Gabi, a Girl in Pieces - Isabel Quintero

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I had been thinking about doing, but knew I shouldn’t. Things were out of order—I was supposed to wait for him. More embarrassment.

      “Wow. I didn’t know you had it in you. I guess there’s more than meets the eye.” That’s what he said. Stupid cliché but readily accepted.

      I guess there is more to this fat girl than even this fat girl ever knew.

      I called Cindy when I got home and told her that something happened, but I couldn’t tell her over the phone because my mom might be on the other line. I hate when she does that. I don’t know why she doesn’t trust me. Then Cindy asked me why I was being old fashioned and using a landline. “I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I said. “And my mom said that she wasn’t buying me another one. So I guess it’s back to the Stone Age. Pretty soon I’ll be writing you letters by candlelight.” She laughed, and I told her I’d pick her up tomorrow and then I called Sebastian and told him the same thing.

      I really don’t get why my mom doesn’t trust me and has to listen to my phone conversations or why she doesn’t think I’m responsible. I get good grades and try to help around the house, and I don’t get in trouble at school. Which is more than I can say for Beto who is currently failing P.E. How do you fail P.E.? I don’t know, but apparently my brother does. Yet I am labeled the irresponsible and lazy one.

      When I asked my mom what I do that makes me lazy and irresponsible, she said, “I started working when I was five. En el campo. In the fields! Camotes. Beans. Ejotes. Strawberries. Tomatoes and even cacahuates. Stooped over digging in dirt looking for peanuts, picking each green bean, each tomato. Backs hunched over as far as the eye could see so if you looked down the rows all you would see were legs without torsos. We started at the crack of dawn, apenas salía el sol, and there we were with sacks on our backs—stooping, picking, filling, stooping, picking, filling. We’d go home with cracked hands and black nails. Then at seven we would go to mass, tired. But a pinch from your grandma would wake us up. Then to school and then back to the fields. And you can’t even throw out the trash?” There was nothing I could say after she said that. After that speech, I actually felt lazy and irresponsible. And a little ashamed of being such a whiner.

       October 13

      I dropped Beto off at school and told him he better not tell Mom about me ditching first period or else I’d tell her about the girl going out of his window the night before. Then me, Sebastian and Cindy went to Starbucks so we could have some time to speak privately. I couldn’t wait to tell them about what had happened. At first it didn’t go as planned.

      “Wait. You kissed him?” asked Cindy.

      “Yes!” I said, super excited.

      But then she went on and on about how that made me seem desperate and easy and blah blah blah. I wanted to say, “Let’s not talk about desperate and easy,” but that would have made her cry, and I would have felt like shit afterwards.

      Sebastian, however, thought it was pretty brave of me to go after what I wanted. He said that that’s what love is all about, not being afraid. Though secretly I know he’s afraid. There was a boy from our rival school, JFK High, who had recently gotten the shit kicked out of him because he had been seen holding hands with his boyfriend last week at the mall. The two boys were arrested but released right away. What is this? 1955? But I didn’t bring that up either.

      “Well, it’s not like I planned it. It just happened. It was spur of the moment.” I felt like I had to defend myself. “And where is it written that girls have to wait for boys to kiss them?”

      None of us knew how to answer that question because it wasn’t really written anywhere, but we know it’s part of the unspoken set of girl/boy rules.

      Cindy said, “Well, I don’t know if it was brave or stupid, but I’m glad you had your first kiss.” I could tell that she was just trying to cover for what she had said earlier but, since she was my best friend, I forgave her.

      I didn’t see Eric until our first break. He said, “Where were you this morning? I was looking everywhere for you.” I told him that we had been a little late for school. “Oh. Well, I’m glad I found you.”

      “Por cua?” I asked.

      “Ummm…we…like…I know you know now that I like you.” At this point, we both got super duper red, and I made some sort of affirmative noise, but no real words would come out of my mouth.

      “Weeeellll…I wanted to know…if you…wanted…ummmm…to be…my…you know…girlfriend?”

      “What?”

      That’s how smooth my response was: “What?” I can’t believe that was the first word to come out of my mouth. But I couldn’t explain to him that I couldn’t believe that he, Eric Ramirez—closet history nerd, watcher of stupid television singing competitions, smoker of marijuana, runner of marathons and super hot guy—would actually like me, Gabriela Hernandez—irresponsible daughter, bad girl in the making (according to my mother), semi-decent to possibly good writer, watcher of marathon runners, eater of carne asada tacos (even on Good Friday), and kinda fat girl.

      He looked a little surprised—again. He looked uber-embarrassed and said something like, “Oh…I thought…”

      I had to interrupt him. “No! I mean, yes! I do want to be your girlfriend. I was just…I don’t know…but yes. Affirmative. I will be your girlfriend.” And, for some reason, I felt that I had to say that last part in a robot voice. “Sorry, I get nervous and do robot voices.”

      I lied! I lied about my robot voice! I just did it because it felt like the most natural thing to do at that moment, and if I admitted to him that I felt that way, it probably would have been weirder. I have so much to learn about relationships and being a (normal) girlfriend.

      The rest of the day was great (except for Algebra II of course). I have a boyfriend for the first time ever and all of Santa Maria High School knows it. I am happy. Good night.

       October 20

      Since it’s getting close to Halloween, Ms. Abernard assigned us to read about horror, death, ghosts and other stuff related to Halloween—but not really, because if she said it was about Halloween, she could get in trouble. Which is totally stupid. On the plus side, the poems we have been reading are really good. We read “The Raven,” by Edgar Allen Poe, which we read last year but is still good this year, and we have been reading poems by Sylvia Plath. Sylvia Plath is very dark and always talking about death and suicide. I love it. My favorite poem so far is, “Lady Lazarus.” It’s about her trying to kill herself three times and coming back to life just like Lazarus in the Bible—each time another miracle. Except unlike Lazarus, Sylvia doesn’t seem to be happy about her return.

      Before Ms. Abernard assigned it, I knew what was coming. We have to write a poem about one of the themes we have been reading about. We have already been writing short poems and free writes. Of course Martin already wrote an entire poem about ghosts and death that was brilliant. I think I am going to write about my grandfather who passed away. I miss my abuelito so much. I think about him every day. I can’t believe it has already been a year since he died. Tonight when I get home, I will get crackalackin on it.

      This is my favorite part of “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath because she sounds so ballsy—she tells God and Satan to beware! What the hell! Ugh. So good.

       Herr God, Herr Lucifer

       Beware

       Beware.

      Later that night…

      My dad—who had only this morning been passed out on the living room floor—announced that he was going to sober up. He took us all into the living room and had a meeting and told us he was sorry and that he’s tired of living to get high, and

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