ONE

What’s surprised me most about seeing my sister dead is the

lingering smirk on her face. Her pale lips are turned up ever so

slightly, and someone has filled in her patchy eyebrows with a

black pencil. The top half of her face is angry—like she’s ready to

stab someone—and the bottom half is almost smug. This is not the

Olga I knew. Olga was as meek and fragile as a baby bird.

I wanted her to wear the pretty purple dress that didn’t hide her

body like all of her other outfits, but Amá chose the bright yellow

one with the pink flowers I’ve always hated. It was so unstylish, so

classically Olga. It made her either four or eighty years old. I could

never decide which. Her hair is just as bad as the dress—tight,

crunchy curls that remind me of a rich lady’s poodle. How cruel to

let her look like that. The bruises and gashes on her cheeks are

masked with thick coats of cheap foundation, making her face

haggard, even though she is (was) only twenty-two. Don’t they

pump your body full of strange chemicals to prevent your skin

from stretching and puckering, to keep your face from resembling

a rubber mask? Where did they find this mortician, the flea

market?

My poor older sister had a special talent for making herself less

attractive. She was skinny and had an okay body, but she always

managed to make it look like a sack of potatoes. Her face was pale

and plain, never a single drop of makeup. What a waste. I’m no

fashion icon—far from it—but I do feel strongly against dressing

like the elderly. Now she’s doing it from beyond the grave, but this

time it’s not even her fault.

Olga never looked or acted like a normal twenty-two-year-old. It

made me mad sometimes. Here she was, a grown-ass woman, and

all she did was go to work, sit at home with our parents, and take

one class each semester at the local community college. Every

once and a while, she’d go shopping with Amá or to the movies

with her best friend, Angie, to watch terrible romantic comedies

about clumsy but adorable blond women who fall in love with

architects in the streets of New York City. What kind of life is that?

Didn’t she want more? Didn’t she ever want to go out and grab the

world by the balls? Ever since I could pick up a pen, I’ve wanted to

be a famous writer. I want to be so successful that people stop me

on the street and ask, “Oh my God, are you Julia Reyes, the best

writer who has ever graced this earth?” All I know is that I’m going

to pack my bags when I graduate and say, “Peace out,

mothafuckas.”

But not Olga. Saint Olga, the perfect Mexican daughter.

Sometimes I wanted to scream at her until something switched on

in her brain. But the only time I ever asked her why she didn’t

move out or go to a real college, she told me to leave her alone in a

voice so weak and brittle, I never wanted to ask her again. Now I’ll

never know what Olga would have become. Maybe she would have

surprised us all.

Here I am, thinking all of these horrible thoughts about my

dead sister. It’s easier to be pissed, though. If I stop being angry,

I’m afraid I’ll fall apart until I’m just a warm mound of flesh on the

floor.

While I stare at my chewed-up nails and sink deeper into this

floppy green couch, I hear Amá wailing. She really throws her

body into it, too. “Mija, mija!” she screams as she practically

climbs inside the casket. Apá doesn’t even try to pull her off. I

can’t blame him, because when he tried to calm her down a few

hours ago, Amá kicked and flailed her arms until she gave him a

black eye. I guess he’s going to leave her alone for now. She’ll tire

herself out eventually. I’ve seen babies do that.

Apá has been sitting in the back of the room all day, refusing to

speak to anyone, staring off into nothing, like he always does.

Sometimes I think I see his dark mustache quivering, but his eyes

stay dry and clear as glass.

I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter