Refried Dreams

Chapter Three: Mexicandy America

  The weeks ticked by, and Mom was right. No one was hiring.

"We just filled our opening last week," one manager said.

Another shoved my application under the counter. He never took his eyes off the computer screen in front of him. "Thanks so much. We'll give you a call," he muttered. Forget about that liar, I told myself. He smelled like wet laundry anyway.

"Sorry," said an older woman. "It's nothing personal, hon."

I stepped up my game for the next few weeks. I practiced my brightest smile in the bathroom mirror. I switched my Dr. Who hoodie for an Old Navy polo. Nothing said hire me like wearing a square of industrial carpet topped with a man's collar. For some reason, that still didn't work. I was reaching the end of my list.

Mom was nagging. Don't get me wrong, she didn't want to make me work. But we needed the money, and we both knew it.

One morning, I found the Mexicandy America application on the kitchen table. It was already filled out in Mom's bubbly handwriting. A Post-it note marked the signature line. I stood over it, uncertain.

"Drop you off after school today?" she asked. Her eyes added, Please?

What could I do? I'd tried my way, and I'd lost.

I still didn't think it was really going to happen. But I had been defeated. So I handed my application to the man behind the register at Mexicandy America. Still, I figured they wouldn't hire me because I was too white and too blonde. Everyone who worked there was Mexican, not to mention male.

Instead, the manager didn't even read my paperwork. He said he would interview me. I thought he meant in a day or next week, but he meant right then at the side of the counter.

"Do you work hard?" he asked. José, his nametag said. Owner.

"I don't actually know. I've never had a job before."

"You will work hard," José said. "Okay then. Are you friendly with customers?"

"I think so. I mean, sometimes I get annoyed or blurt out dumb things. Like now."

"You will be friendly with customers. All the time."

Two out of two answers wrong. But I didn't actually want the job, so I wasn't worried.

"Can you start tomorrow?" José asked.

A guy standing by the back leaned out and yelled something in Spanish. I didn't speak Spanish. That was another reason I shouldn't work there. But I recognized one word from Dora the Explorer: bienvenidos. Welcome. He wore an apron the color of hot peppers. His hair was gelled up into a triangle in the middle of his head.

I was about to dazzle him with my stunning Spanish vocabulary: gracias. But then he chucked a long wooden spoon at me. I tried to catch it. Instead, I knocked it into my nose.

I blushed and turned to leave. This place was downright abusive. But then I saw Mom strolling into the food court to pick me up. She saw that I was talking to the manager. She threw on a cheesy grin and a double thumbs-up. Then she ducked around the corner to wait.

Dang it, I couldn't do this to her. What could I do? Lie to her and pretend I didn't get the job? Sorry, Mom. I'd rather you died of a heart attack than help pay for your recovery. See, I just dont want to spread pico de gallo on hamburger buns. Nothing personal.

"Yeah, I can start tomorrow." Like I said, I always gave the wrong answer.

I threw the spoon back at the rude cook. It missed him and flew into a chunk of metal above the grill. The cook rolled his eyes. José muttered a string of words that I assumed were curses. I glanced at Koala Gelato across the hall. Clara had her hands over her ears and a perfect-for-Instagram pout on her face.

Fries and salsa with a burnt tortilla cookie on the side. Great.