Rewind to You (35 page)

“I’ve missed you too,” I say.

My eyes sweep the cinder-block walled room, the fluorescent lighting making my eyes wig out. I blink, then glance down at the ratty edges of her nails again. “How’s it going in here, Mama?” I ask, diving right into mission number two.

She doesn’t budge, just glances away for a nanosecond and then flashes a smile. “Really, I can watch TV. Read books. They have a library.”

This breaks my heart, Mama looking for the positive. She’s too optimistic, too sweet. And the last person who deserves to be behind bars.

“Come on, Mama.”

“What?” she says.

“Cut the crap.”

“It’s not crap.” The hitch in her voice betrays her. Mama never was a good liar.

I take in the angular line of her jaw, her hollow cheeks. Mama’s always had an uncanny metabolism, but this is something else. “How’s the food?”

She diverts her gaze with a little grimace. I got her. We Mexicans know food. “Bland,” she admits. “All right, it’s like going to a
really
awful restaurant.”

“I knew it.”

“But let’s not dwell on these things,
Joya
,” she says.

“Fine,” I say.

“How was your last week of school?” she asks.

“Fine.”

“And work?” she asks.

“Good,” I say.

“Are you sick of chocolate yet?”

I give her an absurd look.

She throws a glance upward in defeat. “How dare I ask?”

It’s a good thing I’ve got a good metabolism too or working at The Chocolate Shoppe would really suck.

“I’ll bet you’re already looking forward to soccer this fall,” Mama says, keeping this conversation way too light for comfort.

“Mainly just looking forward to it cooling off; it’s only the first week of June and we’re already way over a hundred degrees,” I say, ignoring the stabbing reminder that Mama won’t be around to see any of my games this fall.

Mama pauses, no doubt fishing for another trivial question I’m not about to let her ask.

“How’s your roommate?” I ask. “You said you were getting someone new?”

“Good, good,” she says.

I pause and try to read her mind. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Mama feigns innocence. “Really, Julianna, there’s nothing to say.”

“Mama,” I say with a dramatic folding of my arms to make my point. “This is me you’re talking to. There’s always something to say. Out with it!”

Mama laughs, a weak little chuckle with no life in it. “Okay, okay,” she concedes with a hesitant roll of her eyes that lets me know something big is coming. Something she’d rather not talk about. “My new roommate,” she begins and lowers her voice, “was convicted of second-degree murder.”

“What?” I shriek.

“I know.”

“How? How did she get into a minimum security? And why does she have to be
your
roommate?”

“We all share a dormitory,” she says. “I have many roommates.”

“But this murderer—”

“Shh, keep it down,” she snaps in a voice pitched for my ears alone.

“This
chick
,” I correct myself, unable to control my volume, “she shares a bunk with you?”

Mama nods. “She was in a maximum security for nineteen years but got transferred here because of good conduct. She’s got health problems, too. We have better doctors.”

“I didn’t know they could do that,” I say, floored. And enraged. The U.S. justice system is so screwy. So much for mission number two. Mama is
not
okay. No wonder she was trying to keep the conversation light. Protect me, even. I have the sudden impulse to drag her to the door and make a run for it.

I try to think of something consoling, something positive, like she would. Something validating like,
It totally sucks that you’re bunking with a homicidal maniac
or perhaps simply,
Hey, it could be worse.
Neither seems quite right though, so I keep my mouth shut.

Mama shrugs. “Who knows, maybe I can get a few months shaved off my sentence for good conduct as well.”

Hope springs up. But hope is a cruel thing because it often leads to nothing more than pain. I dare to let myself feel it though, grasp it, hold on tight.

“What about the pageant, Julianna?” Mama says, her eyes lighting up with sudden interest. “How is everything coming along for that?”

It’s like a splash of cold water in the face, this hairpin turn in the conversation. “The
pageant
?”

“Yes,” she urges and leans forward. “It’s only a few months away.”

“Mama,” I say, sounding like a seven-year-old being asked to clean her room. Terrifying images of my Little Miss Arizona days flash before my eyes, frizzy hair and all. Let’s get one thing straight: I am not made for beauty pageants. We proved that once and for all long ago. If this was anyone besides Mama here, I’d shout
absolutely not
as fast as I can. “I’m . . . well . . . you’re in
here.
”

Clearly, she’s only joking. I never wanted to compete in the pageants she put me up to even when she was around to help. She must know that. I certainly don’t want to come near the Miss Maricopa City Pageant this fall without her. This was perhaps the one and only bonus about Mama going to prison. Guilt latches on with that thought, but it’s true.

Wearing the crown was what teenage Mama lived for, even though her
papi
told her she was too ugly and stupid to win. Believe me, I feel her pain. I wish she had won just to shove it back in his face. But
this
? Yes, she must be joking.

One look at her pleading eyes shatters that hopeful conclusion.

“So?” she says. “You’re still going to do it, right?”

I stare at her with dawning horror as I realize how serious she is, my face scrunched up like I just ate something nasty.

Her face falls as she watches me, the hope that lit up her eyes quickly fading. “You’re at least considering it, aren’t you?”

Getting
out
of the pageant and letting her down easy are about the only things I’ve ever considered. The dark circles under her eyes flag my attention. I try to forget the sight of the fingernails she’s bitten in the past few weeks behind bars.

“I’ll . . . think about it,” I say, immediately ashamed at my lie. I’ll never do it. Like I said, I’m no angel, but lying to my own mother?

Her posture deflates like a flat tire, the air of excitement seeping out with one prick. It hits me with a pang, the guilt. Oh, the guilt. But how could I possibly set myself up for failure again? I’m a magnet for this type of thing, getting my hopes up and failing miserably. Like when I ran for student council last spring.

Mama’s eyes float upward, and a signature smile settles on her lips. I glance back and spot Dad holding a box of Junior Mints. Always Junior Mints.

“How is your
papi
?” Mama asks, breaking the painful silence.

I clear my throat and try hard not to pull a face. This conversation keeps going from bad to worse.
Drunk as ever. Losing it without you.
“Fine,” I lie, shoving the pageant into some deep recess of my mind.

Mama nods. Just once. She misses him too, that much is as plain as day. You see, it’s not like we’re the falling-apart-at-the seams type of family. Mama shouldn’t even be here, if you ask me. This all started because my brother Vic has a bit of a drug problem. Can’t stay off of them actually. We thought he was getting better. Then one morning he was gone, along with the Blu-ray player, the flat screen, Dad’s laptop, Mama’s jewelry, my hard-earned iPhone, and even my piggy bank. My piggy bank! Okay, so maybe we are falling apart at the seams.

That’s when Mama decided to take matters into her own hands. She cooked up a plan at the bank where she worked to bring in some extra cash. It paid for Vic to get proper rehab. It paid for my braces, too, and probably the mortgage payments we were behind on. Only problem? It was illegal.

Mortgage fraud.

I still remember the jerk FBI agent who put her away. Tall with a square jaw and the type of blond hair that grown men his age usually outgrow. He was as cocky as you’d expect any fed to be. The type of guy who has no idea what true desperation will do to a person.

Mama waves Dad over. I sit upright, about to protest. Mission number three. I didn’t tell her what I desperately need to, the reason I insisted on a moment alone with her in the first place.

Dad sits. They hold hands across the table and start talking. I zone out.

I think about the money, the forty-five dollars I kept hidden away in my underwear drawer. I can close my eyes now and see them: one five, two tens, and a twenty. They were there just yesterday. I know it.

This morning when I walked into my room though, I sensed something was off. Things were . . . out of place. Nothing huge or even anything specific. Just off.

I yanked open the drawer and checked. Double-checked. Triple-checked. Dumped everything out and raked through it all. No money.

Vic. The jerk.

He denied, but I know better. If Mama only knew what I’m convinced he’s up to again. She genuinely thinks rehab wiped drugs out of Vic’s life—our lives—for good. Only one thing intimidates me more than this place: Vic on cocaine. Actually, it terrifies me.

I tune back in to my parents’ conversation in time to hear Dad telling Mama about his newest sculpture. Heaven help us all, that man turns our house into a scrapyard whenever a creative high pulls him into the clouds. Most people get rid of spare junk and try to keep mud outside of the house. When your dad is a sculptor, those items are easier to come by than a clean fork at dinnertime.

“This is the one, Sonia,” he says. I almost forgot how contagious his smile can be. “This piece is gonna be big, I’ve got a good feeling.”

“That’s wonderful, John,” Mama says, practically glowing.

I don’t buy it for a minute.

Dad has had plenty of “big projects” and “good feelings.” He used to work as a design sculptor for General Motors. Good salary. We finally left the apartment and bought a house of our own, the house we are currently hanging on to by a thread of late-paid bills. Good salary or not, Dad decided he hated his job. Said his creativity couldn’t “soar.” Whatever.

“Julianna and I were just talking about the pageant,” Mama says. I snap to. She pats my dad’s hand like he’s supposed to pipe in and help the cause.

Dad shifts in his chair and avoids eye contact, like we’re discussing various brands of tampons at a grocery store. “Oh,” he mumbles with fake interest.

Mama doesn’t notice, just smiles. Everything goes silent.

I start chewing my own nails.

“Was there something else you wanted to tell me,
Joya
?”

Both Mama and Dad are looking at me now. My throat dries up like a weed in the Sonoran Desert. I ache to tell them about Vic, that he’s about to do something stupid. But Mama’s roommate is a second-degree murderer and Dad’s creative juices are finally flowing again. I’m highly doubtful, but on the off chance that Dad is onto a piece that will bring in some money, I don’t want to spout off disturbing news that could mess with his artistic muses. And besides, it’s all suspicion. I don’t know for sure that Vic is on drugs.

I look down. “No.”

“You sure?” Dad asks.

I look up into his blue eyes. Whole weeks have gone by when he’s too engrossed in sculptor la-la land to even notice I exist.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

We exchange hugs as the disturbing scent of questionable cafeteria food drifts our way. Like bad spices and burned meat. Mama’s face ages ten years by the time she steps back. Her eyes bleed pain, ooze regret. I’ve got a feeling things are only going to get worse for her too, especially with Vic out of rehab and on the loose.

Her eyes flit over to the door from where she came and then latch onto mine again. I see it: all of the dashed dreams from the detours life has thrown on her path. She’ll spend every holiday for the next three years in prison. She won’t see me or Vic graduate. And even when she gets out, it will be more of the same. She’ll never live a day without scraping by. She’ll never live her big dreams. She never wore the crown. Stupid prison. Stupid homicidal roommate. Stupid Vic. Stupid, stupid pageant.

“I’ll do it.”

Photo by Tracy Anderson

Laura Johnston lives in sunny Arizona with her husband and two children. Growing up in Utah with five siblings, a few horses, peach trees, beehives, and gardens, she developed an active imagination and always loved a good story. She fell in love with the young adult genre both through her experience in high school as well as her job later as a high school teacher. Laura enjoys running, playing tennis, sewing, traveling, writing, writing, and more writing, and above all, spending time with her husband and kids.
Rewind to You
is her debut novel. You can visit her at laurajohnstonauthor.com.

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