And somehow I’ve got to get this bike back to its owner.
Three
I don’t actually breathe until Deputy Glass pulls out of our sandy driveway. The fact that he insisted on giving me a ride home at all almost gives me an ulcer—at least he doesn’t have his blue lights flashing when we pull in. My only saving grace is that no one in our trailer park is usually up at this time of night. Not even Señora Perez, who enjoys a late-night cigarette every now and then on the front steps of her trailer. That’s the benefit of living in a community of close-knit, hardworking immigrants—everyone is so tired that they actually sleep at night. Which is a good thing, since this bundle of nationalities is tightly secured by a rampant grapevine of unreliable gossip. Even the Russians get in on it. Gossip, as it turns out, has no language barrier. If anyone was awake to witness me being escorted home in a cop car … The scandal would permeate the very air in various, frenzied dialects.
I’m surprised to see a faint light shining through the living room window. Surely, surely, Julio is not awake. I make my way quietly up the stairs and use my key to unlock the door, giving the handle a jerk. The chain catches; Julio has officially locked me out.
Does he know what happened tonight?
“Julio,” I whisper between the crack in the door. “Let me in?”
I hear footsteps fall on the hollow floor of our living room, then the door is yanked shut from the inside. I bite my lip. I hear the chain being released and step back so the opening door doesn’t knock me off the steps.
Julio greets me at the threshold with a tired smile. “Carlotta, why are you home so late? Did you have inventory tonight?” But he’s already walking back into the house, toward the four-by-six area our landlord calls a kitchen. I bounce up the steps and shut and lock the door behind me. A fragile but definite sense of relief swirls through me as I realize I may be off the hook; if Julio had seen the cop car, he would have already been in ballistic phase. That’s the one good thing about Julio—you always know where you stand with him.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, but I can’t help but feel a little hurt. If he was awake and knew I was late coming home—I glance at the clock that dares to flash 4:37 a.m. back at me—why didn’t he bother to check up on me? What if I didn’t have inventory? I could be dead on the side of the road somewhere, and he wouldn’t know because he’s too busy … What is he busy doing, exactly? And do I really want to press the issue, given the circumstances?
Then I see a pair of worn-jeaned legs stretching across the kitchen floor, the booted toes pointed toward the ceiling. Oh. “Hi, Artemio,” I call, setting my backpack on the counter.
Julio had told me he’d be having Artemio, one of my father’s old friends, over before work to see if he could fix the kitchen sink. Julio could hang drywall like a pro, but plumbing was entirely beyond his scope of construction skills. And our sink had been leaking for about three weeks now.
“Hola, Carlotta,” Artemio says, his voice muffled under the cabinet. “You are very late. You sure she doesn’t have a boyfriend, Julio?” He motions for Julio to hand him his wrench.
Julio looks at me. “She knows better than to have a boyfriend, don’t you, Carlotta? My sister is smart, Artemio.” The pride in his voice makes me perk up a little. “She knows boys are a waste of time. We stick together, don’t we, Carly?”
It’s nice to hear him say we stick together, instead of that he’s stuck with me—which is how I feel. “Always,” I say around a yawn. This situation does not require me, I know, but I’m hesitant to leave the room; Julio is not home often. Even now, he’s already dressed for the day; he and Artemio carpool in the morning with some friends at work and will be leaving in about forty-five minutes. I might as well get a shower and change clothes too. But we have a guest. Guests come first, I can hear Mama say. “Can I make you some coffee, Artemio? Julio?” I flick my brother on his arm. “Did you make your lunch yet?”
Julio smiles. “We’re fine, bonita. Go to bed.”
Closing my eyes at this point would be stupid. Especially since I have to allot extra time to walk to school.
“You could skip school today,” Julio says, seeing me yawn for a third time. “Get rested up for your next shift tonight. It’s good that you stayed late. We could use the extra money.”
Julio has always been on the school-is-not-important bandwagon, right alongside Mama. It’s hard to disagree at this moment, with my eyelids sagging as if weighted down with iron. But someday my perseverance will make him proud. Someday I’ll show him that it all wasn’t a waste of time. Someday I’ll hand him an upper-class paycheck that could only be earned with a degree.
And so I head to the bathroom for a cold shower.
* * *
I feel like slightly microwaved death.
Plopping down in the chair for fourth-period social studies, I set my books on the desk with the enthusiasm of a sloth. I offer a small wave to Josefina, who’s already tucked neatly into her seat across the room. She’s one of the girls who lives in my neighborhood, but we barely ever see each other except at school. She works too, cleaning houses on the weekend, so it’s not like we’d ever have time to hang out—even if we did have more in common. She has four brothers, so she’s into motorcycles and fixing cars and other things I couldn’t care less about. The extent of our conversation is usually “Hi.”