4

My mother’s “Mercedes” is in the driveway. It’s our private joke to call that broke-down piece of shit Toyota Camry a Mercedes. What isn’t a joke is that how much Mami works should have got her an actual Mercedes but didn’t.

The familiar base pumps through the walls. In my casa, we got music playing 24/7. Partly because then the assailants will think, Hey, Bad Bunny is playing, better let them enjoy their jam, and hit the next house. I prop open the screen door with my backpack, use three keys to unlock the door, and hear over the music, “That bastard!”

“Mami?”

I check the photographs on the entertainment center in the living room. My eyes scan past the framed photos of titis, tios, and primos, to the photos of Rita Moreno, Celia Cruz, Daddy Yankee. J Lo, Felipe Andres Coronel aka Immortal Technique, Benicio Del Toro. A couple years ago Lin Manuel-Miranda joined the family.

When I was little, I thought they were all my familia. Let me express how much it sucked to tell all the kids at school that Tio Daddy Yankee wasn’t coming to my birthday at the roller rink.

Yup, Mami is pissed. There is a sticky note over my dad’s face, in the one pic of him that she keeps for my sake. My mother is even organized in her rage.

I head toward her bedroom—the bedroom I slept in for two months after Blanca died. My moms is sitting on the edge of her bed. Her head in her hands, she’s massaging her temples.

I sit by her and rub her back. “What is it?” She sits up and I rest my head on her shoulder.

“Your dad. He didn’t make the payments for your violin lessons. Says he needs the money to send his stepdaughter to private school. Can you believe that shit?”

I guess that means he isn’t going to show up at tomorrow night’s recital. In a way, I feel relieved. I can focus on the music and not keep scanning the seats to see when he’s going to come. Last time he made it for the last fifteen minutes. I had a meeting, but I did my best to stop by. Stop by. What he means is drive-by. Drive-by parenting. At the end you have holes in your heart.

“Don’t cry, Ma. I’ll practice at home. I needed a break anyway.”

That statement dries up her tears. “A break? You got a job? You kids always say you need a break. School ain’t no job, it’s a privilege. It’s Club Med. You need a break from what?”

There is no satisfactory answer to this. My mother’s family believes you’ve earned rest when you’re dead. Back when Abuelo was alive, even though he was 180 years old, he still insisted on sweeping the house to earn his keep. Never mind that we had a vacuum. He had to suffer.

“Listen.” My moms pulls a folded Kleenex from her bra and blows her nose. “You get a break after you finish your college education. Then you could have your break in France. Keep your eyes on the prize. Don’t get distracted.”

By “distracted” she means no crushes, no lust, no sex. She and Blanca butted heads a lot after Blanca went from Aw, Hello Kitty! to Whoa, hello titty in like zero to twenty seconds. When we were little, Blanca was the one who went off the mile-high diving board first. (I was the one who watched her plummet and said hell no.) She dove into puberty the same way.

Of course, while Blanca was checking out guys, I was still checking out library books. The only characters I want to take to bed are the ones between the pages of my books.

I kiss her on the cheek. “Guess that’s my cue to start on homework.”

My moms starts changing into her pajamas. She puts on her sleep mask to block out the afternoon light.

I grab my backpack and swing by the kitchen. Yes! My moms left me jamón con queso and some dulce de coco. I could make the same damn sangwich and it would taste like cold cuts and bread. Mami makes it and it’s magic. I gobble it down, smack my lips together, and head to my bedroom.

After two hours of homework, research for projects, and violin practice, I’m ready to collapse. The real reason Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger on the spinning wheel—she was all like, I could just kick it and skip dance/archery/Chinese? Hella yaas. I shower and towel off in my room. Until I notice Jesus watching me.

I turn my laptop around. “No offense, Jesus. I mean I know you made all these parts but . . .” I slip on my fave baggy jeans and unbraid my hair. Get up and find a tiny pair of scissors from the bathroom and play surgeon, operating on each split hair, the fork in an otherwise perfect strand that I didn’t choose.

I think about tomorrow. The recital and the stranger who will sit beside me on the stage. Instead of Blanca, some girl, somebody whose name I still don’t know. The chair in the audience that my dad won’t fill. My life is full of empty chairs.

But no matter how my mind can fill in Blanca’s place, when it comes to my dad, the file will not upload. We’re completely incompatible. Thing is, even when your dad is a complete asshat, you’re wired to love him forever. My heart feels cold, abandoned, obsolete. The trouble with tomorrow is, tomorrow is always today.