“Well… what I was hoping was, maybe you could help convince my mom that I shouldn’t do it. It’s too far away, and um, I need to help out more at home.”
“Help out more at home? Why? Is something going on?”
“No…” No way was I getting into the whole Dad-stepping-out-again thing.
“Liliana. Change can be tough. I get it. But this program—it’s worth it. These opportunities don’t come up very often. What’s the worst that can happen? You absolutely hate it, and then you transfer back to a Boston school.”
Huh. Okay. Good point. But, uh-uh. “No, Miss Jackson. Sorry, but I really don’t feel like switching schools. Sophomore year already started. Plus, I don’t know anyone over there.”
“Listen, baby. Try to hear me. I know it might seem like high school is forever, and your friends are your life. I get that. But what you do now—or don’t do now—can really affect your future, and the choices you have in the future.”
“But what’s wrong with this school? You work here.” I added a smile so she wouldn’t think I was throwing attitude or anything.
“That’s true. And I love my job.”
“But…?”
“But, nothing.”
“Okay. Fine. I kinda get what you’re saying. Why not at least try it?”
She grinned.
I spent the rest of the period listening to her explain more about the program, about the opportunities I would have access to, about the honors classes and the cultural capital, and other terms I didn’t totally get, like “stereotype threat.” She even told me she believed she got into a great college because of METCO. “And—this could be great for your writing,” she added. I still wasn’t 100 percent convinced, but I did feel a little better about it.
Maybe it was the muffin.
* * *
After school I picked up Christopher and Benjamin from the bus stop.
“Liliana?” Christopher asked in his trying-to-be-so-innocent voice as the school bus wheezed away. I could tell my brothers were still heated. Last night they had been wrestling in the living room and had knocked over a lamp, so Mom had forbidden them to play video games until further notice. Benjamin had wailed like he was on fire, and Christopher had stopped breathing for like, a whole minute. Video games were their LIFE. Anyway, Mom had told them, No más, and she’d had that nostril flare that meant business. Don’t let her sparkly headbands fool you; Mom can be fierce.
I knew exactly where Christopher was going with this sweetie-sweet voice. “Don’t even ask,” I said, shutting him down.
“Come on!” he cried out.
“Please, Liliana!” Benjamin joined in. He’s the twin with a freckle on his chin just like Dad. When they were babies, it had helped me tell them apart.
“Look, Mom hid your stupid games, so I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to.”
At the apartment they moped around, then totally ignored me when I told them to get working on their homework, like I had hidden the games. Mom had left a note saying that she’d gone to the store. Maybe it was the Super 88, the Vietnamese supermarket! Not because I am obsessed with Vietnamese food, but because Mom is. See, even though my mother grew up in El Salvador, she is capital O Obsessed with Vietnamese food. And if she’s cooking Vietnamese food, that means she’s happy. She tried it when she first came to Boston, and then, when she was pregnant with me, she only wanted to eat Vietnamese. Same when she had my brothers six years later.
So while Mom was at the store hopefully picking out lemongrass and nuoc mam, I sat in the apartment practically sweating to death (yes, it was hot for the middle of September, and no, we don’t have air-conditioning) and trying to write in my journal. I say “trying” because Benjamin and Christopher were tearing the place apart, searching for their video games. I mean, they moved the couch, dug under cushions, inside Mom’s pillowcase, behind the toilet. They were like cops hunting for drugs. Finally, after like forty-five minutes, Benjamin found the video game box. He almost cried. He really did. So he plugged it in and got all settled on the living room floor—which was so stupid, because by the time he heard Mom coming home, he wouldn’t have time to put the box back where Mom had hidden it, which was inside a cardboard shoe box labeled fotos at the bottom of her closet. But he was an idiot, so.
Turns out Christopher and Benjamin still weren’t able to play video games because Mom had hidden the controllers separately, not in the box. Sneaky! So round two of the search began. Now they were flat-out pissed.
Finally Christopher said, “Get off your fat butt, Liliana, and help us look for them!”
I was like, “Whaaaat? Who you think you talking to, little boy?” and stayed put on the couch and kept working on my short story, the one about the girl who gets a new boyfriend and forgets about her best friend and then one day the boyfriend dumps her. The story was inspired by the Greek myth of Daedalus and Icarus. You know, flying too close to the sun melts your wings, or whatever. We had just read it in English and it wasn’t that boring. We were supposed to hand back the photocopies of it, but I kept mine.
Christopher and Benjamin finally gave up the controller hunt and put the video games back in the closet, just in time, because Mom came home not two minutes later. But with only one white plastic bag instead of the usual ten pink plastic ones from Super 88. Shoot. The Vietnamese food she cooked was mad good, even though the windows got all steamed up whenever she made pho. We usually had it with beef or chicken, depending on how much money Mom had earned that week. She cleaned houses, and people were always going on vacation or something and then didn’t need her at the last minute. So, all right, her Vietnamese food was bomb. Well, almost. Except for those spring rolls. Hers tasted like soap. Truth? I would’ve eaten those soapy spring rolls if it meant Mom was actually cooking that night. But a white plastic bag meant no dice. No pho. I peeked inside: five boxes of mac and cheese, a carton of milk, and two sticks of butter. Dang. This meant Mom was in a deep, dark state.
While I took out a pot to boil water, Mom washed her hands, then winked at me as she pulled the controllers out from her black purse. She’s super smart like that. Despite that small victory, though, she looked utterly defeated. Every day Dad was gone, the look grew worse. But here’s when her mood changed—when I brought up METCO.
“So, Mom, a crazy thing happened today—”
Her eyes immediately fixed on me.
“Yeah, so the vice principal said I got into this METCO program—said he left you a couple voice mails.”
“¿Cuando?” I swear, her hands started shaking. She dropped one of the controllers.
I gave her the pamphlet. “Today. He said I got in, but I told him I’m straight. It’s in some town like an hour from here.”
“You got in? ¿De verdad?” She began digging in her bag.
“Yeah… but—” I folded up the plastic bag so we could use it later.
“But nada. You’re going.” She tucked one of her dark curls behind her ear in a that-settles-that sort of way, and checked her voice mail.
We stood there having a little stare-off while she listened. A huge smile spread across her face. Huge. “You got into METCO!” she exclaimed, as if I hadn’t told her this thirty seconds before.