Chapter Three

November 9, 2016 — afternoon

Carmen left her Introduction to Greek Philosophy class and hurried to her English class: Writing and Self-Awareness. The bitter wind whooshing between buildings pierced the jean jacket she got in sixth grade from the Clothes for Kids charity bus. Her toes felt stiff with cold inside her thin black tennis shoes.

She entered the auditorium. Every guy who wasn’t staring at his phone turned to watch her go up the steps. She pretended not to notice. Taking her seat, she wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and rubbed her hands up and down the tops of her arms.

The projection screen illuminated the room with its bright white background and black letters.

“An award-winning author once wrote that she no longer wanted reminders of time lost to wasted efforts and her past broken life. Do you identify with this philosophy? Why or why not? Write a minimum two-hundred-word response, double-spaced. Submit by close of business, November eighteenth.”

Carmen let the words sink in. Her mind began to race, and her pulse picked up speed.

She had some good life experiences: helping Mami in the kitchen, playing Lotería with the brightly colored cards and pinto beans for game pieces, singing quietly in Mami’s bedroom, oh so quietly—her the melody and Mami the harmony, her and Mami brushing and braiding each other’s hair before bed—the sound of Mami’s voice.

But in that house, the God-awful outweighed the good. 2017, she decided, would be the year of salvation. And, if she could get up the nerve, retribution.

Her stomach clenched, and a foul taste rose in her mouth. She ran down the auditorium steps and made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up.

****

The sun fell below the horizon at four forty-five p.m., early but not unexpected in a Northwest November. Carmen sat against a wall in her furniture-free bedroom and opened her spiral-bound notebook from English class. She unwrapped the paper towels and tape, wiggled her bruised fingers, and recalled when they got twisted until she fell to the floor—all because the grilled cheese she served had cheddar, not the preferred Swiss.

“Assignment due November eighteenth. An award-winning author once wrote that she no longer wanted reminders of time lost to wasted efforts and her past broken life. Do you identify with this philosophy? Why or why not?”

Carmen shifted from sitting cross-legged to laying flat on her back, then onto her stomach and back to cross-legged as she stewed about the assignment.

I’m afraid I must disagree with the author she wrote in loose, loopy letters since it hurt to bend her fingers. She wasn’t talking about an inanimate object like a candy cane or coffee cup; she was talking about someone’s life. And what got lost wasn’t a set of keys or a sock; it was a person. Ignoring a painful past can only lead to more of the same.

Carmen took a cleansing breath, padded over to her closet, and pulled out a wide shoe box labeled “They Call Me Blaze, 1965, Spectacle Studios” that once held a pair of men’s size thirteen cowboy boots. Inside the box, she kept a stash of books—an encyclopedia, dictionary, thesaurus, and three of her favorite Shakespeare plays—Hamlet, Othello, and Romeo and Juliet. And an old diary. “Time for some inspiration,” she whispered as she lifted the diary, arranged her thick mane into a messy bun, and secured it with the hairband around her wrist. She opened it to her first entry, age ten, Christmas day.

Fifth Grade

December 25, 2008

Dear Monica,

I got you as a present from Mrs Alfonso in the libary at scool. I lik her. She shares her sandwich sometimes when I dont have a lunch. She said every girl should have a dairy. A place where she can rite her thots. Now that I am ten and practicly a teen ager I have lots of things to tell u. I have a crush on Jake Dixon and I think he likes me to! Im calling u Monica becuz its my favrit name and its better then calling u dairy. One day if I have a baby girl I will name her Monica after u. Or maybe Ashlie. Or Lillie. Or Tiffanie. The IE makes the names sooooo much more intresting dont you think? Mami was sad again this morning. Shes like that alot but it gets bad at Christmas. It makes me sad to. She cries when she talks about Christmas in Mexico. Why cant she be happy with me and Papa Percy? She told me the Mexico stories a million times. Its warm there during Christmas. Not like here. Families decorat there houses with flowers and green branchs and leaves. They cut shapes in little brown paper bags and put a candle in each one and set them on side walks, window sells, and roofs to make the nieghborhood pretty. They have a posada starting December sixteen. I wont even tell you about it cuz its a big deal and has lots of parts to it and my hand is getting tired. I wish I could go to Mexico sometime especially at Christmas. That way Mami would be happy on Christmas morning. Weve never even been outside Cascade City and Mexico is very far away. Papa Percy sez we can never go cuz mami will probly get killed there.

Ur best friend,

Carmen Cooper

PS Mami sez thats not my real last name but I cant tell anybody not even u so papa Percy and Mami can never read this. Shhh. A girls dairy is seecret.