Puddin'(72)

I take my GIRL BOSS pencil and begin to write.



Sometimes we have to break the rules to get what we want. But now I think it’s time we change them.





Callie


Twenty-Six


My abuela’s house is a tiny three-bedroom bungalow on acres of land. Soon after my parents divorced, my abuelo died on a Sunday afternoon while taking a nap in front of the TV. I don’t remember him as well as Claudia does. My great-grandmother, who was still alive at the time, said at the funeral that he left this world much more peacefully than he entered it. And I guess if you’re going to die (because we all have to eventually), that’s a good way to go.

After he died, though, Abuela couldn’t let go of this house she’d spent almost her entire married life in, so rather than forcing her into something she didn’t want to do, my dad moved back home to take care of the house and the property—and Abuela too, even if she swears she doesn’t need it.

My dad grabs my bag from out of the truck bed, and I follow him inside through the kitchen door on the side of the house.

“She’s here!” my dad calls as he walks in.

Abuela pushes past him and proceeds to squeeze my cheeks and then almost every other part of my body that’s squeezable. Sometimes I think my abuela’s memory is all in her hands, and if she can’t touch it, she’ll never truly know it. “Please tell me why the hell you haven’t called to update me on your life. Everything I hear is secondhand information. Callie broke up with her boyfriend. Callie has a new job. Callie has new friends.”

I look up at her. “Because I’m an awful person? And really with the guilt trip?”

Abuela waves me off and then hugs me. “Well, if you’ve got any awful in you, it’s from your grandfather’s side of the family.”

I chuckle. I think she and my great-grandmother were the original frenemies.

It’s easy to just melt into Abuela’s embrace. She’s a towering woman with broad shoulders and hands so big she can balance a pizza in each of them. Mama calls her the Mexican-American reincarnation of Katharine Hepburn, and it’s true. Her deep, lightly accented voice commands attention. Her style is definitively utilitarian while still looking put together and somehow ethereal. And even though her once caramel-colored hair is grayer than it used to be, her shoulder-length natural waves still perfectly frame her long, narrow face.

My dad, though, carries my grandfather’s genes, with slightly darker hair and skin and a shorter, stout physique. He’s living proof that you don’t have to be tall to get the girl. What he’s lacking in height he makes up for in game. He’s a total flirt. You should see him with the lady at the grocery-store customer service desk. It’s pretty amusing until I remember he’s my dad.

I look over Abuela’s shoulder to see a frying pan of migas, my favorite, and her Texas-shaped waffle maker warming on the counter. Breakfast for dinner is almost as good as dessert for dinner. “Oh my God. Feed me before I waste away.”

“That’s the plan,” she says.

After I get settled in my room, me, my dad, and Abuela all eat at the little table in the kitchen that only seats just the three of us. Abuela has a big, long table out on her screened-in porch off the back of the house, but I like when we eat in here, in her cramped little kitchen. I like the coziness of it. There’s just something about being in a small space with people you actually like.

My dad circles the table, holding the skillet with a pot holder, and serves us all generous helpings. There are lots of different ways to serve migas, but Abuela’s specialty is the Tex-Mex variety, with blue-corn tortilla chips, eggs, cheese, pico, jalape?os, and ground sausage alongside Texas-shaped waffles.

My abuela pats her mouth with her napkin before answering. “Last weekend, I was down at Aurelia’s to help her with research for her latest article about the women of the Alamo. Looks like she’s hitting a few dead ends, but . . .” She turns to my father. “She did say her daughter’s divorce was finalized last month.”

Dad shakes his head and waves a finger in her face. “Stick to the politics and history, Ma. Matchmaking is definitely not in your wheelhouse.” He looks at me. “She tried to set me up with Cindy.”

I gag. “Isn’t Cindy your second cousin?”

“I forgot!” says Abuela, her hand over her mouth. “Okay? It was an accident!” She waves a forkful of waffle at Dad. “You have to admit, if you weren’t related, it would’ve been a good match.”

Abuela hasn’t always been just a mother or a grandmother. Up until two years ago, she taught political science and Texas history full-time at University of Texas of the Permian Basin, or UTPB. Now she’s dedicating her days to academic publishing with her best friend Aurelia, which is really just a cover for them to try to set their kids up together.

“What are you filling your time with these days?” she asks me. “Now that you’re not busy with the dance team.”

My shoulders slump, and before I can even say anything, my dad comes to the rescue. “It’s a celebratory weekend, Ma. Let’s not—”

“Let the girl talk,” she says.

“Well, I’m sort of just working for free right now,” I say.

She nods. “Well, that won’t last forever.”