Joyride (7 page)

I wouldn't call us friends, Señora Perez and I. We have an arrangement, one that benefits us both. I'm not even sure if Señora Perez has any friends, anyone who comes over regularly to gossip about the celebrity drama she's obviously so fond of. I never see anyone in our mostly Mexican trailer park coming or going from her door. Some say that she's not one of us, because she had an American husband who died a few years ago. I wonder what they say about me, and my taste for American culture. Either way, Señora Perez and I are not so different. Probably if we were both more friendly, we might be friends.

“I was wondering if I could wash a load or two in your washing machine,” I say in Spanish. “I noticed you had some weeds that needed pulling in your garden.”

Garden is hardly the word for the hodgepodge mess of plants Señora Perez keeps in the sunny part of her lot. There is a stone bench, around it some seasonal flowers, and then for some reason she planted bell peppers, which she doesn't even eat. Maybe her husband used to love them. She sells them to my brother for dirt cheap though, so who am I to complain?

She leans against the doorframe. I wonder how small she really is under those big baggy clothes. I wonder if Señora Perez is secretly sick, and that's why she's grouchy all the time. “I suppose. But you'll have to come back in an hour. I've already got a load washing. And bring your own detergent. I'm not a Laundromat here.” With that she shuts the door.

I've got to find a cheap washer one of these days. I bought one a few months ago for fifty bucks but it broke after a week and Julio was so pissed for me wasting the money when we can use Señora Perez's most of the time. But Julio isn't the one who has to deal with Señora Perez. And
most
of the time doesn't cut it when you're out of clean panties.

I get back home just in time to answer the phone. I'm pleasantly surprised to find it's Mama. “Carlotta, what are you doing home this time of day? Shouldn't you be working?” Mama only speaks Spanish to me. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks I'll forget where I came from—even though I've never actually been there. I want to tell her that Julio is making sure that I don't forget.

“I miss you too, Mama.”

“Carlottta, shame on you. You know I miss you. I miss you so much that I'm trying to get back to you. So we can be a family again. I just thought you'd be working since you're out of school.”

I wince. “Sorry, Mama. I do work today. My shift doesn't start until ten o'clock tonight.”

“Oh, my child, please tell me you're not still working at that convenience store?”

“I am.”

“I thought you were looking for a different job that gives you more hours or at least better than minimum wage. We talked about this last week.”

And the week before. I bite my lip before answering. “It's just that the Breeze Mart is easy. I can do my homework there and my shift ends in time for school.”

I do miss Mama fiercely. I just wish we could talk about something else when she calls. But we have to get this business of work out of the way first. Money is, after all, the main thing that's separating us right now.

“Homework?” She makes a
tsk
ing sound into the phone. “Carlotta Jasmine Vega. We've talked about this. The most important thing right now is getting your family back. Then you can finally meet your brother and sister.”

“I know.” Of course I want my family back. Of course I want to meet my brother and sister. But keeping my grades up and getting a scholarship is the only way I'm making something of myself. And isn't that what they were trying to do when they came to the States? To make something better of themselves?

She wants me to find a job with more hours, to save more money, to get her here sooner. But more hours means less time for homework. Less time for homework means my grades get flushed. I'm not the kind of student who can pass without studying. I'm the kind of student who barely holds on by her teeth and almost cries when she gets an A. The Breeze Mart keeps me on the honor roll, in a way.

And without the honor roll, I'm not getting any scholarships. Without scholarships, I don't get to be the first person in my family to go to college. All I have to do is survive this thing called high school—and keep up my grade point average while doing it. One day, with a degree, I'll be able to provide for my entire family.

Besides, it's not like I'm
not
contributing to the family fund now. I keep ten dollars of my paycheck—a girl needs nail polish sometimes—then I hand the rest to Julio every single week. Bringing that up again is not going to win me any points. “I'll keep looking for a new job,” I tell her obediently. What I don't tell her is that it has to be exactly like the Breeze Mart only with more pay or I'm not taking it.

“That's my good girl. When I get back, you can cut your work hours and I'll teach you how to cook. How does that sound?”

When I get back
sounds delightful. “You need to teach Julio too. You should smell what he's got in the slow cooker right now.”

Mama laughs.

Feelings of selfishness and guilt knead knots in my stomach, making me question whether or not I'm doing the right thing by not finding a better job. I've missed Mama's laugh. Her eyes almost disappear into her face when she smiles. It's beautiful. I know it's important to have my family back. I've been yearning to hug my mother since the day she was deported three years ago.

But it's important that we have security when they get here too. And an education can provide that security.

Mama chatters on then about the latest antics of Juanita and Hugo, my younger twin siblings (she was pregnant when she got deported), about her neighbor's daughter getting married, about a house down the street catching fire. Some things are new, some things are repeats from last week's conversation, but I relish it all, because the sound of Mama's voice soothes me. It always has.

With a frown, I remember the way Julio hung up the phone the day he got the devastating news that my parents had been in a car accident. My father had rear-ended another vehicle, and though no one was hurt, it was a major ordeal because he didn't have a driver's license—or insurance. What's worse was that they were stuck on a traffic-jammed bridge and had nowhere to flee. The responding cop picked them up and called Immigration as soon as he found out they were here without proper documentation. We didn't even get the chance to say good-bye in person. My parents didn't want to risk the Department of Children and Families taking me from Julio, so they didn't mention that they had kids at home. And besides, that was the rule: If you get caught, you don't give any names. You just suck it up, and go back to Mexico.

And then you try to get back again.

“Has Julio mentioned how much is in the fund?” Mama asks, drawing me away from my bitter line of thought.

“Julio never tells me how much we have.” And I don't want to know, mainly because I know that however much we have to pay
El Libertador
—that's what the guy calls himself to keep his real identity a secret, I guess—to get my family across the border will make me sick. Thousands of dollars each, but how many thousands I'm not sure. And that's just ensuring they get across the border. Getting them across the Chihuahuan Desert safely is all up to us—unless we want to pay extra.

“Tell him to call his mama when he gets home from work, yes?”

“I'll tell him.” Julio misses Mama too. It's evident by how much he tries not to show it.

“Your brother is a hard worker, Carlotta. You could learn a lot from him.”

I know he's a hard worker. He works five days a week in construction and then washes dishes at a seafood restaurant on Highway 98 in the evenings and on weekends. Tuesdays are his only nights off. And even on his night off, he feels the need to prepare something in the slow cooker for us to eat and scrolls the Internet on the computer I borrow from school for odd jobs to pick up.

I want to be more like my brother. I do. And I'm trying to be—just in a different way. I can't wait for the day when I can come home to Mama and Papi and tell them I've got a high-paying job that will get us out of this trailer park and into a brick house on a real foundation—maybe even in a gated community. One day she'll see that all my hard work in school will have paid off. She'll see it, and Julio will see it. He quit high school to take care of me. One day I will pay him back.

“I am learning from him, Mama.”

“Good. You're a smart girl, Carlotta. I'm sure you'll find a way to help out more. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I end the call and place the phone back on the charger. It would be nice to have a cell phone, so I could talk to her more often instead of leaving it up to chance that I'll be home when she calls. It's not like I would waste minutes on it talking to someone else. Only two people call us. Mama, when she's really missing us—or she wants to know how much money we've saved up—and Julio's restaurant manager, who wants to know if he can work late or come in on his day off. But Julio won't even pay for cable, let alone a cell phone. Not when we have a perfectly working landline. He wouldn't even pay for that if it wasn't essential to our cause.

I walk to the couch and fold the clean towels in the laundry basket next to me, then I gather Julio's and my dirty clothes and get them ready to take to Señora Perez's. I wash the few dishes in the sink, then wipe down the counters. The closer to the slow cooker I get, the worse it smells. I open it up to get a peek.

Then I take a pizza out of the freezer and preheat the oven.

The phone rings again, while I'm opening the box of my dinner. I wonder what Mama forgot to say. But it's Julio who greets me on the other end. He must be borrowing a friend's cell phone. “Carlotta, do you work tonight?”

“Yes, I'm getting some things done, then I'm going to try to sleep before my shift. Why?”

“Make sure you turn the slow cooker off before you go to sleep. Does it smell good?”

“Nope.”

He snickers. “Pick me up a candy bar at the store? I've been craving one of those nutty chocolate things. The ones with the red wrapper.”

I gasp. “Spend money on candy? Julio, where is your head?” I'm only teasing, but this seems to actually get under his skin.

“They're two for a dollar still, right?” He sounds worried.

“Yes. I was just kidding. I don't care if you want a candy bar, Julio.”

He sighs into the phone. “I'm not always going to be cheap, you know. When Mama and Papi are back, I'll buy you all the candy you want.”

I feel bad now, because I didn't mean anything by it, and I would buy Julio a hundred candy bars if he asked for them. Next time, I decide, I'll keep my mouth shut. “Mama called,” I say, changing the subject. “She wants you to call her.”

“Did she get the money we wired her yesterday?” It's generous for Julio to say “we” since it's mostly his money we transfer to them each week.

“She didn't say.” Both of them ask me money questions, but neither of them want to talk in actual numbers. I wonder if they think I'm too young to know about such things, or I wonder if they think they're protecting me from the big bad world of finances—or the lack thereof. I'd love to correct them on both accounts, but I can't think of a scenario in which I'd actually speak up and say this.

“Okay. I'll call her when I get home tonight. Get some sleep,
bonita
.”

I hang up and pop the pizza in the oven, feeling guilty that I splurged on buying a few frozen pizzas this week instead of buying Julio any chocolate. I should eat Julio's slow cooker concoction—or whatever else he makes. I should be more grateful that he still bothers to prepare a portion for me at all.

I should be more grateful, period.

 

Ten

Deputy Glass pulls his cop car into the parking lot of the Breeze Mart. It didn't take much effort on Arden's part to persuade the deputy to come to the little convenience store on the edge of town to check up on Carly. “She was here all alone that night, you know,” Glass says. “What kind of parents would let a girl her age work a shift like that?”

Arden is beginning to wonder himself. “Do you mind if just I go in? She's a friend from school.”

Glass gives a reluctant nod. “Fine. But hurry up. Roger's on a call for a domestic downtown so I'm up next.”

“Will do.”

Deputy Glass lets Arden ride with him sometimes on slow nights. One of the few perks of being the sheriff's son. He gets to go on calls, which mostly consist of domestic disputes, reports of drunk drivers, and old people reporting the violation of noise ordinances.

Old people.

“I'll just be a few minutes,” Arden says, shutting the door behind him.

The bells hanging from the door jingle as he enters. Carly is already waiting for him. “Why are you in a cop car?” she asks. “The sheriff's son gets his own personal taxi?”

“Nice to see you too,” he says. He makes his rounds of the store, grabbing some gum and some chips and some beef jerky for Glass. When he circles back to the register, Carly has already dug back into her homework.

“I thought it would be nice to check on you,” he tells her, chucking his purchases on top of her graph paper. “Heard you got robbed the other day.”

She lifts her chin. “You heard wrong. Mr. Shackleford did. Of his dignity.”

So much for trying to be cute. Nothing works on this girl. “Does the owner know you do your homework on the clock?”

She shrugs. “He doesn't care as long as I get my work done and my customers are satisfied.”

“Well then, maybe you should put the pencil down and ring me up.”

This pisses her off, he can tell. But he's tired of giving miles to someone who won't budge an inch. Carly uses her scan gun to ring up the items. He pulls out one of the twenties in his wallet to pay for it, which seems to irritate her more.