Ever since I was little, I knew that my future lay in nursing. One day when I was six, we visited my mama at her hospital. The sights, the sounds, and the smells all reached out to me. I told my papa on the way home that I wanted to be a nurse, and he chuckled softly. “Not too fast, pequeña, my little one. Don’t grow up too fast.” My parents immigrated to the United States from Mexico before I was born. I am the eldest of four children. When I was two, my brother Pedro was born, followed by Jose. Last but not least was my little sister, Gabrielle. Our life was always happy, even though we were not the richest of families. We always had food in the pantry, always could afford new clothes. My abuelita, or grandmother, came to live with us when I was seven. That was the happiest time of my childhood. But that all changed when I turned eight. The hospital Mama worked at had to cut staff wages in half, and then half again. Papa lost his variety store and had to find work at a tiny auto-furnishing shop. We were forced to sell our big house in Phoenix, Arizona, and move to a tiny two-bedroom house in southern California. One bedroom went to Mama and Papa, and one went to Abuelita, though she highly objected. Papa stretched the budget to the limit and added another tiny bedroom and a small shed in the back. Gabrielle and I share the bedroom (we sleep in the same bed), and the boys sleep in the shed. Often we could only afford to have two meals a day, and they were always scanty. I grew thin. Maybe it was a good thing, too, because all my clothes were getting too small; we couldn’t get new ones. There were no summer camps, no sports teams, no movie nights for us. We simply could not pay for it. Mrs. Brewster was a mean, cantankerous, bossy old lady Another reason I hated our new home was our next-door neighbor. Mrs. Brewster was a mean, cantankerous, bossy old lady. She couldn’t stand it when we would accidentally run across her lawn, or a stray bouncy ball found its way into her petunias. She’d wave her walker at us, yelling croakily. In time, I learned to avoid her and taught my siblings the same. That was how I grew up. * * * Now I am a senior in high school. I am getting ready to go to college. I knew my major: Nursing! It had always been my dream. I knew that I was going to go to Cal State Long Beach. Everything was ready. Everything was set. Except… Money. I had worked as hard as I could all my years of high school, raising money so I could go to college. I had earned scholarships. I had received money from more fortunate relatives. But every time Papa and I went through the list we always came up short. “De nuevo, Mariana,” Papa said beseechingly. My head lay on my arms, which were resting on the kitchen table. “Let’s do it again.” “What’s the use, Papa?” I asked. “We know the list, we’ve gone through it a million times…” “Maybe we missed something,” Papa interrupted. “One more time? Por favor?” I sighed but pulled the notebook that contained all my college notes toward me. Papa read the long column of writing. “Money from babysitting. Scholarship. Donation from Tio and Tia Rodriguez. Money from organizing crafts at school. Another scholarship. Money from Abuelo and Abuela. All that adds up to…” He frowned thoughtfully. “What, Papa?” I asked, my voice cracking as I waited for the verdict that would, I thought, change my life forever. He spread his hands out in defeat. “Lo siento, Mariana. I’m sorry. We just do not have enough.” My heart split in two as my dreams were crushed. I couldn’t go to college. I couldn’t become a nurse. Tears blurring my eyes, I leapt up from the table and fled to my room. Gabrielle looked up from her book, concern on her face. “What’s wrong, Mariana?” “Leave me alone!” I screamed, throwing myself on the bed and letting the tears run fast and hard. * * * Breakfast the next morning was a sorry affair. I wouldn’t speak to anyone, and Papa kept sending me apologetic looks. As if his apologies would help anything. Thirteen-year-old Jose looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Mama, what’s heritage?” “Heritage is a kind of balloon that when you sit on it, it farts.” Pedro cracked up at his own joke. Mama shot him a warning look before answering, “It’s like your ancestry. Who your family was.” “What are you reading?” Papa wanted to know. Reciting from the newspaper, Jose said, “If you are of Mexican heritage or descent, you are immediately eligible to win a $20,000 scholarship to the college of your choice—hey!” I had grabbed the newspaper from him. Feverishly reading the article, I nearly fainted. “Read it, Mariana,” Papa commanded. “If you are of Mexican heritage or descent, you are immediately eligible to win a $20,000 scholarship to the college of your choice. Write a short historical fiction story and submit it at the Los Angeles La Plaza de Cultura y Artes, a Mexican-American museum and cultural center. Entries must be submitted before April 20.” I looked up and saw Papa staring at me, surprise and delight showing on his face. “This is the answer!” I cried. “I have to win this contest. If I did this I could go to college!” “Then what are you waiting for?!” Mama cried. “You have barely twenty-four hours. Go write!” I locked myself in my room, much to Gabrielle’s anger. Time ticked past as I feverishly scribbled on a paper, writing ideas and crossing them out. My pencil went from sharp to nearly flat. There: my first draft was
Family
Painting the Sunrise
The moist blades of grass tickled Joan’s bare feet and the wind ruffled her dark blond hair as she tramped across the lawn. She blissfully breathed in the fresh smell of earth while she settled herself on a tree stump to do what she had done every morning since she learned to hold a pencil: draw the sunrise. A thin gray line on the horizon grew larger and larger, gradually—oh so gradually—taking on an orangy-pink hue. Joan’s artist’s eye noted that the trees, which at first had seemed mere silhouettes, could now be seen in more detail. Registering a picture of this vivid scene in her mind, Joan turned her attention to the sketchpad. The world seemed perfectly quiet, which was just fine with Joan. She liked it that way. The only sound was the faint scratching of her pencil. Scratching and erasing minute after minute would have seemed like forever to an observer, but at last Joan put down her sketchpad and surveyed it critically. Satisfied, she gathered up her sketch pad, pencil, and binoculars and went inside for breakfast. She would put in the pastel hues of watercolors, her favorite part, later. Bacon sizzling in a hot frying pan may have been a welcome sound to other ears, but Joan merely swallowed some cornflakes in surprisingly few mouthfuls and drank her orange juice in one long gulp. This was not because she was hungry, but because she wanted to get the dull process of eating over with as soon as possible when there were more important things, like drawing, to do. Registering a picture of this vivid scene in her mind, Joan turned her attention to the sketchpad “I warn you, Joan Elise Bailey, you are going to choke if you keep eating like that!” admonished Mrs. Bailey. Even when scolding, Mrs. Bailey’s musical voice with its slight southern accent was as beautiful as her looks. With her short, wheat-colored hair (the same color as Joan’s) curled becomingly about her face and her slim, stylishly clothed figure, it was no wonder that Mrs. Bailey had been a small-time movie actress before Joan was born. It was hard for Joan to live up to her mother’s expectations. Mr. Bailey made quite a bit of money at his work and Mrs. Bailey lavished it on acting lessons and an agent for Joan, her only child. She was determined that Joan be a famous actress. Any other girl would have been delighted with this, but Joan wasn’t. She hated the dazzling lights of the big cities where she went to auditions, the strange, fluttery feeling in her stomach and the limp, silly-putty feeling in her knees when she got up on a stage. She hated pretending to be someone she wasn’t in a stiff, sweaty, awkward costume. Worst of all she hated the discouraged look on her mother’s face when Joan didn’t get the part she auditioned for (she never did). She didn’t want to complain for fear of sounding ungrateful, but Joan would have rather had mediocre art lessons than the finest acting lessons in the world. One afternoon, Joan and her best friend, Alice, were walking home from school together. Alice was a vivacious girl with fiery red hair who loved to write. Joan had agreed to illustrate all Alice’s stories, which was a big job considering how many stories Alice wrote. “You know, Joan,” commented Alice, “you ought to try entering some kind of drawing contest. There’s a big one in a magazine I get. Our teacher says you’re the best artist in the entire sixth grade, and besides, maybe your winning an art contest would convince your parents to give you art lessons instead of those horrible acting lessons.” Alice was one of only two people (the other one being Joan’s grandma) who knew about Joan’s dilemma. Joan’s blue eyes lit up at Alice’s suggestion, for she passionately wanted art lessons. It would be a huge relief to quit acting, too. The girls chatted about unimportant things the rest of the way home, but Joan’s mind wasn’t on the chatter. She was too eager about the contest. The next day she sent off her most beautiful sunrise picture to the address Alice had given her, and from then on she haunted the mailbox like a ghost. A week or two later, Joan was rifling through some letters, mostly bills, hurriedly. She was in a hurry because her grandpa and grandma were coming to dinner and she needed to help Mrs. Bailey cook. There was a phone bill, a solicitation for money, a letter from her English pen pal (Yippee! thought Joan), a Happy Easter card . . . She was almost done when her eyes fell on a small, yellowy-white envelope. She gasped when she saw the return address. It was a response to her contest entry! Joan’s fingers trembled as she slowly tore it open, sitting on her habitual drawing stump. In breathless suspense, she drew out a single sheet of paper, evidently a letter. Alice, who had more experience with these things, would have known this was a bad sign, but Joan eagerly began to read it. “We regret that you were not among the finalists, however . . .” That was enough. Joan fell off the stump sobbing. Then she crumpled up the letter and threw it as hard as she could. She didn’t have any talent after all! She would never get any lessons now! That was what hurt the most. No lessons. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Joan collapsed into a sobbing heap on the lawn. A car pulled up on the Baileys’ driveway. Grandpa got out and took the cake that he and Grandma had brought inside, but Grandma stopped, noticing Joan. She picked up the crumpled letter Joan had thrown and read it. Sitting down on the grass as carelessly as if she were wearing jeans, even though she was wearing an old-fashioned dress with a flowered print, she explained,
Lizy
Lizy was my best friend the summer I turned six, though that summer I also learned she couldn’t be forever. I found her resting in the cattails by my father’s pond. Her shell was speckled with mud and pieces of wet grass stuck to her damp surface. My parents discovered me patting her softly with my hand. Lizy was only an egg then. My father rolled the speckled egg into his warm palm. “Sally,” he said, “I’m going to make you a little friend.” I stared at him for a minute, then Mama took my hand and we all went inside. I sat in my chair, while I watched my mother rummaging through boxes in a closet and my father flipping through pages of books with one hand, and securing his reading glasses with the other. Suddenly my mother spoke, “I found it hon, it’s as good as new!” A few minutes later a little incubator stood on a table in my room. I sat by Lizy as many hours as I could for the next few weeks as my father came in and out of my room, helping me turn Lizy’s egg and moisten her shell with sprays of warm water. On the twenty-eighth day, the unbelievable happened and my best friend was born. Loud peeps, a wet, sleepy duckling, and an empty shell, is all I can remember from Lizy’s hatching, but memories of gazing, wondering and studying as she grew have not faded through the years. Neither has the love I felt when I first laid eyes on the lonely little egg surrounded by cattails. My parents discovered me patting her softly with my hand. Lizy was only an egg then “It’s that time of year again,” my father whispered in my ear, “the time when your old grandma comes to wish you a happy birthday.” My mother sighed. “Aw, come on, Lynda,” teased my father, “she isn’t that bad, is she?” He gave her a kiss. “Ted, you know I care for your mother, I’m just worried about what she’ll think of Lizy. Maybe we should move her outside before your mother arrives tomorrow. You know how she is with animals.” My father picked me up and held me in his arms. My mother gave him a serious glance. I was placed on the counter. “Aw Lynda, Lizy’s too young for that.” He slipped his hand in hers. “Lizy’s still a little fluff ball, Grandma won’t mind.” Then he turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Sally?” I nodded my head as a loud peeping noise came from upstairs. “Come on, Sal,” he said, setting me down and taking my hand, “Lizy’s hungry.” We walked up the stairs. When we got to Lizy her loud crying stopped; her food and water bowl were full. That night as I rested in my bed I heard my parents talking loudly in their room. “We can’t give her away, Lynda, Sal would feel awful, she’d never forgive us!” “I know, Ted,” admitted my mother. “I know that Sal would be heartbroken, but what are we gonna do, keep Lizy forever? Where she really belongs is outside with other wild ducks, maybe even in the pond, not in a cage, in the backyard.” “I haven’t seen any ducks in our pond, and who knows what could happen to her in the wild, that’s a terrible idea.” “Right, I know, but Lizy’s going to get big and the summer is going to end, Ted. When you go back to teaching in the fall and Sally goes to school, what happens then?” My father stammered. “You . . . you don’t want to take care of her?” “No, it’s hard work. Don’t you think I have enough to do? I think,” she paused, “that it would be better for Sal, for us to give Lizy away sooner as opposed to later. Maybe she’ll forget faster, or maybe she’ll never forget, I don’t know. But I think she should learn, better than us, what is OK to keep as a pet and what isn’t. Don’t you think so?” There was no response for a while, then . . . “She will never forgive us if we take Lizy away. Let her find what’s right herself, hon, that’s how people learn the best,” said my father. “We’ll just wait it out, OK? Play it by ear?” “But Sally’s only six years old!” “Shhhhhh,” whispered my father, and I heard no more. I looked down at Lizy’s box. She seemed happy enough to me, peeping softly. I didn’t want her to go. “Lizy,” I whispered. I got up and climbed down from my bed. “Peep, peep . . .” I said. “Pip, pip, pip, pip,” Lizy answered. I picked her up and put her in my lap. That night I fell asleep on the floor, with Lizy curled up on my tummy. The next morning when I awoke, Lizy had disappeared from my side. My mind traced back to the night before. I envisioned her being plucked from my hand like a helpless flower and I started to cry. Suddenly a peep came from Lizy’s box next to the spare bed. I crawled over to it and gazed at her in the corner. I patted her rubbery beak and wiped my eyes. That afternoon there was a knock at the door. Unlike most days when I wore sweatpants and a T-shirt, I was dressed in a little yellow jumper with my thin hair tied in bows. My grandmother loved when I was dressed special for her arrival. She loved being clean and proper, and she wanted everything around her to be clean and proper too. She did not like animals and almost every time my grandmother came over she got in fights with my parents. My mother and father weren’t married, they said that marriage just makes things more complicated. My grandma called them lazy once, a lazy couple. She said that marriage was important.
