I wasn’t gonna help her out on this one. We’ve been trying to kick each other’s ass since fifth grade — you know how someone looks at you and your teeth get on edge? That’s me and Sherry. I really thought Ms. C was gonna make us talk it out and work it out together and I was gonna have to gag on the insincerity, but today she barely looked at us, at me, and I admit, my feelings were kinda hurt.
But she’s probably got a lot more on her mind than a bunch of stupid kids. Fuck Sherry, she doesn’t even rate, but what about me? Ms. C’s got more important things on her mind than me?
That makes me stop writing, right there. You get used to certain kinds of disappointment, because you got a little hope in maybe one tiny part of the world...
Volleyball season is over. Something about a virus. Annette said they’re probably lying about the whole thing. Thought maybe Ms. Jones got sick of paying for lunches and gas and driving us around, only to lose to golden girls.
But Mrs. Jones isn’t like that at all. She’s got her hair cropped short and kinky, she wears aviator sunglasses even inside the gym, and she doesn’t bad mouth the other teams or ever mention just how pathetic we are. We were. She shows us how to spike, how to block, how to anticipate. She’s big on anticipating your opponent.
So what do you do when your opponent is the next day?
My mom’s been in bed this past week, and she doesn’t look good. I wanted to stay at home to take care of her, but she made me get Caro ready for school, and she made me go out. We walked the three dirty blocks to school, a couple of kids behind us, a group of kids in front of us, all walking the same way. I could hear them jeering at the woman in short shorts and a sparkly halter top standing outside of Gus’s #1 Tacos. I pointed out the Disney billboards across the street to Caro to distract her. Why do you wanna make fun of some lady who’s just hungry? I wondered if her day was ending or just beginning.
When I got to English, Sherry talked smack about what I was wearing; it was worse that it was true. I stood up and flipped my desk over at her and that’s when Mrs. Banks sent the two of us here.
Now I’m stuck here glaring at Sherry’s stupid face, with her bad skin and thin lips that look like all they talk is garbage.
Friday was the last day of school for what the principal said would be three weeks. I should be happy, I should be leaping up and down, dancing, or at least smiling on the inside, but I am not. We’re supposed to, maybe? do our classes online, but I don’t know how that’s gonna play out. I don’t have a laptop, I was hoping to save for one for college. I don’t have a phone, and Ma uses hers as little as possible. She’s probably got the cheapest data plan in the history of the world.
They were giving out Chromebooks before we left. Jenny got hers, I even saw Sherry shoving hers into her shoulder bag. Yeah, what is she gonna use it for? Sell it?
There was a glitch and I didn’t get one. They said they’d call me, I could pick it up sometime next week. Which is now this week, and I haven’t heard from them.
It’s late Wednesday morning and Caro is happy. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter listening to Bad Bunny and coloring. That’s what she really likes to do. She colors everything. There are pictures of me, her, and Ma taped to the refrigerator, the bedroom door, the front room walls. They used to be me, her, Ma, and Dad, but Ma pulled them down. For a while Caro drew only in black, but now she’s back to giving all three of us brunettes bright and glossy golden-yellow-orange hair. I tried to let her know that brown hair is us, and it’s good! But she just shook her head, smiled, and colored, while the tip of her tongue peeked out the side of her mouth.
I don’t feel good. I don’t feel sick like Ma, who still hasn’t gotten out of her bed so I’ve been the one in charge, making egg burritos or boiling the beans (yeah, I wasted a pound of beans, burned the first pot, and it still stinks in here, that pot was a bitch to clean and I think I’ve still got steel wool under my nails), but I don’t feel happy like Caro. Like I’ve got three weeks of school off. I feel worried.
The biggest reason I feel worried is because Friday, our last day, Ms. Cifuentes found me in my English class and called me out of the room. She handed me this notebook. “Use this,” she said. “I’m telling you, if you write down what’s worrying you, you really will worry about it less.”
The way she said it, with her eyes all red and puffy like she’d been crying, though she said it was allergies, made my guts flip inside out. Ms. Cifuentes put her hand on my shoulder, which panicked me even more as she’d never touched me before, and said, “Abigail, we’re gonna get through this. Just hang on. One day at a time. And when you feel upset, write about it.”
By then everybody knew about this virus, and Italy, and China. But those countries seem so far away. When Carmela told us her family was going back to Oaxaca I was sad and jealous and mad and I just turned away to go pick up Caro.
Right now we are on lockdown, which means nobody’s supposed to leave their homes except for essentials and essential workers. Ma’s an essential worker, but she can’t leave her bed. Her breathing is terrible. She won’t let us in the room, so I put her food just outside the door. I made her fideo like she told me, and she didn’t eat any of it. She’s big and warm, so she’s not gonna starve to death, she’s got plenty of fat cells to get through first, but still, I’m worried.
On Tuesday she told me to go to the store and buy things. I left Caro to watch TV (that’s her second-favorite thing to do — coloring in front of the TV is probably a peak experience for her. I wish that was all it took to make me happy I’m pretty sure even in third grade I wasn’t like that).
La Market was crazy! It was terrible! But I didn’t realize as I passed all these people, some with blue face masks, some with scarves around their heads like me, that everyone was waiting in line. For La Market! It wasn’t until I walked to the front of the line and did a double take. What was I gonna do?
The owner, Brenda, who wore a mask that looked like she made it out of paper clips and paper towels, recognized my wild frizzy hair from behind my glasses and scarf. She walked over to me and said, “Your mother called. We got a box of stuff for her already. I’m gonna drop it off later. I told her you didn’t need to come here!”
A coupla hours later, sure enough there was Brenda, with a huge cardboard box at her feet, knocking at our security screen door. “Tell your mother to get better soon,” she said. “Tell her it’s from everyone at work.”
My mom wouldn’t let me into her room, so I talked to her through the bedroom door. I told her there was pinto beans, black beans, rice, oatmeal, canned tuna, noodles, two dozen eggs, bacon pieces, packages of chicken thighs, apple sauce, canned tomatoes, Mexican chocolate, canned spaghetti, canned ravioli, canned tamales, and pudding cups. I put things away; there was so much chicken I put it in different packages, like I’d watched Ma do, and froze them. Caro ate half of the pudding cups that night, nothing I said would stop her; she ate the rest of them Sunday for breakfast and looked kinda green the rest of the day. I heated up the canned ravioli for dinner but it was straight-up disgusting, so that’s when I tried to cook some beans.
My mom laughed through the door when I told her, and said if I’da been hungry enough the ravioli would’ve tasted just fine.
My mom’s got her phone inside the room with her; it’s not like I can text my friends. I got two people in this whole world to talk to, one is eight and one is sick and maybe that’s why my guts keep going inside out.
I don’t think I can spend my whole day here writing about everything that’s worrying me. As much as I appreciate her ideas, I don’t think Ms. Cifuentes is right about this. Writing down what I’m worried about, putting it into words, almost makes me feel worse, fills me with a kind of dread, like those stories in English class we read last October by Edgar Allan Poe. All heavy and dark, like there’s this mist around me, despite the sun shining out there, despite Caro listening to Taylor Swift. Or maybe like that Stephen King film I watched. It feels like that: like parts of my world are disappearing.