Brighter Than the Sun, page 15
My family used to own a restaurant in the heart of the city. That sounds so wrong. It doesn’t feel real. Some mornings when I wake up, I almost believe that it isn’t. For a few seconds, the thought of it feels so absurd—nothing but a bad dream. But then I remember, and my insides crack open all over again, just as they did when Papi told me the restaurant was closing.
The front door creaks open with a loud screech when I push it. I’m not sure if the creaking is new—just one of the signs of abandon that have crept up since we stopped serving customers—or if it had been there for a while.
We didn’t even make a big announcement, didn’t have an official final night. Papi just slapped a notice on the front door from one day to the next: Permanently Closed. We received an endless amount of calls from people we know—people who walked past the restaurant and saw the sign, or who heard from someone or other that we had closed down. They all asked us why, they all said they wished it didn’t have to come to this. They all sounded sad that the restaurant had shut down—even those who hadn’t bothered to show up when we were struggling to remain open.
My footsteps echo against the walls as I walk in. The place looks nothing like it used to. All the tables and chairs are gone. The space seems so small suddenly, the walls so tall. It’s as if they’re closing in on me. Still, I can feel something in the air—something that makes me feel like Mami is nearby. I can feel her presence. Staring at the back of the restaurant, where the entrance to the kitchen is, I almost expect her to walk out any second, laughing the way she used to—in a way that filled the entire room—which I’m sure would make the emptiness vanish.
I don’t want this feeling to ever go away. I don’t want this closeness I feel to her to ever disappear. It makes me so angry to think that we’re giving up the only piece of her we had left, that we were unable to do this one thing for her—to keep her restaurant alive.
I blink hard, and hot tears slip from my eyes, falling on the dirty floor.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the emptiness, and I swear, for a moment I feel as though she’s right in front of me. “I’m sorry, Mami.”
When there’s no answer, I let out a long sigh. I feel cold all of a sudden, as though the temperature has dropped by several degrees.
My legs start feeling weak, so I lower myself to the ground and sit down with my legs crossed right in the middle of the dusty floor. I allow my eyes to close, and I can just see it—I see a full restaurant, the way it used to be on Saturday nights. There are people talking, and eating, and drinking all around me. Mami is standing behind the counter, working at the till, and Luis and I are running among the tables, taking orders. The place smells like food, it sounds like happiness, and it feels like home.
When I open my eyes, the restaurant seems emptier than it did before. Even the presence of Mami has disappeared, and no matter how long I sit here, or how hard I try, I can’t find a way to make it come back.
“Where were you?” Abuela asks me as soon as I walk into the house.
“Out,” I say.
She purses her lips, not saying anything. From the way she’s staring at me, I can tell she knows exactly where I’ve been, but she doesn’t ask any more questions.
I’m grateful that she doesn’t, because I know all too well that I wasn’t supposed to be at the restaurant today. Papi has already turned in his keys to the landlord, and ads have gone up in search of new tenants. No one knows I kept my key. We must’ve made so many copies over the years that my dad didn’t even remember to ask for mine.
“Is Papi home yet?” I ask. He’s been out every day, doing random jobs. He put up ads on lampposts around the city last weekend, and people here and there have been calling him when they need a mechanic to come take a look at their car. He may not be bringing in much money, but these days, every penny counts, and something is better than nothing.
Abuela shakes her head.
“I was about to make some tea,” she says. “I’ll make you a cup.”
I don’t have the energy to say no, so I sit down at the table while she gets to work behind me.
“Here you go,” she says as she sets a mug in front of me. Abuela swears by chamomile tea. She says it’s a cure for almost anything—colds, stomachaches, poor sleep, and even broken hearts. A couple of years ago, when Luis was dealing with bad acne, Abuela managed to convince him that a cup of chamomile tea a day would clear his skin. He did as she said, and drank tea religiously, but it never seemed to work. When his skin finally started to get better, we all knew he’d just outgrown a bad phase, even though Abuela still claimed it had been the tea.
I reach for the cup, feeling the heat radiating from it before my fingers even make contact with the ceramic. I decide to let it cool for a little while, but Abuela takes a long sip from her own mug as if the temperature was just right.
“Diego was asking for you earlier,” she tells me.
“Where is he now?”
“In his bedroom.”
I nod slowly to myself. My brother has been locked up in his room, claiming to be doing homework, but I’m able to see right through the wall he’s trying to put up. I just wish I could find the strength to ask him the questions I want to ask—whether he’s mad at me for not saving Mami’s restaurant, whether he’s struggling at school, whether there is anything I can do to make his life just a little easier.
“How about Luis?” I ask in a small voice. “Has he headed out to work?”
Abuela nods. Luis is the only person in our family who seems to be doing better now. I can’t blame him—not really. He started a new job a few days ago, at one of the casinos on Revolución. Now that the restaurant has closed, he is freer than he was before—free to focus on a job that he chose for himself, free to start saving money for his college applications, free from the pressure and the stress of having to save a business that he already knew was beyond saving. He’ll be bringing home a few hundred pesos every week, which, again, is not much, but it’s something.
Abuela and I fall silent, and I keep myself busy by staring down at my cup, watching the way the steam swirls and vanishes as it rises from the hot tea.
“You’re young, Sol,” she says softly, and I look up to meet her gaze.
Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that she is Papi’s mother. He inherited Abuelo’s sharp, straight nose and his square jaw, whereas Abuela has always had softer features. Even though her hair is white and her face is lined with years and years of smiles, and frowns, and narrowed eyes, she still has some of the beauty I’ve seen in old photos. There’s something about her perfectly round jaw and her dark brown eyes that has remained the same.
I watch her intently, waiting to hear what she has to say—hoping that she will find a way to ease all the sadness, and the longing, and the regret I’ve been feeling since I first stepped into the restaurant a few hours ago.
She presses her lips into the faintest of smiles. “You are so young, mija.”
“So what if I am?” I ask.
“I still remember what it was like—being young. You may think I don’t, but I do,” she says, letting out a small laugh. “And I remember how change always seemed so final, so… cruel. But in time, you’ll realize what I’ve come to learn after all these years.”
“What is that, Abuela?”
“That change gives as much as it takes, and it can open doors you never even knew existed. And that is a wonderful thing. A wonderful thing, mija. Because without change, we can’t grow. Without change, we can’t gain perspective. And without change, it’s impossible to see that the bad times only give place to the good, and that nothing worth having in life is permanent.”
But I wish it was, I almost say. I hate this—I hate not having Mami, I hate that the restaurant is gone forever. I manage to hold it all in, because I know what Abuela would say in response. She’d only take this as proof that what she’s telling me is true, and that I still have lessons to learn.
Soon enough, none of that matters, because something more important grabs my attention: the lime tree outside our window—the one Mami planted all those years ago. My heart seems to stop beating when I realize its branches are almost bare, and what few leaves it still has look frail and dark brown.
While Abuela and I continue drinking our tea in silence, I can’t take my eyes off the tree. I wish we could blame its dead leaves on the fall, which has brought with it a wave of cool air, but this has never happened before. The tree has never shriveled up this way, regardless of the season.
I can’t help but wonder what Mami would’ve done if she’d been here to see the tree in this state. I have a feeling she would’ve watered it, and fertilized it, and done everything she could to save it. She loved to hold on to memories, and tradition—she loved keeping things the way they were. Then again, maybe she would’ve been quicker than me to listen to Abuela’s advice. Maybe she would’ve made her peace with the fact that the tree’s given us plenty of limes over the years, and found it easier to accept that the time has come to plant a new one.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER FELT AS LONELY WALKING through the hallways of Orangeville High as I do now.
The voices around me are nothing but noise—noise that I try to tune out as I make my way from one class to the next as quickly as possible. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I just keep my gaze firmly on the hallway ahead of me, even as I feel the lockers and the walls closing in.
In the cafeteria, I go back to being silent most of the time. They all try—especially Ari, Olivia, and Camila. They ask about my weekends at home, and about work at the store, but even though I answer all of their questions, I can’t find a way to act bright, or happy, or to lower my walls.
Dinners with Ari and Nancy have also been quieter than usual. After I told them the restaurant was closing down, something seemed to change between us. Maybe it’s just the fact that my stay at their house has become more permanent. Because now that we know the restaurant will never become our main source of income again, this is just the way life is now. Papi will keep bringing in money from odd jobs, Luis will keep working at the casino, and I’ll keep working at Wallen’s.
My name is María de la Soledad Martínez. I was born on December 18 in Chula Vista, California. I grew up in Tijuana, and I left home at sixteen years old, to move in permanently with my childhood friend and her mom.
Maybe Abuela wasn’t entirely wrong when she said change can bring unexpected things. Because, since the restaurant closed, I’ve found it a lot easier to accept that I don’t have to be anyone other than Soledad. After trying and failing to be Sol for years, I’ve finally made my peace with the idea that I don’t have to run away from my loneliness or my sadness. Lately, I’ve been trying to embrace them, to welcome the idea that this is who I’ve been meant to be all along. I am Soledad Martínez—always have been, and always will be.
“Uh… Soledad?”
I keep walking. I’m already running late for next period, and the chances that someone would be talking to me in the hallway are just too low. There must be a different girl named Soledad they’re calling after.
“Wait, Soledad!”
I turn around to find a short guy with shiny black hair walking toward me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before, but from the way he’s smiling, he seems to know me.
“Hey,” he says, hugging a green clipboard against his chest. “Bruno told me about you.”
I shake my head slightly. “What?”
“I—I mean, he told me to reach out to you,” he says. “I’m Irwin. I’m putting together the petition so the school board will let Bruno stay.”
“Oh.” I haven’t given this much thought lately. The whispers have persisted—whispers about Bruno, and the school board hearing, and the petition that’s going around, but I haven’t paid much attention to any of it. I haven’t paid attention to anything, really—not my classes, not my exams, not my homework assignments. All that matters is working at the store—so much that my dreams are filled with nothing but hangers, and racks, and warehouses so dark and big that I get lost within their depths.
Irwin raises his eyebrows at me. “So… will you sign it?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, of course. Do you have a pen?”
The list isn’t too long—there’s probably fifteen or twenty names above the line where I sign mine, which makes me wonder if he’s just using a fresh sheet, or if these are the only people who have been willing to stand up for Bruno so far. Either way, I don’t have the strength to ask.
“Good luck,” I say as I hand him back the pen and clipboard. “And thanks for doing this.”
I manage to give him a small smile, and then I turn away. Before I can take even a step forward, however, he stops me.
“Uh, Bruno said something else,” Irwin says, which makes me turn back toward him, curious. “He—he said you two used to commute together sometimes.”
Slowly, I nod. The early mornings when I would run into Bruno on the bridge already feel like forever ago. It’s as if all that used to happen in a different world, a different lifetime, even though it’s only been a couple of months since I stopped doing the commute daily.
“Well… I just thought, if we’re able to get people to speak up for Bruno during the hearing… you might be a good person for it.”
“Me?”
“Well, you were there that day in the cafeteria, right? You saw everything that went down between Bruno and Jack, so maybe you could tell your version of what happened. And—and you also know Bruno. You’d be able to tell the people from the school board about him.”
“I don’t—”
“I mean, you have a similar background. You’re both from Tijuana.”
“So?”
“So they might listen to you. They might see all the ways that you and Bruno are similar, and how hard you both work. You might be able to sway their opinion.”
“No,” I say in a whisper. “No, I can’t.”
“But Bruno needs—”
I shake my head. “You can have my signature for the petition, but that’s it.”
The thought of talking in front of all those people from the school board makes me nauseous, and not only because I’ve always been terrified of speaking in front of crowds. There’s also something about what Irwin is saying that sounds so wrong—the idea that I might be able to help the board see the ways in which Bruno and I are similar. Maybe Irwin means no harm. Maybe he’s desperate for solutions and trying whatever he can think of, but I can’t do what he’s asking me to do—I could never stand in front of the board and try to convince them that Bruno has to stay in school because he and I are quiet, or because we’re good students, or because we don’t usually get in trouble. If they can’t see for themselves that Bruno belongs in this school because he was born in this country, and because he needs an education, and because he deserves to have dreams for the future, then nothing I could say will sway them.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Irwin says quickly. “You can let me know once you’ve thought about it. We could really use your help, Soledad.”
The bell rings in that moment, and I’m grateful it does. With one last half-smile at Irwin, I turn around and run down the hallway toward trig.
Even after I’ve sat at a desk and the teacher has closed the classroom door, my heartbeat doesn’t slow down. At first, I think it’s because I ran here, but after a while I realize there’s something else in the back of my mind—another reason I can’t do what Irwin has asked me to do.
My heart gives a violent lurch when I think about sitting in front of a bunch of people and telling them about how I used to cross the border every day. No one’s ever questioned my place in this school—not the teachers, not the principal’s office, not the school board. But if the people from the board started asking me questions about why I used Ari’s address for registration and why I haven’t always lived in her house, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself for willingly walking into that situation, for putting my own spot in this school at risk.
But then I start thinking about the few names on the petition, and the look on Irwin’s face when I turned him down, and the hoarseness in Bruno’s voice the last time I talked to him. I wish I was brave enough to speak up for him. I wish I could find a way to help—that I could do more.
I wake up before dawn on a Thursday morning in October. The early morning shifts haven’t killed me yet, but they very well might. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep doing this—how many more weeks I’ll be able to get up and go to work after getting barely any sleep.
It’s not just about me, either. I’m worried about Nancy. The more tired she looks every morning, and the quieter the car gets during the drive, the more I tell myself that I might not be able to accept her offer to drive me up to San Diego on Tuesdays and Thursdays much longer.
I get dressed in the darkness of Ceci’s bedroom. Turning on the lights would be too harsh on my eyes, so I move between the shadows, guided only by the soft glow of the moon coming into the room through the thin curtains.
My eyes keep shutting, and my body is so heavy I’m having a hard time fitting my legs through the holes of my jeans. Somewhere outside the door, I hear low voices, which tells me Nancy has already turned on the early morning news while she waits for me.
When I step out of my bedroom, however, I find Nancy sitting on the couch, her eyes tightly shut and her mouth hanging open. She’s wearing her pajamas, and there are infomercials playing on the television. She must’ve fallen asleep out here last night.
“Nancy?” I whisper.
She doesn’t move.
“Nancy,” I say again. I really don’t want to wake her—especially not when she’s been working long shifts at the salon and she’s probably had a terrible night’s sleep sitting here—but the time on the microwave is getting dangerously close to four thirty, and the only way I’ll get to work on time is if she drives me.
