I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter Read online

  That’s when we hear the door open.

  Lorena said that her mom was working, and that José Luis wasn’t supposed to come home for several more hours because he was picking up an extra shift, but here he is, walking in as we lie on the couch, high as hell. Lorena looks as if she’s about to commit murder.

  “What are you doing home already? I thought you were working.” Lorena doesn’t seem worried about the weed, just pissed that he’s there.

  “Business was slow, and the boss told me to go home,” José Luis explains in his singsongy style. He’s Chilango, which means he’s from Mexico City, which means he has a super-annoying accent.

  “What are you girls doing?” he asks, as if we’re all sharing a secret. It makes me feel gross.

  Neither one of us bothers to answer.

  José Luis has been Lorena’s stepdad—step-boyfriend—for about four years now. She said that when he and her mom met, he’d just crossed the border, so he was the freshest kind of mojado. Now José Luis works as a busboy at a few different restaurants on Taylor Street, which is why he’s always talking shit about Italians, always going on and on about how cheap they are. He and Lorena’s mom are the most mismatched couple in the world, because he’s fifteen years younger than she is, making him only ten years older than Lorena. Weird. He’d be handsome, if he weren’t so sleazy. Every time I know he’s going to be home, I wear my baggiest shirts and sweaters so he can’t gawk at my boobs. Sometimes it feels like he’s undressing us with his eyes.

  José Luis is always lounging around the house in an undershirt, listening to norteñas and polishing his pointy crocodile-skin boots. Instead of leaving us alone like any normal dad, he’s always asking us dumb questions about music, school, and boys. I wish he’d just shut up and leave us alone. I know José Luis is a creep, because last year Lorena told me he saw her going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and pushed her against the wall and kissed her. She said he crammed his tongue inside her mouth all nasty and she could feel his penis against her leg.

  “I would have cut his balls off,” I told her, but Lorena looked more depressed than mad, and didn’t respond. The next day Lorena told her mom what happened, but she just said that she was probably dreaming and went back to cooking dinner.

  José Luis makes himself a sandwich, then goes into his bedroom. Lorena and I watch a reality show about a bunch of rich kids living in New York. It’s stupid, but I try going along with it for Lorena’s sake. I’m also curious because I want to move to New York for college. Ever since I was little, I imagined myself living in an apartment in the middle of Manhattan, writing late into the night.

  I keep watching until one of the blond girls cries because her mom won’t buy her a pair of shoes that cost more than my entire life. It’s too much to take. I feel spiritually nauseated.

  “This is garbage,” I tell Lorena. “Isn’t there anything else more enlightening we could watch? Is there anything on PBS? Any documentaries?” But she just ignores me.

  When the show is over, Lorena goes into the bathroom for a long time. I can hardly stay awake. I close my eyes, and, after a few minutes, I feel something near me. Maybe their cat, Chimuela, finally came out from under the bed. When I open my eyes, though, I see José Luis crouched in front of me. He looks like he’s doing something with his phone, but I’m not sure. Am I imagining this? Am I that high? I don’t know what’s going on. I cross my legs and pull my skirt down, and when I open my eyes, I’m alone again.

  —

  Every Saturday night, Amá and Olga attended a prayer group in the church basement. Mostly, it’s a bunch of Mexican ladies sitting in a circle, complaining about their problems and talking about how God will help them endure. The few times I did go, I was so bored I wanted to tear out all of my hair. We were there for three hours, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked Amá if I could read the book I had in my bag, but she said it was impolite. When it was her turn to speak, Amá started telling the group about missing Mexico, her mother, and her dead father. She cried a lot, which made me feel guilty for complaining. Olga held her hand and told her everything was going to be okay, while I sat there like a slug, not knowing what to do.

  Amá was always trying to force me and Apá to go to these meetings, but we refused. Who in the world would want to spend their Saturday night talking about God? It’s bad enough that she drags us to mass every Sunday morning. After hounding us for a few years, she finally gave up. One Saturday night, Apá let me order Chinese food, which was gloriously greasy. We had to throw the boxes away in the alley so Amá wouldn’t find out. We lied and told her we had eaten eggs for dinner.

  Amá hadn’t been to the prayer group since Olga died. There is no way I’d go, but I’m glad Amá decides to attend tonight and is out of the house. On her days off, she lies in bed for hours and hours, and I worry that she’ll never get up again.

  As soon as Amá leaves, I always ask Apá if I can go out, because he usually shrugs and tells me that if Amá found out, she’d be angry, but I just assume that means yes. I run out the door before he can protest.

  Lorena and Carlos, the new guy she’s talking to, are supposed to pick me up at 7:30. She promised she’d make Carlos take us to his cousin Leo’s house because he’s a Chicago cop and might be able to help with Olga. I’m going to ask him how I can get more information about Olga at the Continental.

  Carlos is seventeen and drives an old and battered red car with giant silver rims, which seems ridiculous to me. Why would you spend so much money on rims, when the car is about to fall apart? But I’m not complaining. At least it’s a ride.

  When I get close, I notice someone in the backseat. A guy. Lorena didn’t tell me anyone else was coming. I get nervous and tug at my ponytail. I’m not wearing any makeup, and my hoodie is old and faded. I didn’t even bother to look remotely attractive.

  Lorena gives me an apologetic smile. “There was a change of plans. Leo had to work. And he said he couldn’t help. We asked him, I swear to God. Julia, this is Ramiro, Carlos’s cousin from Mexico. He’s cute, right?”

  “Are you serious, Lorena? Goddamn it, you’re unbelievable sometimes,” I tell her, then turn to Ramiro to say hello. It’s not his fault, after all.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says in Spanish, and kisses me on the cheek the Mexican way.

  Ramiro has long, curly hair, which I don’t care for, but I guess his face is okay. I do my best to ignore his pleather pants, too. He’s trying so hard it’s embarrassing.

  He only speaks Spanish, which makes me nervous. I speak it fine, of course, but I sound ten times smarter in English. My vocabulary is just not as extensive, and sometimes I get stuck. I hope he doesn’t think I’m dumb, because I’m not.

  Lorena and Carlos tell me we’re going to the lake. This was not the plan, and it’s freezing outside. It doesn’t seem like a good idea, but I don’t argue because I don’t want to piss off Lorena.

  When we arrive at North Avenue Beach, Lorena and Carlos run off, leaving Ramiro and me standing awkwardly by ourselves. Ramiro blows on his hands. I wrap my arms around myself under my jacket. After a few minutes, he starts playing with his phone, and I watch the beautiful lights reflected on the water. I kind of wish I were there by myself.

  When the silence becomes almost unbearable, Ramiro asks me about my favorite music. I tell him I mostly like indie and New Wave, but he doesn’t know what those are, and they’re hard to explain in Spanish.

  “You’ve never heard of Joy Division?”

  He shakes his head.

  “What about New Order?”

  “No.”

  “Neutral Milk Hotel? Death Cab for Cutie? Sigur Rós?”

  He shakes his head and smiles.

  “What do you like?”

  “Spanish rock. My favorite band is El Tri,” he says, unzipping his jacket and showing me his T-shirt.

  “Ugh. Are you serious? I’d rather listen to dogs barking for ten hours than listen to him for five minutes. I
can’t believe that’s your favorite band.” Geez, what a turnoff.

  “Wow. Okay, then,” he says, turning away from me and looking toward the skyline.

  Lorena says I’m always blowing it with guys because of my big mouth. She thinks I need to give people a chance and be less of an asshole. I guess she’s right because I think I hurt Ramiro’s feelings.

  “I’m sorry. That was so rude,” I say. “El Tri is a very well-respected band. Although they’re not really my style, I’m sure they’re talented. Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. It’s a medical condition. They say it’s incurable, like AIDS.”

  This makes him laugh. “I hope everyone continues to fight for the cure,” he says.

  “Yes, me too.”

  Ramiro and I watch the water for a few minutes without speaking. The sound of the waves is soothing, and for a while, I forget everything—who I’m with, who I am, where I live. All I can think of is that sound. I think that’s what meditation is supposed to be. I remember reading that in a book once. I stay in that trance until an ambulance races down Lake Shore Drive behind us. I search for Lorena and Carlos, but they’re nowhere in sight. I bet they’re probably fucking somewhere, even in this cold, and most likely without a condom, even though I’ve told Lorena a million times that she’s out of her mind.

  “Lorena tells me your sister died,” Ramiro says out of nowhere. “That must be really hard.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. That’s just what you’re supposed to say. I’m fine! I’m fine! I’m fine!

  “How did she die? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  I do mind, but I tell him anyway. “She got hit by a semi. It ran right over her. She wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry.” Ramiro looks like he regrets the question.

  Every time I think about my sister, I feel like something clamps down on my chest and I can’t get enough air. Why did he have to bring her up? And why did Lorena have to tell him?

  I see a man walking in the distance when I turn to the buildings.

  “That guy is kind of freaking me out,” I tell Ramiro.

  “Who? That guy?” he asks, pointing in his direction. “He won’t do anything.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Umm…I guess I don’t know.” He laughs. When I turn back, the man is walking away. “What if I protect you?”

  Sappy but sweet in a way, I guess. I don’t know what to say, so I mumble, “Okay,” and shrug. Then Ramiro puts his hand on the back of my head and leans into me. I never imagined my first kiss to be this way, but I guess it could be worse. When will I ever find someone I really like? Probably never. I bet I’ll be a virgin until I go to college.

  Ramiro’s breath is slightly minty, and at first the kisses are soft and feel all right, but after a while, he spirals his tongue against mine, which totally grosses me out. Is this really how people kiss? It feels like my mouth is being accosted. Right when I’m about to put an end to it, Lorena and Carlos come toward us, hooting and whistling. I’m so embarrassed, I want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich.

  “Damn, girl. It’s about time,” Lorena says, smiling. I don’t bother responding.

  Carlos fist-bumps Ramiro and says, “Good job, hermano,” which annoys me. It’s not like he won a motherfucking prize or anything.

  SIX

  My cousin Victor is turning seven today, and my tío Bigotes (yes, “Uncle Mustache”) is throwing him a big birthday party to celebrate, but I think it’s just an excuse for him to get drunk. As Amá is brushing her hair in the bathroom, I tell her she looks pretty and ask if I can stay home. I want to figure out how to get back inside Olga’s room. The key must be in the apartment somewhere. But Amá says no without even bothering to look at me. Maybe she thinks that if she leaves me alone, I’m going to orchestrate a giant orgy or overdose on heroin. I don’t know why she doesn’t trust me. I keep telling her that I will never get pregnant like my cousin Vanessa, but it doesn’t matter to her.

  Even if I don’t find the key, at least I’d be alone. I’m hardly ever by myself in the apartment because Amá is always all up in my business and won’t leave me behind. Sometimes, when my parents go to bed, I open all the windows—which Amá hates—and let the breeze flap the curtains open. I sit in the living room with a cup of coffee, journal, book, and reading lamp. I like the late-night sounds of traffic, even if they’re disrupted by the pops of gunshots.

  I decide to keep begging. “Amá, please. I just want to stay here and read. I hate parties. I’m just going to sit somewhere by myself. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

  “What kind of girl hates parties?”

  “This kind,” I say, pointing to myself. “You know that.”

  —

  Tío’s house always smells of old fruit and wet dog, which I don’t understand because Chómpiras has been dead for three years. The stereo is blasting Los Bukis, and screaming children are running in and out of the house. Though I really hate kids, the part I hate most about these parties is arriving and departing. If I don’t kiss each and every relative on the cheek hello and goodbye, even if I don’t know them, Amá calls me a malcriada, a badly raised daughter. “You want to be like those güeros mal educados?” Amá always asks. In that case, yes, I do want to be like an impolite white person, but I just shut my mouth because it’s not worth arguing about.

  I kiss everyone in the house hello, including tío Cayetano, even though I can’t stand him. When I was a kid, he used to stick his finger in my mouth when no one was looking. The last time he did it was during Vanessa’s communion party when I was twelve. I was in the bathroom while everyone was in the backyard. As I came out, he forced his finger in my mouth much deeper than the times before, so I bit him. I clamped my mouth and wouldn’t let go. I think I wanted to reach bone.

  “Hija de tu pinche madre,” he yelled. When I finally released his finger, he walked back outside, shaking his hand, letting the blood drip onto the floor. He told everyone the dog had bitten him and left the party with a paper towel wrapped around his finger. I sat in a corner for the rest of the night, drinking cup after cup of pop to get the salty, metallic taste of his blood out of my mouth. I wonder if he ever did anything like that to Olga.

  Tío Bigotes’s wife, Paloma, rushes to get us some food once we finish greeting every single person at the party. Tía Paloma is a woman so big that her stomach hangs low and everything wiggles when she walks. Every time I see her, I wonder how she and tío have sex. Or maybe they don’t even do it now that tío has that new mistress we’ve heard rumors about. Amá says Paloma has a thyroid problem, and I feel bad for her, but I’ve seen her eat three tortas in one sitting. Thyroid, my ass.

  After I finish eating, I’m so full, my pants nearly cut off my circulation. I’m uncomfortable no matter how I sit or shift. I almost want to lie down and let the food spread out. I don’t know why I do this. Sometimes it’s like I’m eating to drown something yowling inside me, even when I’m not really hungry. I pray that I never get as big as tía Paloma.

  “Buena para comer,” tía Milagros says, eyeballing my clean plate. Normally, I wouldn’t be offended by a comment like this—Mexicans are always saying that about kids. It’s meant as a compliment. “Good eaters” are people who’ll eat anything put in front of them with no complaints; they eat with enthusiasm. It means they aren’t picky or entitled brats. But this time, I know it isn’t meant as praise because tía Milagros is always talking shit. I used to like her when I was younger, but she’s become a bitter, resentful woman over the years. Her husband left her for a woman half her age a long time ago, and she’s been salty ever since. It’s hard to take her seriously, with her red perm and eighties bangs, but it pisses me off that I’ve become a target of her passive-aggressive cracks. Something about me just makes her angry. She is always sucking her teeth at what I’m wearing or making some comment about my weight, even though she’s more floppy and misshapen than a sack of laun
dry. She loved Olga, though. Everyone did.

  I watch my cousin Vanessa feeding her daughter mashed-up beans. Only sixteen and she already has a baby. That would be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but Vanessa seems happy somehow. She’s always giving Olivia kisses and telling her how much she loves her. I wonder if she’ll ever finish high school. What kind of life can you have when you live with your parents and have a baby to take care of? Olivia is cute and all, but I never know what to do with babies.

  I walk outside and see my cousins’ cousin Freddy and his wife, Alicia, arrive as the piñata is being set up. I’ve always been fascinated by them. Freddy graduated from the University of Illinois and works as an engineer downtown, and Alicia was a theater major at DePaul and works at Steppenwolf. They are always dressed like they stepped off a runway. Alicia has the most interesting outfits—dresses made of bright, crazy fabrics and earrings that look like they belong in museums. Today two silver hands dangle from her ears. Freddy wears dark jeans and a black blazer. There’s no one in my family like them. No one has ever gone to a real college. I always want to ask them a million questions.

  “Hey, guys. How are you? What’s new?” I feel like a frumpy dork when I talk to them because they seem so sophisticated. I get shy.

  “We’re good,” Freddy says solemnly. “I’m so sorry about your sister. We were in Thailand and couldn’t make it to the funeral.”

  Everyone in the house begins to come outside for the piñata. Victor suddenly starts crying because it isn’t ready yet. Jesus, what a baby.

  “Yeah, we’re so, so sorry,” Alicia says, taking my hand.

  That’s what everyone says about Olga. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I never know what to say. Is thank you the right answer?

  “Thailand! How cool. What’s that like?” I don’t want to talk about my sister.

  “It was beautiful.” Freddy smiles.

  I see tía Paloma wiping Victor’s face with the end of her blouse. He’s hysterical.