Which, admittedly, was a lot of baggage to dredge up over a nativity set. I had been building that accusation for a long time—it’s the only way I can make sense of Connie’s total disinterest in trying to improve the current messed-up system.
Connie put Yasmín in the car, and I thought they were going to get frozen yogurt without me or something. I didn’t even tell Dad about our fight when he got home; I was hoping it would blow over. But then it got later and later, and finally she texted Dad that they had passed through the border.
She drove to Monterrey, stayed with her sisters for a whole week, all the way to New Year’s. Dad wandered the house like the ghost of Christmas future, silent and depressed. Aunt Mal came into town, did the nice older sister version of slapping him to get him back on track, and reminded him that Connie wasn’t gone gone, not like my mom, and that he could pick up the phone and fix things.
When she came back, Dad finally found his voice to tell me that things were going to be different.
It took me a couple more fights and a series of increasingly harsh lectures before I realized that what he really meant was that I was going to be different. And now, since I couldn’t do that well enough, he’s waiting for me to leave.
Well, fine. Dad’s right. I am sick of being here. I’m sick of Connie and she’s sick of me, and if it has to be one of us, Dad’s made it clear who he’ll pick.
I pick up my phone to text Xiumiao. I’m halfway through the message before I remember that she wants the summer to be over, too. Maybe she doesn’t want to hear from me. Testing the waters, I send her a screenshot of the first pointless meme I find on Tumblr that makes me laugh. When I check back eight minutes later, the text has been “Read.”
I try to go back to internet browsing, but I’m restless and angry. Besides, Connie’s serving dinner downstairs, sounds of the microwave beeping and plates dropping against the table floating up from the kitchen. My stomach grumbles, matching my resentful feelings. I head downstairs.
Connie sets out food around an empty table.
“Oh,” she says when she sees me.
“Yep. Me. Still here. Not going anywhere yet.”
Connie frowns, then returns to arranging salmon burgers on Dad’s and Yasmín’s plates. “Can you tell your father—?”
“Is there anything I can eat?” I drop into my seat and stare at my empty plate.
“You can take the salad out of the fridge and start serving.” Connie’s frown deepens.
While Connie doles out the mashed potatoes (already made with milk and butter), I drag myself up and pull open the refrigerator. The giant plastic salad bowl takes up most of the bottom shelf.
“Is this cheese?” I ask even though I can plainly see the hunks of crumbly white feta nestling between lettuce leaves. I hold the bowl tight so my fingers don’t shake against it.
“Oh,” Connie says again. “You can pick it out, can’t you?”
Yes, I can pick out the cheese. Not as easily as everyone else could have added the cheese to their own individual salad, though.
I guess Connie hears my sigh, because she turns snappy. “You’re seventeen, you know. At your age I was making dinner for all my sisters. If you don’t want to eat what we have, you’re more than welcome to make your own food. There’s peanut butter in the pantry.”
My hands clench around the stupid salad. She’s not wrong. I am a sad excuse for a high school graduate who can barely heat soup. I never help Connie with the cooking, and it’s not like anyone owes me a gourmet vegan meal every night. It’s so close to what Dad said, too. Things will be easier when I leave, when I stop expecting to be part of the family.
I drop the salad bowl onto the table, making no attempt to quiet the clatter, just as Dad and Yasmín enter the kitchen.
Dad shoots me a narrow-eyed glance, but then he takes his seat by the window and smiles. “Look at this fancy home-cooked dinner! I feel spoiled.”
I pull individual leaves out of the salad bowl.
Yasmín pokes her salmon patty, looking worried. “Mine’s pink,” she says. Dad and Connie chuckle. Dad takes a huge bite of burger and grunts his appreciation. Connie beams, standing next to Dad without taking her seat. Yasmín starts on her mashed potatoes.
And I sit in the corner, still fuming. One of these things just doesn’t belong here.
“Ellen,” Connie says, finally sitting, “I was so worried about you that I didn’t have the energy to start with the garage. Let’s plan to clean it out tomorrow, okay?”
I press my hands against my pounding temples, but I am not going to react. I stand and head to the counter to dig an apple out of the fruit bowl. I take a deep breath and examine the slightly browned edges. I take a bite.
“Ellen? Did you hear Connie?” Dad asks.
I shrug, swallowing a bite of soggy, tasteless apple. I don’t fill my mouth with a second bite fast enough. “Yeah, I heard. She was concerned for my safety.”
“And the garage?” Dad prompts.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I did think admitting she needed me for free labor threw her motives into question, but I wasn’t going to mention anything.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Running off without giving anyone your whereabouts is inconsiderate,” Connie says. “We were worried.”
“Well, don’t worry; I’ll be here all day tomorrow, ready to be bossed around.”
“I’m just asking for your help with this project,” Connie says between tight-pressed lips, leaving her seat to force an extra spoonful of salad onto Yasmín’s plate. “I don’t think it’s an unreasonable request.” She walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of ketchup. “That garage has so much potential. I’ve been trying to get you excited about it, but if you’re so opposed to that, you could at least think about how renting out the space might help pay for your tuition.”
“What are you talking about?” If Connie told me about her plans for the cleared-out garage, I definitely wasn’t listening. Is she going to turn it into an Airbnb or something?
Connie tuts. “If we get the garage apartment up and ready to rent out, it could really help . . .”
Right, another reminder that I’m putting such a strain on the family by going to college.
“. . . but right now it’s a disaster zone.”
“Oh, is that my fault, too?”
Connie spins around, a tiny frown forming between her eyebrows. “What do you mean, Ellen?”
I mean, it’s your garage; clean it yourself. I’m out of here anyway.