My Name is Zamora by DS Holmes
Zamora, a defiant and confused mixed-race albino 17-year old, tries to survive high school with the help of an invaluable friend.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
The life within us is a pathological liar. He/She/They tells us that we are who we are because of some divine being. But in reality, we are only the people we decide to keep around.
My grandmother died… She was supposed to be there. And death took her away. My grandmother… died. And when she died, the only place left for me to travel, and un-travel, and re-travel to again, was the same place I feared the most: the life within me.
My name is Zamora. I am Black and Puerto Rican, but I do not speak Spanish, I do not eat red beans and rice, and I know all my colors. My mom, who is the Black half of my whole used to say racist shit like, “Watch out for those Ricans, they don’t know their colors.” Somehow, she ended up with my father and made a baby whose color is missing from her skin. Albino, they told me. My hair is dyed black, just as black as my eyes, and my lips are pink, and my pubes are brown, but my skin – the first thing people see from blocks away like a lighthouse in the middle of the ghetto – is pale and pink-less and without texture. Some think I’m white, some think I am a ghost, most just think I am a freak; but I like the idea of being white or a freak in a neighborhood of mostly Black, Brown, and common folk. To be an enigma gives me a sense of excitement as I stroll the streets, sure I am being watched while I pretend to not give a fuck.
I really anticipated what college would be like for me. A place I heard accepted people like me. People like, you know, the freaks. I just needed to make two more years in my high school hellhole. This land I claimed as my dungeon, separated from the separated. If only I were white.
High school was standard for me. I had a best friend, like most people in high school did. I also had a bully, like most people did as well, but unlike most people, I think mine wanted to eat my pussy. The cafeteria was the place students festered like the wound on the corner of your mouth, or the wine stain seeping deeper into your white rug. They all were like critters as they walked around seemingly full of joy, but I knew better. No one in this neighborhood had joy naturally flowing from their locked jaws. It was all an illusion. One they used to keep the truth from rearing its ugly, penile face.
I got a text from my mom that said she would pick me up from school today. She had a bad feeling about the evening, she said. She was religiously superstitious. The kind that kept a bible in the glove department in case a demon needed to be exorcised in the middle of the I-95. To be honest, I had a bad feeling about today, too. My grandmother wasn’t doing well in the hospice. She used to call me throughout the day and tell me about how shitty the food was, and how she really wanted a kiwi-strawberry Mystic and some snow crab legs. I would guess she also wanted a pack of Winston cigarettes. But she wouldn’t tell me that. Cigarettes was what got her into her predicament in the first place. The words “cigarette” or “Winston” were both triggers for me. She caught on soon when I would hang up on her suddenly; I would stare at the phone, helpless.
In the midst of me replying to my mother, there came a cabbage patch troll coming to do what she did best… troll.
“Hey, cunt,” this methodical idiot said as if combining the two words, eh-cuht.
“What do you want, Clarita? Today is not a good day for me,” I said, hoping she would find some mercy and leave me the hell alone.
“Oh, you know, just living a life in color, something I don’t think you quite understand,” she laughed as if so proud of her little In Living Color joke. She and the rest of her stank pussy friends would have chuckled all the way to the other side of the cafeteria, but I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “At least I know my colors,” I said, immediately regretting my words as soon as they tiptoed out of my mouth.
“Whatchu say, puta?” She and all five of her loose pussy friends walked towards me, crowding around me. “Say it again, puta!” Before I knew it, there was a crowd of kids standing around shouting Swing! Swing! Swing! The girls stepped aside to let Clarita in. “Get up, bitch. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. Get up, ho.” I was scared shitless; I am not a fighter! If I had to fight this girl, I was sure to get my ass whooped. But if I did not fight her, I risked getting my ass pummeled anyway by the girls, for being “scary”. It was really a lose-lose situation. I stood up and right as I did, someone in the crowd yelled, “Miss Molinger!” and suddenly the crowd of kids cleared out. Clarita and her crew of dumpster truck pussy friends scattered across the cafeteria. Within a few seconds, everyone in the cafeteria pretended as if everything was as it seemed. And, honestly, it felt like it was, all except the tall, brown, mannequin-looking woman with her hair tied to the back, standing there chilling with no make-up on, obviously annoyed. I sat down, unlocked my phone, and pretended I had left to some world far beyond the comprehension of time and man. I can’t wait until I move away for college.
“Yo, Zommie,” GG called from across the long, brown cafeteria table, my skin a perfect contrast to its café smooth top, “qué pasa, amiga?” GG and I became friends our freshman year. I used to think I had a crush on him, until one day we kissed, on accident, and it confirmed that I was gay. Of course, it was another two years until I made out with a senior girl with a name we shall not say – Priscila – again, on accident, and really confirmed my sexuality. GG didn’t take offense to it, he’s the type to get let down time and time again, before he pulled himself back up from his dirty-black shoestrings.
“Yo, GG, wassgood? That bitch Clarita keeps fucking with me as usual. I almost had to whoop her ass this time, though. She lucky Miss Molinger came when she did.”
“Oi, mami. What ju doing fighting? Jor too cute for that pendeja,” GG said with conviction in every word.
“Ay si… I know, but you right, I ain’t going to let that ho get the best of me. What you got for lunch today?”
“Okay, bien. Ju been practicing jor Español, mujer? Ask me that question in Spanish,” GG focused his gaze on the lunch I had on the lushly brown table. I faked feeling faint in the hopes that he would let me speak in English.
“GG I almost got into a fight today, you think you could let me have it?” I said with a sad, puppy dog like pout.
“Ay, mami. Ju need to invest in jor roots, ju got la sangre de mi sangre. Español is in your corazón. Porque no te gusta?” He was adamant about embracing that side of me, but I didn’t know why. Couldn’t he see that my lack of color did not classify me as Black or Puerto Rican? I mean, couldn’t he see that I didn’t really belong to any racial group, and that ambiguity was like a protection? Not knowing Spanish was a rebellion. If they didn’t want me, I didn’t want them. But then what about my Black half?
“Okay, okay, papi chulo, qué…” My phone started vibrating in my pocket. Midday call? I never got those anymore.
“Un momento, por favor,” I said to GG while I stepped hastily towards the baño mujeres, I mean… little girl’s room. It was an unknown number, I picked it up curious about who could be calling me and disturbing my studies… so rude, I thought.
“Hello, can I speak to Zamora, please?” the woman on the other end of the phone said.
“This is she; can I help you?”
“We need you to come to the hospice as soon as possible, it’s your grandma.” I dropped my phone. Was it finally time? I didn’t want to pick the phone back up to finish the conversation. So, I just stared at it. Stared at the phone until I saw my mom’s exuberant face overlay the woman’s consistent calls for my attention: “Hello, Zamora? Are you there? We have been trying to contact your mother, but she isn’t picking up.” I switched over to my mother on the other line, placing the frantic woman on hold.
“I can’t do it,” my mother said, “I just can’t do it.”
“It’s alright, Momma. I’m going to click her over now,” I said, hoping the sound of my voice wrapped around her like a teddy bear.
“I’m coming to get you,” she said.
The next day, my family congregated around my lifeless grandma. The hospice told us we needed to say our last goodbyes, but most of my family couldn’t make it in time. There were dreamcatchers of all sorts scattered across the otherwise bland room. That was her thing. Soon, the sobs, the slobbering, the sniffles all filled the room, creating a choir of sorts. The sopranos were the snifflers, the tenors were the slobberers, and the altos were the sobbers. All in perfect harmony, syncing together to create the greatest symphony known to man: the room of grief. I had not cried. I blended in with the white walls around me and I had liked that. My family didn’t seem to see me anyway. They had come to see my grandma when she was doing well. When she could sit up and make dreamcatchers from twine my mom got her from the thrift store, or tell us stories about her younger days. Happy. But then on her worst days, when she couldn’t even mutter a word to ask for water or get up on her own volition to use the bathroom, they were nowhere to be found. Nowhere praising the Lord with their multitudes of dread. I hated them. And I know she hated them, too. But it was alright. This was just another thing/person in my life that no longer burdened me. College was just in reach and when I left, none of this would matter anyway.
My mother and I had our own funeral service at our home. We requested that the ashes be brought to my grandmother’s house first before they were delivered to the funeral home. My grandmother’s vase was so beautiful. I stared at it as if hoping the porcelain would somehow spawn a painting on the top of its glossy coat. My mother kept crying. She, too, was afflicted with the burden of sorrow.
“Mom, I think we should probably pray over her or something?” I said, hoping it would get her to stop sulking. She looked up at me. Her hazel green pupils glistened from the tears building up on her eye, waiting for her to blink to release them. “I’m sorry baby. You’re right. Let’s pray.” We bowed our heads. I peeked to my left to see if my mother’s head was still down and then I stared up at the vase. It just didn’t seem right to be praying in the traditional way. I gazed at the vase, and felt it gazing back. Grandma, if you can hear me, thank you for loving me the way I loved you.
I bowed my head again and waited for my mother to finish pleading to the Lord to allow my grandma to pass into His heavenly kingdom. God should feel lucky to have Her.
Returning to school after my week-long bereavement, I noticed that people were avoiding me in the lunchroom more than usual. Like the death of my grandma somehow meant that I had become death, and all I needed to do was touch someone and they, too, would lose a loved one. I wish I had that kind of power. I would kill every last person in that bitch Clarita’s family.
“Hola, señorita Zommie.” The fresh voice of the boy whose smile was yellower than piss. But let him tell it, it was more golden than gold.
“Hey, GG, qué pasa, hombre?”
“Ayyy, mami, ju speaking our language ahora! I like. I am doing okay. How ju doing?”
“Can I answer in English, GG? Por favor?”
“Si, mami. Tu puedes.”
“Gracias, I’m feeling better today.”
I looked at GG, he was such a kind soul, not deserving of what life had given him. My family and I weren’t the richest on the block, but we certainly were not GG’s. He wore the same white Air Forces since freshman year. From what he told me, he only got new sneakers because the ones before lost their sole completely, and his older brother’s feet stopped growing at a size nine. Without the possibility of receiving hammy-down sneakers from his brother anymore, his parents spent the little money they had to buy him some new ones. For the first few weeks, he didn’t have lunch and would go hungry before his parents made up for the price of his sneakers. I remember when we met, he couldn’t stop cleaning them off. He wouldn’t participate in gym class because he didn’t want to scuff them. He wouldn’t even switch periods at the same time everyone else did because he was scared that someone would step on them during the transition. The first words he said to me in this very spot in the lunchroom were: “Ayyy, mami. Jor skin es almost as white as mis zapatos.” I think any other albino person would have taken offense at that comment, but I found it flattering. The one thing more important than passing his classes; more than having food in his belly; more than any flan his family could only afford to make once a year, he compared to me. For the first time since my grandma got sick, I felt like a sunflower full of color.
“Thank you, GG,” I said to him.
“For what, mamacita?”
Tears started to encase my eyes, but I quickly shuddered them off. “What do you have for lunch today?”
“I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with an apple. Mi madre didn’t feel like making me a bologna sandwich. Es okay. You want half?” he said, reminding me that I forgot to pack a lunch this morning.
“It’s okay, GG. Enjoy your sandwich. I’m going to get something from the vending machine.”
“Okay, ta bien.”
As I walked to the vending machine, I received a text from my father asking me if I was okay. Usually, I would ignore his text and respond to him when I felt like it. But this time he followed up with “How’s Your Lunch Today?” He capitalized every word in his text, and it irked the shit out of me. Even in his text he was super jovial. I was hungry; I figured since he lived around the corner from my school, he would bring me something to eat, more than likely. But after I replied and said “I forgot my lunch” he didn’t reply again. Typical him. I walked back to the table with my Doritos and Cran-Grape Ocean Spray juice.
“That’s all ju going to eat, mamacita? Ju sure ju don’t want none of my sandwich?” GG asked me. Knowing this meal could probably be his lunch and dinner for the night, I doubled down on my “no” and chomped away on my Doritos. My stomach growled all the way through last period.
The days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months, and before I knew it, it was January again. Christmas came and went like it usually does, but this time the gifts were minimal. My mother sent me a text letting me know that she was working overtime and that I would need to find food for myself when I got home from school. I had already known this because she sent the text when I approached my block and saw that her car was missing. Momma would sometimes work extra if a bill became past due. My grandmother’s social security checks stopped coming and so she needed to work extra hard to pay the bills that would have otherwise been covered. I suggested that I get a job to my mom, but she insisted that I focus on school and not worry about anything else. Sometimes I felt bad, but then I thought that it wouldn’t be for long anyway since college was right around the corner. I guessed it would only be a tease to help her out for a bit and then disappear. Oh well. My salvation was coming soon, and everyone needed to get used to not seeing me again for a while. Or ever.
My mom’s birthday… Every year if it fell on the weekend, we would take a short trip to Puerto Rico to visit my dad’s side of the family, and more importantly so that my mom could fish out some Puerto Rican dick. She had a thing for Puerto Rican men ever since my dad came along. She didn’t like to admit it, but I knew. And so did my grandma. She would come for the ride, too, if she was feeling up to it. Sometimes, my dad just happened to be down there already, and he would pretend that he’d forgotten it was my mother’s birthday. But we both knew he was lying. That didn’t stop momma from her Puerto Rican dick search, even if her baby father was at the clubs stalking her. On the rarest occasions me, my grandmother, my mom, my dad, and my dad’s family would be in the same room. We would have some traditional Puerto Rican food that I could take or leave, but for a short stint during the weekend, I felt like life was somehow beautiful. My laughs would carry far onto Condado beach, and my lungs didn’t feel strained while doing it.
This year, Momma decided to stay home. And so, we opted to watch old episodes of Jerry Springer – the ones where people were actually trying to hurt each other, not this fake shit on TV now – and we ate Taco Bell, pretending it was the Puerto Rican food my abuela would make for us. It felt like enough.
As the days progressed, I became irritable. I didn’t quite understand why. I was skipping class more often than usual to avoid having to be explain to my teachers why I chose to not participate. Because then they would just send me to the guidance counselor – where all the depressive kids were sent – to be psychologically examined for suicidal thoughts or tendencies. To be an asshole, I would sometimes say to the counselor that I thought about murdering my mother for not telling me that my grandma would die someday, and my father for carrying the albino gene that tipped the scales and created me. They would call my mom, she would leave work to pick me up, and then I would go home for the rest of the day and play video games or talk shit to people online. Somedays I really enjoyed that release, but today, I just didn’t want to be bothered.
“Hola, mamacita. Ju feeling okay today?” GG said while walking over to hug me. “I feel fine, GG. Thanks.”
“Uh-uh. No. Ju know how to say that in Spanish. Háblame en Español, mami,” he said, clearly not getting the hint that I was not in the mood.
“GG, I am not trying to hear that shit today,” I said to him, hoping he would somehow dissolve into the ground and leak into the floor below us.
“Ju haven’t been practicing jor Spanish have you, amiga,” he said, still not getting it. I stayed silent.
“Ju never going to get it if ju don’t try! Come on. Ju can do it,” he continued. I stayed silent-still.
“Amiga… puedes oírme? Zommie? Hello? Zommie! Zommie! ZOMMIE!”
“GG, LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!” I said, yelling so loud that the cafeteria went silent. “LEAVE ME ALONE, GG. CAN’T YOU FUCKING SEE I AM NOT IN THE MOOD? WHY THE FUCK DO YOU KEEP TALKING TO ME.” I saw the shock in his face. “JUST LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, POR FAVOR! YOU HAPPY NOW? FUCK!”
“If ju gonna be like that, then that’s okay, I will sit somewhere else. I made ju this dreamcatcher hoping it would remind ju of jor abuela,” he said, throwing the dreamcatcher on the table. I immediately felt sorry for yelling at GG the way that I did, but I did not apologize. Instead, I let him walk away with his tail between his legs while the kids in the lunchroom bawled in laughter.
We both sat at lunch alone. I looked over at GG; he was sitting at a makeshift desk for rejects eating his bologna sandwich with cheese. His rosy cheeks filled with embarrassment as the other students teased him for being dumped by a girl with no color. He mostly seemed to ignore them, but I knew him. He was going to go home and cry alone about this, because I won’t answer his calls. I won’t baby him like he wanted me to. I would ignore him, and he would have to deal with it.
If I really had to divulge the truth, I hated the fact that he was so loyal to me. Like he actually cared about me. But whatever, when I moved away for college, he would be left here alone anyway. He needed to learn what life would be like without me at some point. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off now.
During the last lunch of my junior year, my phone lit up with a text from my dad asking me if I had forgot my lunch again today. We hadn’t texted since the last time he asked me about lunch. I started to reply, but decided there would be no point in even making the effort. I guess he noticed the three dots at the bottom of his screen and then nothing, because he followed up with a text that said he was going to bring me some mofongo con pescado and red beans and rice. To argue with him about me not liking red beans and rice was just as futile as trying to only speak English with GG. However, this gesture from my father was welcomed. He never really made the effort to comfort me. He was an overly giddy man that shied away from any depressive, gloomy emotions. And I seemed to live in them constantly. So, constantly, my father kept his distance from me; fathering only when it meant he could smile. But life is not always smiles and giggles. From my little 17 years of life, I could tell you that. Life sometimes makes it a point to make you cry. My father was the only person I know that lived outside the confines of life’s taunts. As if he was the period or question mark. Today, I would eat red beans and rice. I would eat it because my father was learning to live as the “I” in the sentence. Just like the rest of us.
My senior year was finally upon me. I looked forward to the release from this dreadful place. I had already been denied from several different universities, but my dream school was still on the table. I thought, “Of all the bad stuff that happened to me, this one sliver of joy will make it all worth it.” GG stopped sitting next to me at lunch. I still never apologized, and didn’t have any plans to. Clarita even started being a little more kind to me, I guess because she really did want to taste my pussy before she would never see me again. I didn’t mourn my relationship with GG. I mean, he was just another person who might as well have died since I probably wasn’t going to speak to him again after graduation and moving away for college. I knew he wasn’t planning on college and would probably need to get a job to help his family, but that was his business. The Air Force Wonder Boy I am sure would have done better in life without me anyway.
Everyone else around school talked about the colleges and universities they had been accepted to. Some received full scholarships, others were more than happy to pay the full tuition in loans if that meant they could escape this miserable neighborhood. I waited, and waited, and waited until I finally got the letter in the mail. The seal looked official, the first letter that had come with a red wax seal of the school’s logo. It smelt like coffee and Tic Tacs as if whoever put this together had breathed over it a few times first. The first introduction to life on campus. I couldn’t wait to ingest my first cup of hazelnut coffee with extra cream and sugar and afterwards; I would have my Tic Tacs so that I didn’t go to class with sour breath. It would be a little treat, to fill my little life with a little glee. I hoped I would get to meet this person when I got there.
My mother and I argued about when the best time would be to open the letter. She said I should wait for my father to come over first and then do the big reveal. My father had met and married a woman my mother couldn’t despise more. I thought she was a bit annoying, but tolerable. I didn’t hate him, but I really didn’t care if he was here or not. But my mother insisted, so we waited. In the meantime, I was trying to contemplate on what my grandma might have felt about this. Growing up in the country, she always dreamed of moving to a big city where she could spread her voice and her dreamcatchers across the town, blessing all the folks with Grandmama’s joy. I know she would be so proud. I looked up at the urn sitting on the middle of the mantelpiece. She was here. I know it. I could feel her. I just wished I could see her face.
After 28 minutes of waiting, my father finally buzzed the doorbell frenziedly as if trying to blow it out of the wall. “I’m coming, shit. I swear your father will be late to his own funeral one day,” my mother said, knowing damn well he would.
“I’m sorry babes, I got caught up with the missus,” my father said while making a sly face towards my mother. My mother in return shriveled up her lips and rolled her eyes. “You know you still got love for me, girl. Don’t even trip,” my father said, hoping to get a reaction out of her.
“Yeah, okay. I’m sure your missus is loving up on you enough for the both of us,” she said, still menacing him with that disgusted look on her face.
“Are you two here for me? Or…” I said, juggling my hands back and forth.
“Of course, mi amor. Open that bad boy up and let us have it!”
“Why don’t you sit in your grandma’s chair? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind letting you borrow it for a while,” my mother said. I had thought about that. I thought about how it would feel to be a little girl again sitting on her lap with my arms stretched around her neck, both of us smiling so hard the back of our teeth were visible. We would laugh and laugh throughout the night as she told me stories about when she was a little girl and all the trouble she got into with her brothers because she wanted to be just like them. Then she would tell me to always stand up for myself because this world was cruel, and that people won’t understand me. Her face would turn serious, and the laughs would stop because she knew… she knew what my life would be like growing up with this… this affliction. She’d kiss my cheek and tell me it’s time for bed and then she would take my hand and lead me up the stairs. I would look back down at the crease we left in the chair. And then I would wake up to never see her again. Or feel her minty kisses in the morning after she brushed her teeth. Or feel her soft bosom when she carried me to bed after falling asleep at the dining room table. She would be so proud to see me today.
I looked down at the seal and sat on my grandmother’s chair. It felt just like it did when I was a little girl. My father pulled out his phone. “I want to get this on record; my baby is going to col-lege! Ain’t she pretty y’all?” My dad continued to talk to his imaginary friends while my mother and I braced for impact.
“This is it, shuga. I know you are going to get in,” my mother said with the optimism of a baby reaching for her bottle at the top of a refrigerator.
“Grandma, this is for you,” I kissed the envelope and peeled the seal.
“Is y’all ready? I can’t hear y’all. I said is… y’all… ready?” my father chanted, low-key annoying my mother and me.
I pulled the single sheet of folded paper out of its home, flipped it open slowly and dramatically, and read: “Dear Miss Zamora Hernandez, after carefully reviewing your application, we regret to inform you that we are not offering you admission…”
And just like that… God humbled the fuck out of me.
I stared at the letter for a moment, rereading the words as I processed them. My father dropped his phone to his waist and my mother watched me in quiet disbelief. “…after carefully reviewing your application, we regret to inform you…” The words churned in my head. “…we regret to inform you…” My hands began to tremble, the words still not making sense to me. “…we regret…” I locked in on those words, determined to understand their origins. How dare that coffee breath Tic Tac popper send me a rejection letter to the one school that was supposed to accept me! It wasn’t long before I felt a raging fury sweep through my body, seemingly transferred from this letter itself. With great effort, I ripped the letter into pieces of confetti while screaming “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I had never cursed in front of my parents before, but this moment felt appropriate. They would understand. They should understand. Everyone should understand my frustration. My anger. My rebellion. My grief.
I shouted until my lungs screamed back, asking for reprieve. My father stared at me, mouth agape. I was sure he thought the devil had somehow found his way inside of me. I shouted because doing anything else wouldn’t make sense. This one thing I asked God for, and even this he denied me. His presence in my life was nothing but absence. And then suddenly, I stopped shouting. My parents were standing next to each other, unsure of what was to happen next. In my direct line of sight, I saw my grandmother. She was standing there with a cigarette in her mouth and her hand on her hip. I saw her reach over and pick up the little girl version of me from the dining room table and carry her up the steps. As she walked past me, a gust of smoke caressed my face, smelling of mint and nicotine. I felt serenity engulf me, but I was wary of moving from her seat. For if I arose, would she disappear? I sat back, rested my head on the base of the chair and closed my eyes. I wished with every last breath in me that when I opened them again, this night would have carried on into the day and my grandma would come down the steps to wake me.
A few months passed since I awoke with the tiny pieces of my rejection letter on my lap. I came to terms with it. I got a job at a local grocery store where my mom used to work as a cashier. I was a bag girl, surfing the aisles for cashiers that needed help bagging the customer’s groceries. I kind of liked this job, it was super low-key and the people I worked with didn’t seem to mind my albinism. I was feeling particularly good today because my father had texted me and told me about a surprise trip to Puerto Rico he planned for my mother and me. They were talking a little more often, and I could see them flirting from time to time. It wouldn’t be long before they got back together, I was sure.
As I bagged groceries for a customer, I noticed a shape, a figure, that looked familiar. Bulging and tight, the figure had on white Air Forces, clean, as if freshly bought. My mind fell into a melody of soft whispers, calling me, commanding me, to give the figure full focus it deserved. To my surprise, the familiar figure molded slowly into the only person it could have ever been, GG. When I caught on to who it was, he was already staring at me, frozen just as I was. The grocery store became a relic of silence; I edged one foot forward and then another and then another until I was standing directly in front of him.
“Hola, papi chulo. It’s nice to see you,” I said.
“Hola, mami. It’s nice to see ju too,” he said.
“Qué pasa? Long time no speak, eh?”
“Si, long time. I been good. How ju been?”
I looked back at the customer and cashier I left hanging. “Hold on, be right back.”
I totally forgot about my job for a moment. I ran and told my manager I was taking my 15-minute break early. Before I gave her a chance to respond, I was already running back towards GG. He was standing right where I left him, staring at his bright white sneakers, wiping the faintest smudges off them.
“Let go for a walk, por favor, and catch up,” I said.
“Sure, mami. Ju led the way.”
We walked out of the grocery store and in the direction of our old school. We laughed about the kiss we had our freshman year and the jokes that followed. We mourned the loss of family members together. And at the end, we talked about everything that happened to us after graduation. I told him about my rejection letter, and he hugged me; embracing me like I was a cool pillow on a hot summer day.
“Ju remember when we had that big fight in la cafetería?” GG said slowing our pace as we approached our high school.
“Si, I remember. You know… I wanted to say -“
“Es okay, mami. I know ju were under a lot of stress.”
“It’s important to me to say it, though, GG. So, please let me,” I said, feeling like if I didn’t get it off my chest, the guilt would carry on for the rest of my life.
“Okay, mami. Dime,” he said, stopping right in front of our school. I glanced over at the double doors we used to walk through every morning that led straight to the cafeteria. The place so central to GG and I’s relationship. The host for the beginning and end of our three-year long friendship. I missed him.
“After that day, I was never the same, GG. I know sometimes I acted like I didn’t care or like nothing else mattered outside of my own interest, but that was farthest from the truth. Truth is, GG, I was scared. Scared that if I let anyone or anything too close to me that I wouldn’t be able to let them go, inhibiting me from wanting to leave this place.” I looked at the trash around our school, the upheaved gravel, and the invisible fog that covered the landscape in a blanket of dead dreams. “All I wanted was to get away from this fucked up neighborhood. I couldn’t risk my only chance. But in the process, I hurt you. And you were someone I never wanted to make feel like how I felt on the inside. I am so sorry, GG. You deserved a better friend, and I couldn’t be that for you. I am so, so terribly sorry.” The words carried out of my mouth like they were lava escaping a volcano. My eyes flooded with water, but I resisted the urge to release a tear onto the pavement. For a second, GG just looked at me with those bold eyes. His cheeks flushed and his eyes got watery.
“I accept jor apology, amiga,” he said after a moment of us staring at each other, daring the other to cry first.
“Gracias, amigo. I hope that we can restart our relationship. I really missed you,” I said with a renewed sense of belonging to GG. But then he turned his head and his eyes drifted from mine.
“What’s wrong?” I said, hoping I hadn’t shown all of this vulnerability for no reason.
“I… um…” he muttered. I thought maybe he misconstrued what I meant. Really, I was hoping that would have been the case.
“Not, like romantically, of course, silly, you know I like pussy, even though I haven’t had any yet,” I chuckled a bit, hoping he would too, but he didn’t.
“Es not that, amiga,” he said, his voice still dampened.
“Then what is it? Tell me. It’s okay,” I said, trying to reassure him.
“I… well… I actually didn’t come to the grocery store to buy groceries,” he said.
“Oh, so what did you come for? Did you come to talk? If so, I am glad that you did, because I was burning to get this off my chest for so long, and when I called you I noticed your phone was off or maybe you got a new number but I was too scared to walk over to your house to ask, because, you know, it’s been a while and I didn’t know how you would receive me and…” I stopped talking when I realized he lost the “no crying” competition. “What’s wrong, chulo. Talk to me.”
“I came to talk to ju, si, pero not about what happened in la cafetería. I came to tell ju that I am moving away. Mi padre lost his job so mis primos up north said we could live there for a while.”
As if my heart suddenly turned to stone, I felt it fall into the pit of my stomach. GG… was leaving? In all this time, I thought leaving would have been the hardest thing I could ever do to him, but I never thought about what it would feel like if he left me. I was stunned. My mouth slightly ajar. My heart still in the middle of my stomach. We walked back to the grocery store in silence, well over my 15-minute break.
“Ju feeling okay, Zommie?”
This was the first time in a long time I had heard him call me that. It felt reassuring and all too familiar. I didn’t like it.
“When are you leaving?” I asked him. “Mañana.”
“Okay, well I wish you nothing but the best. Please take care of yourself,” I said in a bland tone, but I felt betrayed even though I know I had no right to.
“Lo siento, Zommie. I should have come to ju sooner than today,” he said, almost pleading for my approval.
“It’s okay. But listen, I gotta get back to work.” I turned and walked into the grocery store without saying bye. He tried to stop me, but I kept walking. When I got back to my register, I turned around to see GG walking with his hands in his pockets and his head down. I stared at him, unable to focus on my job duties, and then something came over me. It was something I wanted to say earlier that I didn’t get the chance to. I ran out of the grocery store and shouted his name. He turned around; his face glowing from the sunset behind me.
“I wanted to tell you… I like your new sneakers,” I said, brandishing a smile. He smiled back just as brightly.
“I thought of ju when I bought them,” he said sending a wave my way, “I love ju, mamacita. Don’t you forget that!”
“Never,” I said to myself for the first time allowing a tear to moisten my face.