Life just got perfect.
Fifteen
Life sucks.
At least, it sucks when your feet feel like anvils in your nonslip work shoes. And the swelling. Oh my God, the swelling.
As soon as I’m done closing down my tables—filling up the salt, pepper, sweeteners, and jellies—I sit down at the last one and hoist my feet onto the closest chair. I wanted to untie my shoes and rub my feet, but I hold back for a couple of reasons. For one, I know they stink like hot dog water, and two, my trainer is making her way over to me. My only hope at this moment is that I don’t have anything else to do before I leave, because I don’t think my new blisters can take it. Plus, I know Arden is in the parking lot waiting for me; he revved his engine as soon as he got here. Must be some weird sort of redneck communication.
Darcy, my trainer, sits beside me at the table and pulls out a bundle of neatly folded cash from her apron pocket. She starts counting aloud and stacking the bills by denomination. When she gets to two hundred dollars I start getting really excited. Then she counts the ones. Together we earned two hundred seventy-five dollars in six hours.
I think I might pass out. She gives me my half. “You earned it,” she says. “I’ve never seen someone move so fast in my life. When you’re fully trained, you’ll be pulling this all by yourself. I don’t know what I would have done with that family from Spain. Thank God you can speak Spanish.”
But all I’m thinking is that I could score almost three hundred dollars in six hours selling fancy breakfast to fancy people. “When do you think I’ll be ready to be on my own?”
Darcy tilts her head at me. “Tell you what. Learn the menu this week, and when your Saturday shift rolls around, I’ll let you have a few tables on your own. But I’ll be here if you need me. Trust me, I want you to stay. You’re way better a worker than Rose was. We’ll get you trained as fast as we can.”
Apparently I’ve replaced this Rose person, who is currently in jail—but for what, nobody knows. She had a lot of regulars though, so I have a lot of kissing up to do in order to turn her regulars into my regulars.
“Pretty soon you and I will be working on ups and making a killing,” Darcy says.
“Ups?”
“Yeah, where we just take turns taking tables. Me, you, me, then you again. It’s way better than having a section of tables. And with the way you work, Miss May won’t have to hire anyone else to take up our slack. Just don’t quit on me. I know it’s hard.”
It is hard. Today was the hardest I’ve ever worked in my life. The Breeze Mart is just exactly that—a breeze. But I don’t mind working for my money. My feet though? They freaking hate it.
“I won’t quit,” I tell her. “But if I’m finished here, my ride is waiting for me. Unless you have something else for me to do?”
Darcy slides my pile of cash toward me on the table. “Nope. You’re done. See you next week.”
When I get in the truck, I try not to act as giddy as I feel. Arden can tell I’m holding out though. “So it went well, I take it?” he says. I’m surprised, and disappointed, that I notice how he smells again. Like he just showered with man-soap or something. And maybe he did. His hair is a little damp.
“Very.” I don’t want to tell him how much I made though, in case he’s not impressed. He probably gets that much for his allowance. “All I need to do is memorize the menu before Saturday and I can work my own tables. Darcy—she’s the waitress who trained me—said I’m a natural people person.”
Arden laughs. “That’s what we Southerners call sarcasm.”
I lift my chin. “I am a Southerner, idiot. And just because I’m not an Arden person doesn’t mean I’m not a people person.”
“Touché. But for the record, most people are Arden people. So it could be considered a flaw that you’re not.”
“I don’t fall for the mob mentality.”
“Believe me, I’ve noticed.” He shrugs. “I went to Cletus’s house to help him out with a few things. Nothing much.”
“How is he?” I haven’t seen Mr. Shackleford since the faux robbery. Maybe he’ll come in tonight and give me another Question of the Day. Ugh. I have to work tonight. On these same throbbing feet. At least I have a stool to sit on at the Breeze.
“He’s fine,” Arden says generically.
“You told him, didn’t you?”
“He figured it out on his own, actually.” Arden grimaces, as if he’d eaten something bitter. “He took it well, though.”
“By making you work it off?”
“He’s paying me. I figure if you’re working on the weekends, then I should too.”
Huh? What, are we married? “What does my working have to do with you working?”
He shrugs, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. He jerks the steering wheel hard right, as if he was about to miss his turn. That’s when it occurs to me that we’re not heading in the direction of my house.
“Where are we going? I have to work at the Breeze tonight.”
“How much money did you make today, if you don’t mind me asking?”
When I raise a brow, he amends, “I mean, did you make more than you do at the Breeze Mart? Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m just asking if you think you could quit the Breeze Mart and only work at the Uppity Rooster. Then you’d have your weeknights off. You know, to do homework or, uh, fun stuff.”
Fun stuff. He’s still going after this whole accomplice thing. Not that last night wasn’t a complete riot. I can’t remember laughing so hard in my life, not even when that kid dug his hand around in our shitty purse. But fun is not the important thing here. Getting my parents home is.
“I need both jobs,” I say with more harshness than I intend.
Arden is undeterred. “I thought you might say that. But you’re going to work yourself to death with two jobs and school and then I’d feel rotten for putting it into your head. Couldn’t you just cut down on your hours at the convenience store instead of quitting cold turkey? Maybe just work two nights a week or something?”
For once in his life, Arden has a point. Working two jobs and school will be exhausting. My grades might start to slip. And I just can’t let myself be okay with that. Besides, with all the money I’ll be making at Uppity Rooster, why shouldn’t I give myself a break? Because our parents are counting on us, I can hear Julio say in his sternest voice. Don’t you want your parents back?
Of course I do.
“We need the money,” I say decisively. “Cutting my hours is not an option.”
Arden squeezes the steering wheel tighter. I can tell he’s trying to be diplomatic with me. “But what about you? What about what you need? I see how hard you work at school. That’s going to suffer, you know.”
“You just want me to give up my shifts at the Breeze so I can spend those nights with you.” I fold up my apron and nestle it between my legs so the precious money doesn’t spill out and so Arden might focus on my hands instead of the blush I feel burning my face.
So I can spend those nights with you.
Idiota.
He grins as if he knows I just freaked out my own self. “There’s more to life than working and school.”
Life. What an abstract concept that’s become. Life is something I’ve put off until my parents get back. Life is something other kids have the luxury to worry about. It’s not something I should give a second thought to, not until my parents are on US soil again.
Right?
“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’ll take you home. You need some rest if you’re really going to work tonight.”
Then I remember that tonight we’re getting in a big shipment, which translates to endless boxes that will need stocking, and suddenly the thought of working at the Breeze is less appealing than walking across a floor made of cactus. I’m not even sure my feet could handle it. Heavy lifting. Standing on my tiptoes. Ew. “Maybe I’ll call in,” I’m saying out loud. “I could use a good foot soak.” A foot so
ak? When have I ever needed a foot soak? I don’t even have anything to soak my feet in, except maybe a bathtub full of shampoo bubbles or something.
“You know, the creek is the perfect place to soak your feet.”
“And to do what else?”
“Fish, of course. I happen to need some fish. You know. For something.”
I can’t help but smile. What will he think of next? The truth is, I like spending time with Arden. It’s fun. Liberating, to an extent. I feel like a different person around him—in a good way. I feel a rush of freedom. Which sucks, because that means that normally, I must not feel free.
Arden seems to read my mind. “It’s just that you act like Julio’s slave or something. Like you’re not allowed to enjoy life. It seems unfair.”
It is unfair, I want to tell him. But not because I’m Julio’s slave. No, because I slave for my parents. Here in the States, it’s the other way around. Parents sweat and grind for their children. They labor for their education, for them to have nice things, for them to be protected from the world’s darker side, like hunger and violence and disease. Here in the States, kids are spoiled.
My parents? They slave to come over here, in order to slave for … I’m not exactly sure. A better life for my siblings, probably. Not me, I know. I’m already sixteen. A junior in high school, probably a senior by the time they get back. They expect me to take care of myself when they get here. Mama has made that clear. That she has two younger children to raise and that she needs my help more than I need hers. And that’s okay with me, really it is. I’m proud to make such a contribution to my family. I want my younger brother and sister to be raised in America, even though Americans can be such snobs. I mean, if Canada offered better living conditions and more money and opportunity, wouldn’t Americans be sneaking their family across the Canadian border? I’d bet money they would.
But people just don’t understand, especially in these parts. They complain that Mexicans take their jobs and their money and their government benefits.
But I’m not about to lay this on Arden. All Arden knows is freedom. The American way.
And I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t jealous.
“Julio does the best he can,” I tell him. It’s all I can say. Giving him a speech about poverty and responsibility and family ties would spoil the mood of me making killer money today.
“Can I at least offer some advice?”
Oh here we go. “Sure.”
“Give it two weeks. I’ll bet after two weeks, you’ll be ready to quit the Breeze Mart.”
“I’m sure I will. But I can’t.”
“Oh, come on, Carly. You can’t carry the world on your shoulders. If, after two weeks, you’re too tired, then promise me you’ll quit the Breeze Mart. What have you got to lose? Minimum wage? Just ask to open and close on Saturday and Sunday at Uppity Rooster. You’ll make up for your puny minimum wage easy.”
“You’re just saying these things because you want me to go with you on little mini–crime sprees.”
“So?”
“So, what am I gaining by quitting one job only to go around stirring up trouble with you?”
He pulls over on the side of the road. Puts the truck in park. Puts his arm on the back of my seat. It’s not intimate, the way he does it. But somehow I find it endearing. Oh geez.
“Life, Carly. You’re gaining life.”
What can I say to that?
* * *
Julio is like Mama; he only speaks to me in Spanish. “How did your day go?” he says, flipping the chicken and cheese quesadilla he’s making in the skillet. I sit at the counter on a bar stool, hovering over a jar of homemade salsa Julio made, trying not to actually drool.
“It was great.” This is the part I’ve been waiting for. This is the kind of cash I hand Julio after a week of work. Not one day. “Look what I’ve brought you.” When I’ve got his full attention, I pull the clump of cash from my apron pocket and let it splay out on the sideboard in front of me. “This is all for the jar.” Okay, so I kept five bucks for myself, but Julio will never know the difference.
His eyes grow as round as the quesadillas he’s cooking. “What is this?” He says this as he gathers it up and starts arranging it by denomination. Licking his finger, he counts through it. “Ay, Dios mio,” he says. “I can’t believe it. Where did you get this?”
I can’t help but beam. Finally, Julio is happy with what I’ve given him. I know my paychecks from the Breeze probably look dreary compared to what he makes at his construction job. But not this. This is comparable, if anything. This is impressive. It’s all over his face.
“I started working at the Uppity Rooster. Breakfast shifts on the weekends. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it would work out,” I tell him proudly. “Plus I’ll get a paycheck in two weeks for the hourly wage. This is just tips.”
“Either you’re a good waitress, sister, or those rich people feel sorry for you.” So he’s heard of the Uppity Rooster. And he knows what kind of place it is. There are tears welling up in his eyes. He’s relieved. Relieved that I’m finally pulling my own weight.
Which makes me feel like a molecule.
“Imagine how much you can make with both jobs,” he says. “You’ll be up there with me, no?”
And that’s when the guilt settles in and becomes a part of me.
I am smaller than a molecule. A molecule is twice my size.
Because I’m toying with the idea of cutting my shifts at the Breeze. The truth is, I’m tired. In the six hours I worked today I think I must have walked twenty miles. And how tired will I be after working six nights a week and two twenty-mile morning shifts on the weekends plus school?
Then I think of how tired Julio must be. And how he never mentions it.
Julio sees my hesitation and scowls. “You know Papi and Mama are counting on us. They need our help, Carlotta. This new job is great. But we need the income from the Breeze Mart too.”
“I know that. Did I say anything?”
“Your face does not hide things very well, little sister.”
“I just thought that with the cash I can bring in at the restaurant, maybe I can cut some shifts at the Breeze Mart.”
With deliberation, Julio pulls down two plates from the cabinet and sets one in front of him and one in front of me. He eases half the contents of the skillet onto each plate, then makes work of unscrewing the salsa jar. Julio is gearing up to be political with me.
He picks up a red pepper—probably from Señora Perez’s miniscule garden—and a cutting board. Methodically, he begins to slice it into columns, then squares. “You’re growing into a beautiful young woman. You are making money.” He eyes the cash on the counter. “Good money.” With the knife, he corrals the massacred pepper into a pile on the cutting board. “With money comes a certain amount of independence. I understand that.” He divides the peppers between us, even though he knows I don’t like them. “You’re a good girl, Carlotta. A smart girl. I know it seems like we’re asking much from you right now. Mama and Papi will be so proud of you.”
It stings, the words “will be.” Because it means that right now, they aren’t. Despite everything. I wonder what the conversations between Julio and Mama are like. I wonder if they talk about me, how lazy I am. What an underachiever I am. I wonder what Julio truly thinks of me. He never put much stock in school—only work. He’s worked full-time hours since the age of fifteen, and taken care of me since our parents got deported three years ago. He was only seventeen at the time, and taking care of someone else.
I wonder if Julio is jealous that I only have myself to worry about. That he didn’t have anyone to look after him when he was my age.
Julio is the oldest twenty-year-old on the planet.
And looks at me with chastising eyes. “Think, Carlotta. Think if the tables were turned. Don’t you think Mama and Papi would do everything they could to get us over here? Do you think they’d be talking about cutting their shifts at wor
k?”
Of course they wouldn’t. They want our family to be together. And don’t I want that? Or do I? Guilt pillages through my insides. It’s not whether or not I want us to be together. I do. It’s at what cost, that’s the thing. “They wouldn’t cut shifts,” I concede. But I’m angry. I want to rebel against his reasoning, no matter how sound it is. “Maybe it would help if I knew how far off we were. How much do we owe El Libertador? How much longer do I need to work like this?” I don’t expect him to answer. I don’t. But his body language, the way he moves with deliberate ease? It makes me realize he’s going to give me an explanation. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
The only thing I’m sure of is that I want my parents back. I want them here, with us.
Julio walks to the sink and turns the faucet on, holding the knife under the running water for a long time. He opens the drawer in front of him and pulls out a coffee filter—we use them for everything, since they’re cheaper than paper towels—and wipes the knife dry. After setting the knife down, he turns to face me, palms on the sink behind him. Slowly, he nods. “Mama says we shouldn’t tell you how much. That it would only stress you. But I think differently. I think that if we are asking these things of you, then, yes, Carlotta, I think you have the right to ask how much. And I think you can handle much more than Mama realizes.”
I hold my breath. Maybe I can’t handle more. What if this number, this ransom we owe El Libertador to bring my parents back, is so huge that it’s unattainable? It would mean that I’m trapped. It would mean that this small morsel of freedom I’ve had with Arden these past few days has just been a cruel tease. It would mean that living life, actually living it, is a pastime enjoyed only by those whose lives are not indentured by the need for money.
I am an American. And yet I am a slave.
“How much?” I choke out.
“El Libertador requires fifteen thousand US dollars for each person he smuggles across the border.” Julio says this as if he’s talking about the number of cracks in the ceiling or the variety of scuffs on our linoleum floor. He even shrugs a little, as if the blast radius of the bomb he just dropped wasn’t catastrophic.