve.” I walk out of the bathroom so mad I’m shaking.

  “Yeah, well, es mi vida!” Cecilia says. “Get your own!”

  chapter 4

  I don’t know how to swim, and I’m lost deep in muddy water. Seaweed fingers wrap themselves in my hair. The shadows of slippery things I can’t see circle over me. I know I’m running out of air, but I can’t get to the surface. My head feels heavy, and . . .

  5:00 A.M. My alarm clock flashes red and starts blaring Shakira and static. Usually I slap it off right away, but today it takes me longer to get free of the dream.

  “Marisa!” Papi shouts. “Calla la maldita alarma!” He pounds the wall that separates our bedrooms until I get my hands on the alarm clock and turn it off.

  The dream sticks with me, making shadows in the back of my brain while I get dressed and wash my face. I carry my backpack to the kitchen and think how empty the living room seems. Three days was all it took for me to get used to having Anita around, but now she and Cecilia are back with Jose.

  In the kitchen, my report card is in the same place I left it yesterday, untouched. I’ve been doing this since middle school, hoping that one day my parents will say something. If I stick the grades right in my mom’s face, she says, “Qué bueno,” but I don’t think the A’s even register to her. I grab the report card and toss it in the drawer with all the others that they’ve ignored. Then I get to work.

  I’m almost done with my calculus homework when Papi comes into the kitchen trailing a steamy soap smell.

  For a second I consider finishing the last few lines of the problem, but I know better. I close the book.

  “Buenos días, Papi. You want eggs?”

  “Con chile y tocino,” he says without looking at me.

  I throw extra bacon into the skillet because I can hear Gustavo in the shower. Mami sleeps in after her late nights at the bakery, but Gustavo always expects breakfast.

  My dad pulls out his supplies from the pantry and sets his work boots on the floor by his chair. I listen for him to start polishing them, but he doesn’t make a sound. When I crack the last egg into a bowl, I turn and see Papi staring at my calculus book and pencil.

  “Mueva esas cosas,” he says. His voice is sharp.

  “OK, Papi.” I move my things off of the table, but I don’t apologize.

  I’m relieved when he starts to polish his work boots like he does every day. Now he’ll be too busy to get mad at me. He dabs cleaner on any muddy places and massages the dirt out. Then he rubs on a sealer to protect the leather. The last step is a careful buff with a wadded sheet of newspaper.

  My mom says Papi makes such a big deal about his boots because he didn’t get his first pair of real shoes until he was thirteen. Then she always reminds me of how bad life was for him in Mexico and how I should remember that I’m an American citizen because of his hard work.

  I wait until my dad finishes with his boots before I set the plate in front of him. Keeping the peace is all about doing what Papi wants when he wants it.

  I clean up the kitchen and listen to his fork scrape on the plate. I don’t have to look to know that he is sitting perfectly straight, like Mami taught us to sit in church. But it looks to me like it hurts Papi to sit that way. Plus there’s this sunken look to his cheeks like he never gets enough to eat, even though I cook for him all the time.

  My dad’s fork clatters against his plate.

  “Something else, Papi?”

  He shakes his head, hands me the dish, and walks out without a word.

  “Love you, too,” I say to the empty room. “Have a great day.”

  When I see a roach climb into the box with Papi’s boot-cleaning supplies, I don’t chase it down.

  chapter 5

  It’s Friday afternoon, and I probably would have skipped all the way to Ms. Ford’s room if the halls were empty. Because I actually wrote the UT application essay, and I think it might even be OK.

  This is a semi-miracle because I hate essays. Despise them. My English teacher, Mrs. Garza, always talks about how writing should open up your world, that there are no wrong answers. But essays are always asking you to put yourself in little boxes, to make yourself fit in three to five pages. “Describe the person you most admire” really means: Are you the kind of person who admires

  (a) a relative

  (b) a famous person/celebrity/role model

  (c) some random person for a reason you can’t explain?

  There are definitely wrong answers.

  UT wanted me to “Describe a significant setback, challenge, or opportunity in your life and the impact that it has had on you.” I worried about that a lot, because you’re supposed to show how something hard ended up teaching you a lesson. But what about things that are just hard without being good for you? I can’t just make up some pretty story about how coming from Mexico was difficult for my parents, and education is now the number-one priority in our house. Maybe that’s true in Lifetime movies, but not in my house.

  I had to do something to get started, so I decided to just write down everything I knew I couldn’t put in my essay.

  ————

  Dear UT,

  My sister got pregnant at seventeen, giving up her career at Sonic to take care of the baby and hate her husband Jose full time. My bro
ther has a GED, and his idea of a long-term goal is saving up money to get new rims for his truck. My parents are not interested in learning English—they only took that one class so that they could meet the requirements to get citizenship. Papi loves my paycheck and only tolerates me, and Mami’s biggest dream is for me to get married and live in a house on this same street so that she can watch her nietos grow up just as unhappy. Oh, and if you’re wondering why I missed the PSAT last year when I should have tried for National Merit Scholar, it was because no one else could stay home to watch my niece that day.

  ————

  I know that sounds pissy and super-critical, but it’s completely true. Then it hit me that I feel this way because I know I want something different. And all of a sudden I got the feeling that I might actually be able to write an essay about that. I crossed out my list of complaints and started again.

  Now Ms. Ford is reading the essay, and I’m watching her face. She stops a couple of times to scratch down notes on the backside of one of her handouts. I can’t even read them because she’s writing with a dry-erase marker. I offer her my pencil, but she waves it away.

  When she looks up, she’s smiling. She goes over a few things with me—be more specific here, you get a little off track there, check the spelling of the circled words—then she hands me my paper.

  “All you need is a conclusion,” she says, stretching her arms over her head.

  “But didn’t I already . . .”

  “You’re almost there. You show how they don’t understand what you want to do. Now show what, exactly, you want to be different in your life and how UT fits into that.”

  I think about that for a minute before I start writing. I mark a bunch of things out, add some new things, rewrite it, then take it up to Ms. Ford’s desk.

  ————

  I watch the life that my parents lead, and I know that I want something different. They have worked hard their entire lives with no savings to show for it. My dad dropped out of school in Mexico before third grade; my mom “graduated” from middle school. My brother and sister got out of high school, but they don’t want anything more.