Just Say Yes by Goldy Moldavsky

Author:Goldy Moldavsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

27

At breakfast the next morning, along with the café, toast, butter, and mermelada, there is a new item on the table. When I sit down, my mom holds it up for me to see. “¿Qué es esto?”

I should be shocked that she found my notebook—my marriage plot notebook—but I’m not. I left it on my unmade bed, open to the page where I’d written my plan. And to use the SAT analogy format, my mom is to an unmade bed what a moth is to a flame.

“‘Find an American to marry,’” my mom reads off the page. “Explícate.”

“Es una idea.” I shrug, feign nonchalance. But I watch my mom carefully. I need to know what she thinks.

My argument with Vitaly at the museum shook me. What if he’s right and this is a bad idea? What if I’m not thinking things through in a rational way? Not my fault—according to biology class, my frontal lobe is not fully developed yet.

Maybe I subconsciously left my notebook open on my unmade bed on purpose. Without Vitaly, I need a new sounding board, and since she’s the only other person who knows about my situation, that job falls to my mom. Whatever she has to say, I think I need to hear it.

“Me quiero casar,” I tell her. “Para conseguir mis papeles.”

I want to get married to get my papers. Push back. Punish me.

My mom sets my notebook back down on the table, ironing out the top page with the flat palm of her hand. “¿Por qué quieres casarte ahorita? Eres joven. Hay que enjoy your life.”

She’s saying exactly what I wanted her to, but it feels ridiculous coming out of her mouth. She wants me to hold off on getting married so I can enjoy my life? Like she’s enjoying hers? Afraid at any moment her employer might ask for her Social Security number? Afraid to go to the hospital? Never letting anyone in, literally and figuratively? “I don’t want my life to be like yours.”

When I talk to her in English, I’m pulling my punches. It’s a way to say things to her that I don’t really want her to hear. But this she understands, and I feel terrible for the way it comes out.

“¿Ma, estás contenta?” I ask. “¿Con tu job? ¿Tu vida?” It’s something I never bothered to ask my mom, if she’s okay with the way her life turned out. But I’m doing whole backflips not to end up like her, and I’ve never even tried to find out if the life I’m rejecting is really that bad. I mean, she provided for me. Gave me a roof over my head and food to eat, and toys to play with. The two sides of me are at war: The Latina part of me is deferential and respectful and grateful for everything my mother has done for me to make sure I have a good life, but the American side of me wants to keep asking questions and demanding answers and feels entitled to the same equal rights and opportunities that everyone else has.

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