After I get settled in my room, me, my dad, and Abuela all eat at the little table in the kitchen that only seats just the three of us. Abuela has a big, long table out on her screened-in porch off the back of the house, but I like when we eat in here, in her cramped little kitchen. I like the coziness of it. There’s just something about being in a small space with people you actually like.
My dad circles the table, holding the skillet with a pot holder, and serves us all generous helpings. There are lots of different ways to serve migas, but Abuela’s specialty is the Tex-Mex variety, with blue-corn tortilla chips, eggs, cheese, pico, jalapeños, and ground sausage alongside Texas-shaped waffles.
My abuela pats her mouth with her napkin before answering. “Last weekend, I was down at Aurelia’s to help her with research for her latest article about the women of the Alamo. Looks like she’s hitting a few dead ends, but...” She turns to my father. “She did say her daughter’s divorce was finalized last month.”
Dad shakes his head and waves a finger in her face.“Stick to the politics and history, Ma. Matchmaking is definitely not in your wheelhouse.” He looks at me. “She tried to set me up with Cindy.”
I gag. “Isn’t Cindy your second cousin?”
“I forgot!” says Abuela, her hand over her mouth. “Okay? It was an accident!” She waves a forkful of waffle at Dad. “You have to admit, if you weren’t related, it would’ve been a good match.”
Abuela hasn’t always been just a mother or a grandmother. Up until two years ago, she taught political science and Texas history full-time at University of Texas of the Permian Basin, or UTPB. Now she’s dedicating her days to academic publishing with her best friend Aurelia, which is really just a cover for them to try to set their kids up together.
“What are you filling your time with these days?” she asks me. “Now that you’re not busy with the dance team.”
My shoulders slump, and before I can even say anything, my dad comes to the rescue. “It’s a celebratory weekend, Ma. Let’s not—”
“Let the girl talk,” she says.
“Well, I’m sort of just working for free right now,” I say.
She nods. “Well, that won’t last forever.”
“I’m off the dance team for good.” I let out a deep sigh that blows the loose fallen hairs from my ponytail off my face. “I guess I could get a job and start saving for a car.”
Dad nods. “I like that idea.”
Abuela tsks. “A short-term goal,” she says. “What do you want to do?” Her voice overemphasizes every word,and I am easily reminded that she was used to talking to directionless young people every day from her time as a professor.
“I don’t know,” I finally tell her. “I’m working off my debt at this gym, and... and it’s like the thing that everyone knew me for is gone.”
“That’s not entirely true,” says Dad. “Your attitude is pretty notorious.”
Abuela points her knife at him jokingly.
I think back to the last two months and all that’s happened. I feel like a giant onion, and every day I’m peeling back a new layer of myself. Dance team and Bryce defined the old Callie. Bryce is definitely out of the picture, but what about dance? Am I done? For good?
“I don’t know,” I finally admit as I fill each square of my waffle with butter and syrup. “It’s kind of like waking up and not remembering what foods you like. So maybe I just have to try a little bit of everything?”
She pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Find the things you love and do them every day, even if it means failing. That’s all there is to it.”
I shrug. “I was good at being on the dance team. What if I’m not good like that at anything else?”
“If you only love what comes easy for you, you’ll find you don’t have much to love. Work for it, girl.”
My dad rolls his eyes. (Maybe that’s who I get it from?) “You make it sound so easy, Ma. Life isn’t as neat as your little nuggets of wisdom.”
She crosses her arms. “Your dad is going to miss mynuggets of wisdom when I’m not here to give them.”
“All right, all right,” he says. “Enough with the death guilt. Last week she told me her one dying wish was to see me married again.”
“But she’s not dying,” I tell him.
“We’re all dying,” says Abuela. “It’s just a slow process.”
I laugh, and the three of us finish our dinner. We pile the dishes in the sink and leave them until morning, because we’re too stuffed to move.
We all crowd together on the couch to FaceTime Claudia.
