Short Story

Wiley 

“Good morning!” Ben jumped into the kitchen, doing a little pose. He was feeling good. “How are you?” 

“I could use some of your energy!” I said, slicing the last few cucumbers, and putting them into his lunchbox. He was all set, the dinosaur chicken tenders he loved, some strawberries, ranch dressing, and a pack of Oreos that Grandma would not approve of. 

I handed him the box confidently and he peered inside. “Excellent,” he praised me. “You got the dino nuggets.” 

He pushed his glasses onto his small face. With his dark hair and pale skin he looked a little like Harry Potter. He loved when I told him that he was his doppelganger. I zipped the lunchbox inside his backpack, as he sat on the floor to tie his shoelaces. 

The door to grandma’s bedroom slowly opened, and she peeked into the kitchen hallway. Shuffling over to us, she moved slowly, holding her nightgown close to her chest.  

“Morning.” She yawned. 

“Hi there,” I said brightly. 

“Is he all set for school?” She looked down at Ben. 

“Yes!” He cried, grabbing his backpack, Nike sweatshirt, and the violin that laid by the door. 

“I have playing practice today,” he explained, clumsily holding up his violin. 

“Awesome.” Grandma said. “I can take him to school, Wiley.” 

 “Don’t worry about it, I’m already dressed to go myself.” I got my bag from the hook, and filled it with my computer and the phone that had been playing music while I made lunch. 

“Thank you sweetie,” Grandma gave me a look. It said you shouldn’t have, but I’m glad that you did.

We headed out to the car, getting into Grandma’s old Saab. Ben piled into the back seat. I didn’t let him sit in the front. Driving safety. It really does save lives. He wasn’t near the 100 pound mark that let him legally sit in the front, anyway. 

Mirrors? Check. Seatbelt? On. Every time I take my foot off of the brake I hold my breath. Cars are 1000 pound bullets. The words of my driving instructor flood my mind over and over again.

“I made some new friends at school,” Ben said. He wanted me to ask about them, I could tell. 

“Ooh, really?” I peered into the rearview mirror. “What are they like?” 

“They’re really cool.” He hesitated. “Maybe you’ll meet them sometime.” 

“Is that your way of asking for a playdate?” I laughed. 

“Maybe,” Ben smirked. 

Ben was clever. From a young age Dad had entered him in every competition, took him to violin recitals. He and I were his pride and joy. A fun science experiment he called it, raising kids. 

Or sometimes he’d say we were “one big pain in the ass,” before tousling Ben or my hair. 

He was a great Dad. He was. 

I can feel the heat pulse in my veins whenever I have to talk about him. Defend him. All people have bad moments. His was horrible, terrible. But I still love him somehow. 

I have his picture next to my nightstand, and one in the car. Ben doesn’t really know what happened. He was too young to understand. 

I knew he had a problem, though. Sometimes he’d come home drunk. There would be bottles in the trash. He tried to hide them, putting them in the garbage out back. But I’d hear him come in, stumble into the kitchen. Maybe there was a woman there, but I was never sure. I never stayed to hear her voice. 

He was always fine in the morning though. He brushed his teeth, came in and made lunch for both Ben and me. I let him make excuses. He had a lot on his plate. 

Grandma has just moved in, so that made it easier. At least that’s what I thought then. I was young, Ben even younger. But now I realize that Grandma moved in because she was forgetting her meds at home. Someone needed to watch her. She could only drive during the day, only in the morning now. Her vision fades. 

I rarely let her drive Ben to school now. I hold my breath every time. Oddly enough, she’s my guardian. But I consider myself hers. 

I dropped Ben off at the school parking lot and he waved goodbye. He walked alone to class, holding his lunchbox tight to his stomach. My heart sank, hoping that someone would run up to him. Ben had trouble making friends. He was far too kind, too giving. Like our Dad was. 

It’s odd to see someone you loved be viewed as a killer. A reckless person. To see his name under the identified drunk driver that killed a mother, and almost a daughter too. I’d never met the people that he hurt. I wouldn’t know what to say. To tell them that he wasn’t always like that. That he was the one who taught me how to drive. 

Keep your hands at 8 and 4, he’d say. Go slow. Drive defensively. And never, never, drink and drive. 

Do as I say and not as I do. Another saying of his. But it usually applied when he let a curse word slip during the summer when we were playing in the backyard. I know he never meant it like this. 

I don’t think I could tell the family that he was a good man. Because he is the villain for them. In their story. He was the villain that night for me too. 

But in a city with nearly 4 million people, there are more horrific accidents, and people forget. His name is just remembered to some people as a reckless person. And it cost him his life. 

I don’t remember him like that. I tell Ben about all that he did for us. The house that he helped build for Grandma, the amazing carnitas rancheros that he learned to make at his first job at El Dorados. How incredible of a father he was. And how he should still be here. 

Sometimes I’m angry he’s gone. But anger just reminds me who to blame. 

I try not to think of him as that man in the newspaper. The man with no face. The reckless drunk that turned over a car and cost a life. Two lives. 

Sometimes you have to choose your person. Choose who to remember. I remember the person he truly was, my father. 

Rosalinda 

“Una carnita huevos rancheros,” I called back to the kitchen, ripping the top page off of my notepad and setting it on the counter. 

“Otra vez? Tenemos tanto más en el menú, pero solamente piden huevos rancheros,” Chef Martinez groaned from the kitchen. The heat from the stove had made his normally pink skin even redder, and the steam from the kitchen had formed small beads of sweat on his forehead. 

He wiped his face with una toalla, before washing his hands and returning to his station. He was always grumbling about people's choices of food. Siempre.  

“Son nuevos,” I responded. They’re new. They’ll discover more of the menu. Hopefully. 

Chef mumbled something under his breath, and I suppressed a laugh. He was always grumpy, especially when tío Sánchez put him on the morning schedule. Most of the regulars worked trabajo manual, physical labor, outside and under the heat. They came in around lunch, and they were the only people that Chef could stand. He knew their orders by heart, and a little bit of his old talento magnifico popped out, as he sprinkled cilantro and finely grated our best cheese for their meals. 

The morning rush seemed to die down, and I began clearing a few tables. A small family had left a mess of hot sauce, salt, and eggs scattered over the table. Los bebes. Any time a family with kids came in I knew the cleanup duty was going to be a pain. 

The phone rang, and I called out to Juanita, the other waiter on shift. But she was out back, probably on another smoke break. I left my spray bottle of lemon juice and cleaner on the table, and rushed to the front desk. 

In the diner, with the customers, I was nunca Rosalinda. I took on my alter ego, Rose,  who spoke much slower, in a tongue much less fluid. Rose chopt her words into bite size pieces and instead of rolling “r”s dramatically, she spit them out. Rose was popular among customers, better tips. I code switched all day, up and down, left and right. It was never “What you like?” but “What can I get for you?” Injusto. Unfair, my Aunt called it, but working a job, going to school, and taking care of Esmerelda doesn’t exactly leave time to educate los clientes. 

I answered the phone. 

“Good morning, this is Rose at El Dorados, how can I help you today?” 

“Rosalinda? Eres tu?” Esmerelda’s tiny voice whispered through the phone. 

My voice quickly became loud and thick. “Mija, why are you calling me? Shouldn’t you be in school, en la escuela?” 

“Mama, eh,” she paused. We were working on her English. “Mama is tired. She no want to take me. She asks if you can.” 

My heart sank. “Buen inglés mija. Good job. I’ll take you. Don’t worry.” 

“Gracias, Rosalinda.” Her voice sounded happier already. She loved kindergarten. My aunt swears she is going to be the next Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez. 

“Una cosa mas,” I ask her. “One more thing. Is Mama awake?” 

“Si?” she said. She was confused. And I was grateful for that. 

“I’ll come home soon ok? No te preocupes.” Don’t worry, I told her. 

“Gracias.” 

I hung up the phone. 

“Ay Dios mío,” I mumbled under my breath. It wasn’t a surprise at all, but it annoyed me that cada vez I felt disappointed. Every, single, time. I shouldn’t care by now.

“Que pasa?” Chef asked me from the back. Even if he was grumpy, he still cared. 

“Mama.” I motioned to my arm, pretending to inject a needle. 

His eyes widened and he chuckled. “Vaya.” 

I nodded, grateful that I could go. Chef and I have an understanding. No concerning looks. No talking to Child Services. Just let me make my addiction jokes and I’ll be on my way. 

My shift was almost over anyway, since I had class de ciencias at the district high school. But now, I’d be late. 

I arrived at the house five minutes later, slamming the door to our old Toyota Corolla. Esmerelda opened the door to the house before I could, and met me with a smile. 

“Lista!” She smiled, holding her butterfly lunch box that she had decorated herself. Her hair looked funny, wrapped in multiple silly bands and pinned to the side of her head. I couldn’t help but smile. She had stopped taking my style suggestions long ago. Esmerelda was going to be who Esmerelda wanted to be and no one was stopping her. At least her clothes matched. She had a pink polo on with a floral skirt and little sequin sneakers that lit up when she rolled. 

“Get in the car mija.” I called, passing her to assess the situation inside. 

The heat hit me immediately. At the top of my head I could feel the hot air gathering around the ceiling and humidity forced me to sludge to the kitchen dial. No AC. Curious, I went to the tap, turned the spicket. Nothing. 

I felt the anger seething inside of me, looking around the house. The kitchen was filled with dishes that nobody had bothered to clean, Esmerelda’s laundry was piled by the backdoor for Mama to take to her work, the laundromat. 

I stepped over socks laying on the floor and a broken dish to the back bedroom. The door was shut, but I knew she was inside.

 I swung open the door, and there she laid. 

In the bed, one arm over the edge, her thick black hair pooling everywhere. The tank top she swore was slugged to the side and the covers barely covered her legs. Peering into the cabinet I saw the needles almost as commonplace in the room as dust. 

“Mama!” I yelled, my voice almost startling myself. 

She startled awake. “Oh mija!” She sat up in bed. She rubbed under her nose, instinctively. “How was school? Should I start dinner?” 

She swung her legs to the side of the bed. Adjusting her tank top, and closing the drawer. She pretended that I didn’t know. And maybe she thought I didn’t. 

“No te hagas el tonto conmigo.” Don’t play dumb with me. 

She looked at me, profoundly confused, and I realized. She actually didn’t know it was 10:30 in the morning. That she didn’t go to work. That Esmerelda was missing school. 

And I couldn’t hold back. 

“Que mierda te pasa?” I screamed at her. “It’s 10:30 in the morning! You missed work, you didn’t take Esmerelda to school, la casa es un desastre!”

“Rosalinda,” she yelled at me. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me like that.” 

I felt my hand shaking, and my voice started to waiver. I balanced it. I wanted to kill her. But at the same time, I wanted to tell her it was okay, that she could get better and that I would help her. Like I’d done before. But I remembered Esmerelda’s little smile, and her butterfly lunchbox. I couldn’t. 

 I spoke quietly and shortly. “Get out. Get out of our house. And don’t come back until you are sober.” 

With that, I left the room and walked out. In the old mirror that my grandma had given us I saw my face. I cringed at the tears that streamed and the mascara that dripped. Hold it together. 

I left and took Esmerelda to school. She got out of the car, and I watched her run into school to get to her class. I wanted her to really know her mother, get to know who she used to be. But our mother wasn’t la misma persona. I hardly recognized her. 

And that is why she had to leave. Vaya. Sometimes you have to choose your person. Even if it’s between two people you love. 

Jalen 

I counted the money in my hands, a few hundred dollars bills, some twenties, a five here and there. Dirty money. It was always dirty, but this time it felt even more so. Cause for the first time I had broken my rules. 

When I had started, there were three. One, no big drugs. Two, dealing was a side thing, temporary. And most importantly, no families. No kids that were gonna pay for what I’d done. It’d been a year now, and I had just broken all three.

My gig had started off with the kids at school, picking up a little here and there to make ends meet. But then Jada’s accident had happened and I needed more. Fast. 

I switched to heavier drugs, all the stuff that made me run for the hills at house parties. I’ve never taken a hit. Never have, never will. I know my word don’t count for much, given what I already told you. But I know that one I won’t break.  

I sat the cash in the cookie jar at the front of the kitchen. I’d take it in at the end of the week. 

For the most part things were good. Better than they’d been. My sister Kiera knew why too, but she pretended not to. She sat at the kitchen table, typing on that laptop they gave her at the online university. 

Kiera was crazy smart. Nothing I could ever attest to. She made my head spin, all that engineering stuff she been doing. She should be at one of those bigger places, UCLA or USC. But she stayed here cause she knew that I couldn’t pick up the slack. 

Her eyes flicked up at me from the table. “Can I help you?” 

“Yeah,” I rubbed my hands together. “Are you picking up Sarah from PT?” 

“Sure.” She said, closing her computer. “This is draining me anyways. What are you going to do?” 

“‘Ion know. Probably pick up a shift or somethin at the store.” 

She looked at me blankly and irritated. “Don’t talk like that.” 

Here we go. “Like what.” 

She put her computer in the backpack that slung off the back of the chair. “You know how.” 

“Sesh.” I said. “I ain’t gonna talk in your white washed manner.” 

She glowered at me. “I don’t talk like that for my health. Don’t go at me like I’m all high and mighty.” 

I held up my hands. “Look Ke,” I said. “I’m sorry, I know. Shit’s just dumb.” 

She laughed, making the tension leave my shoulders. “You’re right shit is dumb. But this world isn’t going to change.” 

She picked up the iced coffee that had made a circle of condensation on the desk and walked out to the car to pick up Jada. 

I cleaned up the kitchen instinctively, putting Jada’s dishes away and wiping away the mark from her coffee. I swear she might be smarter than all of us, but she cannot keep anything clean. I went into the back of the garage, where Ke and I had sectioned off where the second car should go and made it into my studio. 

Art. Yeah. I know. Don’t really fit the stereotype. But I’ve come to discover most people don’t. 

I sat down next to the easel we manufactured and all I could think about was the little girl. With her pink shirt and her lunchbox, decorated with butterflies that she probably did herself. They were pretty good too. She might be able to be an artist. 

She’s probably fine. The lie I told myself. 

I sat there for another thirty minutes, distracting my mind and trying to fill the canvas. I heard the garage door open, and peeked through the sheet to see Kee unloading Jada from the car. The blue of the handicap sign hanging on the rearview mirror caught the light, glistening as a constant reminder. 

The door slammed, and I emerged from the studio.

“Jalen!” Jada called. She rolled her wheelchair over to me and leaned in for a hug. “Hey Jadabug how’s it going?” I leaned down to get on her level and gave a little yank on her hair. 

She giggled. “Pretty good.” 

“Jada, show him what you did in PT today,” Kee said to her, making her way over from the car

“Ok.” She looked down at the blue pants, that even at nine years old we still had to help her into. Because of that one night and that one driver. 

She wiggled her feet. A warmup. Then slowly, and gradually, I saw her foot lift high and higher, until she could reach out and touch it with her hands. I looked up at Kee, who glanced to see from behind Jada’s wheelchair. Her eyes started to brim, the tears daring to fall down her face. 

My eyes weren’t dry either, and I gave Jada a delicate pat on her thigh. “That’s amazing, Jadabug.” 

She laughed, doing a little dance. A wiggle with her toes. Kee wheeled her inside, giving me a nod that I felt in my chest. I went back into my studio, and painted little Jada, running through the grass in the neighborhood park like she used to. 

You never really think that you’d ever want to kill someone. Nobody understands that rage and feeling in your blood that makes serial killers kill over and over again. Murder is terrible. Murder is a sin. But I understand that feeling. I get why killers do what they do. The urge to rip someone apart, take something away that they took from you. Someone you love. 

When I saw Jada in the hospital, I felt that for the first time. The only reason I didn’t kill that driver is because he was already dead. Dead on impact. Good. I was glad. 

The police said he was drinking. That all of them in the car were. And then my Mama was gone and my little sister was in pieces. 

They tell you that with grief, there is no right way to feel. That all that anger will eventually subside, and you’ll heal over time. 

But we still have to hang that handicap sign in the front of our car. Go to visit Mama’s grave, every third Wednesday. Jada reads book after book cause she can’t run with the other kids like she used to. 

But I don’t complain. She’s still here, and I plan to work every second until she’s back on her feet. She needs money for physical therapy. For a better school. Medical bills. And that’s why I can shake off that little girl, her family and the drugs. Sometimes you gotta choose your person over the other people. Even if it don’t feel right. 

Rosalinda 

I rushed back to my car, knowing that the high school is only a couple of miles away from Esmerelda’s school. Tenga prisa. Hurry, I muttered to myself. 

I pulled up only 5 minutes later, to see Esmerelda, sitting with two other kids on the bench. 

The sun was setting over the city, and you could hear the bustle of Los Angeles just beyond the school and our neighborhood. I saw two cars pull up behind me, probablemente para los otros niños. It was clear the carpool was long over, as there was only one teacher inside watching the kids from her computer. 

It made me feel better, as I looked into the rearview, that someone else didn’t have it exactly all together. Esmerelda finally saw me, and I gave a honk and a big wave. 

She smiled at me from a distance, getting up to say her goodbyes. First, she gave a big hug to the little boy sitting next to her. His glasses sat far too wide on his face, and his skin was nearly transparent. 

How did a boy manage to stay that pale in California? Ay Dios mío. 

Next, she gave a hug to the little girl, sitting in a wheelchair. She leaned over, giving her a squeeze that I could feel by memory. I smiled. 

Ah to be so young y sencilla. 

She finally ran over to the car, jumping inside. 

“Who are they?” I asked, as she beamed up at me. 

“They’re my people,” she answered, matter of factly. 

“Your people?” I smiled. 

“Yes,” she looked at me. “Sometimes you have to choose your people.” 

I grinned at her, driving out of the parking lot. 

Kate O’Brien ‘21