in between blocks

“I know mi amor, but all you need to worry about is yourself. Don’t think about us, we’re okay,” is her reply to my father complaining coming through the phone. The landline is the spot where she’s said sorry over a billion times to the same three people. (If you’re wondering...it’s our landlord, her sister, and my father). For years, I’ve wanted to rip off the worn out yellow cord coiled around Mami’s pale fingers. Puffs of red begin to fill her eyes and you can’t even imagine the drops of blue that follow soon. I hear her reassure my father that she’ll put another hundred dollars in his JPay account so he can buy some “fucking cheese sticks” and not call until he needs more cheese sticks again. If I could, I’d say sperm donor instead of father, but the last time I did that, I got smacked, so nevermind.

“Valentina, ven aquí ahora mismo!” I stare blankly at my mother when she says to go to her right this instant. “You need to talk to your daddy damn it. He says he misses you. He doesn’t deserve this from you. He says he-” She wants me to believe the things she tells me, but honestly if you had lived all that I have; you wouldn’t believe her either. “I don’t want to talk to him, how many times do I have to tell you?!” Deep down, I wish I wanted to talk to him. Deep down, I wanted to believe her lies too. Believe that a man like him could miss me or love me. Somebody, anyone at all. I roll back my tears as I tell her I’m leaving. My mother actually taught me that skill: how to avoid the tears, how to never cry. Just envision, being 7 years old and having a policeman snatch your mom away from your arms. Then imagine not knowing when you’ll see her angelic face again; all you know in that moment is that she is being arrested. Imagine seeing that and then realizing she never shed a tear throughout any of it; not in front of you, not for a second. Fast Forward to the months of abandonment that followed; I’d swallow my tears. I’d let my little body cry, but I made sure it was silent. I bit into pillows, I cried when my dad’s drunk laughter would cover the sound of my muffles. I learned to survive with the gross and scary gunk that comes out of your eyes when you’re sad.

Sorry to go on a tangent, but I had to tell you the background so you’d understand me better. Why? Well because there’s not one particular sob story behind it. My mother never sat me down and forced me to swallow my tears one night (I figured that out on my own). Honestly, it’s just a skill. It would help me get through the hollering in the morning when she was threatening to hit me with the pan. It would help get me out of the guidance counselor's office when I had to say the words “Yes, I’m okay. Yes, things are better at home.” It especially helps me now. Like when my dad got arrested and I acted completely cool and collected. That’s me, Valentina also known as Ms. Cool & Collected-

“Ven aqui ahorita mismo malcriada!” my mom has finally gotten to the point in the phone call when she stops begging me to talk to my dad and just starts yelling. FYI, malcriada translates to “badly raised”... so she wasn’t wrong to call me that I guess. “I’m going to work.” I bluntly lie to my mom in response. I hope she doesn’t smell the gram of weed in my bag.

My breaths resonate with my shaky movements as I walk to my baby blue room. I pick up my basic-ass JanSport bookbag, a raggedy copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and the old skateboard my brother gave me with the “Smoke Weed!!!” sticker on it. I turn to look at the real life blurry image of my mother on the phone once more and I hope that she’ll notice me leaving. I sometimes pray she’ll grab some scissors and cut the phone cord and run to me and tell me that we’re going to be okay. Instead, there is silence.

“Mami! I said I’m leaving! Mami!!!”

“Vete a la mierda, estupida. No me importa. Porque no quieres hablar con tu papa?!” Nice, that’s a new one. “Go to hell” and then asking me for the millionth time why I don’t want to talk to my father. As I’m about to close the door I hear her ask something in Spanish along the lines of “How could you even consider that a job? Who even goes into a diner job at 7 pm?” I slam the door behind me and get the fuck out, but that was a valid question I’ll admit.

I used to work as a hostess at a diner in Forest Hills because it was close to home and they hired me just for “being pretty” and “a good communicator”. Bullshit, I was willing to work for whatever amount they were willing to give me (which wasn’t a lot). Anyway, whenever my shift was over the homeless people that slept near the trash, outside in the back of “Lenny’s Big Apple Diner” always asked me if I’d ever bring them food. Throughout my time at Lenny’s I heard a shit ton of their stories and I decided that I couldn’t let them starve. So, I asked my manager, John (I don’t know anyone named Lenny who worked at Lenny’s) if I could give any scraps to the homeless people outside in the back. “Nah, fuck them. Tell them to get a job.” I heard that and I wanted to scream at John and tell him to fuck off. Instead, I started giving the homeless people the leftovers because hey, who’d notice the food was feeding the homeless instead of going to the trash? John did. “WHAT THE FUCK VALERIA! Who do you think you are? Stupid little bitch, we can’t just be givin all our scraps to the homeless!” “Fuck you John, my name is Valentina and yea we actually can! I’ve been doing it for weeks!” I regretted saying that last part because John yelled “WEEKS? YOU COULDA GOTTEN ME ARRESTED! GET THE FUCK OUTTA HEA ‘FORE I CALL THE COPS MYSELF.” Honestly, I still don’t know if it’s actually illegal to give restaurant scraps to homeless people, but it would have been really dumb for the police to arrest me for it. “FUCK THAT. I QUIT. I hope you eat your food and you get food poisoning.” Don’t question my comeback, it was all I could think of at the time.

Anyway, once I’m in the lobby, I open up the book bag pocket that’s meant for pencils and check to make sure the bag of weed is in there. It is. My phone blares “Take on the world” by Wavves and scares the shit out of me. I pick up to hear Amanda’s annoying voice asking if I’m here. If you’d heard her speak you’d swear she was a 12 year old boy still waiting for puberty. I tell her I’m downstairs. “Okay, bet. Can you go to the deli near Liberty ave. and get me a Honeybun. Those shits are fire when you’re high.” I can’t believe she thinks I’d do anything more than I was getting paid for. “Amanda, I deliver you weed, not food.”

“True, I still can’t believe you’re a dope dealer.”

She says through her giggles.

“Shut up. You know I’m only doing this until I get a new job.” “I hope not, I’m gonna miss having a hot girl handling my weed before giving it to me.”

I don’t respond because whatever I say back, Amanda will take as flirting and I happen to not like girls. And if I did like girls, she’d be the last girl I’d like.

“Ughh, pleaseee get me the Honeybun. I’ll give you extra money just for that.”

“Bet.”

I hang up and push the glass door against the cold air of the night.

On Liberty avenue, I fly past stop signs with waves of fluorescent colors at my side. The warmth I feel radiating from the streetlights is unbelievably comforting. I tilt my head upwards to see the tops of the apartment buildings, then extend my arms outwards. Shit, if you saw me you’d probably think I was a crazy person. Scraping the pavement harder and harder with my right foot, I am devoured by the cold air.

You should try it one day. Skateboarding on Liberty Avenue, in the fall, at night. It’s one of the things you do when your life is shitty and you wanna feel something for once. Your lungs get filled with the cold air (it’s nice when your lungs are used to weed smoke) and you’re the only thing that exists at that moment. Ethereal. I remember that I’m allowed to experience moments that aren’t bad. I’m fucking alive. Like not just dragging my feet from place to place because I have to. But actually moving and using my lungs with purpose.

Alive.