My abuela’s house is a tiny three-bedroom bungalow on acres of land. Soon after my parents divorced, my abuelo died on a Sunday afternoon while taking a nap in front of the TV. I don’t remember him as well as Claudia does. My great-grandmother, who was still alive at the time, said at the funeral that he left this world much more peacefully than he entered it. And I guess if you’re going to die (because we all have to eventually), that’s a good way to go.
After he died, though, Abuela couldn’t let go of this house she’d spent almost her entire married life in, so rather than forcing her into something she didn’t want to do, my dad moved back home to take care of the house and the property—and Abuela too, even if she swears she doesn’t need it.
My dad grabs my bag from out of the truck bed, and I follow him inside through the kitchen door on the side of the house.
“She’s here!” my dad calls as he walks in.
Abuela pushes past him and proceeds to squeeze my cheeks and then almost every other part of my body that’s squeezable. Sometimes I think my abuela’s memory is all in her hands, and if she can’t touch it, she’ll never truly know it. “Please tell me why the hell you haven’t called to update me on your life. Everything I hear is secondhand information. Callie broke up with her boyfriend. Callie has a new job. Callie has new friends.”
I look up at her. “Because I’m an awful person? And really with the guilt trip?”
Abuela waves me off and then hugs me. “Well, if you’ve got any awful in you, it’s from your grandfather’s side of the family.”
I chuckle. I think she and my great-grandmother were the original frenemies.
It’s easy to just melt into Abuela’s embrace. She’s a towering woman with broad shoulders and hands so big she can balance a pizza in each of them. Mama calls her the Mexican-American reincarnation of Katharine Hepburn, and it’s true. Her deep, lightly accented voice commands attention. Her style is definitively utilitarian while still looking put together and somehow ethereal. And even though her once caramel-colored hair is grayer than it used to be, her shoulder-length natural waves still perfectly frame her long, narrow face.
My dad, though, carries my grandfather’s genes, with slightly darker hair and skin and a shorter, stout physique. He’s living proof that you don’t have to be tall to get the girl. What he’s lacking in height he makes up for in game. He’s a total flirt. You should see him with the lady at the grocery-store customer service desk. It’s pretty amusing until I remember he’s my dad.
I look over Abuela’s shoulder to see a frying pan of migas, my favorite, and her Texas-shaped waffle maker warming on the counter. Breakfast for dinner is almost as good as dessert for dinner. “Oh my God. Feed me before I waste away.”
“That’s the plan,” she says.
After I get settled in my room, me, my dad, and Abuela all eat at the little table in the kitchen that only seats just the three of us. Abuela has a big, long table out on her screened-in porch off the back of the house, but I like when we eat in here, in her cramped little kitchen. I like the coziness of it. There’s just something about being in a small space with people you actually like.
My dad circles the table, holding the skillet with a pot holder, and serves us all generous helpings. There are lots of different ways to serve migas, but Abuela’s specialty is the Tex-Mex variety, with blue-corn tortilla chips, eggs, cheese, pico, jalapeños, and ground sausage alongside Texas-shaped waffles.
My abuela pats her mouth with her napkin before answering. “Last weekend, I was down at Aurelia’s to help her with research for her latest article about the women of the Alamo. Looks like she’s hitting a few dead ends, but . . .” She turns to my father. “She did say her daughter’s divorce was finalized last month.”
Dad shakes his head and waves a finger in her face. “Stick to the politics and history, Ma. Matchmaking is definitely not in your wheelhouse.” He looks at me. “She tried to set me up with Cindy.”
I gag. “Isn’t Cindy your second cousin?”
“I forgot!” says Abuela, her hand over her mouth. “Okay? It was an accident!” She waves a forkful of waffle at Dad. “You have to admit, if you weren’t related, it would’ve been a good match.”
Abuela hasn’t always been just a mother or a grandmother. Up until two years ago, she taught political science and Texas history full-time at University of Texas of the Permian Basin, or UTPB. Now she’s dedicating her days to academic publishing with her best friend Aurelia, which is really just a cover for them to try to set their kids up together.
“What are you filling your time with these days?” she asks me. “Now that you’re not busy with the dance team.”
My shoulders slump, and before I can even say anything, my dad comes to the rescue. “It’s a celebratory weekend, Ma. Let’s not—”
“Let the girl talk,” she says.
“Well, I’m sort of just working for free right now,” I say.
She nods. “Well, that won’t last forever.”
“I’m off the dance team for good.” I let out a deep sigh that blows the loose fallen hairs from my ponytail off my face. “I guess I could get a job and start saving for a car.”
Dad nods. “I like that idea.”
Abuela tsks. “A short-term goal,” she says. “What do you want to do?” Her voice overemphasizes every word, and I am easily reminded that she was used to talking to directionless young people every day from her time as a professor.
“I don’t know,” I finally tell her. “I’m working off my debt at this gym, and . . . and it’s like the thing that everyone knew me for is gone.”
“That’s not entirely true,” says Dad. “Your attitude is pretty notorious.”
Abuela points her knife at him jokingly.
I think back to the last two months and all that’s happened. I feel like a giant onion, and every day I’m peeling back a new layer of myself. Dance team and Bryce defined the old Callie. Bryce is definitely out of the picture, but what about dance? Am I done? For good?
“I don’t know,” I finally admit as I fill each square of my waffle with butter and syrup. “It’s kind of like waking up and not remembering what foods you like. So maybe I just have to try a little bit of everything?”
She pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Find the things you love and do them every day, even if it means failing. That’s all there is to it.”
I shrug. “I was good at being on the dance team. What if I’m not good like that at anything else?”
“If you only love what comes easy for you, you’ll find you don’t have much to love. Work for it, girl.”
My dad rolls his eyes. (Maybe that’s who I get it from?) “You make it sound so easy, Ma. Life isn’t as neat as your little nuggets of wisdom.”
She crosses her arms. “Your dad is going to miss my nuggets of wisdom when I’m not here to give them.”
“All right, all right,” he says. “Enough with the death guilt. Last week she told me her one dying wish was to see me married again.”
“But she’s not dying,” I tell him.
“We’re all dying,” says Abuela. “It’s just a slow process.”
I laugh, and the three of us finish our dinner. We pile the dishes in the sink and leave them until morning, because we’re too stuffed to move.
We all crowd together on the couch to FaceTime Claudia.
“My Claudia!” Abuela shouts, as if she can’t hear her.
“I can’t believe we caught you so late,” my dad says.
Claudia’s face is lit by the glow of the phone. She yawns without bothering to cover her mouth. “I was just finishing up here, resetting the stage before tomorrow’s matinee. Is that Callie?”
I wave. “The one and only.”
“Mom give you your phone back yet?” she asks.
“Finally.”
“And you didn’t call me?” she demands.
“I don’t see you rushing into my missed calls either.”
She nods. “Fair enough.”
“Give us a tour of the opera house,” Abuela says.
“I gotta make it quick. I’m one of the last people here, and this place is definitely haunted. I promised Rachel I’d call her before I went to bed.”
“When do we get to meet this Rachel?” my dad asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I gotta scope out my sister’s first real girlfriend.”
Claudia laughs. “Uh, not with that attitude you don’t.”
She gives us a brief tour of the Semperoper and tells us a little bit of the architectural history, which is a snooze fest, but Dad is eating it up. I’ll admit, though, with the ornate gold-gilded interior, elaborate paintings, and velvet seats, she’s probably not wrong about this place being haunted.
After we hang up with Claudia, my dad falls asleep almost as soon as he pulls the lever on the recliner. I spread out on the couch with my head in Abuela’s lap as we watch a rerun of one of her favorite telenovelas, Corazón Salvaje. I can pick up on enough of the dialogue to sort of follow along, but soon enough the three of us are all dozing, and it’s a few hours before any of us even bother heading to bed.
I spend the morning and afternoon helping my dad paint the barn he and Abuela use for storage. Abuela tested every shade of turquoise before settling on mint green. When I asked why she wanted to paint her barn mint green, she said because she’d never seen a barn that color before.
While I sit on the ground with her, mixing paint, she says, “It’s nice to see you have girlfriends over.”
I shrug. “They’re okay.”
She taps the wooden stick against the side of the canister and sets it down before pouring it into a paint tray. “What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t speak teenager.”
“I don’t know. I guess the more I think about it, the more I’ve realized that I’m not very good at having friends who are girls.”
She tsks. “Don’t fall into that trap.”
“They’re nice. I just . . . I’m not.”
“Girls don’t have to be nice,” she says simply. “But they should stick together.” She shakes her head. “The wider world wants you to think other women are drama . . . or catty. But that’s just because when we work together, we’re unstoppable.”
“But you have Aurelia. She’s, like, your ride or die. I don’t have a lifelong BFF like that.”
“You will. One day you’ll wake up and find that there’s a woman, or maybe a few, who have outlasted every changing season in your life.”
That evening, everyone arrives in Millie’s minivan. I’m almost expecting to see that Willowdean is missing, and Ellen by association, but they prove me wrong when all five of them spill out of the van like it’s a clown car. Well, there’s no turning back now.
Amanda pours a half-eaten bag of Corn Nuts down her throat, then, with her mouth full, says, “The best road trip food. Ever.”
“The drive is barely an hour,” I tell her.
She grins, showing off half-chewed bits of food. “Any excuse for Corn Nuts.”
Millie turns to me, her cheeks flushed from unloading bags and pillows, but still buzzing with excitement. “Lead the way!”
Hannah, Amanda, Millie, Willowdean, and Ellen all follow me inside my room, where they leave their stuff on my bed. For a minute there, Willowdean looks like she’s walked into the lion’s den, until she finds Ellen smiling at her. “I’m not stealing your best friend,” I almost say. Trust me, she doesn’t want to be stolen.
Out on the screened-in porch, Abuela has set up a full spread of chips, homemade salsa, guacamole, and anything else you might want, including warm corn and flour tortillas. The screen door swings shut behind my dad as he carries in a huge flank steak on a bed of peppers and onions to cut into fajitas.
“Ladies’ night!” he says.
“Dad.” I shake my head.
“Too much?” he asks.
Millie giggles, and so does Ellen.
“Being the cool dad is a lot of work.”
I try my best to hold back my smile. “Yeah, it shows.” I quickly introduce everyone, and we all take a seat at Abuela’s long table.
At first everyone is quiet while we devour the spread. I sit between Millie and Ellen and across from Dad and Abuela.
Millie, with her relentless parental suck-up abilities, says, “Thank you both so much for having us all here tonight and for welcoming us into your home, Mrs. Reyes.”
Abuela waves her off. “Callie hasn’t brought girlfriends over in years.”
Dad nods. “She used to all the time back in grade school. But it’s been a while now.”
For a moment, a wave of guilt hits me. I would never want them to think I’m embarrassed of them. The truth is, my time here is precious to me. Coming here is like a chance to be a new person without all the Clover City drama back at home. Even if it’s just for a weekend.
“Dad would set up tents outside,” I say. “For slumber parties. Claudia’s friends would get one tent and mine would take another.” A big smile creeps across my face. “And I remember, Abuela, you had these amazing tents that felt like mansions.”
Abuela’s eyes light up with memories. “The property really is wonderful.” She sighs. “We’re a bit of a fossil hot spot, too. During the summer, kids from town come out here with pails and shovels and go nuts. Especially down by the creek.”
“Whoa,” says Amanda. “What about, like, dinosaur bones?”
“We think we’ve found a few. Or at the very least someone’s bones.”
Amanda shakes her head, eyes wide. “That’s like some Jurassic Park stuff. Do you know Jeff Goldblum?”
Abuela chuckles. “No, but that movie got one thing right.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
She grins. “God created dinosaurs. God destroys dinosaurs. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates dinosaurs. Dinosaurs eat man. Woman inherits the earth.”
Everyone bursts into laughter.
Hannah and I both shout “Amen!” in unison.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” says Willowdean.
Once the giggles have subsided, Ellen says, “I’ve never even been camping before.”
“You’re not missing out,” Hannah tells her.
“We should go camping for one of our slumber parties,” says Millie.
“I’m really only interested in glamping,” says Willowdean. “With, like, electricity and running water.”
I roll my eyes. The diva has spoken.
“Why not tonight?” Dad offers.
All of us, caught a bit off guard by his suggestion, are quiet for a minute. On the one hand, bugs and humidity and other gross outdoorsy things. But then . . . Abuela’s house is so tiny, and eight people under one roof (and most of them in my room!) is no joke.
“Can we really?” asks Ellen, breaking the silence.
Dad looks to Abuela.
“All my tents are still out there in the barn. I’ve even got a few lanterns and sleeping mats,” she says.
“I don’t want to caaaaamp,” moans Willowdean.
“Well,” says Millie, “it’s Callie’s birthday, and if she wants to camp, we’re camping.”
“Come on,” I hear Ellen whisper. “It’ll be fun.”
Amanda hoots and whistles.
“But first,” I say, “cake!”
Abuela throws her hands up. “Yes! I’ll be right back.”
Dad dims the lights when she returns with a beautiful cake decorated with creamy-white whipped frosting and multicolored flowers all over, with sparkler candles that crackle and pop.
“‘Happy birthday, Ashley Cheeseburger’?” Ellen asks as she reads the cake from over my shoulders.
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with both hands. “Dad, what the hell?”
He laughs. “When Callie was a little girl,” my dad says, “she was very upset that she didn’t get to name herself, so she demanded that everyone call her Ashley, her name of choice.”
“And Cheeseburger?” asks Millie.
Abuela lets out a big belly laugh. “Well, we told her she’d have to pick out a new last name too.”
I turn to my dad, waving my hands in the air. “You named me Calista because Mom was an Ally McBeal fan. No one even knows that show anymore!”
“Calista Alejandra Reyes,” says Abuela.
“So you chose Ashley Cheeseburger?” Hannah shakes her head. “That’s amazing.”
I shrug. “The other kids in my kindergarten class didn’t exactly have an easy time pronouncing Calista, okay?”
“Middle name Puddin’,” says my dad. “That was her grandmama’s nickname of choice. On her mother’s side.”
Millie snorts knowingly. “Oh, that’s good. Ashley Puddin’ Cheeseburger.”
“Whatever,” I say. “Just sing to me before these candles melt all over the cake.”
They all obey my command, but definitely not in unison. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you, Ashley Cheeseburger!”
“Ha. Ha,” I say. But I can’t help the smile on my face.
“Happy birthday to you!” they all finish.
“Make a wish!” shouts Amanda.
I pull in a deep breath and blow out every one of my seventeen candles. I don’t make a single wish, because I don’t believe in them.
Or do I? Because all I do right now is go to school, work for free, and go home, and sometimes my mind wanders to Mitch and what the hell his deal was when he turned me down under the bleachers. So maybe a small, little wish wouldn’t hurt. But as I sit here with every one of my candles blown out, I guess it’s too late to bother with wishes.
My dad circles around the table and gives me a big hug before smashing something on my head. Confetti streams down over my face, tangling in my hair and sprinkling the ground.
I scream, shrieking with laughter, and touch my fingers to the top of my head to find cracked eggshell. “Dad! You jerk! You’re dead, old man!”
Everyone is silent, except Willowdean, who gasps like she’s watching the best kind of guilty-pleasure reality TV. (Which is obviously The Bachelor, just to be clear.)
Abuela places two egg crates of cascarónes on the table, which are hollowed and dried-out colorfully dyed eggshells full of confetti. “No need to wait for revenge!” she says.
Cascarónes are my favorite Mexican Easter tradition, and since my birthday always falls around Easter, they’ve become a birthday staple. Plus I dare you to find something more satisfying than cracking an egg over an unsuspecting person’s head.
Dad backs away slowly. “Respect your elders,” he reminds me, bouncing on his toes.
I grab two eggs and stand, my chair falling over behind me. “No mercy,” I tell him, and race around the table. Just like when I was a little girl, he lets me catch him, and I smash a cascarón on either side of his head.
All the girls sit frozen, except for Hannah, who reaches for an egg when no one is looking and crushes it against Amanda’s hair.
Amanda gasps and turns to Hannah, who is absolutely gleeful.
Amanda grabs an egg, and Willowdean and Ellen are quick to follow. I get Millie, and Abuela even cracks one down the back of my shirt.
It’s like a water-balloon fight, though, and while it’s furious, the cascarónes are gone in a matter of minutes.
We all collapse into our chairs, the carton of eggs sitting empty and stray confetti littering the table and the floor.
“How about some of that cake?” asks Willowdean, a little breathlessly.
“Save me a piece,” says Dad. “I’m gonna take the four-wheeler out to the barn to scare up some camping supplies for y’all.”
I hold up the knife. “Dibs on a corner piece.”
After we eat cake, our hair full of confetti, and help clean up the mess we made, we all spray ourselves down with bug spray as Abuela pulls out her big torches to give us some “mood lighting,” she says.
Setting up the tents is lots of trial and error, and by the time both tents are put together, all of our bedding is set up, and we’re all changed and ready for our night in the wilderness, it’s half past midnight.
The six of us lie out on a huge blanket for a bit and watch the stars while Dad and Abuela go inside and get ready for bed.
“Oh my gosh, Callie!” says Millie, shaking my shoulder. “I think that’s a shooting star.”
Willowdean props herself up on her elbows. “I don’t know. That might just be a tiny plane.”
“For the first time in my life, I actually agree with you,” I say.
Millie nudges me in the ribs. “You should make a wish just in case.”
I look up to the flickering light in the sky and I am 99.9 percent sure that Willowdean is right, but on the off 0.10 percent chance that she’s not, I suspend my disbelief in wishes and close my eyes.
I wish to feel like this all the time. That I’ve found my place, and that my place isn’t just a geographical coordinate, but a living, breathing thing that I carry inside of me. That is my 0.10 percent wish.
I open my eyes. “Done,” I say. “Just in case.”
Slowly everyone slips into their tents—Willowdean, Ellen, and Hannah in one, and the rest of us in the other—until it’s just me, Amanda, and Millie lying on the blanket outside. Except Amanda is definitely asleep, and when she’s not asleep, she’s fighting to stay awake.
“Amanda, you should lie down inside the tent,” says Millie.
“I’m awake, okay?” Amanda says, her lips barely moving. “Let me live.”
Millie shrugs. “So, Ashley Cheeseburger,” she says. “How does it feel to be officially seventeen years old?”
“Huh. It’s after midnight, so I guess it feels pretty much the same as sixteen felt yesterday.”
“But you can see R-rated movies now,” Amanda chimes in sluggishly.
Millie nods. “Good point.” She turns to me. “Your grandma is super stinking cool, by the way.”
“She really is.” I cross my arms behind my head. “I’m weirdly jealous of her. Like, I want to be that put together and know what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
“Callie, you’ve got lots of time.”
“I mean, I guess so,” I say. “What if I die tomorrow? My tombstone will just read, ‘She was kicked off the dance team, but at least they went to Nationals.’ I just feel like there’s all this pressure to suddenly know what I’m going to do now that I’m not a Shamrock. And honestly, I just don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to go to college. Or maybe I do, but I want to go to school in, like, Spain. Or hell, maybe I want to be a truck driver or—”
Millie laughs. “Don’t you get it?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t have to be pressure to find something new or be someone else all of a sudden. Maybe you do decide to go back to dance. You don’t need a team to dance. Or maybe you want to be an engineer or work at a makeup counter. It doesn’t matter. I know getting kicked off the Shamrocks stunk, but it doesn’t have to be this dark cloud forever. It can be a chance to find out who you really want to be.”
I’m quiet for a moment as all that sinks in. The only sound between us is a chorus of crickets and Amanda’s light snores. “That makes sense. It does. But I just want to know who I’m going to be so I can start being that person.”
“Even the wrong direction sometimes feels better than no direction at all.”
“Yes!” I say. “That. Exactly that.”
Millie half smiles. “But that doesn’t make it right. Sometimes the best things are worth waiting for. Don’t be scared to take your time.”
Something about what she’s said rings true, but it still puts my stomach in knots. Part of me doesn’t care who I am or what I’m doing as long as I’m at the top, but maybe that’s not how it has to be.
“It kind of reminds me of fat camp out here, and how quiet it was at night,” says Millie, interrupting my thoughts.
“Well, I guess that means you’ll have to come camping here again, since fat camp is a thing of the past.” For the first time, saying the word fat doesn’t make me feel anything. It’s just a word. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m holding it over someone as a way to make fun of them or like I’m being rude.
Millie smiles. “Yeah.” It comes out like a sigh. “I’d like that.”
“Hey, did you ever send in your application for journalism camp?” I ask.
“Just putting the finishing touches on my application. I made my audition video, too.”
“Shut up! I want to see.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it a little bit. I’ve never been great at hiding my feelings and I might be a jerk, but I don’t want to hurt Millie.
She checks behind us to make sure everyone is asleep, Amanda included. “Okay, but you can’t laugh. The only other person who’s seen it is Malik, because he’s the one who helped me cut the whole thing together.”
We both sit up, and she pulls her cell phone out of the pocket of her lavender hoodie and scrolls through an album until she lands on a video.
I take the phone from her and hit play. I watch Millie, in a sharp blue suit, sitting behind a news desk. Her curls are a little too tight, and at first, she’s giving me deer-in-headlight vibes. But I think that’s just because I know everyday Millie. She delivers stories about our school and there are even fancy graphics. And she actually has some great jokes—better than our local weatherman, who dons a yellow raincoat and cranks up a wind machine anytime storms are in his forecast. I would even go so far as to say she’s charming. Her puns are cute and perfectly timed. And her lipstick! I know that lipstick.
The video cuts to a few shots where Millie is reporting “live,” and then it’s over, with short credits naming her and Malik.
I hand the phone back to her, and she waits in silence for my response.
“You. Were. Born. For. This,” I finally say, and to my horror, I hear my voice crack. God. When did I turn into such a feelsy loser?
“Oh my gosh,” says Millie, touching my leg. “Are you okay?”
I nod and laugh, tilting my head back like that might somehow keep the tears inside. “I’m great. I don’t know. Or maybe I’m not.” Dabbing my eyes, I look to her. “You were amazing, though. Like, if they don’t accept you, they have shit for brains. I mean, how are you so good at that? I feel like I’d be a total mess on camera.”
“Well,” she says. “I don’t know that I’m all that great, but I want to be better, which is why I need to get into this journalism camp. Because I want to be unstoppable. I want there to be no reason for people to say no to me. I want to be so perfect that if they’re going to say no to me because of this”—she motions down to her body—“then they’ll have to say so out loud to my face.”
“Wow.” I gasp. When did the tables turn? My life is in shambles, and Millie Michalchuk has her shit together. Like, really together. Or maybe I was always a wreck. “And your lipstick!”
“Revlon Certainly Red 740. Thanks to your mom.”
“I swear that lipstick is magic.”
“Something about it just made me feel . . . powerful. I didn’t know something as silly as red lips could make me feel like that.”
“That’s what it was,” I say. “You looked like you were in charge. Like you were calling the shots.”
“You wanna know what being friends with all those girls has taught me?” She motions with her chin back to the tents.
“What?” I ask.
“Sometimes you have to fake it till you make it. If I want to call the shots, I have to start acting like it. And when that camera turns on, it’s like someone flips a switch inside me and gives me permission to be the version of myself I only dream of.”
We both lie back again.
“So,” I say, “according to you, if I want people to treat me like a lobster, I have to act like a lobster?”
“No.” She laughs. “But yeah, in a way. Yeah.”
I think about that for a while. Acting like a queen bee definitely bumped me up the social ladder, but now it’s more obvious than ever to me that I was a total sham.
So maybe after all this time faking it, I should think carefully about the person I want to be. Maybe between that and my 0.10 percent wish, there’s hope for the future of Callie Reyes yet.