how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

11. league of legends & audrey hepburn

My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down. I'm lying splayed on my bed, my fingers running along the hem of the duvet. My arm blocks half of the light hitting my eyes. I don't look at the caller ID when I put the speaker to my ear. There's loud static on the other end, and the hint of someone's breathing.

"Hello?" I say, pulling my sleeves over my hands. It's been three or four weeks since Michael last dropped by the shop. At this point, I'm desperate enough to hope this is him on the line.

"Maricruz?" There's a woman on the other end, her tone unmistakably drenched with a Colombian accent. I sit up quickly. "Maricruz, ¿eres tu?"

The response draws out of my mouth, the Spanish in my voice rusty and mechanic. I clutch the phone tighter. "Y-yeah, it's me, Mami."

I hear the woman -- I hear my mother -- exhale a long held breath, and the static grows thicker. I pray the line doesn't cut off. Not when we have so many silent aggravations between us.

She's quiet when she speaks; quiet and timid and soft. "Why haven't you called?"

I curl my hand into a fist. "We're trying to save money."

"We couldn't keep you away from El Corte Ingles while you were here. What happened?"

"I grew up."

"Enough to move halfway across the world?"

I push my blinds away from the window and look outside. It's dark outside, a rush of light passing the street as a cyclist tears through. I walk back over to my bed, sitting down and speaking through my gritted teeth. "Mama."

"Maricruz..." she begins with a soft voice. I hear her draw something along a surface, maybe a mug across one of the restaurant tables. I can almost feel the decades of age weigh into her tone. Fifteen years wasted raising a daughter. But, yet, little Maricruz dropped everything and moved to Australia with her brother. I chew on my thumbnail until it's raw, letting her continue. "I think you should return to Colombia."

"Yeah... no."

"Mari... cariña...."

My heart stutters and I bite harder into my thumb. "Calling me cariña isn't going to convince me."

"Maricruz." The gentleness leaves as quick as it arrived. "Your music shop is getting you and Alejandro nowhere. You both are practically broke -- you don't even have enough money to call someone in Colombia."

Everything seems to melt over, like an over-boiling pan of broth. Fuming, messy and untamed. "I never said that!" I stand up, pacing around my room, trying to walk off the lingering touch of frustration.

"That's why though, isn't it?"

I stay silent, biting my bottom lip.

"Don't lie, Maricruz! You and your brother are useless and poor, and you both know you'd be so much better here. You'd be so much better working at the restaurant."

"I'd never put another apron again. Ever."

"Sure, Mari, sure. Give it another year, and you'll be coming back home."

I swallow the thick knot in my throat painfully, glancing up at my flickering light and sighing. My mother and I are peculiar. We're the as close knit as a mother and daughter could possibly get. But, we know exactly which buttons to push during an argument. Those occur almost ever other conversation. Controlled words turn to scrutiny, turn to screaming wars and slammed doors. I fall back onto the bed, holding the phone to my ear painfully strong and closing my eyes. A tear strings down my cheek, and I hear Mama suck in a shaky breath, too.