I don’t say anything. I drop the spoiled apple on the counter, and I turn around, and I walk away. Out of the kitchen, through the living room, past the stairs, and out the front door. Down the block. Out. Away.
* * *
• • •
When the door slams behind me I can think again, take stock. It’s hot, and the sun’s down, but our neighborhood is safe and well-lit. I have my phone and my wallet. Despite Connie’s dire warnings about leaving the house, I don’t need to go back yet.
Texting would require standing still, which is not an option right now. I cross the street and stomp past the end of the block to catch the bike trail that winds through the neighborhood, hidden by a thin line of trees, the only option for non-car travel in a neighborhood that doesn’t believe in sidewalks.
My chest shakes, my eyes blur, and I stumble when I step onto the gravel bike path. Angry tears and frustrated tears and sad tears mix and spill on my cheeks, and I’m glad for the slight privacy the path provides.
Safe behind the trees, I finally stop. I breathe.
Dad’s waiting to get rid of me. It will be better for everyone when I’m out of the house. It’s actually hilarious that he and Xiumiao want the same thing. Space.
Everyone wants me out of their life.
It’s no surprise that Connie doesn’t really want me around. She would never say it, but I know, the way Melissa knows that she’s her mom’s favorite kid and her brother is her dad’s, or the way Xiumiao knows that her parents didn’t plan to have her. Connie puts up with me the best she can for Dad’s sake and Yasmín’s. She loves them both so much. They’re hers. I just happened to come along as part of the set. I get that, even if I don’t like it. I can understand.
I can’t understand Dad.
I walk a little farther, but the urgency is gone. As the angry adrenaline drains, I’m left empty and vaguely embarrassed.
“Ellen!” A voice calls my name, and feet slap-slap-slap against the road beyond my tree cover. “Ellen?”
Yasmín barrels around the tree line and stumbles as her toes hit gravel. “Oh,” she says when she sees me. “Hi.” She hops from one foot to another, wipes her cheek while sniffling quietly. Now I’m the jackass whose tantrum made my little sister cry.
“Hey, I’m right here.” I copy the wipe-and-sniff move. “I just wanted to walk a little.”
“Okay,” Yasmín says, still hopping.
Sigh. “Here,” I offer my hands and point my toes, inviting Yasmín to step up and stand on the tops of my sneakers. This move was easier when she was five, but I manage to stay upright with my toes only slightly squished. “You shouldn’t run out into the street at night.”
“You shouldn’t,” Yasmín shoots back.
“At least I wore shoes.” We stand there, listening to the cicadas buzz. I don’t spend much time with just Yasmín anymore. I don’t get babysitting duty these days, so it’s always me and Connie and Yasmín hanging around the house, or me and Yasmín and Dad going on a late-night grocery run. Or, more often, me and Yasmín in different rooms of the house, doing our own stuff. “How are things going with Mrs. Sorgalla?” I ask.
“Fine,” she answers automatically.
“Oh really? So she totally loves you now? And she’s stopped all the unfairness?”
“Umm . . .”
That’s what I thought. “What’s she doing now?”
Yasmín shrugs. “Um, she just doesn’t let me turn my work in when I’m the first one finished, and she said I have to stop raising my hand all the time.”
“Did she say why?” Tiny sparks of anger are already smoking in my chest.
“She said I was being a show-off.” Yasmín stares at her feet but tosses her ponytail and scowls. My sparks catch fire.
“You are aware that that’s complete bull crap, right?”
“Saying ‘crap’ is unladylike,” Yasmín scolds like a miniature disapproving Connie.
I snort. “Hey, give me some credit for not saying ‘shit,’ at least.”
Yasmín gasps.
“Sorry.” My brain is teeming with worse words I’d like to unleash on Mrs. Sorgalla, along with some fucking research showing exactly how girls are systematically taught to downplay and devalue their accomplishments (in the name of avoiding “unladylike” bragging). What is it the teacher finds so unbelievable about Yasmín being a miniature math whiz, and would she think the same thing about the white kids in class? It’s not like I, the mostly monolingual kid with lighter skin, have run into this problem much with teachers, but I’ve heard the comments people make when they read me as white, always followed by “Oh I didn’t mean you, of course. You’re not really Mexican” (like that’s some kind of compliment). Shouldn’t Connie be talking to Yasmín about this, instead of burying it with the assumption that all teachers deserve respect? Shouldn’t I?
I could rant endlessly to Yasmín, warn her that there will always be asshats like Mrs. Sorgalla trying to make her sit down and shut up, and that she should never listen to them. An ocean of relevant internet articles swamps my brain, more outrage and information than I can possibly explain to a ten-year-old, especially without cursing. I wish I were Melissa, who can always turn her thoughts into appropriate words, or Xiumiao, who can’t but lets them out anyway.
“You don’t ever need to feel bad about showing off what you’re awesome at,” I tell Yasmín, and I just hope that if I say it with enough frustration and desperation in my voice, she’ll believe it. “Promise you won’t let Mrs. Sorgalla get to you?”
She nods.
“Good.” We’re quiet again. Hanging on to my hands for balance, Yasmín leans straight backward until her ponytail almost touches the ground. Then she stands back up and looks me straight in the eyes.
“Are you still mad at Mom?”
Furious. I expect the emotion to flare up again, but instead I just feel tired. I look over my shoulder for an excuse to break eye contact.
“Nah, I’m not mad.” I guess this is why Dad wants peace. Fighting is exhausting.
“Good.” Yasmín hops off my feet and tiptoes to the grass. “I hate when people are mad.”
She offers her hand. I’m about to take it, and we’re about to walk out of the trees and back to the house, but an earsplitting screech freezes both of us.
“Yasmín!”
Connie’s cry is so shrill it sets the neighbor’s dachshund puppy on an equally piercing barking spree.