Everything Within and In Between

Chapter

One

Act natural, I tell myself as Mrs. Viola peers down at my transfer application. The scribbled forging of Grandma’s signature practically pops off the page, at least to my eyes.

Are you having problems in French? The guidance counselor’s long fingers intertwine on her desk where she sits in front of me. We’re only a few weeks into the new semester. I’m sure you can make it work if you stick with it.

I shake my head as I tap the wood in between us. I’m not having a hard time in French. I can’t quite meet Viola’s eyes. Instead I stare at the wall behind her, decorated with posters sporting the usual clichés of The future starts with you and Every morning is a new beginning.

French is great. It’s just that there’s this program in Mexico, through my church, that I’m hoping to do this summer. The lie slips off my lips easily. I figured now would be as good a time as ever to brush up on my Spanish.

Viola pushes her slipping glasses back into place and looks down at my transfer form. "Miss Fernández, if you ask me, you’d be better off staying in French. You could practice Spanish at home, with your familia."

My stomach lurches at the way Viola says my name, overly dramatic—smug, even.

Her assumption crawls over my skin. Like this woman knows a thing about me or my family. I want to shake my head or wiggle my shoulders to get this feeling off me, but instead I stare at her blankly. Viola clicks at her keyboard and stares at the computer screen in front of her.

She glances at me. "You do speak some Spanish, right?"

Yes, I rush out. But I think it’s really important for me to transfer. I realized that even though I’ve studied some French, the standards for fluency are much higher than what I’m learning. I doubt I’d become proficient by the time I graduate, starting from scratch. Since I have a much stronger foundation in Spanish, I’d rather make the switch, where I’m much more likely to actually become fluent, like by school standards. I think it would help with college applications.

I smile innocently. My grandparents never actually taught me, but they spoke it to each other and my mom when I was young. So that probably wasn’t the right thing to say, but I need to sell Viola on this. Wanting to be fluent in any language, whether I should already be or not, is something a guidance counselor won’t argue will help me get into college. It still won’t be enough to get me into the kind of college Grandma has her hopes set on, I’m sure, but it’s a reason Viola can wrap her head around at least.

Viola nods. Well, it’s good to hear that you’re so focused on your future. I’ll put you in Spanish Two, then, and if you have any problems, you can let me know.

Like that’s going to ever happen—I don’t ever want to tell her or anyone else how little Spanish I speak. I’ll just pick it up quickly. I’ll have to.

Viola signs the yellow piece of paper allowing me to switch classes. But just as I’m about to grab it, she rests her hand on the transfer slip. Just try not to get in trouble, Maria. The kids in Spanish class . . . a lot of them take the class for the easy A, since most of them already speak it. It’d be a shame to see such a good kid like you pick up any bad habits.

Like me.

So the other kids, the ones who aren’t like me, are lazy? Not good kids? Grandma’s voice bursts into my thoughts. She’s telling me Brittany is a good girl and Nina isn’t.

I narrow my eyes at Viola. It’s Ri, I say coldly.

The bell rings and hundreds of students push through the classroom doors into the hallways of Riviera High School. School’s out for the day.

Seeming to notice my change in demeanor, Viola fidgets. She looks to the door behind me. Good luck in Spanish. She nods in the direction of the hallway.

I don’t thank her, not after what she insinuated. Did she think I’d take that as a compliment, her not throwing me in the same category as them? I snatch the paper from her and rush to the door.

My irritation at Viola grows as I visit the Spanish classroom and pick up the textbook from Señora Almanza.

Down the hall, I blink several times and stare at my locker. So much has felt off-kilter since I found my mom’s letter. Realizing Grandma lied. Realizing I have a lot less in common with my own family than I ever thought.

My eyes have been closed to so much. And I wonder. Has Viola always been like that, and I’m just noticing now?

My locker door slams into the one next to it after I fling it open, the sound reverberating mercilessly, just as Edgar Gómez approaches.

With a tentative smile, he lifts his notebook in between us, as though it’s a shield. Permission to approach?

Sorry, I exhale, before pulling my locker door out of his way. It’s been a day.

Edgar nods as he opens his locker.

What kind of day are we talking here? He puts his notebook inside and shifts a couple of books around, apparently looking for something. Like you stubbed your toe or you just found out you’re allergic to puppies, killing your long-held dream of running a corgi farm?

I can’t help but laugh. That was oddly specific.

Edgar shrugs. "My mom loves watching The Crown and is way into those little dogs the Queen has. If our apartment allowed pets, she’d for sure get one."

That gets me to pause. That’s really sad.

It is, but—Edgar’s face brightens as I turn to face him—I got her the next best thing. He grabs his phone from his pocket and scrolls through until he hands it to me.

On the screen, there’s a picture of a very fluffy, very cute, nearly life-sized corgi stuffed animal.

I laugh, hard. Edgar beams. Now she’s gotta share her queen-sized bed with that, but she’s good with it!

I shake my head at Edgar, feeling lighter. He and I don’t talk much more than the nods or the casual pleasantries we exchange whenever we run into each other at our lockers. But today, this was nice.

I lift my Spanish book to put it away, smiling.

Hey, are you in Spanish Two? I thought there was only one period for that.

I pause, the book suspended in midair.

There is, I say slowly. I just transferred.

Edgar scratches his head full of thick and wavy black curls. Me and a few of my friends are in there. It’s a pretty good class. You should sit with us. My friends and me, that is.

Sit with Edgar? I’ve seen him with Nina, and I’m sure she doesn’t want me around. Since she and I stopped hanging out in middle school, though, I haven’t really hung out with any other Mexican American kids.

I stare at Edgar for probably a second too long without answering.

Edgar’s dark brown eyes hold my gaze. If you want to, I mean.

I find my voice, though it comes out much higher than intended. Of course, yeah, that would be great. Thank you!

Before I can think too hard on the fact that I don’t have any Mexican friends anymore, Brittany appears next to me—benefits of having a locker near your best friend’s.

Just saw you leaving Mrs. V’s. What’s going on there?

I look back at Edgar as he closes his locker. See you in class, he says.

I wave as he walks away, before bringing my focus back to Brittany’s question.

It’s nothing. I’m just transferring to Spanish class. Remember that thing I told you about with my church’s trip to Mexico? Without thinking, the lie I told to Viola comes out. My stomach sinks; I don’t want to lie to my best friend too.

Brittany’s light brown hair cascades over her shoulder as she sweeps it out of her face. Yeah, but I didn’t think that meant you were transferring. What about French?

I hold my locker door for a moment, readying myself. I’d rather practice my Spanish.

Brittany’s eyebrows lift in disbelief. You speak Spanish? Since when?

I know some, you know. My locker slams shut, and I wince. I did it again. My voice comes out calm, apologetic. I picked it up at home, when my grandparents used to speak it to each other.

Brittany watches me quietly for a moment. No doubt trying to figure out what the actual eff is wrong with me. I’ve been off in other ways too, lately. I know it.

Viola gave me a hard time about it, and I’m just annoyed. I exhale slowly. I’m sorry.

Brittany keeps her eyes on me, not noticing a couple of senior guys checking her out as they walk past. It’s cool.

You ready to go? I ask. There’s something I want to talk to you about.

Brittany insists on driving me home most days, even though I only live a few blocks away. It’s mostly because we run together, after I quit cross-country and she quickly followed suit.

"Right behind you, señorita. Should I start calling you Maria now too?"

I push her backpack, nudging her forward with a smile.

We follow the crowd through the hallway—everyone making a beeline out of the building.

So, what’s so important that you can’t wait for our run to tell me? Brittany asks.

I can’t run today, I sigh. My grandma ended up getting the night off and she’ll want to spend time together.

Grandma’s a personal assistant to a seriously rich family in Montecito. Not like the kind of personal assistant that takes phone calls and schedules stuff, though she does that too. She does everything. Cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, errand running, phone answering, bill paying, you name it. She works twelve-hour days, often, five to six days a week. With rent prices in Santa Barbara sky-high, even for our tiny house, we couldn’t afford to live here otherwise.

I know Grandma works hard and thinks that everything she’s doing is what’s best for me. But she’s wrong. I grit my teeth, thinking about the letter.

Her boss should go easy on her, Brittany says, shaking her head. Your grandma’s not getting any younger. I mean, that woman can afford to hire more help. Why doesn’t your grandma say something?

Money, I deadpan. As in, some of us need it.

There’s a tense second when I stare at Brittany and she flushes, looking away.

I get it, Brittany says, even though we both know she doesn’t. Or maybe it’s just me who knows that.

Brittany sighs as we walk through the front doors and out onto the expansive lawn. Although if I’d known you were going to bail on running, Brittany says, in a singsong tone, maybe I wouldn’t have quit cross-country.

Even though I know she’s teasing, I can’t help but glare at her. It’s not like I asked Brittany to quit when I did a few weeks ago. I wanted more time to babysit and make money to help my grandma.

Brittany puts her hands up. I got it, I got it, not your fault. I know I could have stayed if I wanted to, but it wasn’t the same without you. Who would I even hang out with at the away meets? You know us, we’re not great with other girls.

But that isn’t exactly true, at least not for me. I used to have other friends.

As if on cue, across the school’s front lawn, I hear the once familiar sound of Nina laughing. I glance in her direction. The crowd around her is hanging out under the shade of one of the taller, thicker trees on campus, less than the distance of a classroom away. But we might as well be on other planets.

Brittany digs into her bag for her car keys as we approach the parking lot full of luxury cars, like her Mercedes—a hand-me-down from her grandmother, as she likes to remind me—and beaters, like I would have if I could afford my own wheels.

As we close in on Brittany’s car, silver and sleek, she turns to me, so close I could count the light freckles spotting her nose. We’ll run tomorrow. I could use the time for studying tonight anyway. But you said you wanted to talk, so spill.

Not here. I open the car door, and once Brittany’s inside, I tell her to drive.

I’ve been working up to this moment for weeks, since I found Mom’s letter. I wanted to tell Brittany, but I just couldn’t. Doing so would make it more real, would make me feel like I’d have to do something. And I just wasn’t ready. Not until today, when I forged Grandma’s signature and lied my way into Spanish class.

I didn’t tell you what happened on my birthday, I finally say.

Brittany stops at a red light and I take a deep breath. Early in the morning, when she thought I was asleep, I saw my grandma. There was a box that I’d never seen before next to her. She was looking at a picture, sitting on the floor rocking back and forth, crying.

Brittany’s eyes widen. We both know how stoic my grandma is, so she’s probably about as shocked as I was. My grandma never shows emotion like that.

I knew she’d be embarrassed if she realized I’d seen her, so I didn’t say anything about it when we had breakfast together. I keep talking as Brittany pulls onto my street. Selena’s Dreaming of You blasts from the Navarros. Mrs. Navarro always keeps the windows open when she’s cleaning inside.

She was acting like everything was fine. Which was dumb since her eyes were all puffy but whatever. After she left, I snuck into her room and found the box with the picture hidden inside.

I turn to look at Brittany, who I can tell is totally wrapped up in my story. My grandma had been looking at a photo of my mom when she was pregnant with me. She was seventeen at the time.

Brittany parks in front of my house. Like ours, our neighbors’ homes are small, with varying levels of upkeep. Chipped paint, dead grass—we’re practically always in a drought in Southern California.

I don’t make a move to get out of the car.

Seventeen, Brittany repeats quietly. Like you are now. Maybe that’s why she was crying.

I peel my eyes away from the kids playing on the other side of the street, to look back at Brittany. Under the photo there was an envelope addressed to her. The return address, the name, it was my mom’s.

Brittany’s shocked face is as I expected. She knows I’ve googled Marisol Fernández probably a thousand times. My mom’s not on social media. She’s not online anywhere. It’s like she was a ghost until now.

My mom wrote my grandma this letter two years ago—two years!—saying she wanted to be in my life. She lives in Oxnard, less than an hour from here, I say out loud for the first time.

Every time Brittany and I shopped at the outlets, I was only minutes away from her. For all I know, she could have been at a nearby store. I could have been mere feet away from my mother and never have known.

I think of all the time lost. The moments I had with my mom when I was young that I took for granted, forever seared into my mind now, into my heart—the place that aches at the absence of her.

I touch the ends of my hair. Images of Mom brushing and braiding it before I went to bed come to mind, hollowing out my chest. I remember sitting on the floor, leaning up against her on the couch, feeling safe and loved.

Feeling wanted.

I’ve had a mom who wanted to be in my life all along. And Grandma never told me.

Brittany reaches for my shoulder and squeezes it. That’s a lot, she says.

I shake my head, because that’s not all. It’s like a rock drops in my gut as I admit the next part.

The letter was in Spanish, I finally say. I couldn’t even read it myself, not without looking stuff up.

Recognition dawns on Brittany’s face. Oh.

Silence stretches between us until Brittany recovers. "Why didn’t you tell me? I mean, not just about the Spanish and why you really wanted to transfer. But about your mom?"

Brittany looks more confused than offended, her light brown eyes staring at me with concern.

I offer a sad smile. I was embarrassed.

Brittany scoffs. You know better than to be embarrassed about family drama with me. Hellooooooo. She draws out the last syllable. I mean, have you met my mother?

A laugh bursts out of me. Brittany’s mom is hardly ever around. And when she is, she’s a bottle of wine deep with a mission to get Brittany to hang out more at the country club with her. She’s always trying to get Brittany to be some perfect image of what she thinks a daughter should be. But this is more than just family drama.

I couldn’t understand the first words I’ve heard from my mom since she left when I was a kid. I had to look it all up on Google Translate. Grandma’s never wanted me to learn Spanish, even though it’s her first language—Mom’s, too, since my grandparents didn’t speak English well when she was a kid. Not being able to understand Mom’s letter made me wonder what she would think of me growing up completely isolated from something that must have been a big part of her life—her heritage.

Because it’s not only about not speaking our language. Whenever I try to ask Grandma about any of it—anything at all related to her being Mexican or me being part Mexican American—she shuts me down. A few clipped sentences and a shut door. End of conversation.

Grandma won’t talk about her past. She doesn’t want us to hang out with anyone in our neighborhood. And every time I’ve even come close to bringing up anything that could be remotely tied to learning about Mexico, Grandma quickly shuts it down by reminding me that I’m American. Which is exactly why I didn’t ask her to sign the transfer slip. I imagine her disapproving face, eyes narrowed, mouth puckered. We’re in America and need to act like it.

I don’t have any other family who can teach me Spanish, no less other parts of our culture. Learning the language feels like the only piece of my heritage, not to mention connection to my mother that I can carve out for myself, the only thing I can control. Because with Grandma keeping such a massive secret on top of everything else, I’ve never felt more alone. She has lied to me every single day for the last two years by pretending she doesn’t know where Mom is. She must never want me to see Mom again.

So I haven’t told her about Spanish class. Or that I know about Oxnard. And I definitely am not going to tell her about my plans, but I should stop keeping this bottled up inside. I can tell Brittany. I just need to say the words, make them real.

I want to see her.

Brittany leans a hand on my knee. I will literally do anything and everything I can to help. I’ll drive you myself. Brittany’s words quicken, as though she’s excited. Need an alibi? I’ll lie to your grandma. Anything you need, I’m your girl.

I smile, a real one. I’m so glad I have you.

Chapter

Two

I tell Brittany I still need some time before we go to see my mom. It’s been so long, and I just want to make sure it goes well, that I know what I want to say to her. And then there’s the thing I’m afraid to say, even after I told Brittany everything else.

There’s still the glaring question, the one I’m scared to learn the answer to.

Why did Mom leave in the first place?

After Brittany drives off, I can’t seem to move my feet from the sidewalk outside my tiny salmon-colored house. I suck in a breath. I can’t avoid Grandma forever.

I’m about to take a step when someone says my name.

Tommy, the ten-year-old who lives across the street, waves to me from atop his bike in his yard. He’s shirtless and smiling. ¡Hola, Ri!

Hey. I don’t bother saying hola, even though I obviously know what it means. I don’t want people in my very bilingual neighborhood forgetting I don’t speak Spanish and trying to talk to me. Expecting me to speak it back. It’s embarrassing that I don’t. With all of Grandma’s efforts to make us more American, it’s just one more thing that makes me different from everyone else around here.

Not speaking Spanish is the final nail in the coffin. The thing that puts me over the edge. I can’t help that people I’ve grown up around know I don’t speak Spanish. But if I keep my mouth shut as much as possible in Spanish class until I learn more, maybe I can keep Edgar and his friends from knowing. From thinking of me as I see myself—an outsider.

Tommy’s mom waves from behind him, bringing me out of my thoughts.

Tell your abuela that we say hello, she calls to me. We miss her at church. If I didn’t see her at the market from time to time, I’d think she’d moved away.

Abuela. Such a normal word for pretty much every grandmother in my neighborhood but mine—who would never, ever let me call her that. I nod and smile, acknowledging Mrs. Sánchez’s words without actually agreeing to anything. She used to stop by our house and ask for my grandma, invite us over for Sunday brunch after mass for months after we stopped going in favor of attending the nondenominational church that meets in another part of town. Now that it’s been a few years, basically everyone else has given up on trying to socialize with my abuela. The one exception are her friends from the church we go to now, who she meets every week for their Bible study and knitting club. Always at one of their houses on the Riviera or the Mesa, or sometimes downtown, but never at our tiny place on the Eastside.

But even after all that time, sometimes I see that little flicker of hope in Mrs. Sánchez’s eyes. I can’t bear to squelch it.

My shoes crunch over the yellow, brittle grass of our front lawn. I jam my key in the door and wrestle it unlocked. Drop my backpack on the brown love seat—I’ve given up on trying to talk Grandma into getting a new one because it clashes with the pink carpet. Just another thing she won’t listen to me about.

I’m home, I mutter.

The smell of chicken enchiladas wafts over to me as Grandma opens the oven to check on the food.

Hi, baby! I hope you’re hungry. Enchiladas are almost ready!

I unclench my teeth, preparing myself for the usual pretending-I’m-not-infuriated-with-Grandma act I’ve been perfecting since I found out the truth. Yeah, I’m hungry.

Grandma smiles, revealing the gap in between her front teeth. The imperfection made her even more beautiful in a photo I saw of her and Grandpa in Mexico when they were young and in love. She stood tall and thin, dignified, like a model. Now she hunches her back from years of hard work. But she still has the same smile.

Come on, Grandma calls from the kitchen. Sit down already.

I stare at the hallway, my feet still planted on the doormat, yearning to be in my bedroom with the door closed. Writing in my journal about Mom and all the things I can’t say to Grandma. Seconds tick by. Slowly, I walk toward her.

The kitchen air is warm with the smell of chicken and melted cheese. Grandma bends to take the enchiladas from the oven. From this angle, with her black hair cropped short and her bony figure, she almost looks like a little old man. Her womanly curves have long since left her.

I sit at the table, squeezed in