Choke (10 page)

“I guess the whole world has noticed, huh?”

He sounded so cute when he was embarrassed.

Then he said, “So that means Nina knows how I feel, right?”

I remembered all the boy advice she gave me. She probably knew better than anyone. “Of course,” I said.

He sighed as if releasing the weight of the heaviest dumbbells.

“You don't know how relieved I am,” he said. “To finally get this out in the open.”

I never knew a smile could take over the whole body. Even my toes tingled with joy. “I know,” I said. “I hate holding back, too.”

“So you think I have a chance?”

“You
definitely
have a chance.”

“Really?” he said. “Because I didn't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because Nina's so pretty and smart and — and — sophisticated! She could be with any guy she wants. Why would she like me when she's the prettiest girl in school?” I felt the smile in my body turn downward. Ronnie squeezed my shoulder and said, “Don't frown, Trouper. You're pretty, too.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty,” I repeated like a mindless robot.

“So you'll talk to her? Tell her what's up? And then report back to me?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“I knew I could count on you,” he said. Then he gave me a hug, like the kind my cousins give when I see them at barbecues. “Got to go,” he said, turning back to school. We hadn't even reached my house yet!

I was so stupid, the stupidest girl in the world. All those signs were for
Nina
. Ronnie didn't like me. He didn't like me one bit. He talked to me because of
her
. Everything made sense now. But what had gone wrong? Why did he like her instead of me? When I thought about it, I realized that Nina didn't flirt with him. She didn't encourage him. That would be the ultimate breath sister betrayal. Besides, she liked high school guys better. If anything, she tried to set me up with Ronnie and get him to notice
me
. It wasn't her fault I was too ugly, too dumb, and too unsophisticated to win his heart. So even though I felt extremely jealous of her, I couldn't really feel mad.

I wanted to lock myself in my room and cry, but as I approached the house, I noticed Mom's car in the driveway. How could I hide from her? Every afternoon, she wanted a foot massage and an icy Diet Coke. I had to be her arms and
legs, and when I'd finally sit down, she'd ask for a full report about school and then lecture me about finding an interest.

Be brave
, I told myself.
Swallow the pain.
I reached in my purse for my glasses, put them on, and stepped through the door.

Instead of lying on the couch and complaining about her aching feet, Mom stood in the middle of the living room with her arms crossed. “Where were you?” she demanded.

Most of the time, I got home first, but even when I didn't, she never acted mad.

“I was at school,” I explained. “Study hall. You can call the librarian if you like. She made me sign in.”

“Now that's interesting,” Mom said. “All of a sudden, you're going to study hall.”

“Don't you believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you. You want to know
why
I believe you?”

I was curious, but a little freaked out, too. This was not my normal mother.

“I believe you because I got a phone call,” she went on. “From your speech teacher, Mrs. Campos.”

“Why did she call? Was it because I couldn't finish my assignment?”

“No, she called because you're not wearing your glasses to class. Apparently, your vision mysteriously improved, but, apparently, not enough for you to see the board.”

“I wear my glasses,” I protested. “They're on my face, aren't they?”

“Don't sass at me, young lady. After I talked to Mrs. Campos, I called your other teachers, and all of them reported the same thing. So I assume you went to study hall to make up your work?”

Before I could answer, my dad walked in. His eyes were watery, not because he was crying, but because he had contact lenses. Blue contact lenses!

Mom noticed, too. “Don't tell me this is about that job again!” She shook her head and fell onto the couch. “First the clothes, then the hair, and now the eyes? Do you know what kind of message you're sending to our daughter?”

“What's this about a message?” he wanted to know.

“She's not wearing her glasses to school. She probably thinks she looks nerdy.”

“I
do
look nerdy,” I said.

“You don't want to wear glasses?” Dad asked. “You want some contacts like me?”

“Really? Can I get some?”

“Don't change the subject,” Mom warned.

“How did I change it?” Dad said. “We're talking about glasses, right?”

Mom sighed. She was getting very frustrated.

“Look,” she said, “every time you change the way you look, you're sending a message to Windy.”

“Why?” I interjected. “Because I look like Dad?”

“Of course, sweetheart. You're as beautiful and unique as your dad. You don't have to change a thing, including your glasses.”

“It's the truth,” Dad said.
“Tu eres muy chula, mija.”

I knew Dad thought I was pretty, but I didn't believe him, or my mom. I understood why he wanted to change himself. For him, the people on TV were the in-crowd. They had light eyes and hair, and they wore the latest styles. Fitting in meant looking like them. The same was true at school. Lots of girls wanted to be breath sisters, so they acted different by playing the choking game. Didn't all the new scarves prove that?

“Windy?” Mom said, because I'd started to cry. I shouldn't have, since I was part of the in-crowd now, but I couldn't help it. Maybe I had breath sisters, but there were other things I didn't have. Like Ronnie. I thought about the time we spent in class, in the cafeteria, in the library, in
the hallway, on the school yard. Then I fast-forwarded to this afternoon. And I completely understood how bummed Dad felt when he didn't get picked for the TV job. I felt just as bummed. Didn't I do everything right? Didn't I pay attention to Ronnie, laugh at his jokes, and ask questions to keep the conversation going? Dad was right. He didn't get the job and I didn't get Ronnie because neither of us looked the part.

“I hate my glasses!” I blurted. “I hate my frizzy hair! I hate the shape of my nose and my eyebrows! I hate my fingernails! And if you loved me, Mom, you'd let me fix myself. You'd let Dad fix himself, too!”

I ran to my room and locked the door. Mom followed me and gently knocked.

“Windy, open up. Please. Let's talk about this.”

“Go away!” I shouted.

I could feel her waiting patiently in the hallway. Then I heard my dad's steps.

“Mija,”
he said. “Open the door.”

I wouldn't do it. Instead, I got my fluffiest pillow and covered my ears.

After a few more seconds, Mom shouted at Dad. “This is all your fault!”

T
he following morning, Mom knocked at six.

“Windy?” she called, jiggling the locked bedroom door. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” I said sleepily.

“You want to leave early and have breakfast before you see Mrs. Vargas?”

I wanted to sleep another hour, but I couldn't turn her down, because I'd refused to eat the night before. My stomach growled louder than an angry cat and felt as empty as my hopes for Ronnie.

“Okay,” I said.

I hurriedly washed up, brushed my hair, and got dressed.
In my rush, I almost forgot to grab the craft book I'd bought for Mrs. Vargas.

I still felt a little upset, so I didn't say much as Mom drove to our favorite breakfast place, the Original Donut Shop on the corner of Babcock and Fredericksburg. It has two drive-thru lanes, one for the donuts and one for the tacos. The taco line is always longer, sometimes with three or four cars idling in the main street. There are two separate lines inside the restaurant, too. On the days we want donuts
and
tacos, we have to stand in line twice. What a hassle! But the food is so good.

We stepped inside. As usual, the air smelled both sugary and
picoso
, the word my family used for the hot, spicy odors of Mexican food. Mom ordered a can of Big Red and a corn tortilla with
barbacoa
, made from the meat of pig cheeks. In my part of Texas,
barbacoa
and Big Red went together like peanut butter and jelly. I wanted my favorite, orange juice and a bean-and-cheese
taquito
. When my
taquito
arrived, I curled the bottom of the tortilla and made a pocket to catch the beans. Otherwise, I'd get my hands dirty. I used to make a huge mess, but not anymore. Eating tacos is a real art.

“The Top Five Traits of a True Taco Expert,” I said as I opened my notebook. “Five, ordering potato-and-egg or fajitas
on flour tortillas. Four, ordering guacamole and
barbacoa
on corn, always corn. Three, knowing how to bite a crispy taco without cracking the entire shell. Two, folding the ends of soft tacos so the fillings don't drip out. And the number one trait of a true taco expert is?” I suddenly had writer's block. What
was
the number one trait of a true taco expert?

“Never asking for butter,” Mom suggested. “Only tourists ask for butter.”

I had to agree. The Original Donut Shop didn't even have butter on the condiments table.

“Because tortillas are
not
the same as biscuits or toast,” Mom added, as seriously as the principal announcing a warning on the intercom. She made me laugh, and laughing felt good, especially after a whole night of crying into my pillow and asking Raindrop, “Why me?” and “Why
not
me?”

I wrote down the butter comment, put away the notebook, and enjoyed my meal. I was starting to believe I could forget all about Ronnie's crush on Nina, my teacher's phone call, Elena's anger, and Dad's new style. But then Mom said, “We need to talk about last night.”

I should have known. Mom and I come to this
taquería
once or twice a week. We always order at the drive-thru, but when she wants to talk, we go inside. This is where she gossiped about her sisters, where she showed me fashion
catalogues when she needed an outfit for a dance, and where she explained things like menstruation. Imagine learning
that
while eating tacos.

Mom was silent for a while. I could tell she was searching for the right way to explain things. “Remember that promotion I was offered last year?”

I nodded. In fact, Mom and I had come here, to the Original Donut Shop, to discuss it. Her company had offered to make her a charge nurse with her own office and a big fat raise. I'd thought it was a great idea, especially since she complained about her feet so much, but then I noticed that she said things like, “I'll mostly do paperwork,” and “I'll need to go to meetings with the administrators,” and “After a while, I'll forget the patients' names.” It didn't sound like she wanted the job, so I said, “Mom, do you want to make more money or spend more time with your patients? You know, on your feet. Your tired, sore feet.” I wanted her to say, “More money,” but she didn't. She decided that she liked standing on her feet all day, and not once has she regretted her choice. She even thanked me for helping her figure it out. But why would she pick sore feet over money? Sometimes adults make no sense.

“Do you know why that decision was so hard for me?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Because at my age, your father's age, you start to see how far up the career ladder you're going to go.” She took a sip of her Big Red before continuing. “They asked me to be a charge nurse, but I said no. They will never ask me again. I'm going to be a floor nurse for the rest of my life. But that's okay, because I chose it. Your father, on the other hand, wasn't offered his dream job, so he didn't have a chance to say yes or no. And the more he thinks about it, the more he remembers his childhood, how hard it was and how he had to prove himself every single day.”

“Why did he have to prove himself?” I asked. “Dad's a smart guy.
Everybody
thinks so.”

“That's true,
mija
, but when your parents didn't go to college or speak English, accomplishing the American dream is a lot tougher. Maybe that's not
as
true today, but when your father and I were kids, it was the reality.”

“Are you talking about people being prejudiced?”

“I guess I am,” she said. “It's an ugly subject, but it's history, too. So you can see why your dad is acting this way.” She reached over and gently brushed her hand across my cheek. “But,
mija
,” she said, so tenderly, “I don't want you to be ashamed of who you are. Maybe the world isn't perfect yet, but it's getting better. I can
feel
it. I can
see
it. You have
so many opportunities. That's why I keep bugging you about finding an interest. Think about it. You can be whatever you want to be.”

I knew she was talking about my education and career, but all I could think about was my personal life. If Mom was right, then why couldn't I be Ronnie's girlfriend?

“If that's true,” I argued, “then why didn't Dad get the TV job? He's good at predicting the weather. He doesn't even need those fancy instruments. He can forecast the whole week after sniffing the air. And every time he and the new guy on TV have a different prediction, Dad's is always right. So you see, Mom, maybe things
haven't
changed.”

“I refuse to believe that, Windy.”

“Then why? Why didn't he get the job?”

“I don't know.” She sighed and crushed her empty soda can. “But we're going to find out in a couple of days.”

“How?”

“You'll see.”

 

Soon, I was knocking on Mrs. Vargas's door. When I gave her the crafting book, she smiled and clapped her hands like a winner on
The Price Is Right
. Then she grabbed some Post-its.

“Let's go through the book,” she said, “and we can figure out which crafts to make. I'll put Post-its on the ones I really like.”

She opened the blinds to the courtyard, and we sat at her table by the sliding door. The book had several sections: for jewelry and hair accessories, for gardens, for wreaths, and for holidays. Mrs. Vargas put most of the Post-its in the gardening section.

“I'm tired of looking at that boring scene,” she explained, nodding toward the courtyard. “That fountain used to work, and we used to have herbs, vegetables, and lots of flowers, even the kind that attracted butterflies and hummingbirds. We had an occupational therapist at the time. He used gardening for our therapy. But then he left, and since the next therapist didn't like being outside, we all let the place go.”

“Why don't you get together and fix it up again?”

“I guess it seems like too big a project. Where would we start?”

Mrs. Vargas looked out, her eyes full of daydreams.

“It was so pleasant,” she remembered. “We'd sit out there, drink our lemonade and enjoy the sun. And even when I didn't go outside, I'd at least have something to look at. But now, even the trees look depressed. Why put all that effort into making leaves if no one's going to enjoy the shade?”

I nodded. The trees did look scraggly.

Mrs. Vargas sighed. “All the crafts in the world aren't going to bring the plants back,” she said.

My poor “granny.” First the courtyard dried out, and then her friend Mrs. Williams got moved to the third floor. Mrs. Vargas had a lot of worries, just like me.

“Let's make something anyway,” I said. “It probably won't help the plants, but at least we can bring in some color. Who knows? Maybe your neighbors will get excited and add their own projects.”

We scanned the book again, skipping the birdhouses and feeders because we didn't have a saw, hammer, or nails. Luckily, we found projects we could make — wreaths and macramé holders for hanging baskets. We had one problem, though. We'd have to go shopping first because we didn't have all the supplies.

“I'll ask my mom to take us to Hobby Lobby when she gets off work,” I told Mrs. Vargas.

“I'm afraid I can't go today. We'll have to wait for my next check.”

Usually, Mrs. Vargas had extra money, but sometimes she spent it. Pleasant Hill has a van, and each week, one of the orderlies drives Mrs. Vargas and her friends to the movies or mall. Sometimes, they see an exhibit at a local museum
or walk through the botanical gardens. Other times, they volunteer at elementary schools or help at the polls on election days. Mrs. Vargas likes to stay busy, so she goes on every outing.

“Where did the van go this week?” I asked.

“To El Mercado.”

El Mercado is a favorite tourist spot in downtown San Antonio. It has restaurants,
tienditas
, and a museum.
Ballet folklórico
dancers often perform in the plaza.

“Did you have fun?” I asked.

“I didn't go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I had forty dollars,” she said. “But then it was gone.”

“You lost it?”

“Perhaps.” She glanced at her dresser as if deciding something. “Perhaps I lost it,” she repeated. “Or perhaps someone took it from me.”

“You mean it was stolen! Who would do such a thing?” I imagined thugs in ski masks barreling through her door and overturning the mattress, the chairs, and all the dresser drawers till they found her forty bucks — and poor Mrs. Vargas cowering in a corner. I wished I could punch those thieves in the face.

“I wasn't going to mention it,” Mrs. Vargas said. “But since it came up, I better tell you about my suspicions.”

“Tell me,” I insisted. “We can talk to the charge nurse and the security guard. Maybe we can get your money back.”

“I don't care about the money, Windy. But I do care about you.” She paused a moment, as if deciding again. “I last saw the money a week ago. You come all the time, and you often bring Elena. When you girls leave, everything is in its place. But last week you brought a new friend, and when
she
left, so did my money.”

I gasped. “You think
Nina
stole it?”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Vargas said again. “I don't have any proof. Maybe I
did
lose the money. I'm a
viejita
already. Sometimes I forget things.”

“You
had
to lose it, Mrs. Vargas. Nina wouldn't steal from you. Why would she do that? She has her own money. And she's really cool,
double
cool. She doesn't have to be my friend, but she
is
. She thinks I'm interesting. I'm her breath sister — which is kind of like the girl version of blood brothers. So you can see how much she cares about me. And because of her, I have a lot of new friends now. Things are better for me lately, a lot better.” I couldn't stop myself. I needed to defend Nina. But as I kept talking, I started to wonder. Who was I trying to convince? Mrs. Vargas or myself?

“Okay, okay,” Mrs. Vargas interrupted. “I'm just trying to put two and two together. But what do I know? I'm not a detective.”

“No, you're not,” I said, immediately sorry that I sounded so rude.

I had probably hurt her feelings, but she didn't let on. She dropped the subject after we agreed to shop the following week.

We watched TV for a while, and at noon, we went to lunch. I always eat in the public dining room when I visit Mrs. Vargas. Some of the residents have trouble getting in and out of their chairs, so I become a part-time waitress, bringing them condiments or refilling their tea. I don't mind. I love being near them and hearing their stories. They're the funniest and wisest people I know, and, best of all, they don't have in-crowd or out-crowd sections in their dining room.

“Where were you last week?” they asked. “We thought we saw you in the morning.”

“I was here for a little while,” I explained. “But then I went shopping with my friend.”

Mentioning the shopping trip made me think about that day. Nina had bought lunch, paid for my makeup, and given me cash for the bus, yet at the book fair, she said her mom never gave her money. So why did she have some last
Saturday? Did her mom make an exception, or did Nina take the money from Mrs. Vargas? Oh, no! We had closed our eyes while Elena played the piccolo, and when we opened them, Nina was at the dresser!

The blood must have drained from my face because one of the ladies patted my hand and asked if I was okay.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Just tired, I guess.”

And I was tired. Tired of trying to figure people out. Elena never held grudges, but after three days, she was still mad at me. My dad kept changing himself, but instead of being patient, Mom scolded him. Ronnie was super nice now, but he still didn't like me, not the way I liked him. The in-crowd girls were suddenly my friends, but only because I had played the choking game. But what if I hadn't? What if I said I'd never play again? Would they stay my friends? And then Nina. I didn't even know where to start with Nina. She was the most confusing of all.