7. Graziella
. . . . .
I tried to remember all the way back to when I was a girl in Pátzcuaro. At fourteen I thought I knew so much. But I had not yet been to the capital, and I was still shy of boys. I had worked for three years in my parents’ restaurant by then. Once late at night, I almost walked in on them, I was sleepy and I heard sounds. When I realized what they were doing, I turned away quickly and went straight for my room. I don’t know why but it frightened me.
About her own body Graziella was beginning to have thoughts, but she preferred to leave those thoughts where they were, like sleeping dogs. Sure, she had kissed boys a few times, but that was no reason to go losing your head. She refused to be taken in by all the fuss about dating.
When I was her age, I didn’t mind the fuss. On the contrary, I rather liked it: the billing and cooing, the dances, the importance of so many details. And it was easy to set my heart aflutter. A dress, a sleeve, a glance, could make or break my day. I did not yet dream of going anywhere but where I lived. Such a very long time ago that was.
This Christmas, in spite of her ambivalence about the holiday, Graziella was perfectly pleasant and sometimes downright animated when she and her family went on their visiting rounds. She did not tell even her cousins on Long Island, who were slightly older than her and whom she used to envy, that she was on the verge of a great experiment at home. It was clear she took the whole idea of responsibility very seriously. She did not want to publicize the situation or invite trouble. A successful outcome, she reasoned, would lead to more opportunities in the future. For that, she was prepared to put up with a lot from her brother.
In fact, Bruno could stay out all day if he wanted. The less she had to do for him, the better. She wasn’t going to make any plans during that week, except to be spontaneous. She intended to take those days to read and to write—what a strange idea for such a young person, I thought—maybe watch some old movies, and go out when she pleased.
Curiously, despite her eagerness, she was not in a hurry for their departure. Because of all that it set in motion. She could see her childhood already ending, the whole process unraveling until one day, poof, the child is gone. When she went with her mom and dad on their holiday visits, to her surprise she felt a certain glow of affection for them, as though they were relics from a gone world. She saw her parents now as if from some distance, and in that way she was able to love them again.
At last, the day after Christmas arrived. They enjoyed a quick lunch of leftovers, and soon the whole family was muscling the suitcases out to the sidewalk where a car awaited. In a matter of minutes the car pulled away, and brother and sister found themselves shivering at the curb, wondering what to do next. She felt an errant tear come to her eye, but her brother only went inside to turn on his computer. Graziella glanced up to the steel gray sky and sighed.
This is what I figured. In the history of the world, for every good book, there were maybe a thousand or ten thousand awful books; and for every one of those, there might have been ten or a hundred more except the people spent all their time talking about writing and sharpening their pencils instead. I thought if I could write even a couple of pages a day, rain or shine, then by summer I’d have over three hundred pages.
Back in my room, I shut the door and set down to work. Those stories that I had in mind were really all part of a novel, about a girl, like me, who decides she wants to see the country. She’s heard about America, but never really seen it. She only knows the city where she lives and a few smaller places that she’s been to with her family but which don’t seem like much of anything. So, she takes five hundred dollars that she’s saved up from working and birthday money, and one day she just goes. I wanted to make it clear that she wasn’t running away: it was simply that she wanted to see what it was, this land that everyone talked about, to see what was special and different and also strange.
I couldn’t afford to make the trip myself. After all, I had to go to school and help out at home—imagine what my little brother would do if he saw me go off like that, and besides no one would ever let me if I asked. I thought I might hit the road some day, like when I turned sixteen, seventeen, even eighteen, but in the meantime that wasn’t necessary for writing my story. There was so much I imagined about the country, so many books and shows and magazine pictures that gave me ideas. Everyone had a scrapbook in their head what it was like, this America, so why not make up my own, tell some stories I had heard? There would always be someone to say it’s not like that, and someone else to say they had the very same experience that I described. What did I have to lose? I mean, until people blow up the entire planet, which was a distinct possibility, it was all just stories, right? Stories we tell to keep us laughing in the dark.
Till late afternoon, everything was cool. My brother didn’t bother me, no phone calls from the airport. I didn’t see the time go by. But then, around five-thirty, the doorbell rang. It was Joey and his friend Blake. They looked like they had just gotten up.
“Hey,” said Joey standing in the doorway. We’d kissed a little in the past, and one night last summer I even let him put his hand up my shirt. But we were hanging out buddies more than anything.
“Hey, Joey. Hiya, Blake.”
I didn’t exactly invite them in, but what’s a friend for? They walked right past me and settled down in the living room.
I could see Joey trying to guess the situation. Maybe he already knew somehow, but I didn’t tell him. “Where’re your parents?”
“What do you mean, where are my parents? What kind of question is that?”
“He means—” Blake was always so literal minded, it killed me.
“No, it’s just that, I wanted to know if you want to go to a party tonight. We’re going around eight. It’ll be fun, they’ve got a band and everything.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got to stay home, thanks.”
I could hear my brother Bruno lurking about. He usually tried to show off when Joey was around, but he also knew he’d have to answer for it after. Still, I hoped he didn’t blab the truth just to stir things up.
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Where’s it at?”
“Two sisters who go to my school.” His parents had him transferred to a Catholic school when we were ten years old. I thought at the time, and was still half-convinced, that that’s the sort of thing a kid never recovers from. But one thing was certain: the kids there really liked to party.
“Naah, I better not. My parents would freak.”
“But it’s vacation.”
“Still.”
He shrugged it off and changed the subject. An hour later we were still sitting there, talking about not a whole heck of a lot. Bruno had been in to see us, and I thanked my stars for the invention of the computer. That’s because its gravitational pull, on people like my brother, was far stronger than the earth’s own atmosphere. So I didn’t have to threaten him. He left us alone. On the other hand, I was wondering just what might dislodge these guys from the living room couch.
It didn’t take much, in the end. Blake had a cell phone, which had rung twice already, and now after one of those creepy minimalist exchanges that pass for communication, he stood up and put on his coat. Joey soon followed, but not before turning to me.
“What do you say some time this week, you and me, we . . . ”
“We what?”
“You know. See a movie or something.”
“Go. Have fun at your party. And stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Yeah.” Whatever it took to move them along.
I knew what he wanted, to pick up where he left off, but who had the time? If he’d have just come out and said it, instead of all those dead-end conversations, I might have taken him aside somewhere for a quick thrill. I didn’t mind. I was even kind of flattered. He knew I couldn’t be bothered to get all dolled up like other girls, and that was precisely the point, it was my way to keep off the flies, so to speak.
But I didn’t worry myself about Joey. He was only a boy, a nice boy, and if not him then another some day.
In the meantime, I had my work as a writer to think about. My parents didn’t understand that a teenage girl, let alone their daughter, might want to spend her time writing. They thought I didn’t have enough friends, and maybe that was true. But I always thought of the old man I met once in a bookstore, when I said I wanted to be a writer. He looked at me with the kindest eyes, “Patience, that is all you need. And to keep writing. For years and years, until you’re not in a hurry anymore.”
. . . . .
. . . . .
I tried to remember all the way back to when I was a girl in Pátzcuaro. At fourteen I thought I knew so much. But I had not yet been to the capital, and I was still shy of boys. I had worked for three years in my parents’ restaurant by then. Once late at night, I almost walked in on them, I was sleepy and I heard sounds. When I realized what they were doing, I turned away quickly and went straight for my room. I don’t know why but it frightened me.
About her own body Graziella was beginning to have thoughts, but she preferred to leave those thoughts where they were, like sleeping dogs. Sure, she had kissed boys a few times, but that was no reason to go losing your head. She refused to be taken in by all the fuss about dating.
When I was her age, I didn’t mind the fuss. On the contrary, I rather liked it: the billing and cooing, the dances, the importance of so many details. And it was easy to set my heart aflutter. A dress, a sleeve, a glance, could make or break my day. I did not yet dream of going anywhere but where I lived. Such a very long time ago that was.
This Christmas, in spite of her ambivalence about the holiday, Graziella was perfectly pleasant and sometimes downright animated when she and her family went on their visiting rounds. She did not tell even her cousins on Long Island, who were slightly older than her and whom she used to envy, that she was on the verge of a great experiment at home. It was clear she took the whole idea of responsibility very seriously. She did not want to publicize the situation or invite trouble. A successful outcome, she reasoned, would lead to more opportunities in the future. For that, she was prepared to put up with a lot from her brother.
In fact, Bruno could stay out all day if he wanted. The less she had to do for him, the better. She wasn’t going to make any plans during that week, except to be spontaneous. She intended to take those days to read and to write—what a strange idea for such a young person, I thought—maybe watch some old movies, and go out when she pleased.
Curiously, despite her eagerness, she was not in a hurry for their departure. Because of all that it set in motion. She could see her childhood already ending, the whole process unraveling until one day, poof, the child is gone. When she went with her mom and dad on their holiday visits, to her surprise she felt a certain glow of affection for them, as though they were relics from a gone world. She saw her parents now as if from some distance, and in that way she was able to love them again.
At last, the day after Christmas arrived. They enjoyed a quick lunch of leftovers, and soon the whole family was muscling the suitcases out to the sidewalk where a car awaited. In a matter of minutes the car pulled away, and brother and sister found themselves shivering at the curb, wondering what to do next. She felt an errant tear come to her eye, but her brother only went inside to turn on his computer. Graziella glanced up to the steel gray sky and sighed.
This is what I figured. In the history of the world, for every good book, there were maybe a thousand or ten thousand awful books; and for every one of those, there might have been ten or a hundred more except the people spent all their time talking about writing and sharpening their pencils instead. I thought if I could write even a couple of pages a day, rain or shine, then by summer I’d have over three hundred pages.
Back in my room, I shut the door and set down to work. Those stories that I had in mind were really all part of a novel, about a girl, like me, who decides she wants to see the country. She’s heard about America, but never really seen it. She only knows the city where she lives and a few smaller places that she’s been to with her family but which don’t seem like much of anything. So, she takes five hundred dollars that she’s saved up from working and birthday money, and one day she just goes. I wanted to make it clear that she wasn’t running away: it was simply that she wanted to see what it was, this land that everyone talked about, to see what was special and different and also strange.
I couldn’t afford to make the trip myself. After all, I had to go to school and help out at home—imagine what my little brother would do if he saw me go off like that, and besides no one would ever let me if I asked. I thought I might hit the road some day, like when I turned sixteen, seventeen, even eighteen, but in the meantime that wasn’t necessary for writing my story. There was so much I imagined about the country, so many books and shows and magazine pictures that gave me ideas. Everyone had a scrapbook in their head what it was like, this America, so why not make up my own, tell some stories I had heard? There would always be someone to say it’s not like that, and someone else to say they had the very same experience that I described. What did I have to lose? I mean, until people blow up the entire planet, which was a distinct possibility, it was all just stories, right? Stories we tell to keep us laughing in the dark.
Till late afternoon, everything was cool. My brother didn’t bother me, no phone calls from the airport. I didn’t see the time go by. But then, around five-thirty, the doorbell rang. It was Joey and his friend Blake. They looked like they had just gotten up.
“Hey,” said Joey standing in the doorway. We’d kissed a little in the past, and one night last summer I even let him put his hand up my shirt. But we were hanging out buddies more than anything.
“Hey, Joey. Hiya, Blake.”
I didn’t exactly invite them in, but what’s a friend for? They walked right past me and settled down in the living room.
I could see Joey trying to guess the situation. Maybe he already knew somehow, but I didn’t tell him. “Where’re your parents?”
“What do you mean, where are my parents? What kind of question is that?”
“He means—” Blake was always so literal minded, it killed me.
“No, it’s just that, I wanted to know if you want to go to a party tonight. We’re going around eight. It’ll be fun, they’ve got a band and everything.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got to stay home, thanks.”
I could hear my brother Bruno lurking about. He usually tried to show off when Joey was around, but he also knew he’d have to answer for it after. Still, I hoped he didn’t blab the truth just to stir things up.
“Yeah? You sure?”
“Where’s it at?”
“Two sisters who go to my school.” His parents had him transferred to a Catholic school when we were ten years old. I thought at the time, and was still half-convinced, that that’s the sort of thing a kid never recovers from. But one thing was certain: the kids there really liked to party.
“Naah, I better not. My parents would freak.”
“But it’s vacation.”
“Still.”
He shrugged it off and changed the subject. An hour later we were still sitting there, talking about not a whole heck of a lot. Bruno had been in to see us, and I thanked my stars for the invention of the computer. That’s because its gravitational pull, on people like my brother, was far stronger than the earth’s own atmosphere. So I didn’t have to threaten him. He left us alone. On the other hand, I was wondering just what might dislodge these guys from the living room couch.
It didn’t take much, in the end. Blake had a cell phone, which had rung twice already, and now after one of those creepy minimalist exchanges that pass for communication, he stood up and put on his coat. Joey soon followed, but not before turning to me.
“What do you say some time this week, you and me, we . . . ”
“We what?”
“You know. See a movie or something.”
“Go. Have fun at your party. And stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Yeah.” Whatever it took to move them along.
I knew what he wanted, to pick up where he left off, but who had the time? If he’d have just come out and said it, instead of all those dead-end conversations, I might have taken him aside somewhere for a quick thrill. I didn’t mind. I was even kind of flattered. He knew I couldn’t be bothered to get all dolled up like other girls, and that was precisely the point, it was my way to keep off the flies, so to speak.
But I didn’t worry myself about Joey. He was only a boy, a nice boy, and if not him then another some day.
In the meantime, I had my work as a writer to think about. My parents didn’t understand that a teenage girl, let alone their daughter, might want to spend her time writing. They thought I didn’t have enough friends, and maybe that was true. But I always thought of the old man I met once in a bookstore, when I said I wanted to be a writer. He looked at me with the kindest eyes, “Patience, that is all you need. And to keep writing. For years and years, until you’re not in a hurry anymore.”
. . . . .