Only Pieces Read online

  Amá IS WEARING

  her cotton-knit nightgown and her chanclas. I wish the earth would suck me up. I sigh. Alex, this is my mother, Lidia. Amá’s voice is controlled. Lidia Ramos, mucho gusto. They each hold out a hand. I have to go, Alex says, looking at his phone. Amá nods. It’s late for you to be out here. My dad lives here. Alex points to his dad’s apartment. We fall silent. ... I want to walk away. Gusto en conocerla, Alex finally says with this accent that makes it obvious he doesn’t speak Spanish at home. Nice to meet you, too, Amá says. Alex unlocks his car. See you tomorrow then. I just nod. Amá gazes over at me, then starts up the stairs. I turn back to Alex before climbing up.

  home in silence

  The only noise is Apá’s snores from the room. Who was that boy? Amá whispers. Alex. Just a friend from school. And my crush since we moved here, I wanna say. I keep that part to myself. She huffs. If there’s something that annoys me, it’s when you don’t answer the phone. It really gets on my nerves! I roll my eyes. Amá, please. I always pick up. We were just talking and— She snaps, If you’re not going to use it, give it to me. I could sell that phone in one of those mobile stores. I close my eyes. Take a breath. Hold it. Good night, Amá. I’m done. Come back here! Amá is trying so hard not to scream. Un día me vas a matar de un coraje! Every time she gets upset, she says one day I will kill her of anger. I think she’s just being dramatic. I slam my door.

  i hope

  Saturday morning, duranguense music wakes me up. I get scared when Amá has the music loud on weekends. It scares me that Doña Mary, our chismosa neighbor, calls the cops and complains. Doña Mary likes gossiping about everything that happens around her. I constantly think about how my parents are here illegally and can get deported. I pray and hope the migra never knocks on our door.

  grounded

  I walk into the kitchen. Amá is mopping the floor. Estás castigado, she blurts out. Instead of saying good morning OR do you want some breakfast? You’re grounded is the first phrase she exclaims. I already want to go back to my room and sleep until noon. But then she asks me to take a look at the frijoles, so they don’t burn. On weekends, when Amá doesn’t work, she helps out the church and makes food for the refugee comedor with other Catholic ladies. Amá always asks me to go with her. I always think of excuses not to go. Sometimes I end up giving in. Can I ask WHY I’m grounded? Amá drops the mop. Really, Edgar? After being so rude last night and slamming the door, you’re asking me WHY? I wasn’t rude. I was just… You know, Amá? Can’t argue with you. She folds her arms. Fine. Give me your phone. No calls OR making plans. I start to panic. Amá, pero… She says, Shh. No buts! I wish I could SHOUT, but only a snort comes out.

  Amá boils

  tomatillos and serrano peppers. My eyes fill with tears. Apá, freshly showered, sits and drinks his coffee. I pour myself a glass of orange juice. I’m not really hungry today, I say. I don’t feel like eating enchiladas or eggs. Amá exhales and shakes her head. You should thank God that we have food to eat. I hate when Amá twists my words. I’m never allowed to say what I feel or hide what I don’t want. I feel like one day, like the tomatillos or the serrano peppers, I will boil, too. And I will end up saying all those things I know I will later regret. When Amá goes and checks if the veggies are fully cooked, I head to my room.

  pretend

  I plop down in bed. Without a phone, I can’t text Alison or anyone. What worries me the most is I can’t text Alex and tell him I’m grounded. Even if I had my phone, I couldn’t. I forgot to ask for his number. This is all Amá’s fault. I don’t understand why she’s so dramatic. Are all mothers like her? Alison goes out and drinks and smokes weed and her mom never says a word. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she PRETENDS she doesn’t know. The same way Amá pretends I’m not gay. Sometimes I wish I could run away.

  video games

  I lock my door. At least Amá didn’t take the console away. I turn it ON. Playing video games feels like an escape. I imagine other worlds, other universes. Suddenly, I find myself thinking of Alex. Fantasizing about other school guys. And something happens in my body that forces me to press PAUSE. I place the controller over a poetry book and pull my shorts off. The church teaches us this is gravely wrong. But what if it makes me feel right? I keep going and let my mind fly.

  Apá's permission

  Now that Amá is gone, I leave my room. Apá sleeps on the sofa. I tiptoe to the kitchen. After volunteering at the church, Amá usually visits my aunt Rosario, and they play lotería. I don’t know how she doesn’t get bored doing the same thing every weekend. Cleaning, babysitting, volunteering, and familying. I open the fridge. Apá’s hefty body moves for a second, then he keeps sleeping. I want to ask him for permission to leave the apartment. Then I realize he wouldn’t notice anyway. Nothing seems to matter to him these days. As long as I get home before Amá, everything will be fine. I grab my journal and leave home.

  Alison’s house

  I head to Alison’s, which is only a few blocks from mine. The mellow pink clouds mix with the blue sky as I walk past the park that divides our neighborhood. I knock on the mosquitera door. Gustavo, Alison’s mother’s boyfriend, comes close. He wears a sleeveless T-shirt and ripped old jeans. She’s not here, he immediately says when he sees my face. Baby Leonardo is crying behind him. Leonardo has the same big, brown honey eyes as Alison. Amá calls him el bebé chamagoso ’cause he’s always filthy and has runny eyes. He hasn’t quit the pacifier, and he’s more than three now. I assume Alison’s mom is not at home. Do you know if she’s working? I ask Gustavo. He scratches his head with this who confused expression. Um, Alison. Is she working? I ask again. Guess so. He shrugs. Maybe she doubled shift. I don’t know. Gustavo lights up a cigarette. Who is it? A voice shouts from below. Alison’s mom is there inside. Tavo turns his head. Hey, man. You better go. We’re in the middle of something. I don’t wanna know what he’s referring to. If I were Alison, I would hate him, too.

  arvin's arid summer

  I don’t want to go home yet. I sit on a bench and open up my journal instead. The summer heat floats over Las Palmas Park. The air is hot and dry. Skaters hang out. People walk their dogs around. In the grass, babies swing toward their moms. They come and go, come and go. I think of poor baby Leonardo. Nobody will miss him if Alison and I take him with us one day. All of a sudden, someone covers my eyes.

  I Know that smell

  Paris Hilton cheap perfume. Alison, I know that’s you. Alison cracks up. Her laugh is wildly fun. She says, What are you doing here alone? Waiting for your Príncipe Azul? The air blows her ironed hair. I say, Estás loca! Wait, you high? She laughs hard and plops her head on my legs. Of course not. I wish I were though. I say, I went to your house. She frowns. You did? I nod. Where were you? She sits up straight. I was at Ruben’s. I cover my face with the notebook. She laughs again. Ruben is her “better than nothing.” He’s 18 and lives three houses away from me. He doesn’t attend school. Ruben works whenever he wants. I always tell Alison she deserves better, but she turns a deaf ear. I just don’t like to be at home when Tavo-jerk is there. Fair enough, I say. She continues, And Tyler keeps ignoring me, so… Talking about idiots. I roll my eyes.

  Alison was the first one

  who talked to me at school. She didn’t know I was gay back then. The first time she said hello, I felt she was trying to hook up with me. Then we talked about famous Latinas like Paulina Rubio and Shakira, and she figured out who I was. Amá told me not to trust anyone except my family with my secret. But as Alison and I became friends, she felt like a sister. So eventually I shared more than just laughs in the halls. When someone put a note on my locker that said, I know you’re queer (99 percent sure it was Tyler, the most popular guy in school), Alison was there, helping me to face my fears and hold my head up high. I’m aware I promised Alex not to tell anyone his secret. But Alison is the ONLY ONE who knows about my feelings for him. Besides, I’d rather talk about Alex and me than Amá’s punishment. Or that it baffl
es me how Apá is quiet all the time.

  pizza & Fútbol

  Dusk falls in town. The moon begins to lean out on the horizon. The air gets cold, so I come home. Amá isn’t here yet. Apá is still on the sofa. This time he’s watching El Clásico del Fútbol Mexicano. Basically, the two most popular soccer teams in Mexico facing each other. He has a dark beer on the table. I know how much he would like some pizza for dinner, almost as much as I would. I kindly ask if we can order one. He nods and hands me a few dollars, but warns me not to tell Amá. First, because I’m grounded. Second, Amá hates when we eat greasy stuff or, as she calls it, “trash food.” And even though I don’t like soccer, I stay seated next to Apá. We may have stopped doing puzzles together, but at least there is one thing that still keeps us TOGETHER as a team.

  soccer game finishes

  at eight. Apá is already lying flat on his back. He snores peacefully. It makes me feel sad seeing him like this. Beer bottles and wadded-up napkins on the ground. Although it makes things easier this way because I don’t need to ask him for permission. Amá is pretty unpredictable when she’s with my aunt Rosario. She might come home right now, or she might not come until 11. On Saturday nights, you never know. I clean a little bit and then go outside. I get rid of the empty pizza box before she gets home.

  only the bike

  A brand-new bike is parked outside Alex’s apartment. I remember what Alex said the other night. Are you down for a bike ride? The worst part is I don’t have a decent one. My old bike needs tons of repair. Also, it needs to be painted. It was a gift from my aunt Rosario’s husband. He bought that secondhand bike for working out. He never used it, so he passed it to me. Until one day, the brakes suddenly failed when I was on my way to school. I don’t see Alex around. I guess it’s still early. And I don’t want to stand over his dad’s front door. That would be too awkward. It would be so much easier if I had his number. I sigh. When I’m halfway down the stairs, I turn my face down, but no trace of Alex or his dad. Only the bike.

  ungrounded

  The sky is still gloomy when I look out the living room window the next morning. I put my face against it. And of course, the bike is no longer there. I feel guilty and dumb for not being brave enough to knock on Alex’s dad’s door last night. Sometimes I wish I was more like Alison. She doesn’t care what other people think. As soon as Amá wakes up, the morning noise starts. She turns the TV on and then cleans out the cabinets fast. My phone lies on the kitchen table, which means I’m no longer being punished. That’s how things work with Amá. She won’t tell me through words. Just small actions that tell me I have been ungrounded.

  Amá Announces

  she will only work a part shift today and that when she gets home, we’ll head out to the mall. Amá says I need new shoes and a decent pair of pants for Daniela’s quinceañera. Daniela is my aunt Rosario’s daughter. She’s turning 15. Like almost every Mexican mother, my aunt firmly believes she must throw all her money at her daughter’s quince party. Daniela is a good girl. Smart and determined. She wants to be a teacher like her mom. So I’m not sure if she agreed to a huge party because she’s cool with the idea or just to make her mom happy.

  Morning show

  While Amá puts her work shoes on, she’s watching a boring TV morning show with Apá. One of the guests is a man in his 40s who talks about how deeply in love he is with his partner. The projector screen shows photos of the two men with their kids. Amá gets this disgusted face and makes the sign of the cross. Ay, Dios, this shouldn’t air during children’s viewing time!

  Apá drives

  to the Bakersfield outlet mall. We barely have 10 minutes inside the car. But I feel like it was a MISTAKE to have come after Amá finished working. Apá tells her it’s late and that when we get there, everything will be CLOSED. If you had a job, I wouldn’t have to work so much, Amá complains. Apá tells her that she doesn’t appreciate the fact he came home. If I had known they were going to fight the entire time, I would’ve taken the bus.

  Nothing fits

  I’m so skinny that nothing fits me. The pants look baggy on me. Amá says I don’t eat well. And I want to say: You won’t even let me eat pizza or hot dogs. Apá says I will look handsome para las muchachas. And I want to say: What girls are you talking about? I like boys. But I keep quiet, looking at myself in the mirror, defeated.

  When i get out of the car

  another one pulls up next to ours, in the apartment complex parking lot. Alex’s eyes brighten up. He waves and gets out. My hands and armpits sweat. Amá looks his way. She has no choice but to say hello. Alex sticks out a hand to Apá. Alex Cisneros. I’m Edgar’s classmate, sir, he says confidently. Pedro Jimenez, Apá says with a firm handshake. I help Amá get some bags from the trunk. She got paid today, so we bought grocery stuff. Apá’s all smiles while talking to Alex about soccer. When Amá and I finish, Apá closes the car. Nice to see you again, Mrs. Jimenez, Alex says. Amá half-smiles. She HATES when people call her Mrs. Jimenez. She says she’s not Apá’s property. I want to crack up.

  Alex offers to help

  take the bags upstairs. To my apartment. My face turns red. I don’t want him to see the place where I live. I mean, his dad is living in this building too, but Alex isn’t. I don’t want to be the broke guy for him. But it’s too late, ’cause Amá says, It would do us well to have another pair of hands. Since Pedro hurt his leg working, it hasn’t been the same. Suddenly, I get it. Apá lost his job ’cause they felt he wasn’t strong enough to do the work. My heart clenches, and I want to give Apá a hug. But then he says out of the blue, Are you guys gonna hang out? Alex and I nod. Amá gives me a look. Edgar, don’t be late.

  Alex tells his dad

  that he’s with a boy from school. It seems so simple for him. While I wait outside, I text Alison. I ran into Alex. We are going for a walk. Am I on a date? lol My heart flutters as I text. She quickly responds with a few kissy and devil emojis. YESSSS. You’re off on a date! My baby has grown.

  The D-route

  The night is perfect. It’s not too warm, not too cold. We decide to go walking instead of driving around. Is your dad OK? I ask. What do you mean? he asks. You know, ’cause you came to visit him, and now you’re hanging out with me, I say. He shrugs. He and my mom are having a rough time. I guess he only wants my siblings and me to be happy. I’m sorry, I say. Alex says, It’s OK. They had an awful relationship anyway. I think of my parents’ relationship, which is f a r from perfect. This whole divorce thing has been harsh, Alex adds. They still have a lot of paperwork to do. I think of my parents’ immigration status. I nod, a little embarrassed. Very deep inside, I hope my parents don’t take the D-route.

  fuego parents

  We get to the park. It’s empty and dark. The stars hang like lamps in the sky. We sit on the grass. Crickets chirping is the only sound. Alex finally speaks. Just so you know, I brought my bike the other day. My chest tightens. I’m so sorry. I just… I didn’t… I was grounded and… Alex laughs. Hey, it’s OK. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I assumed you were busy or something, but grounded? The truth sounds too pathetic to explain. I only say, My parents think I’m rude. He says, Don’t all parents think that about their children? I answer, I guess, but mine explode even for the tiniest things. He grins. Tyler thinks Mexican parents are a little bit dramatic. He doesn’t get how Mexicans are ’cause he’s white, I think to myself. I try to wipe away those words from my head. I let out a deep sigh. Well, my bike doesn’t work anyway. Forgot to tell you that day. Alex shakes his head, letting out a laugh.