“I can’t be in that apartment anymore.”
“But where are we going?”
“Anywhere,” she said.
We ended up at the Dollar Tree, mostly because the day before, someone had stolen our entire load of laundry from the washing machine at the Laundromat. Along with a pair of my mom’s pajama pants and a few pairs of my boxers, my dad’s dingy white briefs and white undershirts had been in the load, too, but my mom, in her simmering anger toward him, told me on the bus on the way to the store that he could buy his own underwear if he wanted it. “He’s so good at doing everything for himself, let him do that, too,” she said.
We were walking through the aisles, me with an econo-pack of boxers under my arm like a pillow, when I caught sight of her. She was skinny and petite. Big, full lips and a long, thin Indian nose. Black hair that reached down her back in waves. Long-as-hell eyelashes.
I stopped and stared. She was standing in the aisle with all the cheap dinnerware, looking bored while her mom turned over a package of plastic silverware.
“What?” my mom said, glancing at me.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, and made a move to keep walking.
But my mom backtracked to see what had snagged my attention. “Who is that?”
I tried to distance myself further. I would just talk to her another time, I thought, preferably one when my mom wasn’t around.
“Are those our new neighbors?” my mom asked. And before I knew it, she was marching toward them, her pocketbook bouncing against her thigh.
“Buenas,” she said when she reached them.
The mother turned, surprised.
“I’m Celia Toro and this is my son Mayor,” my mom said in Spanish. “You live in our apartment building, no? The Redwood Apartments?”
Sra. Rivera smiled. She was small and plump. Her wavy black hair was slicked back in a ponytail. “Ah! Sí. Redwood. I’m Alma Rivera. And this is Maribel.”
Maribel, I said to myself. Forget about how she was dressed—white canvas sneakers straight out of another decade and a huge yellow sweater over leggings—and forget about the fact that her black hair was mussed like she’d just woken up and the fact that she wasn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry or anything else that most of the girls in my school liked to pile on. Forget about all of that. She was fucking gorgeous.
My heart was jackhammering so hard I thought people from the next aisle were going to start complaining about the noise. Then I remembered the package of underwear I was carrying. In case there was any question, across the front of the plastic in big, black letters, it was labeled “Boxer Shorts. Size X-Small.” I shuttled the package behind my back.
“I hope you’re not looking for food,” my mom said. “You won’t find much of it in this store. There’s a Mexican market nearby, though. Gigante. It probably has everything you’re looking for.”
“We bought food at the gas station,” Sra. Rivera said.
“The gas station! Ay, no. And what have you been eating for dinner? Gasoline?”
This was my mom’s attempt at a joke, and thankfully Sra. Rivera laughed. “Almost as bad,” she said. “Canned beans and hot dogs and something the Americans call salsa.”
“Wait until you try the American tortillas,” my mom said. “Horrible.”
I was trying not to look at Maribel, or at least to pretend like I wasn’t looking, but my gaze kept brushing over her, watching as she stood still, her hands folded in front of her. I thought I should probably say something to her, you know, just to be neighborly, but she was clearly so far out of my league that I was having trouble remembering how to work my mouth.
I put one hand in my pants pocket, trying to seem cool. She didn’t even look at me. Whatever I said, it had to be good, something that would make her think I had game. Finally, I blurted out, “You just moved in.”
Sra. Rivera glanced at me. Maribel barely looked up.
Great. I was an asshole. “You just moved in”? That’s what I’d come up with?
“To our building,” I went on. Jesus.
She stared at me, her face as blank as a wall.
“Yeah,” I said, and looked at my feet in humiliation. What was wrong with me? I should just keep my mouth shut from now on. Which is exactly what I did after that. Our moms talked while I stared at my shoes—my brother’s old black-and-white Adidas that I always thought looked cool and retro but at the moment just seemed stupid and old—and counted the minutes until we could get out of there. Then, through my fog of embarrassment, I heard her mom say something about the Evers School.
I looked up and saw my mom raise her eyebrows. “Did you say Evers?”
“Yes,” Sra. Rivera said.
I looked at the girl again. Evers? That was the school for retards. We all called it the Turtle School.
My mom said, “Of course. Yes. That’s a great school. She’ll be very happy there,” and smiled a little too big.
The girl pulled her arms all the way into the body of her yellow sweater so that the empty sleeves hung like banana peels, and I saw it was true. There was something wrong with her. I never would have guessed it. I mean, to look at her . . . it didn’t seem possible.
My mom changed the subject after that, telling Sra. Rivera where to find the cheapest hair salon and the best Goodwill and how to get to the nearest Western Union. She told her to steer clear of the sandwich shop at the end of Main Street because Ynez Mercado, who lived in our building, had found a hair in the hoagie she’d bought there, and of course she told her about the horrors we’d just experienced with the Laundromat. Sra. Rivera repeated “Thank you” anytime my mom gave her an opening, and finally my mom wrapped up by telling her our unit number and encouraging them to stop by anytime. “I’m almost always home,” she said. I guess she couldn’t help herself, because she added pointedly, “My husband likes it that way.”
Benny Quinto
My name is Benny Quinto. I came from Nicaragua, baby. The Land of Lakes and Volcanoes. Been here eight years almost to the day.
Back in Nicaragua I was studying to be in the priesthood. I thought I heard God calling my name from up in the clouds somewhere, man, and I thought he was telling me I was the chosen one. This deep, booming voice. I wasn’t even high. Drugs hadn’t come into my life yet. But I think I must have been hallucinating or something, because I’ve had conversations with God since then and He’s like, Nope, don’t know what you’re talking about, Benny. Never said all that about you being the one. Sorry to disappoint.
A few buddies of mine left Nicaragua to come make some real bones over here. Wasn’t no money for pinoleros like us back home. Politically, you know, it wasn’t so bad anymore. Somoza was long gone, the contras were nothing but a memory. But leaving the poverty of Nicaragua to go to the richest country in the world didn’t take much convincing.
I left when I was twenty. Told a dude I would pay him two thousand dollars to bring me over, three hundred up front. Took me a while to scrape it together. Three hundred dollars! In Nicaragua you could live off that for a while. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I stole some of it from the church. Stuffed the offering envelopes up under my shirt one week when I was supposed to be doing my Eucharistic Minister duties and walked out with it. I was gonna do what I had to. I’m like that. Get something in my head and it’s like some kind of block. No way to get around it. I just have to bulldoze through.
I got shunted into this house in Arizona until I could pay the rest of the money. I mean, they told us we were in Arizona. It was me and twelve other guys. But we coulda been in Russia for