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  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Tello, Edd.

  Title: Only pieces / Edd Tello.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2022. |

  Series: West 44 YA verse

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781978596016 (pbk.) | ISBN

  9781978596009 (library bound) |

  ISBN 9781978596023 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. |

  Children’s poetry, English. | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 T455 2022 | DDC

  811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2022 by

  Enslow Publishing LLC

  29 East 21st Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2022 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney

  Designer: Tanya Dellaccio

  Photo Credits: Cover, pp. 2-185 Olgastocker/ Shutterstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced in any form without permission in writing

  from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CW22W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-398-2504.

  Home

  It’s Saturday. Seven a.m. The first rays of sun sweep through the broken blinds of our crummy apartment. The phone rings. Amá quickly gets up. I lie in bed. My eyes are red. I didn’t sleep well. I manage to go to the kitchen. Amá is crying. She covers her mouth. I think it’s Grandma she’s talking with. She cries every time they speak on the phone. It’s been five years since Abuela last visited us. We were living in Texas back then. But this time, Amá’s face doesn’t look sad. She hangs up. It was your father. He’s coming home. What? I ask. Just to make sure I heard it right. He’s in Bakersfield, mijo. We will pick him up. Hurry. Put some shoes on. I puff out my chest and put some jeans on that my dad gave me two birthdays ago. I take my writing journal I left on the floor last night. Amá washes her face and mops the floor a little bit. She’s ready in 10.

  A Better Life

  We haven’t seen Apá since we moved out last January. We moved to Arvin ’cause my aunt Rosario told Amá she could find more opportunities in this part of the country a w a y f r o m A p á. He stayed in Texas for a construction job. Since both Amá and Apá are undocumented, EVERYTHING is harder for them. They need to use other people’s names and papers to work, or get paid cash. Amá’s English is not very good. She doesn’t understand English as well as I do. She doesn’t go to school as I do. My parents crossed the border looking for a better life. We did this for you, Mom always says. Truth is, life is not perfect here. At least not for me. Apá’s job finished some weeks ago. He couldn’t find a new project, so he’s coming home. We will live together at least. Amá’s car starts making noises. I hope we don’t get stranded on the road. It happened to us once. It’s only 30 minutes from Arvin though. Amá and I don’t talk at all. I open my notebook and write.

  "Thousands of pieces"

  a poem by Edgar Jimenez

  Sunday afternoon in the living room. I’m five years old. Dozens of pieces are jumbled on the floor. Todas las piezas deben encajar, Apá starts. I already know all the pieces must fit. I do puzzles in Kindergarten. Sunny Sunday on the front porch. I’m nine. People setting up outside their houses to talk and grill. Hundreds of pieces lined up on the plastic table. Apá sits in front of me. We begin with the corner pieces. One day, I will buy you one like this, I say, pointing out a big mansion drawn on the puzzle box. One month ago, I bought a puzzle of the universe. It still lies closed under my bed. Honestly, I never was good at puzzles. Even when we did the same ones over & over again. What I used to love is how Apá watched me grow through those thousands of pieces.

  Your write too much

  Amá says. Tu cabeza will explode. But when my head fills with t h o u g h t s the ideas naturally f l o w. And I can’t S T O P. I roll down the window, but I’m still sweating. Summer hits hard. I’m also hungry, but I shut my mouth. I’m just excited to see Apá.

  Apá

  Apá is already waiting for us on a street corner downtown. He’s only carrying one bag and tiredness over his shoulders. His eyes have more wrinkles around them than I remember. Apá always says they are because of the pounding of a lifetime. His brown skin looks darker than usual. Probably from spending hours and hours working under the blazing sun. Apá has rough hands. Amá says they are from working hard. However, his black mustache looks untouched. Mijo, he wraps me into a hug and says no more. Amá hugs him tight and cries on his shoulder. We walk a few blocks to where we left Amá’s old white Nissan. Give me the keys. I’m going to drive, says Apá. He thinks the man should always drive. UGH, I don’t like his macho attitude! It would be best if you rest, says Amá. I’m not tired, says Apá. No seas terco, Pedro, says Amá. She’s right. Apá is very stubborn.

  a secret

  Apá turns the AC on. It only blows out hot air. He looks upset. Amá calls to me from the passenger seat. Edgar, your dad will stop. The car needs gas. I only say OK. We reach a gas station. Apá stops the car and gets out. When I open the door, my mom calls out my name again. Yes, Amá? Don’t talk to your father yet. He’s too stressed. She knows my secret. She knows I’m dying to say, Apá, I’m gay. Ay, mijo, you’re not gay. You’re just confused, Amá constantly says. I walk toward the store. She winds down her window. Edgar? I sigh. Por favor, Amá says. Let’s keep this between us for now, OK?

  AMá never stops

  Apá and I hop in the car. I hold some spicy snacks and two cokes, one for me, and one for Amá. I forgot to bring napkins, so I lick my greasy fingers. Stop licking your fingers! Don’t be sucio, Amá shouts. Leave him alone, Lidia, Apá responds. He will dirty this shirt! Amá never stops.

  Clean

  The aparment smells like detergent when we arrive. Amá likes to clean. She does babysitting in the mornings and sometimes cleans houses for some extra cash in the afternoons. She cleans there and cleans here. I’m glad this house only has two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room, so she doesn’t need to clean much more. When I offer to help, Amá always says NO. She has strong arms and legs. Maybe that’s why she never gets tired or complains. Apá places his bag on the old couch. Don’t put it there, Pedro. Don’t you see I just cleaned? Apá sighs.

  a fight

  Amá starts cooking. Salsa verde and onion smell fill the kitchen. I cough. The chile aroma is strong. You need help? I ask Amá. Just set the table, she says. Amá pours the nopales into a bowl and chops the aguacate. I put the corn tortillas in the tortilla warmer. Apá stares at the table. No meat or chicken today? Amá shakes her head and says, Only nopales, black beans, and guacamole. We don’t have anything else. Apá seems upset. Amá ignores him. There’s never enough food at home! he exclaims. This is not a restaurante, plus you didn’t send the rent payment last month, Amá yells. We haven’t even started eating yet, and they’re already fighting. I eat so fast that I almost choke. I finish eating soon and head to my room.

  hidden

  I take a long nap until the moon peeps. My door pushes open. Take the trash out. It’s Amá. She never knocks. I take the trash to the rusty dumpster outside of our apartment complex. Suddenly, I look at a shadow walking d o w n the stairs. It gets closer and closer… I get scared. It’s a boy wearing a hoodie. He turns left and turns right, like making sure no one sees him. Until his eyes meet mine. I can see them through the dark. He pulls his hood off. It’s Alex Cisneros. What is HE d
oing HERE?

  alex

  I met him on the first day I arrived at school. I couldn’t ignore his brown-hazel eyes and the dimples that came out every time he smiled. I looked from my locker at his ebony hair and his light brown skin. But later that day, I found out he was friends with Tyler and all the popular kids. And I understood we were pieces from different puzzles: Me, a kid with no friends. Him, part of the football team. The only thing we had in common was our skin color.

  another secret

  I don’t understand why Alex is in this part of town. He has a lovely house to live in and a happy family. Alex is wiping his face off. Has he been crying? Hey man, he says, friendly. You’re Edgar, right? He remembers my name. Alex Cisneros remembers my name! I nod. And you’re Alex. I speak too fast. I notice he wants to laugh. You don’t live here, do you? I ask. He shakes his head. Then silence. Just visiting someone, Alex finally says. I want to ask who. But there’s no need, ’cause Alex places his hands inside the hoodie and says, Actually, it’s my dad. He is living here. My parents are… Then more silence. I look away. He takes a deep breath. Could you please not tell anyone? Only my best friend knows. I won’t, I respond. A hundred questions fly around my head like, Are his parents getting divorced? Did they fight like mine? Guess I’ll see you around, he says. Sure. It’s the only thing that comes out of my mouth. Another secret to keep inside my mind.

  breakfast

  The morning light reflects off Amá’s long black hair and her freshly ironed shirt. She’s on the couch getting ready for work. Her licuado de papaya sits on the scratched table for an energy boost. I didn’t want to wake your dad, she speaks softly. Don’t worry. Apá sleeps like a rock. You should rest, too. It’s Sunday, Mom, I whisper hoarsely. No time for that. We need to pay the rent, she says while combing her hair. I have my part-time job. I could help, too! I say. Amá hushes me. She says I need to save money for my studies. You know how you can help? Making breakfast for your dad. Do we still have eggs? I ask. Sí. En el refrigerador. I open the fridge. Only two eggs left. I guess I will have cereal again. And don’t eat those Cheerios, Edgar, Amá yells from the bathroom. That’s not a real breakfast. But how can I tell her there’s nothing else? I don’t want to put more pressure on her shoulders, so I turn the stove ON before she goes.

  broken

  When Apá wakes up, breakfast is ready. I managed to make the most out of: two eggs, some refried beans, and the nopales leftovers. Amá had a piece of dough in the fridge, so I made gorditas. Apá is already at the table, waiting. I place the gorditas on two plates. He takes one, and it breaks. Sorry, Apá. They’re not as good as the ones Amá makes. He shrugs. At least they taste fine. He bites the second one, and the nopales come out over the sides. I let out a nervous laugh. Apá huffs. Apá used to make jokes about everything, but he’s not the same since he came home. We eat in silence. Like my gorditas, I guess he’s kind of broken, too.

  lucky

  On Monday, I walk along to the bus stop. It takes me 20 minutes to get to work. My green shirt is covered in sweat when I arrive at the store. I look at the big green logo. I wish I was lucky enough to have a dollar tree. My friend Alison is outside, waiting for me. She works next door. She wears her uniform. Her hair pulled up in a bun. Ali irons her hair every day, even when she has this job where she’s greasy and gross because of the endless burgers and fries orders. Aren’t you supposed to be at work already? I ask. She shrugs. I’m late anyway, so… Why are you late? I ask, surprised ’cause she’s always on time. My mom covered the night shift, and I took care of Leonardo. He cried all night long, asking for Mom. Be glad you don’t have siblings. I giggle. Well, I still can. Amá is young, and she and Apá… Alison makes a disgusted face. OK, stop. I laugh. So, what’s new? Alison asks, looking at her phone. I want to tell her about Alex visiting his dad the other night, but I promised him not to tell anyone. I say, Apá isn’t used to living with us. He has no job and is always upset. She says, When Papá abandoned us, it took a lot for Mom to figure things out, you know? She lets out a sigh. I mean, nothing has changed. Her boyfriend Gustavo is a useless mess. Talking with Ali makes me realize how lucky I am for having Apá and Amá.

  bus stop

  Splashes of purple, orange, and blue paint up the sky. People gather at the bus stop. They look exhausted. Although it was a busy day at the store, I’m not tired at all. The fresh air clears out my mind. I start typing a poem on my phone on my way home. The poem is about Amá and Apá. And the moon and the sun. Inspired by a Mexican legend that Abuela told me about.

  "The moon and the sun"

  a poem by Edgar Jimenez A young man with golden hair named Sun and a beautiful black-haired woman named Moon were deeply in love. Universe called them one day when He was creating the world. Universe told them they couldn’t be together anymore. Sun will protect his kingdom during the day. While Moon will be the queen of the night. The stars as company were not enough for her. Moon felt alone. But their love shone brightly, more intense than anything else. Therefore eclipses were born…

  eclipse

  I get off the bus and walk home. Amá is at the dining table with a calculator, all stressed. Apá is watching TV with a beer by his side. I walk to my room. And I wonder if I can be the eclipse that keeps together my Sun and my Moon. I wonder if I’m good enough.

  the perfect wife

  The week disappears beneath my feet. On Friday night, Amá starts making sopes for dinner. Oil spits everywhere when she puts them in the comal. Worry brushes over Amá’s face. She wants to be what she thinks is the perfect wife. At least the sopes look thick and round, not like my horrifying attempt to make gorditas. Can I help? Amá dries off her forehead with her mandil. Yes. Help me to set the table, she says. But I want to learn to make sopes. I say. Ay, Edgar. After the mess you made with the gorditas? She smiles. I should have known better. You’re a man. Men don’t know how to make sopes or gorditas. But don’t worry. You will have a wife for that. The word wife is like a stab. I exhale. That’s exactly it! I don’t want to have a— Are you gonna set the table or not? Amá snaps. What’s going on? Apá shows up. I leave in a huff and take the forks and knives with me. Amá covers the sopes with paper towels to absorb the excess fat.

  they don't understand

  I ran into Rosario today. She said there’s a job in the grape field, Amá says. Apá puts crema in his sopes. Tell your sister to stay out of this. No seas grosero, Pedro, Amá says. She only wants to help. I’m not rude, Apá says. It’s just if she really wants to help, she can send money for the rent. Amá looks at the ceiling and sighs. So, how’s school, mijo? Apá asks. What do you want to study after high school? There’s no rush. He still has another year to go, Amá says. She’s scared that I’ll mess it all up. Well, I clear my throat. I was being honest when I said I want to study literature. Could you pass me the salsa? Apá asks Amá, ignoring me. I’m sure both Amá and Apá think I’m nuts. I know you like to write and read and all those things, but that won’t give you anything to eat, says Apá. Amá says, I already told him. People don’t make a living with that unless they’re García Márquez or Octavio Paz. What do you actually want to do for a living? Apá asks a second time. They don’t get it. But how could I judge them? Amá used to be an elementary teacher in Mexico. Now she scrubs people’s floors and cleans babies’ poops. Apá has worked since he was 12 years old. I know they want the best for me. But still, I feel disappointed and sad. They work so hard for so little money. It’s not exactly the life I want. I take a deep… …DEEP breath. I will apply for a scholarship. I want to go to Oakland or San Francisco. Apá says, You need to study hard, so you can work in an office with AC and free coffee. Not like me, who already has back problems. I take the empty dishes over to the sink. Just like my dreams, they land with a crash.

  a better excuse

  Amá and I do the dishes. She washes, and I dry. From the kitchen window, I see a car parked. I have seen it at school. It’s Alex’s Altima. I need an excuse to go outside. But
there’s no trash to take out. There are no leftovers to toss. If I want to go and say hello, I need a better excuse. Amá is washing the last of the dishes when I say, I think I need some air. Apá laughs from the couch. Some air? See, Lidia? I leave you with this kid for some months, and he starts acting all agringado. Amá carefully places the plates on the dish rack. It’s late, Edgar, she says. This isn’t a safe place. There are borrachos out there. I shake my head. I’ll be back in a minute. I promise. I take my poetry journal and leave the apartment before she says no.

  as i want

  I open my journal. The streetlight is too dim. I can’t see a thing. What if a drunk man shows up, just like Amá said? I should probably get back. I close the journal, but I keep standing on the stairway. At least if a borracho approaches, I’d have the chance to run. I wait. I pull out my phone. I wait. A little bit more. I wait. But Alex doesn’t come. When I’m about to give up, a light outside Alex’s dad’s apartment turns ON. It’s him. He looks mortified. I wish I could run, but I feel like my feet are glued to the floor. It’s too late. He raises his hand to wave. I do the same.

  act normal

  Alex walks up to me. I barely breathe. act normal act normal act normal What up? He smiles. I can’t take my eyes off the tiny moles on his neck. They are like a constellation I want to trace. Hey, I gulp. act normal act normal act normal Visiting your dad? I immediately realize it was a dumb question to ask. Yeah. But leaving now. What are you up to? I look upstairs, making sure Amá isn’t coming. Just writing. I lift my journal awkwardly. Oh, cool. What do you write? My chest tightens. He sounds waaay more interested than my parents. Um, I write mostly poetry, I say, my voice quiet. Sometimes I write things based on legends. Alex grabs his chin. Oh, I remember! You’re in the writing club! My cheeks go hot. Yeah. Can I read at least one of your poems? he asks, looking at my journal. No! I blurt out. I mean, I have to edit them first. He laughs. I laugh, too. That’s OK, he says. Take your time. What is the one you’re writing about now? I look back at the stairs. It’s, um, about my parents and a Mexican legend. I shake my head. Promise you it’s nothing fun. His eyes sort of light up. Well, sounds like a big deal to me. I would like to read it one day. Nobody, not even Alison, has asked to read my writing EVER. But then my phone buzzes inside my shorts. It’s Amá who’s calling. Hey, I think I gotta go. My mom… Of course. He grins. Meet back here tomorrow? My phone keeps buzzing, but I’m only focused on what Alex just said. act normal act normal act normal Yeah. Sure, I say. Are you down for a bike ride? he asks. Then I think of my rusty old bike, and I feel embarrassed. Alex looks behind me. I turn back. Amá is there, with one hand on her hip. I can’t act normal anymore.