“You just want me to give up my shifts at the Breeze so I can spend those nights with you.” I fold up my apron and nestle it between my legs so the precious money doesn’t spill out and so Arden might focus on my hands instead of the blush I feel burning my face.
So I can spend those nights with you.
Idiota.
He grins as if he knows I just freaked out my own self. “There’s more to life than working and school.”
Life. What an abstract concept that’s become. Life is something I’ve put off until my parents get back. Life is something other kids have the luxury to worry about. It’s not something I should give a second thought to, not until my parents are on US soil again.
Right?
“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’ll take you home. You need some rest if you’re really going to work tonight.”
Then I remember that tonight we’re getting in a big shipment, which translates to endless boxes that will need stocking, and suddenly the thought of working at the Breeze is less appealing than walking across a floor made of cactus. I’m not even sure my feet could handle it. Heavy lifting. Standing on my tiptoes. Ew. “Maybe I’ll call in,” I’m saying out loud. “I could use a good foot soak.” A foot soak? When have I ever needed a foot soak? I don’t even have anything to soak my feet in, except maybe a bathtub full of shampoo bubbles or something.
“You know, the creek is the perfect place to soak your feet.”
“And to do what else?”
“Fish, of course. I happen to need some fish. You know. For something.”
I can’t help but smile. What will he think of next? The truth is, I like spending time with Arden. It’s fun. Liberating, to an extent. I feel like a different person around him—in a good way. I feel a rush of freedom. Which sucks, because that means that normally, I must not feel free.
Arden seems to read my mind. “It’s just that you act like Julio’s slave or something. Like you’re not allowed to enjoy life. It seems unfair.”
It is unfair, I want to tell him. But not because I’m Julio’s slave. No, because I slave for my parents. Here in the States, it’s the other way around. Parents sweat and grind for their children. They labor for their education, for them to have nice things, for them to be protected from the world’s darker side, like hunger and violence and disease. Here in the States, kids are spoiled.
My parents? They slave to come over here, in order to slave for … I’m not exactly sure. A better life for my siblings, probably. Not me, I know. I’m already sixteen. A junior in high school, probably a senior by the time they get back. They expect me to take care of myself when they get here. Mama has made that clear. That she has two younger children to raise and that she needs my help more than I need hers. And that’s okay with me, really it is. I’m proud to make such a contribution to my family. I want my younger brother and sister to be raised in America, even though Americans can be such snobs. I mean, if Canada offered better living conditions and more money and opportunity, wouldn’t Americans be sneaking their family across the Canadian border? I’d bet money they would.
But people just don’t understand, especially in these parts. They complain that Mexicans take their jobs and their money and their government benefits.
But I’m not about to lay this on Arden. All Arden knows is freedom. The American way.
And I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t jealous.
“Julio does the best he can,” I tell him. It’s all I can say. Giving him a speech about poverty and responsibility and family ties would spoil the mood of me making killer money today.
“Can I at least offer some advice?”
Oh here we go. “Sure.”
“Give it two weeks. I’ll bet after two weeks, you’ll be ready to quit the Breeze Mart.”
“I’m sure I will. But I can’t.”
“Oh, come on, Carly. You can’t carry the world on your shoulders. If, after two weeks, you’re too tired, then promise me you’ll quit the Breeze Mart. What have you got to lose? Minimum wage? Just ask to open and close on Saturday and Sunday at Uppity Rooster. You’ll make up for your puny minimum wage easy.”
“You’re just saying these things because you want me to go with you on little mini–crime sprees.”
“So?”
“So, what am I gaining by quitting one job only to go around stirring up trouble with you?”
He pulls over on the side of the road. Puts the truck in park. Puts his arm on the back of my seat. It’s not intimate, the way he does it. But somehow I find it endearing. Oh geez.
“Life, Carly. You’re gaining life.”
What can I say to that?
* * *
Julio is like Mama; he only speaks to me in Spanish. “How did your day go?” he says, flipping the chicken and cheese quesadilla he’s making in the skillet. I sit at the counter on a bar stool, hovering over a jar of homemade salsa Julio made, trying not to actually drool.
“It was great.” This is the part I’ve been waiting for. This is the kind of cash I hand Julio after a week of work. Not one day. “Look what I’ve brought you.” When I’ve got his full attention, I pull the clump of cash from my apron pocket and let it splay out on the sideboard in front of me. “This is all for the jar.” Okay, so I kept five bucks for myself, but Julio will never know the difference.