“Pass me the boogers, I mean salad, please,” I joke, earning a simultaneous snort from Dani, Rosa, and Anita. Luce kicks me under the table with a playful scowl. We’re reduced to being 12 year olds sometimes, the way we still tease each other.
“How was hauling boxes today, mijo?” My dad’s question comes out innocently enough, but the derision underneath is unmistakable. I bristle, my jaw clenching. I know he means well. It’s his pride talking, and wanting what he thinks is best for me. Why am I the one getting the derision, though? Teaching is such an incredibly hard and thankless job, but we literally just got done talking about kids eating boogers at school. A sigh escapes me before I can stop it as I answer him. I put on my most unbothered grin.
“It was good, Papi. My route was fun today, and I tried the new sandwich joint in the next town for lunch. They made a really good muffuletta. I didn’t have to teach anyone to not eat boogers, so that’s a huge bonus, too.” At the last part, I shoot a wink at my sister, who rolls her eyesat me. My dad makes a disapproving noise that I’ve come to know too well, and shakes his head. “You could be doing so much more with your brain and abilities.” He says it softly, almost to himself, but of course we all hear it.
“Hector.” My mom’s normally gentle, sweet voice only gets this sharp when she’s defending her children. It’s a knife’s edge, her only warning before she goes full mama bear, and one of the only things that gets through to my dad when he is about to make one of his cutting comments to me. On top of disappointing my dad, I’ve become the main source of tension between him and my mom, which just makes me feel great. He looks at her though, and when their eyes meet, his face completely softens. The magic of love. Crisis averted for now, and I think it’s my cue to head out soon before he starts in again. My mom has him talking about the house closing he handled today. Next to me, Rosa gives my foot a nudge with hers under the table to look at her, and her brow is furrowed with concern. We grew up like twins together, and we have our own wordless communication down pat.
“You ok? That was shitty,”she says with her eyes. I give her the barest nod that I’ll be fine. It’s nothing new. She nudges my foot again in understanding. As soon as I down some dessert and help with the dishes, I’m grabbing my jacket and saying my goodbyes. I give my sisters bear hugs, and my dad and I do an awkward bro hug before he turns his attention back to cleaning up. My mom walks me to the door, and whispers in my ear, “Papi loves you so much, mijo. He wants the best for you, even though he’s very misguided in how he does it. I’ll talk to him, ok? Then you two need to sit down and talk.” I wrap her up in my biggest hug yet as I kiss her cheek.
“Mami, it’s fine. He’s not going to change, and neither will I. We’ll agree to disagree on this.”
“My two favorite men in the world are not going to agree to disagree. We will work this out the way our family has always done,” she tells me in her mama bear voice.
“You and your optimism,” I tell her, giving her another quick kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll see you soon, ok?”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
I go home thinking how I’ve dug myself into a hole I’m not sure I’ll ever get out of. I’ve spent years making sure I don’t take anything too seriously to manage my dad’s expectations of me, and now I don’t think I’ll ever get taken seriously. I like being the shit stirrer, but it’s getting to the point now where I just want to feel settled. Like I can breathe and not always be the clown. My best buddy getting engaged has made me realize I’ve been missing that in my life. Lyra has settled him, he’s so content and confident in what he wants nowadays. I want that so desperately for myself.
Chapter 3
TANIA
“Make sure your pockets are empty and step through the metal detector.”
I do as the guard says, having just signed in. My purse is locked in my trunk, and I made sure to adhere strictly to the dress code with a simple long sleeved shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Visiting the women’s correctional facility in NY where Celeste ended up always makes my stomach twist into complete knots, even though I’ve done it a few times now. It’s not that I feel like I’m in danger. It’s the fact that one of the most important people in my life is in this unforgiving place. She tells me it’s not bad when we talk or have visits, that she eats pretty well, and doesn’t mind laundry duty at all.
“Compared to some of my earliest foster homes, it’s almost paradise,” she’d say wryly, trying to make light of it and protect me like she always has. After my parents died in the accident, I was taken in by my Grandma for 3 years. Then, when I was 8, she became too sick with dementia to even remember my name, let alone pick me up from school or feed me. I was put into the system since there were noother relatives around to take care of me. Grandma passed away 2 years later. At my first home, I met Celeste. She had just been placed there too, and was 4 years older than me. I looked up to her, worshipped her even. I had always wanted a sister.
The couple who took us in also had an older, biological son. He resented having foster sisters and physically abused us. Celeste took the brunt of it, always fighting back and making sure I was protected from him. Our foster parents had no idea what to do about it, or what to do with two daughters. They got in over their heads, started to resent having us as much as their son did, and we were quickly placed elsewhere. Since we had bonded, the next family thankfully took Celeste and me together. It was a much better situation because the couple had been desperately trying to have children and finally decided to foster instead. We were wanted and were well cared for, though it never truly felt like a home. I think they didn’t quite know what to do with us either, in spite of them trying. Celeste started to have anger issues and acted out a lot. She had been bounced around a lot more than me, and endured more than she probably ever would tell me. While I’ve found an outlet in drawing ever since my Grandma took me in, Celeste much prefers to let out her feelings physically. Anytime the foster parents tried to get her into therapy or anger management, it never worked out. Celeste is a stubborn mule, and was in too much of a haze to see through it enough to work on herself.
I can be just as stubborn as she is, and I’ll never give up on her like so many others have. She’s the only family I have, and I’m hers. Part of her fighting was for me, to protect me from having to do it, and that is not something for which I can ever be grateful enough. It’s not like I’ve been some angel. I’ve fought too and we both got caughtshoplifting together when I was 12 and she was 16. She took the fall, and made sure I never did anything like that again. Once she’s out, I am getting her ass some help. Celeste’s outlet for her anger has always been physical because that’s one of the few ways she knows how to feel things, and it’s landed her into a lot of trouble. Which is how she ended up here, and why she needs help. A man groped her at a bar, and when he wouldn’t leave her alone, she completely flipped out. She even knocked out a couple of his teeth and broke his nose. Turns out he is the son of some local state senator and she got her ass handed to her in her initial court appearance. It didn’t help that she already had a record of bar fights. We’ve been trying to get her charge lowered or even maybe dismissed, or at least her sentence reduced, because that shithead had it coming for harassing her. I can’t afford to bail her out, our foster parents refuse to do so, and we only have the court appointed defense attorney who is barely competent and does not seem to like or understand her.
“Follow me,” the guard all but barks once I’m through security. I’m led down the hall into the visitation room, where she directs me to one of the tables in the back. It’s a stark room with cheap wooden tables and chairs, white walls, and harsh fluorescent lighting. Celeste is brought in a few short minutes later. Her normally shiny, fiery red hair is a little dull, her freckles are more pronounced since she looks paler, and her slate gray eyes have purple rings underneath from lack of sleep. Her heart shaped face cracks into a smile all the same, the dimple I used to poke to tease her when we were kids popping out. Even in this harsh environment, she’s her usual stunning self, the same woman I’ve always looked up to. I give her the brief hug that’s allowed when she gets to the table.
“Ask for a visit and you shall receive, Cece,” I tell herby way of greeting. Her lips tip up more at my nickname for her as she sits, or because she thinks I’m being dramatic. Probably both, actually.
“Thanks for coming so soon. It’s good to see your face,” she says sincerely. Then she shakes her head ruefully.
“So what’s going on with the appeal? It’s not looking good?”
“Nope,” she says tersely, putting an extra pop on the p. “It’s my word against his that he was harassing me. No one was really paying attention to our interactions. He maintains I beat him up because he rejected me. With my record, and who his daddy is, who is going to believe me?”
I scrub my hand down my face, trying to think. “There has to be something we can do.”
“There’s not much to do, Nia. I promise I’ll behave myself here, then I’ll hopefully get out early on parole.” My heart sinks at how defeated she sounds, and how dull her eyes look. In all of her years of getting into scraps, this is the first time she landed an aggravated assault charge with a prison sentence.
“Where’s your usual fight, Cece? You want to be here for possibly 3 years if you don’t get parole?” My voice comes out small and pleading without my permission.
“My fight is what got me into this,” she says drily. “Don’t you think I should lay low and ride out my sentence? Learn my lesson? Hopefully get out early? The appeal to lower the charge or lower the sentence is going nowhere. No one believes he assaulted me, not even my own lawyer probably.”
“It’s not right,” I challenge.
“Of course it’s not, but it’s reality, and I wanted you to come visit to just sit with me in it and help me accept it. I did beat a man up, it’s not like I’m innocent.”
“He’s not either, and he’s not suffering anyconsequences for assaulting you and lying about it,” I remind her.
“Welcome to the fuckery of privilege and patriarchy,” she says simply. “He did get a broken nose and busted teeth for his trouble.”
