Gabi, a Girl in Pieces. Isabel Quintero

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       September 1

      Why is Georgina such a fucking idiot? Why? During first period (which is the poetry class that I signed up for because it seemed like fun but turns out is going to be another English class, and while I love English, two English classes means double the writing and double the reading and double the everything else. I so hope I can survive.), Martin Espada asked me if it was true that Cindy was pregnant.

      I was like, “What? Who told you that?”

      Martin rolled his eyes, “Who do you think?”

      Georgina. He didn’t have to say her name. Everyone knew Georgina had the biggest mouth in the world since the first grade when Tomasa Jones peed her pants on the slide during recess and Georgina told everyone (even the custodians).

      He nodded and asked again, “So is it true?”

      I don’t know what possessed me to be rude to one of the nicest boys I have every met (he was probably just trying to let me know that Georgina was talking shit about my best friend), but I said, “So is it true you have a hairy ass?”

      Martin’s face got all red as he stuttered, “What? I was just—whatever,” and turned around.

      I wish I hadn’t been so mean to Martin. He’s really nice. And kind of cute. And it turns out he already writes poetry. Good poetry. None of that “the rat is on the mat” shit. But stuff that has meaning. By lunch time, I had heard it from eight different people, and there were eight different stories. In one of them, both Cindy and I had had sex with German—vomit. In another, Cindy didn’t know who the father was. The best one was that Cindy had gotten pregnant from some old guy who is now in prison and blamed poor innocent German. Georgina’s wild, clown-faced imagination had not failed us. She also said that we’d been in the pharmacy lots of times, getting tests and condoms. Stupid Georgina—if condoms had been purchased, Cindy wouldn’t have been in this mess. But no one questioned her stories with logic, and people stayed away from us like we had herpes or something contagious like that. I heard the word SLUTS! thrown at us a few times, but no one owned up to it.

      I was pissed. I almost wondered if I should stay away from Cindy. What if my mom was right? What if Cindy was a bad girl, and she would somehow smear her badness on me? But then I realized how stupid and treasonous that way of thinking was. Cindy and I are homies for life. So the three of us—Sebastian, Cindy and I—ate at our usual table and just ignored the stares.

      Sebastian tried to lighten the mood and shared that he had met a boy in his Spanish class who had just moved here from Bolivia. And he was gay. And he was cute. And Sebastian was very excited. That kind of took our mind off of Cindy’s situation. That and the chili cheese burrito I was shoving in my face.

       September 10

      My dad is a drug addict. A meth addict—as in crazy and desperate and never mentally here. But no one in our house ever says those words: drugs, addict or meth. It’s like we are forbidden to use them. My mom says, “Tu papa anda mal.” As if he just has the flu and a bowl of chicken noodle soup will fix him right up. But he’s an addict and has been since I was a little kid. I remember when I was in elementary school, he would ask to borrow money all the time. I think even then I knew what it was going towards, but I gave it to him anyway. What was I supposed to do? He’s my dad.

      It’s embarrassing to see him in public, walking around like a homeless person, looking through garbage cans and hanging out with other people with the same “affliction.” Sometimes I’m scared that he won’t come home. Scared that we’ll get a call saying that his body was found in some park bathroom or on the side of some liquor store. I don’t know how to help him or what to do to make things better. I think I’m going to start writing him letters.

      Dear Papi,

      I write this letter to you knowing that you cannot read it because you are too high. I want to let you know that you make me mad. That I would die for you when you’re my dad. That I am tired of waiting for you every night and falling asleep at the door hoping you will come home. That I don’t want to see you passed out. That I don’t want to make breakfast for your “friends” anymore. That I know the money you take from me some mornings is not for gas. That I hate how you make me feel so small when you talk to me like that. That I hate to see Mom cry. That I hate it when Beto cries because you say you don’t love him. I know it’s the meth talking and not you. The real you used to take us to the park and take me for rides on your motorcycle. Papi, I want you to come back. I don’t want the dad who wanders the streets and sleeps in parking lots. I don’t want the dad who grows long beards who gives away everything—even his family for a fix. Papi, I want to know when you are coming home, so I can say I love you, and you will understand what those words really mean.

      Papi, I miss you.

      Gabi

      I really have to get some homework done.

       September 15

      Curse the day I fell in love or like or whatever with Joshua Moore! I hate him. Hate him! HATE HIM! At first I was totally excited that he was in my Algebra II class. Totally excited. But turns out (surprise, surprise), he doesn’t like fat girls. Or at least he doesn’t like this fat girl. Of course he didn’t say, “Gabi, I don’t like you because you’re a fat girl,” СКАЧАТЬ