Clap When You Land(26)

My school tuition is one. It arrives every June, & Papi pays it off in July. It’s the charge for my first-quarter schooling so I can attend classes in September.

The pesitos people pay Tía are not enough.

My heart thumps hard.

I press a hand to keep it inside.

How does an overeducated orphan become an obstetrician

in a place where most girls

her age become pregnant

before tenth grade? But now money is owed to me.

Tía says it could be mine.

How does a girl—how do I— finish high school,

go to college in the US?

How do I watch

every single one of my dreams flutter like a ribbon of bubbles pop pop popping in the air. I don’t.





“Tía, about the visa & the money, Papi said my papers were in order.”

Tía is cleaning red kidney beans for a moro.

She nods but does not say anything.

“Would I still be able to go to the States?

Tío Jorge could take me in, right?”

Tía’s hands pause sifting through the bowl.

“Your father was not bringing you on his papers, mi’ja, he was bringing you on his wife’s.

It was with their combined income, as well as her citizenship, that your papers would be approved.

She would have to sponsor you

for you to attain a visa & the ability to be a resident.

From what I know, Zoila is not a forgiving woman.”

& I think about this wife. I think

I am not a forgiving woman either.

“What’s his other daughter’s name?” I ask.

Tía fishes through the beans, picking out the old & wrinkled ones that hold no nutrients.

She is silent in her assessment of the good & bad, the ones that are allowed to stay, the ones that must be tossed.

I imagine she is plucking through her words with that same scrutiny.

“Yahaira. Your sister’s name is Yahaira.”





Twenty-Two Days After


Still reeling about this sister about the money.

about my father’s secrets, I stop by Carline’s house the next day.

The baby is asleep & Carline’s eyes are tired, but when she hugs me, I almost let myself cry in the warmth of her arms even though another crying child is the last thing she needs.

We sit on the couch & she does not let go of my hand. “You already seem like a mother,”

I say, & she laughs, but I’m being honest.

“My breasts ache & I’m always thirsty.

Camino, a group of girls came by to see the baby; they told me they’ve seen you at the beach with El Cero.

No me digas que es verdad.” I squeeze her hand before letting it go. “Camino, I would be the last person to judge you. But El Cero is dangerous.”

I nod. Of course he is.

She is not saying anything I don’t know.

There is a reason my father paid him to stay away.

There is a reason he keeps circling back to me.

But how can I explain to Carline

something she cannot help me with?

It’s just like with Tía; everyone has advice to give, but all I have to offer her are more worries in response.

The baby’s wail stops me from having to say anything.

“Just be careful, Camino.

Now come & greet your nephew.”

I ask her if she’s given him a name.

“The old women have told me not to,

since his breathing is still so shallow.

But I’ve decided to call him Luciano.”

I hold my best friend’s babe, &

I hold her hand as well.

He is premature, but he is loved,

& I know both Carline & I are praying even though it may seem unlikely,

that that love will be enough.





When I next see El Cero in the neighborhood, I treat him like a stray; feed him crumbs of placating attention

that I hope will make him more pet than predator, but will remind him not to howl at my door.

He always comes back. Pacing near me as I try to ignore him.

Today Vira Lata followed me to the beach.

He sits on my clothes in the warm sun

& keeps a lazy eye on El Cero. He is not

a good guard dog, but I’m still glad not to be alone.

I am packing up my things & El Cero speaks to me.

“Someone asked me for your address recently.

An old friend of your father’s. At least he said he was a friend.

But I don’t think he was a good man. I told him I didn’t know.”

I hear the other words El Cero does not say: I can give your address to anyone, I can call attention to you, what protection, what protection, what protection is a loosely locked gate & no father or man or trained sharp-fanged hound to stop anyone from breaking entering.

El Cero cocks his head when I do not respond to him.

He lets a whistle loose through his teeth.

From the clearing, the one that I’ve walked since I was a child, an older man comes forth. He has a scar above one eye & smells like an open sewer that’s been sprayed with cologne.

“This is the girl, the one you were asking about.

Camino, this is a friend of your father’s.”