Summer 2007
Lily, honey. Put on your other shoe. It’s time to go.”
“I want my purple sneaker.”
Mari looked down at her daughter’s feet, one bare, and one clad in a silver-glitter ballet flat. Then she glanced at her watch. Her shift at the Jupiter Café began in exactly fifteen minutes.
“Okay, your purple sneakers? Let’s put them on.”
“No. One sneaker.”
“But then you won’t match.”
Lily rolled her eyes and flopped on the bed; she was four going on fourteen.
“I want to mismatch.”
Too tired to argue, Mari slipped the purple sneaker on her daughter’s left foot and did up the Velcro straps. With her Belle T-shirt, plaid leggings and buns all over her head, Lily resembled a tiny Gwen Stefani, circa 1998.
“Are you taking me today?” she asked, her green eyes wide.
Mari’s stomach pinched with guilt. “Not today. Mommy has to work.”
With an exasperated sigh, Lily heaved herself off the bed and slipped her Little Mermaid backpack over her shoulder. “You always have to work.” She glanced around the room. “Where’s my tiara?”
Mari’s eyes scanned the bedroom in the quaint 1940s beach cottage that had belonged to her grandfather. When he had passed away, her parents had inherited it, and now Mari lived with them. Lily’s small bed with purple floral sheets, hidden beneath her stuffed animals, fit snugly in the corner, while Mari’s modest twin sat beneath the open window, the ocean breeze ruffling the gauzy, white curtains.
Outside, the natural beauty of California’s coastline stretched for miles. The sun through the window warmed Mari’s face, and today would be another perfect seventy-eight degrees. Perched on the northern edge of Monterey Bay, Santa Cruz sat beneath the cool shade of the redwood trees, offering the most beautiful views in the world.
Atop a shelf on Mari’s bookcase, Lily’s tiara sparkled in the sunlight.
“Found it,” Mari said, walking over to reach for the plastic crown.
Lily clapped her hands. “Hooray!”
A hard lump rose in Mari’s throat as her gaze settled on her history textbooks, which she hadn’t opened in years. She longed to trail her finger down their worn spines, remembering the words of Howard Zinn and W.E.B. Du Bois.
“Let’s go,” Mari said, placing the tiara atop Lily’s head. Lily beamed as she adjusted it, like the rightful winner of the Miss Universe pageant.
Stepping into the tiled kitchen, Mari found her mother putting together Lily’s lunch box. “Oh Ma, I was going to do that.”
Paulina shrugged, her thick chestnut hair reaching her shoulders. Even in her late forties, she still turned heads. “I wanted to help.” Looking down at her granddaughter, Paulina opened her arms. “Buenos dias, sweetie!”
Lily ran to her abuela, tripping over her mismatched shoes.
Raising an eyebrow, Paulina looked at Mari. “Mija, what is she wearing?”
“She’s four,” Mari mumbled. “Look, it’s only shoes.”
“Look at this stuff, isn’t it neat?” Lily belted out, freeing herself from Paulina and twirling around the kitchen. “Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete?”
“Oh great.” Paulina shot Mari a look. “Is this going to last the whole car ride?”
Mari smiled. “Sorry.”
She snuck a quick glance in the hallway mirror, smoothing her waitress uniform—a short blue dress with square front pockets. The Jupiter Café encouraged its employees to look “funky,” but this morning Mari had put on tiny gold hoop earrings in defiance of the tacky plastic jewelry rule. Wearing no makeup, she could still pass for a college student—except she felt about a hundred years older.
“Come here,” Mari said, scooping Lily into a hug and kissing her face until she erupted into giggles.
Mari breathed in the scent of Lily’s apple shampoo, her heart aching when she thought of her little girl entering kindergarten in the fall. How was that possible? She liked having Lily at Green Frog Preschool, where Paulina worked as the director of the bilingual school. Santa Cruz housed a mix of open-minded, eco-friendly families, eager for their children to learn Spanish. Mari loved that about her community.
“I love you, Mom,” Lily said, blowing a kiss.
“Love you too,” Mari replied, watching her daughter scamper out the door.
Grabbing her lukewarm, half-finished mug of coffee off the counter, Mari took a swig, wondering if she should reheat it in the microwave. Instead, she put Lily’s empty cereal bowl in the dishwasher, finished loading the machine, and turned it on. Her stomach growled, but she had no time for breakfast.
In the hallway, Mari paused to look at a framed black-and-white photograph of her abuelo, the famed Ricardo Cruz. Her young grandfather plunged headfirst from a trapeze into the Pacific Ocean. He’d been a Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk performer in the 1940s, a stunt diver who delighted the crowds with his daring act.
Mari swallowed, remembering all the times she’d strolled hand in hand with her abuelo along the wooden slats of the boardwalk. He’d bought her cotton candy and ice cream, taken her for endless rides on the carousel, and let her sit on his shoulders when she’d gotten tired of walking.
He’d told her stories—so many stories—about his adventures as a young man, bringing the sights and sounds of the boardwalk to life. The bands that had played, the people he had known, they danced in Mari’s mind like images from a vintage movie reel.
She blinked back tears and twisted the door handle.
“Bye, Abuelo,” she whispered. “I miss you.”
BY THE TIME she reached the Jupiter Café, Mari had broken a sweat, even though the scenic walk from Beach Hill, overlooking the sparkling blue ocean, took less than ten minutes. Tourists on beach cruisers zipped past, their tanned legs pushing bicycle pedals as they made their way toward Pacific Avenue’s shops and restaurants.
Mari slipped in the back entrance of the café, donning her planet-covered apron with one hand and punching her time card with the other. She was already looking forward to picking Lily up from school, so they could collect seashells at Natural Bridges Beach, dip their toes in the water, and admire wildflowers along the footpath.
“There you are.”
Wanda appeared from around the corner, her gaze like an owl’s behind her rhinestone 1950s cat’s-eye glasses, her bleach-blond hair stuck up in spikes.
“Oh!” Mari said, putting a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”
Wanda scrutinized Mari’s face, then looked down at her bare arms and clucked her tongue. “What’s this? I want funky! You’re young, Marisol. You’re a pretty girl. Where’s that Latin flair? Arriba!”
“Sorry.” Mari shrugged. “I guess I didn’t bring it today.”
“You want my red lipstick?” Wanda offered, digging into the pocket of her apron. The alarming crimson shade had worked its way into the wrinkles above Wanda’s mouth, enhancing the yellow tint of her teeth.
“No thanks,” Mari said, dodging Wanda’s outstretched arm. “Looks like table four needs coffee. I’ll bring them some.”
Putting on a bright smile, she approached the red vinyl booth in the corner. Two girls sat slumped over, wearing hooded UC Santa Cruz sweatshirts and tight yoga pants, their blond hair tied up in messy buns.
“Good morning,” Mari said, holding up a steaming pitcher. “Coffee?”
“God yes,” one coughed, her voice as hoarse as a chain-smoker’s. Rings of mascara were smeared around her eyes. “Give it to me.”
“Ugh,” the other moaned, rubbing her temples. “I think I’m still drunk.”
Mari poured two cups, smiling sympathetically. It had been years since she’d woken up with a hangover. As a working, single mom, she had enough to worry about without the added pressure of nausea and a headache.
Chewing her lip, Mari remembered the last time she’d been really drunk . . . the summer of her graduation from UC Santa Cruz. She’d aced all her finals, made the dean’s list, and hadn’t seen the harm in throwing back a few (okay, several) tequila shots. That was the night she’d wound up pregnant.
Mari shook her head to clear away the memory. “I can bring you both some water too if you like. It’s good to stay hydrated.”
“Sure,” one of the blondes said. “Thanks.”
“Do you know what you’d like to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
“Hash browns and eggs,” the hoarse girl barked.
“And I’ll have the pancakes,” the other answered.
“Sure thing,” Mari said. “They’ll be coming right up.”
She made her way around the room to other tables, carried steaming plates laden with food from the kitchen, refilled coffee, wiped down countertops and called out orders to the cooks. When she returned with the order of hash browns, eggs and pancakes for the blondes, they were in the midst of a heated argument.
“Santa Cruz became a city in 1900,” the bossy one said with a flick of her fingernails. “A Spanish guy discovered it. He built the missions.”
“Are you sure?” the other blonde asked. “Because this test is in an hour.”
Setting down their plates, Mari counted to ten in her head. Don’t say anything you’ll regret. Let these two party their education away.
“There were just, like, a bunch of Indians here or whatever,” blonde number one continued. “The Spanish brought them culture.”
“Actually,” Mari said, her words tumbling out as she refilled both mugs of coffee, “Santa Cruz became a city in 1866. In 1848, following the Mexican–American War, Mexico ceded the territory of Alta California to the U.S. in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. California was the first portion of the territory to become a state, in 1850.”
The college students sat there slack-jawed, staring at Mari like she’d spoken in a foreign language. Her cheeks heating, Mari filled the awkward silence by spouting more facts. What was she doing? She didn’t know how to stop herself.
“And before the arrival of Spanish soldiers and missionaries in the late eighteenth century, Santa Cruz was home to the Awaswas people. They’re Native Americans, not Indians. The misnomer Ohlone is often used to describe the native people of the Santa Cruz area, but really it’s a generalized name for the many diverse tribes who lived in the region. They were also referred to by the Spanish as Costanoan.”
The blonde who’d seemed so sure of herself rolled her eyes, while the other pulled her slumped body upright and grabbed Mari’s hand.
“Can you take my test for me?”
Mari sensed Wanda watching her—or rather, felt the heat of Wanda’s glare.
“I wish I could,” Mari said, her voice quiet. If only she could rewind time to that night after finals . . .
But then she wouldn’t have Lily, her greatest joy in life. And wasn’t Lily the reason she worked as a waitress? Mari’s flexible schedule allowed her to pick Lily up from preschool and to be there when her daughter needed her.
In the bustling heat of the kitchen, Mari stuck meal orders on tacks and wiped the sweat from her brow. Wanda appeared, strong hands placed on thick hips.
“What did I tell you about talking to the customers?” Her eyes narrowed behind her pink cat’s-eye glasses, the rhinestones glinting menacingly.
“Keep the conversation light.” Mari lowered her head. “Wanda, I’m sorry.”
“If you’re not happy here,” Wanda said, leaning in so close that Mari could smell stale cigarettes on her breath, “just say so. I’ve got other employees who want more shifts. They would be happy to take your mornings.”
“Oh no, I—”
Mari’s cell phone vibrated in her apron pocket, and she resisted the urge to pick it up. But what if it was her mother, and something had happened to Lily at school?
“It’s okay,” Wanda said. “Take fifteen. You’re due for a break.”
Stepping outside into the sunlight, Mari took in a deep breath, letting the salty sea air fill her lungs. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she looked at the unfamiliar number flashing on screen. Mari sat down on a bench in the parking lot behind the café and kicked a cigarette butt away with the toe of her sneaker.
“Hello?”
“Is this Marisol Cruz?”
The woman’s voice was polished and crisp.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Hello, Marisol. This is Jane Anderson, lead curator at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History. I’m responding to your application for the customer service position working at our exhibit during the Beach Boardwalk Centennial Celebration.”
Mari sat bolt upright, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes?”
“We loved learning that your grandfather, Ricardo Cruz, was one of the famed Beach Boardwalk performers of his time. Of course, we were impressed by your résumé too, especially your graduating with honors in history from UC Santa Cruz. We would be thrilled to have an actual descendant of Ricardo’s teaching tourists about the legacy of the boardwalk. Do you have time for a quick phone interview?”
“Yes.” Mari swallowed, her mouth dry. “Of course.”
“Wonderful,” Jane replied. “Just to clarify your job duties, you would be selling raffle tickets and operating our museum booth showcasing the history of the Beach Boardwalk. This would be every Saturday and Sunday from June through August. According to your résumé, you currently work as a waitress . . . can you tell me more about that?”
Mari winced at the confusion in Jane’s voice. What was someone who graduated cum laude doing working in food service?
“I have a daughter,” Mari explained. “She’s four. I wait tables at Jupiter Café so that I can spend more time with her. I have a flexible schedule. And it won’t affect my ability to work at the exhibit. I have extensive customer service experience.”
“Well,” Jane said. “Fantastic! Can you come by at noon next Saturday? You’ll meet with the boardwalk archivist, Carol, above the Cocoanut Grove Ballroom on Beach Street. She’ll let you know more about getting started.”
“Absolutely,” Mari said, even though Saturdays and Sundays were her best-paying shifts. “Thank you so much.” She dug her nails into her palm, thinking about her lost tips. But hadn’t she wanted this job—gone out on a limb to apply for it?
“Great. We look forward to seeing you then. Please bring your driver’s license, and we’ll have you fill out the employment paperwork. Goodbye, Marisol.”
“Bye.” Mari brought her fingers to her lips.
Working for the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History had long been her dream job. Yet in the last four years, Mari’s dream had gotten derailed. She’d lost her confidence to the responsibilities of being a mother—dealing with fevers, dirty diapers, dirty dishes and dirty laundry.
What about the girl who’d studied late into the night, who thought about going to graduate school, who wanted to work in the heart of a museum? She’d had a big smile and even bigger aspirations. Mari’s throat tightened, wishing she could hug her grandpa or hear his voice just one more time. She’d been thinking about him when she filled out the online application to work the Centennial Celebration, proudly telling his story.
She looked up at the sky and whispered, “Thank you, Abuelo.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked back toward the Jupiter Café. Taking this weekend job was a big risk—one that probably wouldn’t pay off in the way she hoped. The summer would end, and then what? Jane Anderson would see how smart she was and offer her something permanent and full-time? Ridiculous.
But hadn’t Mari’s grandpa always told her to be brave?
She closed her eyes, imagining the courage it took him to release his knees from the trapeze, and to plunge headfirst into the ocean. It had to be terrifying, but exhilarating too. Abuelo had always told her to reach for the stars. And she was going to try.