Solito

by Javier Zamora

I never tell anyone—if I tell anyone my wish it won’t come true.

in 1996, Mali and I tried to get a visa—a real visa, but the U.S. embassy said no like they said no to Mom. A much meaner gringa said there was “no way any of you are getting a visa. Next!”

I order fruit from La Chele Gloria every day. Not because she makes the best fruit, but because her joy is infectious. Plus, she does know it all. She’s the one who first told me the story of the day Dad left for La USA.

I’m almost ten. Almost in fifth grade. It’s mid-March, Mother’s Day is just around the corner. It’s not a matter of if Don Dago will be taking me, but a matter of when.

I hope the kids up there don’t make fun of me like they do here. They call me nerd. Even my friends. They make fun of me for being smart, but also for being chubby. I just started playing soccer all the time, playing tag. I don’t want them to make fun of how I look anymore. To flick my chest because I “have boobs.” To call me “niña, niña” when I take my shirt off.

She hit me if I got up before completing one of her assignments. She hit me if I got it wrong too many times. She hit me if I didn’t do what she asked. It was terrible. But I could write the entire alphabet before anyone in preschool could.

Lupe is nineteen and younger than Mali. She had Julia when she was fourteen.

Don Dago mentions a black backpack—but my Ninja Turtle backpack is bright green:

Mali took me to the capital with one of her ex-boyfriends’ parents. They still visit us from time to time.

It was fun seeing Don Pablito and Doña Luisita again. I like them. They love Mali and wanted Marlon to marry her instead of getting back with his ex and moving to Spain. Don Pablito and Doña Luisita seem happy and act how I wish my grandparents would. They share their food, their drinks, they hug each other, kiss, and hold hands, ¡even though they’re old!

¡I’ve never even seen my grandparents hold hands!

The worst time, I cried after he pointed his gun at Abuelita. Another time, Mom broke a blender on his feet and Grandpa chased after her with his machete. I don’t like to think about those nights. It’s why I’m scared of him. It’s probably why Abuelita doesn’t even hug him. Grandpa doesn’t hug anyone. Not even me.

Grandpa grabs my arm. Walks me past the door. “Don’t look back,” he says. But I do. I see Abuelita and Mali in the middle of the door, holding each other, Lupe has a hand on each of their shoulders. “Come on,” Grandpa says. And we walk.