WHAT CAN'T WAIT

Chapter 1

            You’d think that by now I’d know how to get out of the house.

Easy, right? Scrape together an outfit, make Papí and Gustavo some breakfast, grab my books, walk out the door. Finding two people camped out in the living room shouldn’t change things much.

The snoring lump on the couch is my sister Cecilia, and the niña curled up on the couch cushions by the wall is my five-year-old niece Anita. They show up like this whenever Cecilia has a big throw-down fight with her husband Jose. He’s definitely the bigger jerk, but I don’t approve of all the screaming and door slamming that she does in front of Anita. Or of how Cecilia drags her out of their apartment in the middle of the night, trash-talking Jose the whole time.

Cecilia is the last person that I want to deal with right now, so there are some simple rules I should follow. Don’t close the bathroom door because it squeaks too loud. Wait until Cecilia is in the middle of a good long snore before slipping past. Avoid saying anything that sounds even remotely like “Jose” (that always stirs up the demon in her). And definitely do not stand around watching Anita sleep when I should be walking to school.

But I can’t seem to help myself. Anita is the best thing that Cecilia ever did. Right now she’s curled up tight as a snail and sucking both her thumbs. A tiny strip of her tan skin shows in the gap between her pink tank top and her Dora the Explorer shorts.

I smile at her, which is a mistake. Because a smile has the same effect on Anita as whispering in her ear, “Hey, someone who loves you is awake. Don’t you want to get up, too?”

So I’ve only got myself to blame when Anita’s eyes pop open and she kicks free of her blanket.

            “Do you got any juice, Tía Marisa?”

            “What do you say?” I scoop her up and swing her into the kitchen with me.

            “Please do you got any juice?” She kisses me on my left cheek, aiming like she always does for the wobbly, thumb-sized birthmark I have there, which she says tastes like chocolate. Then she squirms away from me and starts to play hopscotch across the cracked kitchen tiles.

I pour her orange juice and set it down at the table. I’m watching her hop over when I notice a flash of something metallic between her lips.

            “What’s in your mouth?” I ask her.

Anita pretends not to hear and clambers up onto her favorite chair, the one with the yellow seat cushion and padded back that doesn’t match the others. I don’t know where it came from, it just appeared one day after one of the wooden chairs broke. Anita likes it because it’s the same bright yellow as a smiley face.

“Anita? Answer me.”

“Don’t want to tell.” She picks up a paper napkin from the holder on the table and drapes it over the bottom half of her face.

“Well, you have to.”

I lean closer, but Anita drops the napkin and shoots a hand up over her mouth.

“Déjame, chica.” I pry back her fingers as gently as I can and see silver caps on her two front teeth.

She looks like she’s going to cry. “We went to the denter and he put metal on my teeth.”

“That’s all?” I flick her nose. “I thought you were eating nickels for breakfast without me looking.”

She giggles a little, then covers her mouth again. “My teeths is all ugly. I’m not going to smile no more.”

“No fair, I love that smile. What if somebody tickles you?” I wrap my arms tight around her and pull her halfway up from her seat.

“Suéltame, Tía!” she shrieks.

I shush her, but it’s too late. So much for the art of leaving.

Cecilia’s up. At least her feet are. I can see them through the doorway groping for slippers that aren’t there.

I toss my lunch into my backpack and kiss Anita on the top of her head. “Te quiero. Be good, and don’t eat nickels.” I slide out the back door.

#

I get halfway down the block before Cecilia comes padding out in her socks and ratty sweats. She doesn’t even have a bra on under her stained Houston Astros shirt. I’m not all proper about things like bras, so when I tell you my sister needs a bra, I mean she really needs one. Without it, there’s way more moving under there than anybody should have to face.

            I just want to go to school and let Ceci sort out her own problems, but the way she’s shouting my name over and over, I know that if I don’t deal with her she’s going to make a scene.

I stop and turn. “What, Ceci?”

            “Just a sec. Dáme chance to breathe.”

I lift my eyebrows to show her how much I don’t feel like giving her that chance. Cecilia rakes a hand through her hair and lifts it off of her neck. Even though it’s chilly today, at least for Houston, she’s sweaty and out of breath from running. She exhales, and I catch a whiff of something foul, like a month-old burrito and seaweed. Clearly yesterday’s visit to the dentist did not impress her with the importance of nighttime brushing.

“So,” she starts in, “last night Jose waltzes in at eleven and then has the nerve to ask ‘Qué hay de comer, mujer?’ The cabrón smokes a joint while he tells me to cook for him. It was his ass supposed to be home at seven o’clock. And then--”

            “Excuse me,” I interrupt. Somewhere a lawnmower engine starts up, sputters, then dies. “You don’t have to convince me he’s a loser. You’re the one who’s still married to him. So skip to the point.”

            “He crossed me one too many times, I’ll break a plate over his head before I wash it for him. I--”

            “The point, Ceci.”

She reaches under her shirt and pulls a business card from the waistband of her sweats.

            “I got an appointment at nine-thirty. Help me out with Anita this once.”

“This once?” I stare at her. Ceci hardly ever opens her mouth without asking me for “one more” favor.

“Yeah, just so I can figure things out.”

“You expect me to skip school so I can babysit for you? Don’t say another word unless you’re actually planning to do something. I want to know where divorce comes in.”

            “Cállate! Somebody’s going to hear you!”

It’s odd that she doesn’t mind going outside looking the way she does, but she’s suddenly paranoid about neighbors with superhuman hearing.

“Fine.” I start walking. If I hurry, I can still be on time for first period.

“Hang on,” Cecilia says. She grabs the sleeve of my shirt. “Mira, the whole reason I’m asking you is because I don’t want Ma to know yet. But I’m serious about it this time, te prometo.”

            “Entonces, díme. What’s your plan?”

            “I’m going to find out, for real, what it would take for a divorce. So me and Anita can start over on our own.”

            I keep quiet, poker-faced. Ceci is probably conning me. But there’s also the chance that she really might get it together and leave Jose. It’s a long shot, but Jose’s ten kinds of bad. I don’t want Anita to grow up like we did.

Cecilia goes in for the kill. “Just for a little while. Anita will be psyched. And you’re so smart in school it don’t even matter if you miss a couple hours.” 

“You shouldn’t have left Anita alone,” I say finally, turning and walking back toward the house.

            “That’s my sis,” Cecilia says. She hurries to keep up, and her socks scuffle against the sidewalk. “No more baby money going for weed.”

“I’ll take Anita to the library until 1:00. Then you pick us up and drop me off at school. I can’t miss calculus.”

            “No problem, I got it.”

            I push open the kitchen door and toss down my backpack. Maybe I get A’s in school, but I give myself an F in self-defense.
           

Chapter 2

            Over the weekend, the sign for our high school got vandalized again. Supposedly we’re the Loyal Lobos, but somebody’s not feeling that loyalty, because the friendly looking wolf now has a spray-painted mustache, devil horns, and an enormous penis.

“Here’s your stop, nerda.” Gustavo says. He pulls the truck over to the side of the road and throws it in park. Gustavo thinks that being my big brother exempts him from common courtesy. I don’t even bother asking him to drop me off at the actual entrance.

“Damn.” He sniffs and holds his nose between his grease-stained fingers. “This place stinks of all that teacher bullshit. Why show up when school’s already over?”

            “Don’t get me started. Cecilia’s fault,” I say, jumping down from the truck. Ceci left me and Anita stranded at the library. After all her promises. I should have known better. I’ll bet she didn’t even go see the lawyer. Probably stood him up, too.

Gustavo pushes my backpack over to me. “Have fun, schoolgirl. I got to get back to the shop to finish some transmission jobs, so find a ride to work.”

            I slam the door.

            “Don’t be so serious,” he calls. “Senior year, lighten up!”

#

I use the side entrance to get to the math hall, and I’m just about to open Ms. Ford’s door when I see Alan Peralta sitting on the stairs a little farther down the hall. He has his head bowed over his sketchbook, and his shaggy brown hair hangs across his forehead. His lips are parted the tiniest bit, and a little pink triangle of tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth.

He looks up and catches me staring.

            “Hey,” he says. He flips the sketchbook closed, caps his Sharpie, and stands up. He’s about 5’11”, no giant, but tall for a Hispanic guy. We were in homeroom together freshman year, and I’m pretty sure we were the same height back then. Now I don’t even come up to his nose.

He walks over to me, looking delicious in a gray T-shirt and khaki cargo pants. “Brenda said you were stopping by here. I thought you might want the Econ notes.” He fishes around in his bag and pulls out a sheet of paper.

            “You mean Mrs. T actually taught today?” I move closer, but I keep my head tilted just the slightest bit so that my birthmark is on the side away from him.

            “Crazy, I know. Don’t worry, she only lasted about fifteen minutes, then she was back surfing the Internet. But she said this stuff would be on the quiz.” He shows me the notes, which only take up half of the page. The rest is covered by an ink drawing of a fanged wolf swinging a baseball bat. “Sorry about that. I’ve been trying to come up with a design for the team’s new spirit T-shirts. Jimmy’s been on my ass about it.”

            “Drawback of having your brother as your coach, I guess. It looks good. You sure you don’t need to keep it?”

Alan taps his sketchbook. “I’ve got another one in here. That one was just a warm-up.”

His hand is so close to mine when he gives me the notes. My best friend Brenda would tell me to just grow some balls and touch his hand to show some interest. She’d finesse this moment, no problem. But I take the notes by the corner of the page, like he’s got leprosy or something.

“I’ll give them back in the morning, maybe before first period? In the cafeteria?”

He nods but doesn’t move. I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to invite myself to his breakfast table.

His big hands toy with the worn cover of his sketchbook, while I search for something else to say. It’s cool that you thought of me? You’re a great artist? You’ve sure *changed* since freshman year?

“Got to grab my calculus homework. It’s pretty terminal to miss Ms. Ford’s class.” Brilliant. Now I seem like an even bigger geek.

I cut my losses and duck into the classroom.

#

            The problems are tough, but all I have to do to keep motivated is think of what my dad said when I told him and Ma that I signed up for AP Calculus. “Girls and numbers don’t mix, mija. Leave the mathematics to the men.” Total bullshit. He’ll see when I pass the exam.

            I’m packing up when Ms. Ford calls me over. Her glasses are always sliding down the bridge of her nose, and her blond hair is half in, half out of its barrette. I hope she’s not going to say something embarrassing about “family problems.”

She shuffles through a mess of papers and hands me an envelope that says, “The University of Texas,” and in smaller letters, “Recommendation for Ms. Marisa Moreno.”

            I run my fingers over the letters and imagine a different envelope coming for me. I’ll pull out a letter and read, “Congratulations, Ms. Moreno! We are delighted to invite you to join our freshman class in the School of Engineering…” But my mini-fantasy doesn’t last long.

Because in my family there wouldn’t be any tearful hugs or proud remarks. In my family, the minute you do something good or get the tiniest bit ahead, they got to make you feel small again. Like when I told my parents that with my GPA and SAT score I qualified for automatic admission to the University of Houston. My mom got up to throw another tortilla on the comal. My dad pointed his fork at me and said, “It’s only because some gringos want to feel good about themselves, want to feel like they’re helping out some poor mexicana. Don’t think that gets you out of working.”

And that was only talking about a college right here in Houston. Ever since I wrote “Engineering” as my career goal on some survey from the first day of school, Ms. Ford hasn’t stopped telling me how great UT-Austin is. World-class engineering program, amazing libraries, research opportunities with top faculty, big scholarships.

The truth is that I just picked engineering because it sounded good, better than being a nurse’s assistant or working at SuperCuts. I mean, engineers use lots of math and work in air-conditioning, right? That’s all I need to know for now. Sometimes Ms. Ford starts talking about civil, mechanical, and electrical engineering, but she might as well be talking about her three favorite poodle breeds for all it means to me.

If you put me in a world where all that matters is what I want, I’d go to UT and give engineering a shot. But that is definitely not my world. I can’t just peace out on my family. If I repeated Ms. Ford’s ooh-la-la UT list to my mother, the words would hit her and bounce right off like rubber arrows. There’s no way they can penetrate the fortress of Familia.

            “You finished the essay?” Ms. Ford asks, holding somebody’s homework up in front of her mouth because she’s still chewing an Oreo from the package she always has on her desk. She’s always eating something.

            I want to say, What’s the point, miss? But since Ms. Ford is seriously lacking in knowledge about Mexican families, I just say, “Not yet.”

            Ms. Ford frowns down at her calendar. “Application deadline is coming up. I want to see an essay from you on Friday.” She pulls out her tutorial schedule. “How about bringing it by right after school?”

She’s writing down the appointment in blue crayon before I even respond. She can never find a pen when she needs it.

“Fine, I’ll write the essay.”

“Of course you will,” Ms. Ford says. “Oreo?”

The fight in me is all used up, so I take one.

#

            The cafeteria is mostly empty, and I spot Brenda right away. Next to her, some white guy I don’t recognize is playing a guitar. She’s laughing and leaning against the far wall, which is just one huge, greasy window that faces a scrubby courtyard with picnic tables. The afternoon light angling in behind her gives her a sort of glow, like La Virgen de Guadalupe in a church painting. But let me tell you, Brenda is so not the virgin in our friendship.

            Most of the time I’m fine with how I look. Average build, average boobs, average brown eyes, broad Mexican nose, and black hair. Whatever. But when I walk toward Brenda, I suddenly feel awkward and embarrassed to be wearing my work polo and no makeup. One look at her and you’d know what I mean. Brenda has perfect caramel skin and these big eyes, plus a delicate little nose and a smile like she’s already got you figured out. Then there’s her body. Picture the Latina Barbie doll minus the plastic and ugly clothes, and you’re on the right track.

            The guy with Brenda has his head bent over a guitar, and I think maybe she has finally met her match. This guy is hot. His body is seriously built under that white T-shirt and jeans, and his face is straight out of an Abercrombie catalog. He’s laughing when I walk up. His blond eyebrows shoot up, and he tilts his head back. Even his Adam’s apple is sexy. I don’t blame Brenda for not noticing me until I’m right next to her.

            “Greg? This is my best friend, Marisa Moreno. Marisa, this is Greg Burns.” He grins and I think he’s already in love with everything about Brenda, even the way she says his name. He leans the guitar against the window and sticks out his hand for me to shake.

            “Marisa,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

            He surprises me by saying my name with a pretty good Spanish accent. A lot of white people say my name all ugly and flat with an “uh” at the end.

            “Greg just transferred from across town. He’s in Government with us now,” Brenda says.

            “Is she filling you in on the scary world that is our high school?” I ask him.

            He nods, still smiling. “Lucky me.”

            I glance at my watch. Brenda reluctantly detaches herself from Greg, but not before she adds his phone number to her cell. Brenda makes things happen while I just stand around fantasizing about touching Alan’s hand.

            She shoots Greg a few sexy looks over her shoulder as we walk away. “He’s going to need some help, sabes? He’s only like the sixth white guy here and all.”

“Whatever, guërita. You’ll make him feel right at home. You’re every white guy’s secret fantasy.”

Brenda’s hands go right to her hips. “Just because I got green contacts don’t make me guëra. I’m as Mexican as I am Cuban, and plenty proud of mi cultura.”

“No te creas, I’m just kidding,” I say fast. “But maybe I should warn Greg the Gringo about your man-eating past.”

“Be careful, I am your ride,” she says. As if she’d leave me behind. She changes the subject. “Seriously, what is Ceci’s problem? Qué pendeja. When you were texting me today, I almost got my phone taken up in English because I started cussing at it. Thank God I’m an only child.”

“Get this, the dentist told her a while ago not to give Anita milk at night before bed, but of course she didn’t listen. So Anita’s front teeth got really bad and they had to put silver caps on. Now she’s too embarrassed to smile. Wouldn’t even let me read her funny books at the library.”

A bunch of guys are rapping by the gym as we pass. This senior LeRoy is keeping the beat, and he grins at Brenda, showing his gold grill studded with diamonds. He’s a Dirty South rap fanatic, and fronts are part of the image.

“Maybe,” Brenda says all serious, “we should take some pictures of LeRoy’s grill and tell Anita that some people put metal on their teeth to be cool. Think that’d make her feel better?”

I laugh. “Can’t you just hear her? ‘Teeth jewelry, Tía!’ Then she’ll want diamonds.”

“Speaking of diamonds, a certain second-baseman was looking for you today.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw him.”

            “You’re smiling!” Her voice is sing-song.

            “He just gave me our Econ notes.” Brenda is not exactly what you’d call subtle when it comes to matters of the heart.

            “How muy, muy thoughtful,” she says and elbows me. “Just say the word and you’ve got Cupid Zepeda at your service.”

Chapter 3

            I hold the back door open for my mom. We’re both yawning, and as soon as she gets inside she kicks off her shoes and drops into a chair. “Another day finished, gracias a Dios,” she says. I grab the lotion from the counter and sit down next to her. I have to massage her feet because by this time of night her hands hurt too much to do it. She’s been working at the bakery forever, and all the kneading she does with dough turns her arthritis murderous. Her feet swell up bad from standing so long, and I stare at the floor while I rub them so I won’t have to see them all puffy and twisted.

            There’s a crash in the living room.

“Boo!” Anita shouts as she jumps into the kitchen. She drops on all fours and scoots across the floor on the knees of her pajamas.

“I thought I smelled a rat!” I wipe my hands on a napkin and reach out for a hug.

“Just a little ratón.” Anita covers the two silver teeth with her tongue and wriggles her fingers from her cheeks like whiskers.

“What are you doing still awake, mija?” Mamí asks her. “Ya es muy tarde.” She can’t stand to see Anita run loose. Plus, if she wakes up my dad, there’ll be hell to pay.

Anita runs to the door, picks up the shoes from where Ma dropped them, and places them neatly against the wall.

“I been helping my mommy,” she tells me. “Can I help Abuelita too?”

“Ask her. You know how.”

“Abue, ¿Puedo ayudarte en algo?” Anita asks in her shy Spanish.

“No, gracias. Véte a dormir, niña.” Ma waves her away, but not before she pulls down the hand that Anita has over her mouth.

“I’ll put her to bed,” I say. “Come on, little ratón.”

“Mommy’s getting pretty,” Anita whispers as I steer her toward the living room.

“Oh really?” I know what’s up as soon as I see the stupid bouquet of flowers on the coffee table. They’re pink roses, Cecilia’s favorite. They already look a little brown at the edges, and I can just see Jose picking them up from the “Reduced for Quick Sale” table in the Wal-Mart floral section. Here we go.

            I turn out the living room lights and settle Anita in her little corner sleeping spot.

“Paco?” Anita looks around for my old teddy bear. Paco was Cecilia’s first, then Gustavo’s, and then mine. Now he gets a good dose of Anita whenever she’s here.

“Hang on, chiquita.” I find Paco in the hall. He has two hair clips attached to his ears like earrings. The bathroom door is open a little, and I can see a slice of Cecilia’s hand holding a mascara wand.

I carry the teddy bear back to the living room, tuck him into the covers with Anita, and stroke her hair until she falls asleep.

#

            “Hey,” Cecilia says when I push the bathroom door open. She doesn’t look away from her reflection.

            “¿Qué haces?” I ask.

            “Just spoiling myself a little.” She streaks eyeliner under her left eye.

            “Do you have anything to say to me?”

            “Oh yeah. Sorry about Monday. I got caught up and--”

            “Cut the crap. Did you talk to Jose?”

            “Maybe,” Cecilia says. She sucks in her breath to find her cheekbones and dusts them pink. She looks totally uninterested in what I just said.

“Hello?” I wave a hand between Cecilia and the mirror. “What are you going to do?”

She shrugs. “Jose’s going to stop by on his way home from work. We need to talk.”

“So what are you going to say? What about the div--”

“Shut up!” Cecilia snaps. “It’s my business, entiendes? Jose said he was sorry, and this time he means it.”

“I bet. And he also said he’s going to help around the house and quit smoking pot?”

“Yeah, so what? He wants me to go back to school. He’s going to work more hours so that when Anita starts kindergarten we’ll have money for me to do a cosmetology program.”

“You can do that without him. Don’t put Anita through this again. She’s not a baby. She’s too big for you to just stick her in her room like nothing is happening while you two are going at each other.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Cecilia’s eyes narrow. “One day maybe you’ll have your own fucking problemas to worry about. Then we’ll see who’s so smart.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve. A shit load of nerve.” I walk out of the bathroom so mad I’m shaking.