I WANNA BE YOUR SHOEBOX by CRISTINA GARCÍA

Author:CRISTINA GARCÍA
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781416996842
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2008-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

6 JANUARY

WE’VE MOVED, AND IT’S HORRIBLE. M OM RENTED THIS REALLY depressing two-bedroom apartment in Pacific Palisades with gross wall-to-wall carpet and old-people clutter and kitchen appliances from the last century. There was even a portable toilet right in the middle of the master bedroom. Mom and I kept pushing it back and forth into each other’s rooms, laughing and joking, but in the end, she hid it in a closet. She says that a famous philosopher lived here and died in the very bed she’s sleeping in! His widow, who’s on the East Coast now, is a small-time literary agent. In any case, Mom assures me, the apartment is filled with great books—of course, nothing I want to read.

My bed is hard, and there isn’t enough light, and I can’t practice my clarinet after eight o’clock because it disturbs the retirees in the building. I don’t understand how we went from living in a beautiful ocean-view home to this dump.

“Why do we have to live here?” I whine on our second night there.

“Because it’s all I can afford right now,” Mom says simply.

“How long do we have to stay?”

“I told you already—until you graduate.”

“And then?”

“Mi amor, I don’t know yet. I’m still waiting to hear about that teaching job.”

“We’re not moving to Texas, are we? Because I swear I’ll go live with Dad!” I’m on the verge of tears again, but I try to hold them back.

“No, we’re not moving to Texas. Eventually, Jim will move to California with us.”

“Dad thinks you’re just tired of living in L.A., that you could stay if you wanted.”

“Your father—,” Mom starts angrily, but she thinks better of it and softens her tone. “Your dad loves you very much. Nothing in the world will ever change that, no matter where we end up.”

Not only are we living in a new place, but everything feels different to me since we got back from Guatemala. I’ve been having this strange dream every night about an owl talking to me from the top of a tree. It talks and talks, but I can only make out about every tenth word. “Brown” comes up a lot; so does “fire.” I strain to hear more, but other forest sounds interfere. I wonder if it has anything to do with our near drowning on Lake Atitlán. I’ve heard Mom retell the story a thousand times, each time more outrageously. It’s so embarrassing, especially when she looks to me to back her up. Isn’t that right, Yumi? Isn’t that the way it happened?

In her latest version she referred to our accident as a “shipwreck.” The captain was straight out of Moby-Dick, and she’s now claiming that the chickens broke out of their crates and flew to shore like a flock of seagulls. Do I need to mention that Mom’s a big fan of magical realism?

Tía Paloma is still stuck in bureaucratic limbo in Guatemala trying to bring Isabel home. It’s going on a month now, but my aunt is determined not to leave the country without her baby.

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