His eyes grow as round as the quesadillas he’s cooking. “What is this?” He says this as he gathers it up and starts arranging it by denomination. Licking his finger, he counts through it. “Ay, Dios mio,” he says. “I can’t believe it. Where did you get this?”
I can’t help but beam. Finally, Julio is happy with what I’ve given him. I know my paychecks from the Breeze probably look dreary compared to what he makes at his construction job. But not this. This is comparable, if anything. This is impressive. It’s all over his face.
“I started working at the Uppity Rooster. Breakfast shifts on the weekends. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it would work out,” I tell him proudly. “Plus I’ll get a paycheck in two weeks for the hourly wage. This is just tips.”
“Either you’re a good waitress, sister, or those rich people feel sorry for you.” So he’s heard of the Uppity Rooster. And he knows what kind of place it is. There are tears welling up in his eyes. He’s relieved. Relieved that I’m finally pulling my own weight.
Which makes me feel like a molecule.
“Imagine how much you can make with both jobs,” he says. “You’ll be up there with me, no?”
And that’s when the guilt settles in and becomes a part of me.
I am smaller than a molecule. A molecule is twice my size.
Because I’m toying with the idea of cutting my shifts at the Breeze. The truth is, I’m tired. In the six hours I worked today I think I must have walked twenty miles. And how tired will I be after working six nights a week and two twenty-mile morning shifts on the weekends plus school?
Then I think of how tired Julio must be. And how he never mentions it.
Julio sees my hesitation and scowls. “You know Papi and Mama are counting on us. They need our help, Carlotta. This new job is great. But we need the income from the Breeze Mart too.”
“I know that. Did I say anything?”
“Your face does not hide things very well, little sister.”
“I just thought that with the cash I can bring in at the restaurant, maybe I can cut some shifts at the Breeze Mart.”
With deliberation, Julio pulls down two plates from the cabinet and sets one in front of him and one in front of me. He eases half the contents of the skillet onto each plate, then makes work of unscrewing the salsa jar. Julio is gearing up to be political with me.
He picks up a red pepper—probably from Señora Perez’s miniscule garden—and a cutting board. Methodically, he begins to slice it into columns, then squares. “You’re growing into a beautiful young woman. You are making money.” He eyes the cash on the counter. “Good money.” With the knife, he corrals the massacred pepper into a pile on the cutting board. “With money comes a certain amount of independence. I understand that.” He divides the peppers between us, even though he knows I don’t like them. “You’re a good girl, Carlotta. A smart girl. I know it seems like we’re asking much from you right now. Mama and Papi will be so proud of you.”
It stings, the words “will be.” Because it means that right now, they aren’t. Despite everything. I wonder what the conversations between Julio and Mama are like. I wonder if they talk about me, how lazy I am. What an underachiever I am. I wonder what Julio truly thinks of me. He never put much stock in school—only work. He’s worked full-time hours since the age of fifteen, and taken care of me since our parents got deported three years ago. He was only seventeen at the time, and taking care of someone else.
I wonder if Julio is jealous that I only have myself to worry about. That he didn’t have anyone to look after him when he was my age.
Julio is the oldest twenty-year-old on the planet.
And looks at me with chastising eyes. “Think, Carlotta. Think if the tables were turned. Don’t you think Mama and Papi would do everything they could to get us over here? Do you think they’d be talking about cutting their shifts at work?”
Of course they wouldn’t. They want our family to be together. And don’t I want that? Or do I? Guilt pillages through my insides. It’s not whether or not I want us to be together. I do. It’s at what cost, that’s the thing. “They wouldn’t cut shifts,” I concede. But I’m angry. I want to rebel against his reasoning, no matter how sound it is. “Maybe it would help if I knew how far off we were. How much do we owe El Libertador? How much longer do I need to work like this?” I don’t expect him to answer. I don’t. But his body language, the way he moves with deliberate ease? It makes me realize he’s going to give me an explanation. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
The only thing I’m sure of is that I want my parents back. I want them here, with us.
Julio walks to the sink and turns the faucet on, holding the knife under the running water for a long time. He opens the drawer in front of him and pulls out a coffee filter—we use them for everything, since they’re cheaper than paper towels—and wipes the knife dry. After setting the knife down, he turns to face me, palms on the sink behind him. Slowly, he nods. “Mama says we shouldn’t tell you how much. That it would only stress you. But I think differently. I think that if we are asking these things of you, then, yes, Carlotta, I think you have the right to ask how much. And I think you can handle much more than Mama realizes.”
I hold my breath. Maybe I can’t handle more. What if this number, this ransom we owe El Libertador to bring my parents back, is so huge that it’s unattainable? It would mean that I’m trapped. It would mean that this small morsel of freedom I’ve had with Arden these past few days has just been a cruel tease. It would mean that living life, actually living it, is a pastime enjoyed only by those whose lives are not indentured by the need for money.