“I know, but it was for my mother’s grave. Wouldn’t you want me to have a nice grave?”
I narrow my eyes on her. My mother loved to use her theatrics to make us feel sorry for her. Pulling out my phone, I log into my bank account. Letting out a sigh as I look at the little I have to offer her.
My Tía Amparo had been the main reason my father did not give my mother cash in hand. Anything she wanted, he gave her, but anytime he put physical money in her hand, she was quick to give it to her sisters in Mexico. Sisters who had ranches and mansions, while she could barely afford the small home we lived in. It was this idea that those of us in “El Norte” had all these opportunities and money to spend. I shake my head and let the rage inside me simmer.
“I’ll figure it out, Ma. But you can’t be sending more money.”
“Promise me you won’t tell Desmond,” she begs, and I sigh.
“How far behind are you?”
“Three months. Más o menos.”
“THREE MONTHS!” I shout.
My eye twitches again, and I can’t help but wonder if my dad is doing a full 180 in his grave. This was such a complicated situation, and a discussion I would need to have at a time when I could process everything. I have barely enough from my first check to cover the first two months. I make a note to call the light company and explain the situation.
I had wanted to use my first check to start paying off some of the debt I had accumulated from our move here, but I guess there would be another time for that. There were many of us as first-generation Latinas, that had to break the moldwhen it came to financial independence, but it was always a struggle. Something always got thrown in my direction. Something was always holding me back.
Socorro looks up from where her head is bowed. Sitting next to her, I take her hand in mine. I couldn’t be mad at my mother, who came from a society that didn’t encourage her to make the same wages as a man, much less know how to budget it. My father had taught me these things; this country had taught me these things.
“It’s gonna be okay, Ma. We’ll do better next time.” I rest my head on her shoulder. I really hope there wasn’t a next time.
I’m in the bathroom putting on makeup and moving slower than a snail to get ready for church. Something about spending another day idolizing Lourdes makes my stomach churn. You’d think Socorro would give me the day off after the emotional turmoil she put me through this morning, but that was a hard no from her.
I don’t argue with her because part of me thinks I need to take my ass there. And also take my ass to confession. Ask Padre Raul how many Hail Marys would get rid of the dirty dreams. Or maybe I could grab some holy water. Use it as some sort of vaginal wash?
I assumed the dreams were only happening because I saw Manny the days prior to having the wet dreams—that and the fact that I hadn’t had sex in over a year. The only problem with that theory, though, was that I hadn’t seen Manny at all in the last week. Tuesday, I wasn’t expecting him, but on Friday, when he didn’t show, I felt this strange void in the pit of my stomach. Dolly said he was too busy at the shop, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding me.
That wonder turned into this toxic scenario where he wasput off by what had happened the week before. Maybe me walking to his house with a container of cocadas gave off stalker vibes. I ask Google if walking to someone’s house to give them a gift is stalking, and according to Google, no, it’s not stalking, it’s generous.
Another toxic thought emerges, and this time I am picturing him taking another girl to Chili’s. Call it the emerging trauma from Juan Carlos’s affair, but I couldn’t help imagining Manny with someone else, laughing over watermelon margaritas and cruising in the El Camino. It makes me nauseous.
Which is why I tell Socorro that there’s been an emergency, and I won’t be able to make it to church. It’s also why I come up with a not-so-well-thought-out plan. One where I bring over tacos and lie about our washer going out. I repeat the plan all the way to the taco truck and back toward Manny’s house.
Step one: Tacos. Check
Step two: Tell him you brought said tacos as a peace offering to see if you could use his washing machine.
Step three: Check for any hoes, and then... and then I have no idea.
I just needed to make sure there wasn’t anyone new. If there wasn’t anyone new, then it meant I had a chance. Isn’t that what I wanted? A chance with him?
That would explain this persistent need to be around him. To see that big ear-to-ear smile and melt at his contagious laugh. For the tingles that spread through my body every time he was around to return and all would be right in the world. Right?
Wrong.
My plan goes to shit after I forget the rehearsed line.
“Hey Manny, sorry to bother you, but our washer went out.” I would say after he opens the door. I’d be standing there in the tube top dress and gold gladiator sandals, lookingangelic. And he’d be like, “Wow, Isa, you look beautiful. Come in. Let’s fuck first, talk emotions later.”
The plan is ruined when I pull up to his house to find him outside, shirtless. There’s no door knocking or angelic presence. Just him with an arched brow looking at me from under the hood of La Pepto Bismol, only it’s not her. No. Homegirl’s got a BBL.
12
MANNY
Vuelta a la tortilla
