Piecing Me Together(11)

11


buenos días

good morning

The radio blares out today’s forecast. Rain. I’m in the kitchen, pouring milk into my bowl of cereal. Mom reaches for the carton and pours a splash into her coffee. “So, I see your mentor came bearing gifts. That was nice of her.”

“She chose the best stuff, Mom. Like, the good stuff.”

“I see that,” Mom says. She looks at the dry-erase board on the fridge and studies the calendar. On Monday I’m staying after school for a National Honor Society meeting. Wednesday and Thursday I tutor Josiah, and Friday night there’s a one-on-one mentoring outing with Maxine. “Busy week, huh?”

“Always,” I say.

“It’ll be worth it,” Mom tells me. She drinks more of her coffee, traces the rim of the mug with her finger. “So, when do I get to meet this mentor of yours? I don’t like you coming and going with some stranger I don’t know.”

“I don’t know. Maybe on Friday when she comes to pick me up.” I finish my last bites, drink my milk, and get up from the table.

“What’s her name again?”

“Maxine.”

“I need her number.”

I pick up the dry-erase marker and write Maxine’s number on the board. Mom always questions me when I meet someone new. In middle school she hardly let me spend the night at any friends’ houses, even if she’d met their parents. She’d say, “I don’t know what those people do in their homes.”

Mom gets up from the table and washes her plate. I go into the fridge and give her the lunch she packed. “Have a good day,” we both say at the same time. When Mom leaves, the door slips out of her hand and slams. E.J. doesn’t budge. He could sleep through an earthquake.

I finish getting ready for school and head out to the bus stop. As I wait for the bus, a woman walks up to me, looking confused. She is holding the hand of a young boy who is almost as tall as she is. When she says, “Excuse me, excuse me,” I recognize an accent. She points to the sign and mimes a question. I don’t understand what she’s trying to say.

“?Hablas espa?ol?” I ask.

“Sí, sí,” she says. She hands me a wrinkled flyer and asks me for directions in Spanish. She’s at the wrong bus stop.

I point toward the corner and tell her which way to go. “Doble a la derecha—turn right.” She thanks me several times.

When I get on the bus, I think about how proud Mr. Flores would be. He’s always telling us that having a real conversation is the best way to learn a foreign language. I think about all the travel words and phrases Mr. Flores has taught us, how ready I am to use them.

?Qué hora es? What time is it?

?Dónde está la partida? Where is the departure?

?Dónde está la salida? Where is the exit?

?Cuánto cuesta? How much does it cost?

?Tiene un mapa que indique las paradas? Do you have a map showing the stops?

I know Mr. Flores thinks he’s preparing us for surviving travel abroad, but these are questions my purpose is asking. I am finding a way to know these answers right here, right now.





12


amiga

female friend

The day drags on and on. Once the dismissal bell rings, Sam and I do our usual stop at Mrs. Parker’s office for our candy fix before we head home. Today I’m going over Sam’s house. Mom was so happy that I actually wanted to hang out with someone from St. Francis, she barely asked any questions.

As soon as we get off the bus, Sam starts giving me disclaimers and warnings. “Okay, so my house is small and kind of cluttered because my grandparents refuse to throw anything away,” she says.

She lives with her grandparents? I don’t ask why. There’s never a good reason for a mother not to live with her daughter.

“Oh, and I didn’t clean my room last night. Don’t judge me.” We walk past Peninsula Park. In the summer, the rose gardens are in full bloom and the fountain runs, so people stop and make penny wishes. But now, since it’s fall, the park is barren and looks lonely. Sam is walking so fast, I can barely keep up. “And if my grandma doesn’t talk to you, don’t take it personal. My grandpa says she has Alzheimer’s and that it makes her moody and —forgetful, but sometimes I think she’s just mean and old and chooses what to remember and who to be nice to.”

We wait at the corner for the cars to pass.

“My grandparents have lots of health problems, so the food in our house is pretty bland,” Sam tells me. “Do you want to stop at the store? There won’t be much to snack on. Only nasty diabetic candy and salt-free, butterless popcorn.”

“I’m fine,” I say. I was hoping to eat something at Sam’s because I doubt there will be much to eat for dinner when I get home.

“You sure?”

I nod.

We make a left at the next corner and keep walking. Now that we’re two blocks from the main street, the houses are getting smaller and the yards aren’t as groomed.

“Well, this is it,” Sam tells me. She walks up the steps of a tan house and unlocks the door. Before stepping in, she yells, “Grandma, it’s me, Sam. I’m home. I have a friend with me.”