I stood in my mama’s kitchen, peeling back the husks of the ripe tomatillos my neighbor had gifted to me. Even though I lived only miles away from the Mexican border, fresh produce was expensive, and purchasing my beloved tart, green fruit was definitely a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Not when there was a constant, gnawing ache in my belly. Not when my little sister Ana María cried every morning because she wanted more food, but I had none to give her. Not when my other sister, Mónica, would often eat her only meal of the day at school because she had free lunch. Not when I had to feed a family of four on fifty dollars a week.

If only I had a job.

But my employment status wasn’t from the lack of effort. No, not at all. I had literally applied to every job in the border town of El Centro, California, which had just recently been anointed “the worst place to live in America” by some huge national website. With the highest unemployment rate in the country at twenty-seven and a half percent, my prospects were bleak. I lay awake most nights, terror gripping my body, shivering despite the sweltering desert heat, trapped in the hell that was my life, dreaming of an escape route.

In reality, I doubted that I would ever be able to leave my hometown. Instead, I would probably end up being buried here, but these days, even that wasn’t a certainty. El Centro’s cemetery recently went into foreclosure.

I clutched the tomatillos in my hands, rinsed them under the cool water, cut out their stems, and tossed them in a pan to roast. This spicy sauce would coat the chicken enchiladas I had just made from scratch. Along with a pot of cumin-spiced pinto beans and a batch of arroz rojo, we would be blessed with a rare, hearty dinner. Over the years, I had learned how to make delicious meals out of scraps. These enchiladas, along with oatmeal for breakfast and tortillas for lunch, would have to last my family for a week.

Ana María walked into the kitchen and clutched on my apron. “Where’s Mama?”

At six years old, Ana María was a precocious little girl with amber-colored eyes and long brown hair that I made sure to braid every day, since Mama was usually too hungover to move, and that was if she even came home from her one of her frequent benders. Ana María was too young to learn the truth about our lives, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to protect her forever.

“Baby, she’s out working.” And that was true, in a way. But Mama didn’t have a real job, either. Her version of “working” was flirting with men at the local bars and offering them favors for a bit of cash.

“I am not a prostitute,” Mama would swear up and down. “I just love men.”

I didn’t even try to argue with her any more. The fact that Mama had three children with three different dads, none of whom she married, let her decisions speak for herself. Not that there was anything wrong with a woman enjoying a healthy sex life. But she lavished attention on these countless men while she neglected her children, which was deplorable.

At least I didn’t know who my father was, so I could sometimes close my eyes and pretend that he was a good man. Maybe he didn’t even know that I had existed, and that if he found out that he had a daughter, he would rush to me and take me away from my mom.

If only Mama would tell me his name, I would be able to figure it out.

But my fantasy dad was the only good man in my life. Mónica’s father was a deadbeat and a womanizer who cheated on Mama all the time before she kicked his sorry ass out. And Ana María’s father was a hot-tempered alcoholic who would beat Mama until she could cry no more. The only other man around was my uncle, who also waged a losing battle with the bottle.

But growing up around these jerks, none of whom stuck around, told me all I needed to know about men.

Men were trouble. Untrustworthy. Only after one thing. At twenty years old, I was proud to say that I had never been distracted by a man, even though my soft curves and plump lips often made me a target for their leers. Sure, I had messed around with boys in high school, and had even lost my virginity to a good friend of mine who had wanted to date me, but I told him that I was not looking for a relationship. I vowed that I would never let any man get in the way of my dreams of leaving this town, and this life, behind.

But Mama had never known another way of living. She was only eighteen when she had become pregnant with me. Did Mama once have dreams of her own? Mama used to tell me, “El sueño es alimento de los pobres.”

Dreams are the food of the poor.

Mama’s future had blown away with the dust in this desert town. But my dreams were still real. Sometimes I closed my eyes and practiced creative visualization, something I had read about in a book. I pictured myself running a successful restaurant, living in a cute apartment, even owning a car. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fathom a scenario where I would get an opportunity to change my life.

I just need a break.

I sat Ana María down in front of a coloring book and turned my attention back to the salsa. I sliced half a white onion while blinking back the tears that were not only from vapors but also from my despair, then pulled myself together and crushed two garlic cloves, chopped fifteen sprigs of cilantro, and halved and de-stemmed a serrano pepper.

My tomatillos were now ready, and when I removed them from the oven, their smoky scent filled up the tiny kitchen. I chopped the tomatillos and grabbed the molcajete to grind the salsa when my other sister, Mónica, burst into the room.

“Paloma, Paloma!” Mónica shrieked.

“What?” At fourteen, Mónica was definitely the rebel of the family, and already boy crazy. I worried that Mónica would end up just like our mother. To make certain that she didn’t, I’d forced her to go on birth control this year. If only I could take custody of my sisters and get out of this town.

“Omg! Look at this!” She thrust a copy of the Imperial Press in my face.

“Ay, Mónica.” I did not have time to read some gut-wrenching story in the newspaper. Just last week one of my high school classmates had been murdered in her apartment, which was only one street over from ours. The cops suspected drug traffickers, but it didn’t matter. Another reminder that the only way out of this town was in a body bag.

“It’s your dream job!”

Dream job? My dream was any job—I’d clean toilets, I’d mop floors, no job was below me. But with no car and nothing but a high school education, my prospects were bleak. And we needed the money now even more desperately than ever. The little help my mom received from the government went to food, and the rest was often squandered by her on alcohol. I choked back a sob. I didn’t know how much longer we could all survive like this.

I grabbed the paper cautiously, refusing to get my hopes up again.

Looking for a full time live in nanny for my infant daughter. I’ll be stationed in El Centro for ten weeks. Must be CPR certified. No drugs and no drama. Pay is $1000 a week. Will be taking applications in person January 4^th at 4 p.m. at the Navy Lodge, El Centro, room 101.

I dropped the temolote I had been using to grind the salsa from my right hand. Did that say one thousand dollars a week for ten weeks?

Ten thousand dollars?

That money could be life-changing for my sisters and me. I could move the girls to San Diego and leave my mother and her destructive ways behind. I could rent a small apartment and send them to school out there, even get a job at a local restaurant to support them.

I stared at the old clock that was hanging on our cracked wall. It was quarter past two. The Navy Lodge was a few miles away, so I would have to leave enough time to walk. Ay, Dios mío, what would I wear?

I turned to Mónica and grabbed her shoulders. “¡Ayudeme! I need you to watch Ana María and pick me out an outfit. Something simple and classy. Nothing tight. I’m going to finish these enchiladas and bring them to the interview. Do not tell Mama where I went if she decides to come home.”

Mónica’s face dropped as she gazed longingly at the enchiladas. “Our enchiladas? What will we eat?”

“Beans and rice and tortillas. Military men like to eat. These enchiladas could be our ticket.”

“Sí, entiendo. You got this. You’re great with kids. If he hires you, I’ll help out completely back here, no attitude, I swear.”

My hand shook. How would this even work if I got this job? Who would take care of my sisters? My mom wasn’t reliable. My only option was my uncle. He was a goddamn mess but at least he would be there—he never left his couch.

I stared at Mónica. She was completely capable of watching Ana María for ten weeks. If I was offered this job, we could make it work.

Mónica tilted her head. “I wonder if he’s an Angel? I bet he’s smoking hot.”

A Blue Angel pilot . . . he had to be if he was offering one thousand dollars a week. No enlisted man in the support team of the Angels would pay that much money. An infant? Where was her mother?

For ten weeks every year, the Blue Angels descended from the heavens and landed in El Centro. The Angels were notorious as much for their sky stunts as they were for their land antics. They would hit the bars here, romancing the young local Mexican girls who dreamed of a life as a naval aviator’s wife. It was like the sucia version of An Officer and a Gentleman, minus the happy ending; no Blue Angel had ever married a local girl.

But I didn’t want to fall in love. I didn’t believe in love. I had never experienced anything even close to love. I wanted a job. I needed a job. A job that could put food on the table, give me enough money to flee this town, and save my sisters from this fate.

My hand shook as I picked back up my temolote and finished grinding the ingredients. I dipped my finger into the molcajete and sampled my salsa verde. The delectable green sauce was perfectly spicy, yet tangy. I spread the mixture over the chicken enchiladas, crafted with homemade tortillas and lots of love, just like my late abuela had taught me. All of the lovers that Mama brought home couldn’t get enough of my cooking. Abuelita would always say, “Un hombre se conquista por el estómago.” The way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Maybe that was why Mama could never keep a man—she couldn’t cook at all.

There would be hundreds of women, and possibly even men, applying for this job. I was amazing with kids and had pretty much raised my sisters myself. Even so, I needed an edge. When they were in town, these Angels would haunt the local restaurants, devouring the native cuisine. Carne asada burritos, carnitas adobadas, chile verde, tacos el carbon—those rich white boys couldn’t get enough of our food. Maybe my cooking could truly be my ticket to a new life.

I grabbed a copy of my résumé from the bookshelf and placed it in my purse. Mónica walked back into the kitchen, holding Mama’s best dress, a navy blue sheath with white trim. It was usually reserved for church, which was why it was in good shape. Mama hated to attend for fear she would be judged. A fear in this small town with her shameless behavior that was definitely warranted.

I slipped it over my head and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror; the reflection of a tired, slim, desperate girl staring right back at me. Well, at least the dress fit perfectly, not too tight or too baggy.

Mónica grabbed a little bag under the sink. “Let me do your makeup.”

I shook my head. “No, this is a job interview, not a date.”

“Right. And you need to look your best. Give me five minutes.”

I gave up and let her have her way with me. I needed this job so badly it hurt. As Mónica started applying foundation, I exhaled and did something I hadn’t done in years.

I prayed.

Once a devout Catholic, I had stopped going to church when my abuela died after being hit by a drunk driver. My abuela hadn’t even been that old at only fifty-five. Without her guidance, we Pérez girls had fallen apart. Mama only cared about herself, and now it was up to me to be the adult in the household.

After a few more agonizing minutes of Mónica dabbing, blotting, and painting my skin, she finally released me.

“Look at yourself! You’re beautiful. I would definitely hire you to watch my baby.”

I looked in the mirror again, and this time I saw how green my eyes looked enhanced by the purple shadow and how my curled eyelashes made me appear awake even when I was getting by on only hours of sleep.

But more importantly, I saw an expression I hadn’t seen in the mirror since I’d given up my college scholarship because I was afraid of how my sisters would survive without me.

I saw hope.