Last night, 8:30 p.m.
In Santa Ana there are two types of neighborhoods: the historically
significant neighborhoods with names like French Park and
Floral Park, and the neighborhoods that are not. My grandma
lives in one of those that aren't.
I turn off North Bristol onto West 3rd and then make a right
on Hesperian. Except for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter
at Nana's house, the farthest I'd head up on Bristol was the
northernmost tip of Nordstroms at South Coast Plaza. Now this
is home. Again.
Nana's two-story bungalow stands on the corner. The skeleton
of last spring's sweet peas still clings to her chain link
fence, and even though she has the space, she still grows
her roses and calla lilies in buckets.
As a kid, I used to hide in the avocado tree from my cousins.
When you're the only blonde, half-white kid in a family of
small, brown Mexicans from Jalisco, you know you're a grown
up the moment a white-person joke doesn't punch your flight-or-fight
button.
Nana walks out of the kitchen. She's still dressed in her
suit but she must have stopped for a pedicure after work.
Her toe nails are now purple. When she sees it's me, she asks, "Where
you been?"
I open my mouth to begin a litany of grievances against my
boss when a sharp report shakes the floor. White light bursts
through the windows - the kind you see in alien invasion movies
- and where there was a quiet street of parked cars and dim
porch lights, SUVs and cop cruisers now block us in.
"Did you hear that?" Chachi shouts. My cousins
run out of the house and onto the yard.
Nana shouts at them to come back inside. Did they want to
get shot?
As a reporter, I should run out with my press pass, cell
phone and notepad. But the paper doesn't pay me enough and
the walls of Nana's aren't even half as thick as the last
Harry Potter book. I follow my nose into the kitchen where
a vat of posole simmers on the stove. I make myself a bowl,
heavy on the hominy. The oily brother scalds my hand. I've
been here almost a year and I'm still not accustomed to the
nightly visits from law enforcement that remind us we live
in the "bad" part of town.
Someone bangs on the backdoor. I turn, about to call Chachi
an asshole for scaring me. But a woman stares back at me through
the window. Her eyes are almost white with terror and then
I see the little girl standing next to her.
I instinctively know to let them in.
End of Excerpt. Like it? Order
it!
»» Amazon
»» IndieBound
»» Barnes
and Noble
Download it!
»» Amazon
top |
