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Gabi, a Girl in Pieces. Isabel Quintero
Читать онлайн.Название Gabi, a Girl in Pieces
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781935955962
Автор произведения Isabel Quintero
Жанр Учебная литература
Издательство Ingram
Morena. Bonita. Preciosa. Flaca. Flaquita.
On the other hand, I have the kind of skin that is not allowed in the sun for more than fifteen minutes before turning into an overcooked lobster. Sunburn for sure each time I visit the beach. My skin is there for all the world to see and point at and judge. Guerra. Casper. Ghost. Freckle Face. Ugly. Whitey. White girl. Gringa. I’ve been called all of those names. Skin that doesn’t make me Mexican enough. Skin that always makes people say, “You’re not what a Mexican’s supposed to look like.” To which I respond, “Well, what is a Mexican supposed to look like? Am I supposed to be brown and short? Carry a leaf blower on my back? Speak with a thick accent? Say things like ‘I no spik ingles?’ Should I have dark hair and dark eyes, like my mother and grandmother?”
This skin thing always pisses me off. What I need is a nopal on my forehead to let the world know about my roots. One of those flat cactus plants that my grandpa grew behind his house before he died—nopal en la frente. Yup. That would solve all my problems. It would say, “This lightskinned White-looking young lady is of Mexican descent. Really she is. Yes, she speaks Spanish. And English too. She is a sight to see, folks, a real marvel. (Unless you travel to Mexico where there are lots more like her.)” The nopal would solve those problems.
And besides the whole skin situation to annoy me, there are people going around school in sombreros and mustaches and acting like idiots. Apparently along with being brown, we all have mustaches.
At lunch time there were activities for us to participate in, but we skipped out on them because we had heard they were going to be really lame like a churro-eating contest and a guess-that-Spanish-word and the ever popular Mexican Independence Day game—pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. After lunch was my poetry class, which is not as bad as I thought. Today we actually began writing poems. Ms. Abernard had us write haikus (a Japanese style of poetry that has 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second line, and 5 in the last line). Here is a sad one that I just wrote:
Joshua Moore is gone
My heart in seven pieces
I am not lucky
Having a father who is addicted to meth is exhausting. It’s like you have to walk on eggshells all the time. Have to be worried all the time. Have to be scared all the time. And definitely have to be anxious all the time. People on meth are always looking for and thinking about meth. That’s it. There is nothing more important to the meth addict than the next fix. They’re always chasing something they will never catch and even though they know this, they will never stop chasing it because they can’t. It is really sad. We have been on the sidelines watching my dad chase it since I can remember. His teeth are already gone, his skin is getting gross, plus he looks so much older than he is. Sometimes when he’s crashed on the living room floor, I just sit and watch him, pretend he’s sleeping instead of passed out. Making sure he doesn’t die. My father’s addiction has also forced me to learn so many things that most of my classmates don’t know. Things I wish I didn’t know. I wish I was ignorant like they are. I wish I could come home and unknow and unsee things. I wonder how that would be, having a father who wasn’t an addict?
WORDS I’VE HAD TO LEARN BECAUSE OF MY FATHER
Dopamine
Formication
Meth Mouth
Receptors
Tweaking
Methamphetamine
Neurotransmitter
Intravenous
Chronic
Psychotic
Hepatitis B and C
Xerostomia
Dependence
Hyperactive
Obsessive
Aggressive
Depressed
Why is my life surrounded by so much fucking drama? Why? I just got my SATs back. Obviously I did well, so that is not the dramatic part. People are still talking about how Cindy is pregnant. Like she is the only pregnant girl in the history of our school. This is obviously not the case, though Santa Maria de Los Rosales High School does have a reputation for the least amount of pregnant girls in our school district—a very strange reputation to have. I mean it’s not like the students here don’t have sex, because they do, but maybe they all use condoms or something. Anyways, people are still running their mouths about the whole situation. German was trying to be nice to Cindy and was sitting at our table at lunch, which was really, really annoying, and it was obvious that it was making her really uncomfortable, but she never asked him to leave. I warned her that he was an ass and that she shouldn’t fall for his stupid lines again, and she was like, “Whatever. You don’t know anything about these things. You haven’t even kissed a guy yet.” Ouch. Even Sebastian told her that that was mean. But Cindy was right. I have never been kissed. Never ever. Unless you count Pancho in kindergarten, which I don’t. Because at this point in the game, kindergarten kisses don’t count. My lips were pure and untouched, waiting for the right moment, for something to come along and snatch them up. Cindy apologized, but it still stings. Plus, I was right. German was just trying to be smooth, but it didn’t work because we caught him making out with Sonia in the school parking lot. I didn’t throw it in Cindy’s face, but I hope she learned her lesson.
Something else happened today. I don’t even want to write it down, but I have to put it away somewhere and hope the dirty feeling goes away. This is the thing about drug addicts: all they can think about is getting high. And the consequences—who they hurt or what they have to sell, steal or give away—don’t matter. The addict is an insatiable beast. He or she is no longer the person they were before that first high. After the transformation, the beast is always on the hunt. But he will never find what he is looking for. And even if he tries to transform back into the person he was, because that hunger is never satisfied, the beast never goes away. It is always itching to burst through flesh and sinew, turning everything to shit. My father is that beast. Today we found out that he owes a lot of money. So much money that some nice gentleman came to our house to tell my mom that either he gets his money, or she has to sleep with him. Yup, that was the deal that was made. All the money that my mom has been saving for months to see my sick grandma in Mexico… gone. I refuse to believe that my father would make such a deal. That it’s some sort of movie shit that doesn’t happen in real life. And therefore couldn’t happen in my real life. But this is the beast we’re talking about. The beast has no morals and, Gabi, you better believe that it is very likely that in a moment of desperation, your father completely lost himself. Time for another letter to my dad.
Dear Papi,
I can’t find the words to say this, but I will try. This is bullshit. You have broken my heart again. And again. And again. I can’t believe you would make us go through this. I want to believe that you would never make a deal that involves trading your wife for drugs, but then I would be lying to myself. I want you to get help. We all want you to get help. You need help. This is the lowest you have ever been. Please get help. Mom is not a prostitute. She shouldn’t have to pay your debts. None of us should. I shouldn’t have to worry every night that we’ll get a call telling us someone found you in a park, beaten, overdosed or dead. I cannot force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I know you want to get better. I know you are tired of living like this. Papi, I love you. Te quiero con todo mi corazon. Come back, please.
Gabi