July 1967
RITA
My father is making conversation with Lázaro, but I'm only paying attention to the faulty white Oldsmobile hiding with me in the back corner of the workshop, and to the thousand-piece puzzle on the table next to me.
I wipe the grease from my hands for the hundredth time and find the piece that completes Speedy Gonzales' hat. The colors of the image are starting to pop, which brings comfort to my mind. Vibrant colors ease an unexplainable ruckus in me. There's something about them that helps me focus.
I return to the hood of the car again. It is basically a choreography, one I perform almost daily. Routine may seem dull to some, but repetition can have its appeal.
The air swooshes at my left and makes my earrings swing. I only manage to see two black distorted figures out the corner of my eye. The twins are running amok again.
"¡Alvarito!, ¡Lucía! Tengan más cuidado, ¡de pronto casi me tiran el rompecabezas al piso!" I shout at them after seeing the weak table shake a little.
They keep on running and squealing without a care. The twists in Lucia's hair bounce and flick around. Alvarito's is growing too much and getting nappy.
"¡Miren que les tengo dicho que no corran en el taller!" Mamá shouts from the door to the inside of our house.
I approach her, entranced by the way her hair looks today; I can never get mine like that. Hers is so maleable, it behaves differently each time she washes it. I can barely even wash mine, it is so kinky that the water bounces off it like it is impermeable. Even though she is darker than me, the stubborn African hair gene seems to have missed her for the most part. Today, she has rolled it into waves that frame her face making her look like a movie star from the 1930s.
"They'll never listen," I say.
The twins are only seven years old, but that doesn't excuse the way they disobey. Especially when it's for their own good. Acting like that in the workshop can be dangerous.
My mother's pregnant belly gets in the way when she tries to reach one of the considerably big industrial fans we use in the workshop.
"Help me with the... The... rucurucu" She clicks her fingers and purses her thick lips, trying to remember the word.
"Fan."
With some effort, I pick it up and wait for her to show me where she wants it.
"Well, that is embarrassing." She laughs to herself and smacks her the palm of her hand against her forehead. "Such a simple word. Must be pregnancy brain."
My parents both learned English a long time ago, but it is normal for them to trip over it once in a while, so her blaming it on being pregnant confuses me. Then again, there have been other quirks about her for the past months. I sometimes can't keep up with the range of her emotions, or the pace at which they change, or how she needs me to run to the grocery store at eleven at night to pick up some celery and pickles for her to dip in mojo sauce. Yuck.
We walk to the kitchen, which is just next door, and I start to smell food that makes me realize I'd been hungry for a while.
"What are you making?"
"Rice salad with avocado."
I breath out after placing the fan on the floor and pointing it at her. Normal food.
The kids come zooming in apparently having heard mom all the way from outside with their 'Vulcan' ears, blatantly and shamelessly showing their selective hearing. They're quick to go to her with open mouths, begging like baby birds. She drops cut up pieces of avocado into them and chuckles.
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black daisy ♡ RFK
Historical Fiction"I want to be like Uhura, but I'm too much like Spock." •••• Rita has only ever known how to fix cars, so the day she encounters a man in need of fixing, it isn't quite clear to her whether it is any of her business, or if she can do anything about...
