Pertenecer (to belong) - A Short Story

From the battered folding chair on our screened-in porch, I watched little girls hop along their crooked chalk masterpieces and jump rope with colorful, dusty hands. Further down, their brothers weaved between parked cars lining the cramped street, kicking a frayed soccer ball and hollering, “I’m Hugo Sánchez!” “No, I’m Sánchez! You’re Ferretti!” When a car entered the neighborhood, they practiced their footwork on the sidewalk art, sticking their tongues out at the displeased girls until the road was open once more.

Up the steep yard of the house across the street, I saw those familiar faces: Monica, Gabriella, Angelica. They dabbed their eyes with vibrant powders, pursed their lips in their compact mirrors, and sang along to the Selena song playing on Angelica’s new portable cassette player. Maybe if I stared long enough, they would see me. Maybe they’d remember the slumber party where we stayed up until three in the morning watching forbidden telenovelas. Or my tenth birthday party, when Mamá and Papá took us to the penny carnival with a jar full of pennies. But my old friends hardly noticed me, and they never would now that my parents sent me to the rich school across town, Northview High School. But it wasn’t my idea. After a few seniors were mugged near our neighborhood high school and were injured enough to be hospitalized, Papá said enough was enough. With the growing family business, we could afford Northview’s out-of-district fees. But was I consulted on this decision? No. So why was I being shunned? All my ex-friends seemed to care about was that I left them. But I’m not gone. I’m still here, sitting across the street, pathetically hoping they’ll notice me again.

It had been a lonely Summer, and a terrible start to the ninth grade. But I had a potential solution for my problems: Sara Miller’s birthday party, the perfect chance to show everyone that I was no different—that I was friend material.

The paleta man’s cart interrupted my thoughts. He appeared around the corner, the bells on his white cart jingling with every bump in the sidewalk. The little kids swarmed around him with fists full of loose change, and eagerly ate their strawberry and lime paletas in the late summer heat. I knew without checking that my pockets were bare. I’d spent my allowance money on Sara’s gift. Besides, Mamá wouldn’t want me to spoil my dinner with sweets. I slumped into the folding chair and sighed. The children waved their sticky-fingered hands as the paleta man continued down the street. The sound of the bells on the cart grew more and more distant, and I strained my ears until all I could hear was the cacophony of city traffic.

Fine. Whatever. I didn’t want a paleta, and there were never any coconut ones left. “Wouldn’t be able to eat a paleta and sew, anyway,” I grumbled at the torn dress across my lap. The needle poked my finger, drawing a pin-prick of blood, and I tossed the dress aside.

Papá’s station wagon honked twice and crunched against the gravel driveway. I rolled my eyes as the engine let out a loud pop! and a small flume of smoke rose from beneath the hood. Papá poked his head through the window to fan it away, half swearing and pleading to the car.

“¡Vamos a la tienda, Estrella, before the boys burn it down!” he called once the smoke dissipated. I could picture it: my three brothers running around the store, struggling to unpin the fire extinguisher and shouting at each other to dial 9-1-1. It was funny, but also not entirely impossible. I bounced down the porch steps.

“¡Adiós, Mamá!” I called into the house, but she was bustling around the dining room, wiping away every speck of dust. Out of boundless friendliness, Papá invited a few Northview parents from orientation over for coffee, and Mamá wanted the house to look perfect. So I knew there was no use in trying to get her attention. Papá’s station wagon beeped again.

“¡Hola, Señor Ramírez!” sang the chorus of boys and girls. They had the paleta sticks clenched between their teeth like toothpicks and wiggled them up and down with their tongues.

“¡Hola, niños!” Papá waved. “Tell your parents I say hello!”

“Papá, come on.” I ducked into the car and settled as comfortably as one could on warm pleather. 

“¿Por qué? I can’t speak to our neighbors?” With one hand on his wheel and the other waving at the children, he pulled into the street. We passed the steep yard where my old friends sat. This time, I was the one to ignore them. 

Papá glanced at me and the girls I’d known since elementary school. “How come you don’t play with your friends anymore?” I couldn’t hear him over the cry of Vicente Fernández pouring through the speakers, so he asked again, slipping into the comfort of Spanish.

“Papá, nobody my age plays anymore. That’s for little kids; I’m a freshman,” I said, the word still new on my tongue. “Besides, I wanted to mend my dress when I got home from school.”

“¿Y ayer?”

“Yesterday, I had lots of homework.” I shrugged off his questions and picked at the familiar divot of pleather near my thigh. “Papá, why don’t we get a new car?”

He patted the dashboard, and a great smile spread beneath his bushy mustache. “This car has been good to us; I could never part with it. You were almost born in it, you know?”

I rolled my eyes at the all-too-familiar tale. “But it’s all rusted.”

“All cars rust in Michigan.” He turned the volume up and dove into his duet with Vicente, his deep voice dominating the whine of the engine. I slumped against the door and let the wind distort my hearing.

When we turned onto Bridge Street, Papá stuck his head out the window once more, exclaiming “¡Buenos días!” to familiar faces and, to my dismay, to strangers. No person could resist his infectious happiness, so they waved back and went about their day with brighter smiles. I would have been lying if I said I didn’t admire Papá’s ability to make friends. Sometimes I just couldn’t find the words, and if I could, well, they weren’t good enough. Maybe if I took a few pages out of Papá’s book, I could be a popular business owner like him one day. But I couldn’t do that without knowing how to make new friends first.

The car doors closed with a loud squeak, and we approached the brick storefront. In the windows, I saw displays of ripe mangos and vibrant limes. Beneath the painted “¡Bienvenido!” on the spotless glass, an array of small Mexican flags decorated the frame. I smiled at the wonderful arrangement of colors before me.

“¡Estamos aquí!” Papá bellowed upon crossing the threshold of the store. All sense of contentment vanished when the intense, potent odor of menudo hit me with full force. Tripe tinged the air with its wet, meaty scent, and I scrunched up my nose, fighting the urge to lift my shirt collar over my face. Whenever Papá or Mamá made menudo at home, my brothers begged for seconds. Not me. I could hardly stomach the thought of cow stomach soup, but it seemed every other Mexican couldn’t get enough of it, even to the point where Papá had a pot simmering in the storage room for our customers to order.

My oldest brother, Luis, emerged from the back with a bowl cupped in his hand and a spoon shoved in his mouth. He spoke through the obstruction, possibly saying hello, and I scrunched my nose even harder.

“Eating on the job, eh?” Papá arched his brows. I saw Ramón and Mateo lingering in the doorway, their eyes wide and shoulders hunched over their own soup bowls. They quickly drank the evidence before approaching Papá with smiles and open arms, innocent as could be. What a bunch of posers. Papá dismissed the scene with a wave of his hand and walked into the storage room. “¡Luis, ven a ayudarme!” he called, requesting Luis’ help.

Luis groaned. “I’m pretty sure he wants to replace the tire on the trailer.”

“You’ll probably end up replacing it by yourself,” said Mateo. Luis groaned louder.

“Now, now, Mr. Assistant Manager, go to work.” Ramón, the second oldest, ushered Luis out the back door where Papá surely stood, a lug wrench in one hand and a cold cerveza in the other. Ramón grinned. “Besides, you want the trailer to be ready for the weekend, don’t you?”

My Papá always cherished his bimonthly visit to Chicago. It had become a sort of tradition and a chance for him to connect with the immigrant community who tended to the fields outside the city. He would bring meals for the workers and purchase fresh produce and merchandise from local shops looking to expand their clientele. Papá loved helping these communities thrive. On the other hand, my brothers and I dreaded unpacking the many boxes of inventory he always brought back. But I wasn’t worried about that. What I dreaded was asking Papá what I’d been meaning to ask him all week.

Ramón returned from the storage room and poked at my stomach. “Nice of you to come help out, gordita,” he quipped. As the baby of the family, I was familiar with this treatment and slapped away his hand.

“Be grateful. I’m closing tonight so you can go smooch your girlfriend. Smooch, smooch, smooch.” I puckered my lips.

“Oh, Ramón, you’re so cute!” Mateo chimed in. “I love your manly little mustache. And look at those muscles! Sooo strong! Do you work out?” Mateo and I burst into laughter as Loverboy turned red and stormed into the storage room. Despite how annoying he was, Ramón was easy enough to embarrass, which Mateo and I were experts at. A united front, forever and always. Alone now, Mateo nudged my shoulder. 

“Have you asked Papá yet?” 

I busied myself with straightening the already-tidy displays of candy bars at the register.

“You haven’t asked him.” 

“Yes, I have.” 

Mateo sighed and shook his head. “No, you haven’t.”

“I’ll ask him today.”

“The party’s tomorrow.”

“I’ll ask him today.”

“Fine, fine,” Mateo said. “Sara’s your friend, not mine.”

As much as it excited me to hear the words “Sara” and “friend” in the same sentence, I knew nothing was guaranteed. I didn’t even know if Papá would let me go. I imagined him staring me down with his glasses at the tip of his nose, that displeased look I so rarely see plastered on his face. I should have asked sooner, but now, with the broken trailer needing to be fixed and filled with cooked meals before Saturday morning, would he even consider it?

“You worry too much,” Mateo said, reading my mind as he so often does. I rolled my eyes and grabbed a broom, and he continued. “I’ve already told you Papá has enough help for this weekend with me and those two chuckleheads. We’ll get started on it while Papá takes you to the party.” 

I peered through the storage room and into the parking lot where Ramón and Luis struggled to replace the tire. They swore and bickered as they went, until the tire slipped from Luis’ hand and rolled out of view. The two raced after it, Papá’s guttural laugh chasing them.

“Sure. That’s quality assistance, right there.”

“Well, you take what you can get.” Mateo shrugged. “Besides, Papá seems to be the least of your worries.”

I sighed. “Listen, I know psychology is your favorite subject, or whatever, but you don’t have to over-analyze everything.” Why'd I even ask for Mateo’s help again? Right, because he’s super smart and the only “friend” I had. A default friend, being my brother, but a friend nonetheless.

I was only being difficult because he was right. Being the new kid sucked. Being the new brown kid didn’t help. Making friends at my old school was easy, but at Northview, it was an entirely different ecosystem. I felt like a house cat in the jungle. A very clean, very rich jungle, where everyone else was a white-striped tiger wearing new clothes while I was the one mending my dresses and coloring in the scuffs on my penny loafers with permanent markers.

Then Sara Miller invited everyone in our homeroom to her 14th birthday party, including me. We barely spoke to each other. Honestly, she probably didn’t even know my name. Still, I had to go, or else I’d remain the classroom ghost haunting our algebra homework. Everyone else would talk about Sara’s epic birthday party, and I’d have nothing to say. People can’t hear ghosts anyway.

“Whatever,” I huffed.

“Whatever,” Mateo mocked. I slapped his ankle with the broomstick, and he let out a satisfying yelp. “You’re just angry ‘cause you know I’m right,” he said, rubbing his shin.

“Oh, ‘cause Mateo’s always right.” I rolled my eyes.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help.” He held his hands up in defense.

“Well, you aren’t helping,” I snapped. I stood near the door and stared at passing cars and friends walking in tandem along the street. “I’ll figure it out myself, okay?”

“Fine,” Mateo said, his tone injured. I wanted to apologize, but, as always, I couldn’t find the words. He paused a moment, waiting for me to speak. But I kept staring out the window, caught between my own wordlessness and sibling pridefulness. One of us would break the silence; it was only a matter of who and when. Mateo pushed himself from the counter.

“I’m gonna help outside,” he muttered. 

Before I could muster up a lame apology, he was gone.

As the clock ticked further and further into the evening, the boys gathered their backpacks and headed home, leaving Papá and me alone in the store. This was it. I gathered my courage and took a deep breath.

“Papá?”

“Dime, princesa,” he responded, counting the money in the register. His glasses were poised at the tip of his nose. 

“Um… I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner, but…” I paused. I could just chicken out. I could make up an excuse and forget about the whole thing. Then I thought of my next birthday party: Lonely. Vacant. No one but myself at our dining room table, sat before empty seats and an uneaten cake. My hands shook as I arranged the small bags of masa powder on the shelf.

“¿Estás bien?” Papá asked and ceased his shuffling of bills. I steadied my resolve.

“Yes—sí. I’m okay. It’s just…well, there’s this party. A birthday party. For a girl from school. Tomorrow.” I took a breath. “Can I go?”

After the eternity of a moment and the sound of my heart thudding in my ears, he smiled.

“Está bien,” he said, and I blinked at the simplicity. 

“Really?”

Papá’s eyes crinkled at the edges, and he pulled me into a bear hug with his strong, comforting arms. I felt paralyzed and shocked, but I hugged him back. He patted my shoulder and grinned. 

“I know it is not easy being the new kid, Estrella, pero estoy orgulloso de ti. I am proud of you for stepping out of your comfortable zone.”

“I think you mean ‘comfort,’ Papá.”

“Ah, no importa,” Papá said with a wave of his hand. I laughed, letting this breath of fresh air lift some weight from my shoulders. Papá returned the register and continued counting the money. “Who is this girl, then? Have I met her parents?”

“Um. No. Probably not. They live in Hillsborough.”

Papá turned toward me, his eyes wide. “Those mansions?”

“I-I guess,” I sputtered, shrugging my shoulders. Somehow, I did not find it surprising that Sara lived in a mansion. Everything about her, from the way she spoke to the way she looked, said “wealthy,” like the gold bracelets lining her arms or the matching backpack and pencil case studded with rhinestones.

Papá straightened the stack of bills with a quick thwap on the counter. “Bueno. We will discuss more after closing the shop, bien?” I nodded and returned to the masa powder bags. 

There. The hard part was over. I should feel better. I should be happy—celebratory, even, at this chance to make new friends. I shouldn’t have this nauseous feeling rolling around in my stomach. 

I cursed Mateo for always being right.

✳  ✳  ✳

The grandfather clock in the dining room struck 6:30 PM when I finally settled on what to wear. It was the same dress from yesterday: deep teal with pink and purple florals. I made sure my stitch work was invisible. After the billionth time of studying every inch of my face and adjusting the ribbon holding back my ponytail, I pushed aside the pile of discarded clothing atop my bed and secured Sara’s present. I noticed her favorite color was pink, so one evening after school, I walked to the drug store to do some shopping. Most of the things I could afford looked gaudy and cheap. I scanned past superglued fake gems and excessive glitter until I found a set of pink hair bows similar to what I’d seen Sara wear. I hoped it would be good enough.

I returned to the mirror once more and practiced my smile: Too big—I’d looked creepy. Too small—I’d look like I didn’t want to be there. Okay, perfect. Next, I rehearsed what to say:

“Hi, Sara! Happy birthday!”

“Hey, Sara! How’s it hanging?”

“Hey, girl! Sweet party!”

I decided the former would do and grabbed my sweater.

Papá and I drove out of our neighborhood, past Chesterville, and through Buchanan. With every block we passed, I noticed how different the buildings and houses looked. They were much larger than ours, and the neighborhoods were certainly cleaner. In fact, I hadn’t seen a hint of graffiti for the past 5 minutes! Not even graffiti that had been painted over, its harsh lines pushing through the thin layers of paint. I’d never gone to this side of town, and I don’t think Papá has ventured in this direction either. His reaction did not indicate it, anyway.

Two large, stone walls stood on either side of the Hillsborough entrance, and beautiful, vibrant flowers cropped the manicured lawn. I gawked at the two-story, even three-story houses and rounded driveways. There was an impeccable symmetry to everything that made my neighborhood seem crooked and crowded. A flurry of color caught my eye. Tied to a mailbox, a bundle of pink balloons drifted in the breeze.

Papá insisted on walking me to the door, no matter how much I protested. What if Sara or my classmates saw me? Thirteen-year-olds don’t need to be escorted by their parents. Papá walked up the path, anyway, with me in tow. Maybe he just wanted a closer look. The entryway to Sara’s home was like something I’d see in a waiting-room magazine: a wide, stone entryway towering high above us, narrow glass windows framing the door, and when we pushed the doorbell, the sound echoed harmoniously. When the sturdy mahogany door opened, a man and woman in formal attire answered with bright smiles.

“You must be here for the party!” the woman said, referencing the gift in my hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded.

“Either that or we forgot to pay the gardener.” The man chuckled as if we were all in on the joke. I gripped my gift even tighter, and, in my peripheral vision, Papá’s back straightened ever so slightly. The woman frowned at the man and slapped his shoulder.

“Please excuse my husband; he jokes too much,” she explained. “My name is Elaine Miller, and this is John Miller.”

“Mucho gusto. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is José Ramírez,” Papá said, his thick accent. He shook their hands. “Your home is beautiful. Tan grande.”

“Yes, your home is stunning,” I jutted in. 

“Why, thank you! And what is your name?”

“I’m Estrella. A pleasure to meet you.” I shook their hands and did my best to look like a respectable young lady.

“Nice to meet you,” Mrs. Miller said. “Welcome to our home, Es-tray-uh.”

She said it like every teacher at Northview does, not even attempting to roll the r’s and drawing it out as if it’s the most foreign name they’ve ever encountered. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and held the gift before me. “Where should I put this?”

“Oh! There’s a gift table in the kitchen next to the cake, but the other party guests are in the dining room. Just go through the living room, and you should find them.”

With unsteady hands and a quiet voice, I told Papá I’d see him in an hour. He smiled and patted my shoulder.

“Adiós, princesa. Pásalo bien,” he said. There was a softness to his eyes, the same he had on my first day at Northview. Maybe he could sense my nervousness—the same I had when I sat in his car and stared at the other students streaming into the school. This was him saying, “Good luck. Do well. Have fun,” when I needed it most. I nodded, gave him a quick, tight hug, and walked past Mr. and Mrs. Miller and into the magnificent home. Papá continued talking to Sara’s parents, a conversation I knew could last for a while, but I had other things to worry about. 

To my right, I saw the living room with its high-vaulted ceilings and towering fireplace. The matching leather furniture was a deep, brown, almost identical to what I’d seen once in the window of a department store. Maybe this was that same set, paired with a large, glass coffee table and set against stark white carpet. I slipped off my shoes before entering and marveled at the plushness. The lilt of conversation and laughter led me into the dining room.

Crowded around a large, rectangular table, decorated with pink ribbons and balloons, were people from my homeroom. They wore their best pleated skirts, denim jackets, and stylish button-downs, and I felt like I walked into an episode of The Facts of Life. 

No one noticed I’d entered; they were too busy playing cards or laughing over their pizza and chips. That’s what I preferred instead of a sudden quietness sweeping over the room. I searched for Sara and spotted her near the snack table, chatting with her best friends, Tiffany and Claire. Sara looked beautiful in her tiara, and her hot pink eyeshadow matched the birthday sash hung from her shoulder.

Frantically, I tried to remember what I was going to say and how wide I was going to smile. But every passing second I stood near the entryway, more eyes glanced in my direction. Finally, I approached.

“Happy birthday, Sara!” The muscles in my cheeks ached, and I hardly recognized the forced sound of my voice.

Sara did not smile back. Instead, she looked confused. Almost offended. I held the gift out to her. I prayed this peace offering would change her expression. 

“Um…thanks,” she said, took the gift, and turned back to her friends. They all giggled quietly, their eyes shifting toward me, each pair as heavily shadowed with colors as vibrant as poisonous plants. I stood there, motionless, heat rising to my cheeks. What could I have even said to change her mood? To make her smile? To feel some sort of connection? I looked at the other people in the room, hoping I’d be spared a passing glance, but they avoided me, choosing to return to their conversations and games. I sat between two of my classmates, and suddenly it felt as if I were in class: silent and unobserved.

“Ugh, I know. I wanted to have my party at a roller rink, but my mom wouldn’t let me,” complained a voice. “She said it was too messy or whatever.”

Sara and her friends were sitting at the end of the table with plates of pizza and cups of neon orange liquid. “This party's so lame, I could just die. They'd better take me to Paris next year, or I swear I’ll scream.” Sara’s friends nodded in agreement, but I was shaken with disbelief. This wasn’t enough? All of this food, these beautiful decorations, all of these friends coming to celebrate her wasn’t enough? I peered through the entryway of the kitchen and saw a table overflowing with gifts and, next to it, a towering cake worthy of a wedding.

“And my parents are so unfair. They even made me invite—.” Their eyes fell upon me, and I quickly looked away and stared at the table top, my heart racing in my chest. A moment passed, and someone pulled out the chair next to me. Sara and her friends sat. 

“Um…” Sara began.

“Estrella,” Tiffany whispered to her.

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “Estrella, what’s that lovely perfume you’re wearing?”

I didn’t understand. Why did she decide to come sit beside me when it seemed like she didn’t want me there? And why was she asking about perfume? My dress had been washed, so it smelled like soap. Or maybe Sara could smell the pozole Mamá had made for the boys’ dinner. I stuttered some wordless sounds before responding, “I don’t wear perfume.”

“Oh, I had no idea,” she said, smiling at her friends. Claire and Tiffany giggled. I seemed to be out of the loop on something. I rubbed my clammy hands on my lap.

“You’ve got a really nice house,” I said. I had to say something to fill the strange silence.

 “Yeah, I guess so.” Sara shrugged. “Where do you live?”

“On the Westside.”

“Oh, I know where that is!” Tiffany chimed in. “My uncle’s a detective. He said that’s where the gangs are. Do you know anyone in a gang?”

“Uh, no.” I frowned. “There aren’t any gangs in my neighborhood.”

“Oh,” she responded, sounding slightly disappointed. 

“Anyway,” Sara said, “I was curious: what’d you get for me as a present?”

“Do you want to open it now?”

“No, no, I want to guess. I'm really good at guessing,” she said. Claire and Tiffany giggled again. I felt pressure in my chest, like someone had their arms around my ribcage and was squeezing tight. I wondered if the other girls noticed the heat gathering in my cheeks and the thin layer of sweat on my forehead. I tried to push the feeling away. “I only get three guesses, okay?” Sara continued. “It’s a smaller gift, so…some cassette tapes?”

“No,” I said. Sara chewed on her cherry lip gloss-covered lip, looking stumped. Claire whispered into Tiffany’s ear and glanced at me. I squirmed in my seat.

“You said your family owns a store, right?” Sara asked. I had mentioned Papá’s business when the teacher asked for examples of entrepreneurship. It surprised me that Sara remembered. “Is it something from there?” she asked. Again, I replied no.

“Careful, Sara; you’ve only got one more guess left!” Claire warned. Sara gasped.

“Oh, gosh, you’re right, Claire! Man, this is tough!” She repositioned her tiara, leaned back in her seat, and placed a thoughtful hand on her shin. A moment later, she jolted upright. “I know what it is!” She paused for dramatic effect. “It’s deodorant!”

Claire and Tiffany stifled their laughter and held onto the table for support. My mouth had gone dry, and I turned back to Sara, dumbfounded. She grinned.

“That’s what it is, right? Deodorant?” She had an innocent look on her face. I opened my mouth to speak, but she continued. “No? It isn’t? Oh, well, what a shame,” she said, “because if it were, I would have given it to you instead.” Claire and Tiffany couldn’t contain themselves anymore. They laughed out loud, raucously, clutching their stomach and pinching their nose with their dainty fingers. “You reek!” they exclaimed. Sara joined their laughter, holding onto her tiara to keep it from falling. 

I rose so quickly that my chair crashed to the floor. The room fell quiet—even Sara and her friends were shocked into silence. Every eye fell on me and the fists I balled at my sides. But what I truly felt—the emotion burning at the back of my throat; the fury flowing through my veins—my face did not show it. Here, staring at Sara and her tiara and her pile of presents in her mansion atop the Hillsborough hills, I thought of every lonely moment, every cruel laugh had at my expense, every time I felt torn between two worlds that didn’t want me, and then I felt a hand that was not under my control pick up a random cup from the table and send a waterfall of neon orange liquid onto Sara, her friends, and her birthday tiara and sash.

“You guys are nothing but ungrateful, racist brats!” I snapped. Sara was too stunned to speak, and the amazed onlookers gasped at her drenched sight. “¡Vete al diablo!” 

And before Sara’s tears could pour from her dripping mascara, I dashed from the room, past the gaping fireplace, and out of that awful house. I ran down the twisting and curving streets of the neighborhood, not thinking of my next move, not thinking straight at all. A flurry of anxiety flashed before me as I realized what I had done. Her parents would be furious and tell my parents, tell the school, and everyone at the party would spread the story of this evening until Northview expelled me and everyone despised me for hurting poor, pretty Sara on her special day. I tried to shake the thoughts from my head and focus on my breathing, but the tightness in my chest constricted my lungs. Through blurry eyes, I ran to the nearest payphone on the main road and dug into my dress for loose change. There was nothing—nothing at all. I kicked the glass door and sobbed.

Then I saw him standing across the street, pumping gas into our old station wagon, and tearing into a fresh pack of cigarettes he purchased in the gas station. I clambered out of the payphone booth.

“Papá!” I wailed. My voice cracked.

“¿Mija?” Papá dropped the packet onto the ground. “¿¡Mija, qué haces aquí!?” I ran across the street and into his arms. “¿Qué pasó? ¿Estás bien?” I shook my head.

“No, Papá,” I said. “It was terrible. Please, just take me home.”

“Mija, por favor.” He let me go and bent to my height.

“No quiero hablar de eso,” I insisted. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to pretend this night never happened. 

To my surprise, he obliged. We piled into the car, and I got my tears under control as we turned onto the road. It wasn’t even five minutes later when Papá asked again.

“Mija, por favor.” The car stopped at a red light, and I turned to look at him. Those same worried but tender eyes stared back, and I knew I couldn’t put him through another minute of uncertainty and fear. I steadied my quivering breath and stared at the red glow bathing the car.

“Sara didn’t even want me there,” I said. “Her mom made her invite everyone in our class. But… but that wasn’t what bothered me. Sara and her friends… they treated me like I’m… I’m nothing. Son racistas, Papá. They were terrible to me. They made fun of me. I wanted them to like me so badly, so when I saw how awful they really were, I got so mad that I…I yelled and dumped soda all over her.” I flinched in anticipation of his discipline, but Papá laughed. He laughed. It was quick and abrupt as if he was trying to keep it tucked within himself, but failed. “Papá?”

“Lo siento, Estrella. I should not laugh, but I am so shocked. I did not know you had that in you!”

“You’re not angry?” I asked in disbelief.

“No, princesa.” The setting sun behind us had nearly disappeared, and the cool breeze flowing through the open windows brought a calmness to my heart that I had nearly forgotten. Papá reached over and placed his hand on mine. “I am proud of you for defending yourself. La vida no es fácil para nosotros, Estrella. We must work harder. We must fight harder. But, for that, we are stronger. ¿Entiendes?”

I nodded my head and turned away, still reeling from Papá’s unanticipated reaction. The further we drove, the more familiar the neighborhoods became. A group of kids played soccer in an adjacent street, their laughter floating on the slight breeze. A few stood on the sidewalk, whooping and hollering as the ball flew past the goalie. The sun sank deeper into the industrial skyline. At an intersection near our home, Papá turned left rather than right.

“Where are we going?”

“It is a surprise.” Soon, Papá’s car clambered onto the small, cracked parking lot behind the family store. We came to a shuddering stop, and I gawked at the sight before me. Standing across the lot was the trailer, stable on all four wheels and freshly painted red on one side. The store’s logo was printed in a yellow, bold font, but beneath it read another word: “Ramírez”—with five handprints of various colors and sizes encircling it.

“Mateo had a wonderful idea this evening,” Papá said. He reappeared beside me with a small can of paint and a brush. “He wanted to show the world what it took for our store to be a success. La importancia de la familia: our pride, and our mark on this world.”

Papá handed me the paint and brush. I stared at the handprints. One for him, Mamá, Luis, Ramón, and Mateo. Then one space for me.

The paint was cold against my skin, and the brush tickled with every stroke, but soon my hand was covered in yellow paint that shone bright as the sun in the twilight. I placed my hand against the cool metal and pressed, the burden of all my loneliness and fear settling in the tips of my fingers, tingling, until I pulled away and stared at the mark I had made.

The handprint was the piece missing from the puzzle. Now, our hands surrounded the family name, painted with tender care. One could not be without the other. Papá bent forward and placed his hand on his own print.

“Perteneces aquí,” he said. “Forever and always.”

I nodded and met his gaze. 

“Gracias, Papá.”

We climbed back into his car and listened to the gentle whistle of the engine all the way home.

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A previous version of this story was published in Café Shapiro Anthology 2024 (2024).