“That’s for Abuela Liliana.”
I wonder what Lillian will taste when she bites into the empanada: home, family, a sense of place—or just a pie.
Mocho nods and doesn’t look all that mad about it.
“Thank you,” I say, wrapping the empanada in a napkin. “I guess I’d better be going. I’ve got a lot of reading to do tonight.”
“I’ve gotta get going, too,” Mocho says, standing up.
A heavy silence falls over the room. “I thought you was staying in tonight,” Mrs. Mendez says.
“Were, Ma. Were staying in.”
Mrs. Mendez blushes.
“I’ve just got some stuff to do.” Mocho puts on his face—the one he uses at school. The Mocho he was at the table—the aluminum can–collecting Moch—is gone again. “I won’t be late.”
“Dime con quien andas y te dire quien eres,” Mrs. Mendez says.
Mr. Mendez translates for me. “You are who you spend time with.”
“At least I’ve got some pride. Yes, señor . No, Señor Gringo , thank you, Señor Gringo .” Mocho’s anger consumes the room.
I keep my eyes glued to the empanada crumbs on my plate.
Mr. Mendez puts his hand on Mrs. Mendez’s forearm and squeezes. His voice sounds strained, as if each word is a needle scraping across his throat. “You think I don’t have pride. Every job I do, I do with pride, to put food on this table, so that you—” Mr. Mendez is pointing at Moch with a trembling finger. “So that you can do better. You think being in a gang is pride? Under this roof, at this table, you respect your mother, this family, and our guest.”
Moch stands up.
His father points at him until he sits down again.
Mocho’s cheeks burn.
“You may be excused, Hijo .” Mr. Mendez’s arm drops to his side.
Moch shoves his chair back and leaves, slamming the flimsy aluminum door behind him. It makes a clanging noise and doesn’t shut all the way, tapping the frame, again and again, until the house is stuck in silence. His car squeals out of the driveway, throwing gravel against the side of the house like thick patters of rain.
Mrs. Mendez stoops over the sink, her hands absently wringing a dishcloth. She looks out into the dark neighborhood, streetlights dimly illuminating the other trailer homes; a street with chewed-up asphalt; cats scrounging around garbage cans; the heavy bass of reggaeton coming from a house three doors down.
And for just a moment, I see what Mocho sees.
Mrs. Mendez squeezes my arm. “ Flaca ,” she repeats. “I expect to see you here more.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Mendez. I’d like that.” I swallow and say in a lame attempt to get back some of Mexico, “ Muchas gracias .”
Mrs. Mendez smiles and hugs me, wrapping her arms around me. “This is your home, too. Always.”
When I pull up to the house, I look at the yard, shoveled walk, cleaned-out flower beds. We need to trim down the bushes Lillian keeps around the house—bright purple geraniums that bloom year after year. She’s had the geraniums ever since I can remember.
I watch Lillian’s silhouette through the window. She sits alone at the table, stooped over her dinner, a soft glow of light coming from behind the shade. She stands when she hears me turn off the car. I watch as she pauses, looking outside, then sits back down at the table.
I go inside, give Lillian the empanada. By now, though, the dough looks gummy and tough, the cinnamon scent and steaming flavor is lost to the grease that seeped in while the empanada cooled. She bites down and chews on her Mexico—leftover and cold. “Thank you, Mike,” she says.
I nod and go to my room to do homework, writing in my Creative Writing notebook:
Heart bursts with words not said .
Chapter 8
AFTER LILLIAN GOES TO BED,
I sneak out and drive to American Flats, cutting down an old access road nobody ever uses. I follow tire tracks in dirty snow patches, a trail of trampled sagebrush bushes, until I see Mocho’s car. I need to talk to him, to make sure he’s not—
Not what?
Not who
I wonder what Lillian will taste when she bites into the empanada: home, family, a sense of place—or just a pie.
Mocho nods and doesn’t look all that mad about it.
“Thank you,” I say, wrapping the empanada in a napkin. “I guess I’d better be going. I’ve got a lot of reading to do tonight.”
“I’ve gotta get going, too,” Mocho says, standing up.
A heavy silence falls over the room. “I thought you was staying in tonight,” Mrs. Mendez says.
“Were, Ma. Were staying in.”
Mrs. Mendez blushes.
“I’ve just got some stuff to do.” Mocho puts on his face—the one he uses at school. The Mocho he was at the table—the aluminum can–collecting Moch—is gone again. “I won’t be late.”
“Dime con quien andas y te dire quien eres,” Mrs. Mendez says.
Mr. Mendez translates for me. “You are who you spend time with.”
“At least I’ve got some pride. Yes, señor . No, Señor Gringo , thank you, Señor Gringo .” Mocho’s anger consumes the room.
I keep my eyes glued to the empanada crumbs on my plate.
Mr. Mendez puts his hand on Mrs. Mendez’s forearm and squeezes. His voice sounds strained, as if each word is a needle scraping across his throat. “You think I don’t have pride. Every job I do, I do with pride, to put food on this table, so that you—” Mr. Mendez is pointing at Moch with a trembling finger. “So that you can do better. You think being in a gang is pride? Under this roof, at this table, you respect your mother, this family, and our guest.”
Moch stands up.
His father points at him until he sits down again.
Mocho’s cheeks burn.
“You may be excused, Hijo .” Mr. Mendez’s arm drops to his side.
Moch shoves his chair back and leaves, slamming the flimsy aluminum door behind him. It makes a clanging noise and doesn’t shut all the way, tapping the frame, again and again, until the house is stuck in silence. His car squeals out of the driveway, throwing gravel against the side of the house like thick patters of rain.
Mrs. Mendez stoops over the sink, her hands absently wringing a dishcloth. She looks out into the dark neighborhood, streetlights dimly illuminating the other trailer homes; a street with chewed-up asphalt; cats scrounging around garbage cans; the heavy bass of reggaeton coming from a house three doors down.
And for just a moment, I see what Mocho sees.
Mrs. Mendez squeezes my arm. “ Flaca ,” she repeats. “I expect to see you here more.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Mendez. I’d like that.” I swallow and say in a lame attempt to get back some of Mexico, “ Muchas gracias .”
Mrs. Mendez smiles and hugs me, wrapping her arms around me. “This is your home, too. Always.”
When I pull up to the house, I look at the yard, shoveled walk, cleaned-out flower beds. We need to trim down the bushes Lillian keeps around the house—bright purple geraniums that bloom year after year. She’s had the geraniums ever since I can remember.
I watch Lillian’s silhouette through the window. She sits alone at the table, stooped over her dinner, a soft glow of light coming from behind the shade. She stands when she hears me turn off the car. I watch as she pauses, looking outside, then sits back down at the table.
I go inside, give Lillian the empanada. By now, though, the dough looks gummy and tough, the cinnamon scent and steaming flavor is lost to the grease that seeped in while the empanada cooled. She bites down and chews on her Mexico—leftover and cold. “Thank you, Mike,” she says.
I nod and go to my room to do homework, writing in my Creative Writing notebook:
Heart bursts with words not said .
Chapter 8
AFTER LILLIAN GOES TO BED,
I sneak out and drive to American Flats, cutting down an old access road nobody ever uses. I follow tire tracks in dirty snow patches, a trail of trampled sagebrush bushes, until I see Mocho’s car. I need to talk to him, to make sure he’s not—
Not what?
Not who
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