FATIMA THE FIERCE: a peek at my (sort of) "son-approved," middle-grade WIP

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Chapter 5

When the woman picks me up from school, she’s smiling like she’s excited to hear about my day. Henry is already in the backseat. He’s wearing headphones and drawing a picture on a big tray that sits over his lap, but as soon as he notices me, he yanks the headphones off."

“Want to look at stars tonight?” he shouts before I even have my butt on the seat. He points to his picture which is a night sky of stars. I feel bad, but I ignore him, hoping this tells the woman I don’t want to talk to her, either. It does. She doesn’t ask a single thing, and instead, turns her focus to Henry.

“Henry, don’t forget what tonight is,” she says.

“What’s tonight?” he wonders out loud.

“Think,” she says. “What do we usually do around this time every year?”

“Uhhhh, Halloween?” he offers.

“Nope.”

“Ummm…”

Eye roll.

“Mamá Flor, can you please give me a hint?” he swings his legs back and forth and clasps his hands at his chest.

Ugh. Please give him a hint. I beg in my head.

“Tonight, we make our ofrenda.”

“Ohhhh!” he yells, and I wince at the sound he’s brought into the car. “Are we making sugar skulls?” he asks.

“Yup.”

“Ohhhh!” he yells again, and I’m ready to jump out of this car AKA death box. What the heck is an ofrenda and sugar skulls? Did my caseworker accidentally leave me with a cult? Hello?

The rules of the woman and man’s house are everyone comes to dinner even if you don’t eat. Everyone sits together for thirty minutes after dinner in the family room even if you don’t play a board game AKA “bored” game. But games can’t be bored I guess because they aren’t people. Sigh.

So, I follow the house rules, and pick quietly at my peas, deciding to keep my problems to myself even though I know I could text Judith if I really wanted to, but that would mean telling her about what happened to Papí and then she’ll ask for the details about how he died and that story is buried deep inside of me and I’ll never let it out.

The man clears his throat. “So, Fatima, do you know about Día de los Muertos?”

He’s asking me if I know about Day of the Dead while I’m trying to remember where I left that business card my caseworker gave me and told me to keep safe. There aren’t too many things in my room yet. I’m sure I can find it. I shake my head, no, still focused on my peas.

“Well, would it be okay if we talk about it?”

“Yes!” Henry shouts. “Let’s talk about it,” he pleads, and I swear, if that kid screams one more time today…

“Henry,” the woman says in a lowered voice, “Let’s let Fatima answer, sí? Yes?”

“Sí,” he agrees, and all three of them look at me.

“Sure,” I mouth. Anything to get this over with.

“Día de los Muertos is a Mexican holiday where we celebrate the life of the people we love, people who have died,” the man says.

Died? My stomach tightens. Is the man doing this on purpose to hurt me? I cross my arms over her chest and keep staring at my plate.

“Knowing our loved ones will be sad if we’re grieving, we use this time to remember them with joy. It’s a celebration,” he says.

A celebration? I almost slap my hand to my forehead.

“More,” Henry says.

The woman adds, “On this day, the bridge between the Land of the Dead and the Land of the Living thins out enough for spirits to cross over, but the invitation is only for the spirits who have pictures on ofrendas in the Land of the Living. They follow a path made of marigolds and join their families in celebrating the lives they once lived.”

“Henry,” the man says, “Do you remember some of the items you’ll see on Día de los Muertos?”

Henry shoots his hand up in the air like he’s in school, and I bite my tongue before saying something mean.

“Calacas, calaveras, candy, calaveras de azúcar, marigolds, ummm…”

“P, starts with a P,” the woman says, giving him a hint.

“Pan de muertos!” he yells, and I bunch my fingers into a fist.

“Very good,” the woman says, repeating the list, “Skeletons, skulls, sugar skulls and bread of the dead.” She rubs his back to reward him. “And tonight, we’re making our family’s ofrenda. We’re going to put pictures of our loved ones on our altar, with candles, orange marigolds, fruits, sugar skulls, the pan de muertos, and personal belongings of the dead like my abuelas favorite shoes and my mamá’s jewelry.”

“I’m going to put my father’s violin on the altar,” the man says.

“And I’m going to put a picture of my mom on the altar,” Henry says.

His mom? When he says this, I break the staring contest with my peas and look over at him, tears welling in my eyes. He lost his mom just like I lost Papí.

The woman seems to notice my eyes and puts her hand over mine, but I quickly pull it in and onto my lap. She offers a smile anyway. “Fatima, would you like to put your papá’s photo on our family altar?”

Be polite, I warn myself, but polite is far, far away from here. “I’m sorry, but I’m not giving up his photo for your Halloween sacrifice altar,” I spit out, cringing on the inside that such mean words could come out of me.

“It’s not Halloween,” Henry corrects me, all matter-of-factly.

“May I be excused?” I ask, more like beg.

“Fatima,” the woman says, “We have thirty minutes of family time, and then you may be excused.”

I work really hard to make sure my eyes don’t roll and nod my head. It’s Henry’s night for the dishes, and he and the man get that done while the woman pulls things out of the hall closet for her Halloween sacrifice altar. I sit on the sofa, arms crossed, and peer over at her bookshelf when I notice the entire Hunger Games series. My eyes go wide, and I can’t stay in my seat. I go over to the shelf and run my hands over the books.

“Anything interesting over there?” she asks.

“The Hunger Games?” I ask, unsure, but I don’t know why I even bother. She probably won’t let me read it anyway.

“Ooh, I read the entire series twice. Have you read it?”

“I’m still on the first book.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat then. I’m jealous. I wish I was starting it all over again for the first time. One of the best series I’ve ever read.”

“Really? I can read it?”

“Of course. Take it,” she nods, plucking her decorative items off of her entry way table that I’m guessing is going to be her altar.

“Thank you,” I murmur, and pull the book off the shelf. It feels like power in my hands, an old friend I really need right now. I settle in on the sofa and quickly find my place where I left off before my world ended while Henry and the man finally come in to help the woman with her devil altar.

Henry is loud, interrupting my reading, and I can’t wait until “family time” is over. I plan on staying up all night reading this book. The woman holds up a lacy white table cloth. “What is this called, Henry?” she quizzes.

“The mantel,” he shouts. Always shouting.

She lays it over the table and the three of them are quick in their work, setting things down. When they are finished, they all step back to take in their creation. When I sneak a look, it’s kind of pretty. Weird, scary, but pretty. The photographs are in a line. There are pretty candles and the sugar skulls Henry talked about. There are some oranges and a bottle of perfume, shoes, and the violin. Papí and I never did this even though the man says it’s a Mexican tradition. Papí and I had bigger things to worry about besides believing dead people could come back and hang out at our house. I wonder for only a quick second, if Papí would come back to see me if I did put his photo on their altar, but I quickly worry that something might happen to it, and I don’t want to get my hopes up anyway in case he doesn’t come.

Chapter 6

Friday night is movie night. I don’t care for movie night. I did once upon a time when Fridays actually meant something. Papí and I would use the entire week to decide what we wanted to do. Sometimes we’d go to a concert. Sometimes we’d go to the movie theater. Sometimes we’d go camping—which used to be my favorite until… and sometimes we did exactly this, family movie night. We were a family, even if it was only the two of us.

The woman hands each of us our own popcorn bucket, Henry’s with so much extra butter, I can smell it from across the sofa. I like to toss an entire box of gummy bears into my popcorn. It is the perfect balance of sweet and salty. There are candies laid out on the coffee table, the same kind you’d find at a real theater but no gummy bears. The man has strung up a big white sheet on the wall and has a projector set up behind us. I’m expecting to have to watch old family movies but am surprised when Rapunzel comes on. It’s the most excitement I’ve felt in a long time, but I don’t want to show it. These people get way too excited when I show emotions. I relax a little bit and take a few bites of popcorn when no one is looking.

Henry is as annoying and as loud as ever, yelling, “Best day ever!” Like Rapunzel does when she’s swinging around the forest by her hair. The grown-ups let him have his fun, but finally, thankfully, the woman gets him to calm down by talking to him in a low tone and asking him to match it with his voice. Ugh. When he forgets and tries to get loud again, she says, “Henry, I want you to behave and watch the movie, okay?” It sounds like she’s trying to scold him but isn’t very good at it. Then she reaches her finger out to him, like she did at the school, and he touches the tip of it with his own. It’s like magic. That dumb kid is completely quiet for the rest of the movie. The rest of the movie, I tell you.

When it’s over, the man offers to take Henry upstairs for bed, and he and the woman give each other a look. I don’t know what kind of a look that is, but I figure it out pretty quickly when she comes and sits next to me on the couch.

“Fatima, I got a call from your caseworker earlier today.” She stares down at her hands which are folded on her lap. “She told me that tomorrow, a woman named Lorreta Sands would like to come here to see you.”

The box under Papí’s bed with pictures of A Somebody comes into my head. “Would like to?” I ask to be sure.

“She is going to come here to see you,” the woman corrects herself.

“I don’t want to see her,” I argue, my good hand curling up into a fist.

“I know. I’m aware of your relationship with her, but we don’t have a choice. She’ll be coming here in the morning to visit with you, but I’ll be as close as you need me to be.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? I don’t know either of you,” I spit out before I can catch my words.

She winces a little bit but then gives me a half smile. “I know. But I’ll be here anyway.”

“What time is she coming?”

“Ten-thirty.”

I get up off the couch and set my popcorn down on the coffee table even though I saw everyone else take theirs to the kitchen. “Goodnight,” I mumble. My legs are heavy as I walk up the stairs. My hands are trembly and so is my heart. I never thought I’d ever have to meet A Somebody. What the heck does she want? When I’m finally laying in bed in the dark, the answer comes blaring into my brain. I’m going to have to go with her. She’s my only living relative if that’s what you could even call her. I’d rather be dead than go with her, and I’m going to make sure she knows that.

I toss and turn the whole night. When I finally find some whisper of sleep, it feels like only five minutes pass before the sun is teasing on my eyelids. The dreadful day has begun. Saturdays are for sleeping in or for helping your papá pull the weeds in the backyard. They’re for walking your dog if you have one. They’re not for meeting the lady who carried you in her stomach for nine months and the second you were out she decided she didn’t want you after all. But here we are.

I wonder how I can make myself unlovable. Katniss from the Hunger Games was unlovable. I try to remember what she did to be that way, but all she did was be herself. She didn’t really show too many emotions except for with the people she loved, and there’s nobody left in this world I love so maybe I can do the same. I decide not to comb my hair. Maybe she won’t like a kid with messy hair. And I debate on not brushing my teeth, but not even I can handle that, so I do. I decide I’ll answer all her questions with “Yes” or “No.”

I stare at myself in the mirror, take a deep breath, and let it out. When I get downstairs, Henry is going on and on and on about Orion coming next month? I don’t care to know who the heck Orion is. There’s a pancake platter with blueberries and strawberry slices at the center of the table, but I’m too nervous to eat.

“Good morning,” the man says, smiling as I take my seat.

“Morning.” I leave off the good because there’s nothing good about this morning.

“How are you feeling today?” the woman asks.

I want to remind her Papí is dead. That the only person in this world I loved, the only person in the world who loved me is gone. I want to remind her a complete stranger is coming to try to take me away, and really, I don’t know if that’s good or bad since this and any other place that isn’t my home is strange and wrong to me. All of that running through my head must be showing on my face because the man clears his throat and changes the subject.

“Henry and I are going to the warehouse,” he says. “I need a Masonry drill bit to put up the doorbell camera.”

“We’re gonna be able to see all the people that come to our front door,” Henry adds, using his shirtsleeve to wipe his milky mustache off his upper lip. I pick up a napkin and throw it at him, but it doesn’t go far. It flutters and lands right in front of me.

I pick at the plate the woman puts in front of me. I want this to be over. When the man and Henry leave, I help the woman clean up the kitchen not to be nice or lovable, but to pass the time. And when I can’t take it anymore, the doorbell rings.

Chapter 7

A Somebody looks almost exactly like her picture that I only allowed myself to look at once. The only difference is that her hair isn’t long and blonde anymore. It’s light brown and short, curving under her chin. Even though she’s a grownup, she has freckles like Henry, splashed on her cheeks. Our eyes are exactly the same, something I already knew from her picture, but it’s different seeing it in real life. She looks… nice. If I didn’t know how much I hated her, I might smile at her while in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store or give her directions if she was lost.

She sits on the sofa across from me as the woman is in her kitchen making tea.

“I’m really sorry about your father,” she says, her voice low.

How do I respond? I was only going to give yes or no answers, but this isn’t a question. I can’t say thank you because that’s something someone lovable would say. I decide to give a shoulder shrug. Her eyes go wide, and she blinks a few times.

“You’re so big now. It’s amazing.” She gives a nervous laugh. “And you look just like my mother.”

I bite down hard on my lower lip. Like her mother? How dare she compare me to people I don’t know. She’s the reason I don’t know any of them. I stare down at my shoes and tap my toe against the leg of the coffee table.

“Oh,” she says, finally starting to get that I don’t want to answer her. “Well…so what kind of things are you into?” Okay so maybe she’s not getting it.

I shrug. What’s it to her anyway?

“Hey, look,” she says, the sweetness quickly disappearing from her voice. “I’m really trying here.” Her mouth twists as she wrestles to keep a frown away.

Yes or no answers! I remind myself, but I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “Trying? You’re really trying? Why didn’t you try when I was a baby? On my first day of school? When I needed stitches in my chin from trying to ride Diego’s skateboard?” I jut out my chin and point to the scar. “Where were you when I needed to buy my first bra?” I’m shouting now, leaning forward on the edge of the sofa, realizing now how much that moment really did bother me. “And what about… what about…” My voice breaks. Why am I even bothering? It’s pointless.

The woman hurries in from her kitchen and drops a tray onto the coffee table. The tea in the pitcher sloshes and spills over onto the tray and starts soaking into the napkins and sugar cookies. “Qué está pasando?” she asks, a deep worry line running down her forehead between her eyebrows. She puts a hand on my shoulder.

“This was a bad idea,” A Somebody says. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Eh eh eh,” the woman says, holding up a scolding finger, and I expect A Somebody to reach out and touch the tip of it like Henry does. “Mija,” she looks over at me, “can you please excuse us for a moment? I think the grownups need to talk. Would it be okay if you went up to your room and picked out one of your new outfits for church tomorrow?”

“Church?” A new house, a new school, and now a new church?

“Sí. We have some people we need to pray for,” she says, shooting a look at A Somebody.

I nod in understanding and walk past A Somebody without even giving her a glance. I go upstairs and close my door, pretending I’m inside, but instead, I creep around to the loft and hide behind the wall to listen.

“Señora, you’ll need to have much more patience with your daughter than that. She’s never met you before, and she’s still grieving,” the woman says.

“Well, I’m her mother, so it shouldn’t be this hard, but it is. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” A Somebody sounds like I hurt her feelings. Good.

“That’s where your motherly patience comes in. Remember, you’re her mother, but you’re still a stranger,” the woman reminds her.

“She clearly has a lot of anger issues against me.” A Somebody fidgets with her purse handle.

“Do you blame her?” the woman snaps. I almost yell out an “Ooooh,” but I zip my lips and make like an ice sculpture.

“I can’t risk angry behavior at home. I have my other kids I need to keep safe,” A Somebody says.

She has other kids? My heart sinks into my belly. I wasn’t good enough for her to stay. She had to go off on her own and start over again. I slide down the wall onto my knees. I guess I really am unlovable, and I didn’t even have to try.

“Other kids? Fatima is also your kid,” the woman says, now sounding angrier than I’ve ever heard her before. “She also needs you to keep her safe. You’re her only living parent.”

“Clearly she doesn’t want that,” A Somebody argues back.

“Clearly you don’t, either” the woman says, lowering her voice. I peek around the wall again. “You’re the adult,” she says. “You have to try harder than her. No disrespect, Señora, but you’re the one who left her, remember?”

“Shut your mouth. You don’t know me,” A Somebody says all snippety.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I do know I’d like you to leave now. I wouldn’t let Fatima go with you even if you begged. You’d have to have me arrested, first.”

My heart explodes, and chills run up and down my arms. The woman, she cares for me.

“I’ll gladly leave,” A Somebody says, jumping to her feet and snatching her purse.

“Did you want to say anything to her before you disappear again?” the woman asks.

“No.”

“Okay, well then let me tell you thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving us such a wonderful gift. For leaving Fatima here, where she belongs, with people who actually love her.”

“I never said I didn’t love her.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The front door opens and closes, as I sneak back into my room, and just like that, A Somebody is gone again, hopefully for good. I would be telling a big fat lie if I said everything is okay. That I’m fine. Even though I don’t know her, it still doesn’t feel good to know she doesn’t want me, that she never wanted me.

For the rest of the day, I try to be extra polite to the woman, to Mamá Flor, whose name I want to say now, the one who defended me, who maybe mentioned she loves me. I try to be more patient with Henry over a loud lunch. The man orders pizza and tries to take us to the aquarium, but I fake sick. They understand. They don’t ask any questions. They let me go up to my room where I cry myself to sleep, and the next day in a new church, one with Jesus hanging on a big cross, hovering over the people, where the preacher talks about how forgiving those who hurt us takes a burden off of our hearts, I choose to hold onto my anger and pray I will never ever have to see A Somebody again. But I also whisper a quick thank you for the people in my life who care for me.