Boundless, p.26
Boundless, page 26
I think she was smiling.
* * *
After my father leaves my room, I scroll through social media, watch YouTube, and think about what happened. It feels weird, to be honest. Like it happened to someone else. But also? I don’t feel bad. I don’t think I do, anyway.
I wonder what I’ll talk about in confession.
Should I confess that I don’t feel bad?
Is that something to confess?
Usually, I do feel bad about things.
Last semester, I cheated on my Geometry test. Geometry is my worst subject, and I didn’t want to get another bad grade. I don’t really care about grades, but my mom does. When I get bad grades, she tells me how lazy I am, how I don’t try hard enough. She talks about how immigrants work hard to come to this country to get a good education and look at me, just squandering mine away, not even trying.
I made an A.
I felt really bad about it. I’d planned to show my mom, all proud—Look, Mom, I got one hundred percent!—but I felt so bad that I didn’t even tell her. And then I ratted myself out to my Geometry teacher. She was really cool about it, though. She said I was showing integrity and good character by confessing, and she let me take a makeup test. I made a C, but at least I didn’t feel ashamed of myself.
I wish I could tell my mom about how I showed integrity and good character, but she would only focus on the cheating part.
In seventh grade, I repeated a rumor I’d heard about Danika Klein—that she made out with boys behind the dumpster for five dollars apiece—and even as I said it, I knew it was wrong. I couldn’t sleep all night. The next day, I retracted what I’d said and when I heard the rumor again, I stepped up and said it wasn’t true.
During freshman year, a girl in my class dropped five dollars on her way out of the classroom and I took it and shoved it deep in my pocket, and then I bought some chips and a soda out of the vending machine and couldn’t even eat it. A few days later, when I managed to scrounge up my own five dollars, I found the girl and gave it to her. You dropped this, I said.
I’m not saying I’m Mother Teresa or anything.
The point is: I do feel bad when I’m wrong.
I’ve confessed all this stuff to Father Rogan.
But at this moment, I don’t feel bad about Garrett Dixon.
So what am I supposed to confess?
* * *
My sister knocks on my door around 7:00 p.m. and pops her head in.
“Can I come in?” she says.
Ugh.
The last thing I need is judgment from Glorious Gee.
I shrug.
She saunters in. She’s wearing yoga pants and a fitted shirt that says Roosevelt High School Cheer. Her hair is in a perfect messy bun on top of her head. It’s weird how we have the same parents and look nothing alike. If you saw her on the street, you’d assume she was white. You wouldn’t even know she’s a half-breed Asian.
She stands near the foot of my bed but doesn’t sit down. She’s not a regular visitor here.
“Everyone’s talking about it,” she says.
I’m not looking at her.
I’m looking at my phone.
Crosbie has posted a pic of us, one of my favorites. The caption says: BFFs.
“So,” I say.
I’m waiting for her to render her judgment.
I try to imagine her punching someone in the face.
It’s impossible to picture.
“So...” She pauses and plays with the hem of her shirt. “I guess you’re kind of a badass.”
I put my phone down and look up. “What?”
“Well.” She lifts one shoulder. “You punched Garrett Dixon in the face.”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone needed to get punched in the face, it was Garrett Dixon.” Pause. “He used to snap my bra in middle school. Like, all the time.”
“Really?” It doesn’t surprise me, but it’s weird, how the Glorious Gee lives a whole separate life that I don’t know about, with all her own experiences.
“Yeah,” she says. “I even told Mom and Dad.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What’d they say?”
“Dad said he probably just likes you.”
“And Mom?”
“She told me to pray for him.”
I snort. “And did you?”
She laughs. “Hell no.”
The room suddenly feels lighter. It’s weird how that happens, isn’t it?
She steps forward and gestures toward the ice pack, which is melted and sitting on the floor. She leans over and picks it up. I can smell her strawberry shampoo.
“Want me to fill this up for you?” she asks.
“Nah,” I say. I stretch my hand. The swelling has gone down, but it still hurts.
She tosses the bag from hand to hand as she walks to the door. “Last week, Garrett grabbed my ass when I was drinking out of the water fountain.”
I frown.
“Guys,” she says, shrugging. As if to say, Guys, oh well, what’re you gonna do? That’s how they are.
“More like amoebas, in this case.”
“Yeah. Or something that feeds on amoebas.”
“You should tell someone at school about it. Like the principal or something.”
“I already did. Today, actually.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I went to the office this afternoon, right before cheer practice. I wanted them to know he probably deserved it. Some girls from your art class were already in there. McKenzie Rainer and Abbi Whatshername. Sticking up for you. Not that you need it.” She chuckles lightly and motions toward my hand. “Looks like you can stick up for yourself just fine.”
I think of Kenzie and Abbi in the office, speaking up in my defense. “I need it,” I say, quietly.
“Garrett got suspended, too, by the way.” Gee pauses, walks toward the door, rests her hand on the knob. “Do you think he’ll stop being such an asshole after being publicly humiliated?”
“Probably not,” I say. “But you know what else is disturbing?”
She opens the door. “What?”
“The fact that you drink out of that disgusting water fountain.”
Her smile lights up in a big laugh. So does mine.
What can I say?
It’s contagious.
* * *
On the way to church, I look at my mom’s profile. I want to ask her what she thinks about what Garrett said. Not the half-handful part, but the racist part. I want to ask if anyone has ever said anything to her. I want to know how it made her feel. I want to tell her what my dad said, about people taking things too seriously, and I want to know her opinion.
I open my mouth. I’m about to ask something—I’m not even sure what—but she speaks first.
“I’m going to drop you off, then pick up Gee, and come back for you,” she says. “Gee has practice today. See how she gets involved in school? Maybe if you got involved in school activities, you wouldn’t get in trouble.” Then she sighs and mutters, “How did I get such opposite daughters?”
I turn away and look out the window.
* * *
Have you ever been to confession?
Before you go in, you’re supposed to pray for God’s help and guidance, and examine your conscience. At our church—St. Margaret—they have small confessional rooms with a divider. You kneel on one side and then you say, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Then you tell him how long it’s been since your last confession.
When I open the door to St. Margaret, the distinctive smell of church washes over me. I hold the door open for a man behind me. He hurries up the steps and says thank you. He has a full beard, but his head is shaved.
An older woman with tired eyes and a rosary kneels in the nearest pew, waiting her turn for the confessional, which is currently occupied. The woman’s head is bent, her eyes closed. The man and I kneel on the same pew, with distance between us. Usually, I clasp my hands together, but my right hand still hurts, so I press my palms together instead. Then I rest my forehead against my thumbs.
Normally, this is the part where I pray for guidance. And that’s what I intend to do, but I don’t feel like normal.
I think it’s because I didn’t choose to go to confession this time.
My mother basically told me I was going to confession. She assumes I’ll confess the sin of busting Garrett Dixon’s face. And maybe it was a sin. I mean, obviously—allegedly—we aren’t supposed to resort to violence as a society. So, I know it’s bad. In that sense.
But I don’t feel bad about it.
I inhale.
I say a prayer.
I search my conscience.
* * *
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four months since my last confession. This guy at school made some sexist and racist comments toward me and my friend, so I punched him in the face. But I don’t feel bad about it, so I think I should confess that I don’t feel remorse. But—I also don’t feel remorse about not feeling remorse, so...what does that mean?
* * *
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four months since my last confession. This guy at school made some sexist and racist comments toward me and my friend, so I punched him in the face. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about my dad. When I told him what happened, he acted like it was no big deal. I wanted to throw my phone at him. My mom always says that we’re supposed to “honor thy parents.” I’m pretty sure throwing a phone at my father’s face is not honoring him. I didn’t do it, though. But the thought crossed my mind. Is that a sin?
* * *
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four months since my last confession. This guy at school made some sexist and racist comments toward me and my friend, so I punched him in the face. But I don’t feel bad about it. I know I should, probably, but I don’t. So can we talk about something else? Like the fact that my mother always compares me to my sister and it really pisses me off? I don’t know if that’s a sin exactly, to be angry at my mother. Is it?
* * *
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four months since my last confession. This guy at school made some sexist and racist comments toward me and my friend, so I punched him in the face. But let’s talk about my sister. She has nothing to do with it, really, but yesterday we laughed together and it was really nice. If I’m being honest—and that’s what a confessional is for, right?—I’ve always thought she was kind of an airhead. Like one of those beautiful girls who isn’t very smart. But now that I think about it, that’s sexist, too, isn’t it?
My mom says Gee inherited all my father’s good white genes. My mom is really proud of that, like she had something to do with it. She says that I got her nose and her brown skin, and she says it like it’s a bad thing, and then again, everything she says to me she says like it’s a bad thing.
I don’t know if there’s a sin in there for me to confess, Father. Maybe I’m just jealous of my sister.
* * *
When I open my eyes again, the woman with the rosary isn’t there anymore. She’s in the confessional. I get off my knees and sit in the pew. I put my hands in my lap and stare at them.
I wonder what it’ll be like at school next week.
I wonder how long the woman has been in there.
It’ll be my turn, any minute.
To be honest, I don’t feel like talking. I don’t feel like “confessing.”
I need to search my conscience more.
The door to the confessional opens. The woman steps out. She doesn’t make eye contact. She hurries off.
I stand. I stare and stare at the confessional.
My mom will be here any minute. She’ll ask me if I confessed, but she won’t ask me what I said—that’s much too sacred to share, and she knows that. Maybe I’ll just tell her that I did.
But that’s lying. And it’s a sin.
I can add it to my confessions for next time, I guess.
I stare for a few more seconds, then turn to the bearded man next to me. He’s on his knees, but he’s watching me curiously.
“You can go ahead,” I say. I don’t even whisper it. My voice booms through the empty chamber of the church.
Then I slip out of the pew and walk toward the wide heavy church doors.
I go outside, into the sun, to wait for my mother.
* * *
A HALFIE’S GUIDE TO MEXICAN RESTAURANTS
By Rebecca Balcárcel
First of all, when the smiling, kind-of-cute host-guy says, “Two?” and picks up menus for you and your new white friend, don’t respond with “Sí gracias,” especially if you don’t have an American accent and you’ve heard español every day of your life from your brown papa and your r is perfectly flipped rather than over-revved like a tourist’s. Because if you start down that piñata-plastered runway, the host will lift off into wide Spanish skies and leave you sucking in jet exhaust and stumbling over that whole story of how you’re only half Latina and your mom was born in white bread central, and how your Spanish is actually worse than a tourist’s, etc. etc. Just say “thanks” for now.
If your new friend tries out her Spanish and she flattens the vowels, making gracias sound like it went under a potato masher, be happy because she seems sweet and doesn’t mind sounding like a beginner. She wants to be polite, and it makes the midnight eyes of host-guy light up, which is a plus because he might lay extra chips and salsa on the table or give you free soft drink refills. Besides, you’re keeping this Saturday lunch thing fun, and who wants to spend their work-the-drive-through money to nitpick about “ah” vs. “a.” Ten to one, she knows more book-learned Spanish than you, anyway.
When the definitely-cute host-guy says, “Some-sing to drrink?” you know he was born there, and you congratulate yourself because the food in this place is going to be delicioso and not some over-hot-sauced Tex-Mex cowboy variety. Now you can say, “Water, por favor,” and do your flippy r and smile like you’re sharing a secret. Now he’ll know that you have just enough Spanish to be interesting, but he’ll stay in English as he says, “Be right back,” and flashes a smile right into your eyes, like he knows you have one foot in his jet plane and might be interested in a ride.
Take in the red walls, the row of arches, and the giant metal suns smiling at you from every direction. Bask.
When your new friend says, “I love these little salsa bowls,” hunching down to take a closer look at the three stout legs and flecks of white stone, go ahead and tell her that they are mini molcajetes, the traditional mortar and pestle of Latin America. But when she says, “Wow,” and “Hey, I never really thought of you as Latina,” hold back.
Don’t say, Well, I’m only half, because you don’t want to sound like you are dissing your father or actually yourself with that only crap, and don’t say, It’s probably because my skin is light, because it feels itchy to say that skin color doesn’t matter and then it feels slimy to say that it does. So let’s not say anything on that right now because you don’t even know what you think about your permanent tan sometimes and why some people don’t see it and some people do. And don’t say, I guess I should throw more Spanish into my sentences, because, come on, that would be so fake, right, like code-switching is something you can’t even contain because you’re such a Spanish chica, ai-yai-yai! when you kind of wish you were, but you’re just not. And especially don’t say, I’m hurt. How did you not see this entire half of myself, the half who sings La Noche Buena every Christmas and eats tamales for New Year’s instead of black-eyed peas? And definitely don’t say, I guess I hide my brown half when I’m getting to know people because what if I make them uncomfortable, or what if they don’t like me, or what if I’m ashamed when I see my own father through their eyes as they ask, “Who is that construction worker?” when he’s actually a professor who has read more books than our school librarian and our English teachers put together, I bet, and who they just might, you know, even accidentally, think cries and laughs freely but isn’t capable of forming a complex thought? Or what if you love everything Latino and want me to teach you how to make tortillas and tell you all about my father crossing the raging waters of the Rio Grande, which he actually did in an airplane?
So hold back.
Admit to the piece of perfection in your heart, that little light indivisible, that you don’t know how to be half. How to be whole. How to show people who you are. How to know who you are in the first damn place. And ask the piece of perfection to show you how to merge your brown vision and white vision into one binocular whole, how to rub the mud off your two-part soul and shine.
When the tortilla chips are almost gone and the steaming enchiladas arrive, ask your new friend something real, like how her dad’s recovery is going and if she misses her sister who used her waitress savings to hike the Appalachian Trail. She’ll say her dad is more patient now and even took her to a hockey game, and while her parents are still freaking out about the sister’s Appalachian thru-hike, they’ve decided it’ll look good on a résumé. Your friend will say she’s sending Clif Bars to her sister in the mail and that she watched an old movie with her parents last night, because she’s that sweet. She’ll ask how you are, and she’ll mean it. Smile, because you’re making a truly good friend.
