I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter Read online

  I read the newspaper on the counter while I drink my coffee, which is so awful I can barely stomach it. It tastes as if they boiled old socks and dumped the liquid into a coffeepot, but I gulp it down anyway because I’m not about to waste my two dollars. And the Danish is stale, of course. I should have seen that coming. I scoop out the cheese and eat it with my finger.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” the waitress asks as she refills my mug.

  “Yeah, I should be, but one of my teachers was being a total jerk.”

  “Hmmm.” She raises an eyebrow; she seems suspicious.

  “He was, I swear.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He called on me to solve a problem on the board. I didn’t know the answer, but he kept insisting. It was so embarrassing.” I realize how stupid this sounds when I say it out loud.

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” she says.

  “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t, huh?” We both laugh.

  “Well, I think you should probably go back before you get in trouble.” She smiles.

  “My sister is dead,” I blurt out.

  “What?” she asks, as if she’s misheard.

  “She died last month. I can’t concentrate. I guess that’s the real reason I left.”

  “Oh no,” she says, her pretty face now sad and severe. Why did I tell her this? It’s not her problem. “You poor girl. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say, still not knowing why I just told her about Olga. She squeezes my hand, then walks to a table behind me.

  I write in my journal for a little while and try to figure out what to do next. Might as well make a day of it since I’m already going downtown. Whatever I do has to be free or close to it, or else I’ll have to walk home. After some brainstorming and doodling, I decide on the Art Institute, which is one of my favorite places in the whole world. Well, in Chicago. I haven’t seen much of the world yet. They have a suggested donation, but I never pay it. Key word: suggested.

  When I ask the waitress for my bill, she tells me someone’s already paid for me.

  “What? Who? Wait, I don’t understand.”

  “The man who was sitting over there.” She points to an empty stool at the end of the counter. “He heard you were having a bad day.”

  I can’t believe it. Why would someone do something like that without asking for anything in return? He didn’t even hit on me or stare at my boobs or wait around for me to thank him. I run out to the street to find him, but it’s too late. He’s gone.

  I take out my notebook and stare at the address for the Continental. I’m not very good with directions, but I think I can probably figure it out without a map. I walk northwest. It’s not that hard when you know where the lake is. The buildings are blocking the sun, so it’s starting to feel cold. I wish I would have brought a jacket.

  A homeless man with no legs screams in front of a Starbucks. I think he’s drunk because I can’t understand what he’s saying. Something about a llama? A mother and daughter brush past me with two giant American Girl bags. I’ve heard those dolls cost hundreds and hundreds of dollars. I can’t wait until I have enough money to buy whatever the hell I want without worrying about every single penny. I, however, would never spend it on something as stupid as a doll.

  The Continental is small but lavish, lots of blue and off-white. It’s called a “boutique hotel,” whatever the hell that means. The woman at the front desk hangs up the phone when I approach her. “Can I help you, miss?” Her hair is drawn into a slick, tight ponytail that looks like it hurts, and her perfume smells like a dusty flower in summer twilight.

  “Did you ever see this girl come in here? She was my sister.” I give her a picture of Olga at tía Cuca’s barbecue a month before she died. She’s holding a plate of food and smiling with her eyes closed. I figured it was best to use the most recent one I could find.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re not allowed to give any information about our guests.” She smiles apologetically. I see a tiny smear of pink lipstick on her teeth.

  “But she’s dead.”

  She winces and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Can you at least tell me if you’ve seen her?”

  “Again, I’m so, so sorry for your loss, but I can’t. It’s against our policy, sweetheart.”

  “Why would a policy matter if she’s dead? Can you just look up her name? Olga Reyes. Please.”

  “The only people we’re allowed to give information to is the police.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I know it’s not her fault, but I’m so frustrated. “Okay, well, can you at least tell me if this hotel is connected to the Skyline? Are they owned by the same company?”

  “Yes, they’re a part of the same conglomerate. Why do you ask?”

  “Thanks.” I walk out the door, without bothering to explain.

  —

  Before entering the museum, I take a walk around the gardens outside. Everyone is desperately trying to hang on to the sunshine, enjoying the unexpected warmth before winter takes a cold gray crap on the city and makes us all miserable again.

  Though the trees are changing colors, flowers are still in bloom, and there are bees everywhere. Everything is so perfect I wish I could keep it in a jar. A young woman in a flowered dress is breastfeeding her baby. A man with long gray hair is lying on a bench, with his head on his wife’s lap. A couple is making out against a tree. For a split second, my mind tricks me into believing the girl is Olga, because they have the same long ponytail, skinny body, and flat butt, but when she turns around, she looks nothing like my sister.

  When I tell the woman at the counter that I will pay zero dollars instead of the suggested donation, she eyeballs me as if I were some sort of criminal.

  “Don’t we all have a right to art? Are you trying to keep me from an education? That seems very bourgeoisie, if you ask me.” I learned that word in history class last year and try to use it whenever it’s appropriate, because Mr. Ingman always tells us that language is power.

  The woman just sighs, rolls her eyes, and hands me the ticket. She probably hates her job. I know I would.

  I walk over to my favorite painting, Judith Slaying Holofernes. We learned about the artist, Artemisia Gentileschi, in art class last year. My teacher Ms. Schwartz told us something bad happened to her, but wouldn’t tell us what, so I looked it up after class. It turns out that her painting teacher raped her when she was seventeen. What a scumbag.

  Almost all the Renaissance and Baroque paintings we studied in class were of baby Jesus, which is not very interesting, so when I saw Artemisia Gentileschi’s paintings of biblical women killing all those horrible men, my heart trembled. She was such a bad ass. Every time I see Judith Slaying Holofernes, I notice something new. That’s what’s so great about art and poetry—right when you think you “get it,” you see something else. You can find a million hidden meanings. What I love most about the painting is that Judith and her maid are slicing off the man’s head, but they don’t even look scared. They’re totally casual, as if they’re just washing dishes or something. I wonder if that’s how it really happened.

  When Ms. Schwartz said that one of her paintings was at our museum, I decided I needed to see it right away. This is my fourth time this year. I love art almost as much as I love books. It’s hard to explain the way I feel when I see a beautiful painting. It’s a combination of scared, happy, excited, and sad all at once, like a soft light that glows in my chest and stomach for a few seconds. Sometimes it takes my breath away, which I didn’t know was a real thing until I stood in front of this painting. I used to think it was just some saying in pop songs about stupid people in love. I had a similar feeling when I read an Emily Dickinson poem. I was too excited and threw my book across the room. It was so good that it made me angry. People would think I’m nuts if I try to explain it to them, so I don’t.

  I crouch down to get a better look at the bottom part, which I never paid much attention t
o before. The blood is dripping on the white sheet, and the fibers of the silk are so delicately painted that it’s hard to believe they aren’t real.

  I can’t get enough of this place. I can be here forever and ever, studying all the art and walking up and down the dramatic marble staircases. I love the Thorne Miniature Rooms, too. I can spend hours imagining a tiny version of myself living in those fancy, little houses. I always have to come to the museum alone, though, because no one will ever join me. I tried dragging Lorena once, but she just laughed and called me a nerd. I suppose I can’t argue with that. I asked Olga one time, but she was going shopping with Angie that day.

  As I wander around, I find a painting I’ve never noticed before—Anna Maria Dashwood, later Marchioness of Ely by Sir Thomas Lawrence. I gasp when I see the woman’s face, because my sister’s eyes are staring back at me. I never paid attention to that expression before—neither joyous nor somber, but as if she were trying to tell me something.

  I walk around and around, and lose track of time. I look at my favorite paintings again—The Old Guitarist by Pablo Picasso, the Cybernetic Lobster Telephone by Salvador Dalí, and the one made of dots by Georges Seurat. Every time I see it, I promise myself I’ll go to Paris some day. I’ll roam through the city by myself, eating cheese until I burst.

  —

  It’s rush hour when I finally get on the train to go back home. The bus is too unreliable at this time. All the men and women in suits are all sweaty and tired. If I end up being an office lady who wears slacks and changes into white sneakers to walk home from the train, I’ll just jump off a skyscraper.

  The train is crammed with people, but I find a window seat facing backward, next to a man in a filthy coat, who smiles and says, “Good evening,” when I sit down. He smells like pee, but at least he has good manners. I take out my journal to make some notes. I love to watch the city from above—the graffiti on factories, the honking cars, the old buildings with shattered windows, everyone in a hurry. It’s exciting to see all the movement and energy. Even though I want to move far away from here, moments like these make me love Chicago.

  A couple of black kids near the doors start beat-boxing, which makes a man frown and shake his head. I think it sounds amazing, though. I wonder how they can make that kind of music with their mouths. How can they sound exactly like machines?

  I go back to the poem I started in Mr. Simmons’s class, when a woman with a burned face makes her way through the crowded aisle, asking everyone to spare some change. When she gets closer, I see that her green T-shirt says God Has Been So Good to Me! The letters are so bright and shiny, they feel like they’re yelling. She puts her hand in front of me, and I reach into my backpack to pull out the rest of the money I have left. The mystery guy at the diner paid for my food today, so why not?

  “Have a blessed day,” she says, and smiles. “Jesus loves you.”

  He doesn’t, but I smile back anyway.

  I look out the window and watch the skyline lit up by the evening sun. The buildings reflect a dazzling orange-red, and if you glance, it almost looks like the buildings are on fire.

  I bet the school has already called my parents and I’m in some deep shit again. It was worth it, though. I open my journal to a blank page and write, God Has Been So Good to Me! before I forget.

  FOUR

  On Saturday afternoon, I tell Amá I’m going to the library, but I walk to Angie’s house instead. I’ve called her a million times and she hasn’t called me back. It’s pissing me off. I’m not sure what I’m going to say, but I need to talk to her. I keep thinking of Olga’s underwear, the hotel key, and that strange smirk on her face when she died. For weeks, I’ve had this feeling that won’t leave me alone, like tiny needles in the back of my head. Maybe Angie can tell me something about my sister that I don’t know.

  It’s beginning to get chilly now. The air smells like leaves and the promise of rain. I hate this time of year. When it begins to get dark earlier in the day, I start feeling more depressed than usual. All I ever want to do is take a scalding shower and read in bed until I fall asleep. The long, dark days feel like endless black ribbon. This year will be even worse now that Olga is gone.

  Angie and Olga met when they were in kindergarten, so I’ve known Angie my whole life. I used to admire her because she’s so stylish and pretty, with her wild, curly hair and wide green eyes that look forever surprised. In high school, she drew pictures of exotic landscapes that Olga taped to her walls. Though she is poor, like us, she has a sharp fashion sense, matching unusual colors and patterns in ways that somehow make sense. She makes outfits from the flea market look good on her. She smells like vanilla, and her laugh reminds me of wind chimes. I always thought Angie would grow up to be something awesome, like a designer or an artist, but it turned out she was another Mexican daughter who didn’t want to leave home. She works downtown and still lives with her parents.

  Angie’s mom, Doña Ramona, answers the door and gives me a wet kiss on the cheek. Although I’ve known her forever, I still get startled, because she looks old enough to be Angie’s grandma. I’m guessing that on top of having Angie late in life, she also had some tough times. “Está acabada,” Amá always says, a word that makes me think of an old, dirty dish sponge. Every time I see Doña Ramona, I swear to God, she’s wearing an apron. She probably goes to church in it.

  The house smells like roasted chiles, and it’s so warm that my glasses fog. My eyes begin to water, and I cough uncontrollably. It happens every time Amá is making a certain kind of salsa.

  “Ay, mija, que delicada,” Doña Ramona says, slapping me on the back. “Let me call Angie and bring you a glass of water.” Everyone likes to remind me how sensitive I am, as if I didn’t know. “How are you feeling these days?” she yells from the kitchen. “Angie has taken this very hard, pobrecita.”

  “I’m better, thank you.”

  I think Angie’s family may be the last on earth to have plastic covers on their sofas. On top of that, there are porcelain dolls on doilies on nearly every surface of the house. Mexican ladies are always knitting doilies for everything—doilies for the TV, doilies for vases, doilies for useless knickknacks. Doilies as far as the eye can see! How pointless. This is what Amá would call “naco.” We may be poor, but at least we’re not this tacky.

  When Angie finally comes out of her room, she’s wearing a ratty gray robe and her hair is matted and greasy. Her eyes are bright red, as if she’d been crying all night. It’s been several weeks now, and she still looks like a disaster. She doesn’t seem pleased to see me.

  Angie hugs me and tells me to sit down. The plastic cover squeaks under me. Doña Ramona gives me a glass of water and shuffles back to the kitchen to continue her cooking.

  “How have you been?” I ask, though she probably looks the way she feels.

  “Jesus, Julia. How do you think?” she snaps. Angie is nice to me most of the time, but I guess Olga’s death has scrambled her up, too. No one is the same anymore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just…I can’t sleep. Look at me. I look horrible,” she says.

  Angie is right. The dark purple rings under her eyes make her look like someone punched her out. “Ojerosa,” Amá would say.

  “No, you’re fine,” I lie. “Just as pretty as always.” I try smiling, but it’s so fake, it hurts my face.

  Angie glares at me, and the silence grows like a web around us. I hear something in the kitchen crackling in grease, which almost sounds like rain. The clock ticks and ticks. At moments like this, the concept of time confuses me. A minute lasts an hour.

  “Can we go to your room?” I finally whisper. “I want to ask you something in private.”

  Angie looks confused, but says okay and leads me down the hall.

  I can tell Angie isn’t wearing a bra, and I try not to stare, but I can see her nipples through her robe, which reminds me of the time I walked in on her touching Olga’s boobs when I was seven. As soon as they saw me open the door,
Olga pulled down her shirt and looked down at the floor. All I remember is that she seemed ashamed and that her boobs were small and pointy.

  I sit on Angie’s unmade bed. It smells like she hasn’t washed her sheets in a few weeks, and the floor is covered with clothes. There are pictures of her and Olga all over her walls and dresser: at the park, in a photo booth, grade school, prom, graduation, dinners. She also has the program from the wake and funeral on her nightstand. It has an angel and some stupid prayer about heaven. I threw mine in the garbage because I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

  “You miss her, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah, of course.” Angie stares at the picture of her and Olga in their graduation gowns. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

  Angie sighs. “I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone these days.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly feeling social myself, but I’m her sister, and the least you could’ve done is call me back.”

  Angie stares at her pictures and says nothing.

  “Was it you that Olga was texting when she died?”

  “Huh?”

  “Was it you?”

  “Look, I don’t know.” Angie rubs her eyes and yawns. “Why does that even matter? She’s gone.”

  “Either it was you or it wasn’t. It’s not that complicated. She was hit at about 5:30. You would know by looking at your phone. It’s not like my sister had that many friends.”

  “What exactly are you looking for, Julia?”

  “I just feel there’s something I don’t know.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea. That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I feel exasperated. Maybe this was a mistake. What can I tell Angie? That I went through Olga’s room and found slutty underwear and a hotel key? That I never had a real interest in her until she died because I’m a horrible and selfish human being?