It’s been almost six months since we came to Auntie Minerva’s house. Every couple of weeks I ask Tata when we will go home.

“Soon,” he always says. But he never looks in my eyes when he says it.

After Auntie Minerva’s tasteless dinner tonight, I ask Tata again. And when he answers the same thing, I tell him, “You always say that. Are we going to live here forever? Why can’t we go home?”

Tata glares at me. “We will go when I say so.”

I should know better. Tata always does as he pleases, never minding anyone else’s feelings. When I was younger, I pretended I wanted to fish so I could be near him, but he never asked me along. And when he returned from the sea, he claimed he was tired. He was never too tired to drink beer in the cabana with his friends almost every night. Frank was the one he spent time with, but that changed when Frank became afraid of the water.

Back then I liked going to Mass because he went, too, and we sat on the pew together like a real family. But Tata hasn’t been to Mass since my mother died.

Sometimes I get angry when I watch television programs that show fathers who take their kids to the movies, play basketball with them in driveways, and give great advice. I don’t know any dads like that.

Smart Boy

Frank would rather do my math homework than show me how to work the problems. “I don’t understand,” I tell him when he works out my algebra without any trouble.

“What don’t you understand?” he asks.

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

He shrugs, then lowers his head and tackles the next problem. After he’s done, he pushes the paper toward me. “See?”

I shake my head.

He sighs, taking back my assignment. His pencil meets the paper and he doesn’t stop until he finishes my homework. I don’t object. I’ll just make sure that I erase some of the right answers and replace them with wrong ones. Sister Agnes would never believe I aced my algebra. But would she believe me if I said my seventh-grade brother did it for me? Frank hasn’t even covered variables. He’s taking pre-algebra this year. It doesn’t seem fair that Frank got all the smart genes in the family.

House of Plastic

Auntie Minerva’s house may be made from concrete brick, but inside it’s plastic—plastic on her furniture, plastic Tupperware in her cabinets, plastic smile on her face.

Today Olivia’s foot accidentally brushes the coffee table.

Auntie Minerva gives her a stiff smile. “Olivia, you must be careful with the blessings God has given us.”

“Did God give Olivia that coffee table?” I ask.

Auntie Minerva shoots me a sharp look and her lips purse. Then her mouth slides into that plastic grin. “Isabel, don’t you have homework?”

“No,” I say.

“Then read Leviticus 19:32. Maybe you will learn something new about how to speak to your elders, especially those who, out of the goodness of their hearts, take you under their roof and put food in your belly.”