/ Fiction /
Raúl scanned his room. The carpet was vacuumed. Both beds were made—his and Diego’s. Clothes and shoes were in the closet. He sat down on his bed, sinking into the worn mattress, and allowed himself to relax. This was the first time he had stopped moving since waking up and the lack of movement felt nice. He lit the cinnamon candle he had taken from the living room and set it on his nightstand. He leaned back, supporting himself with his hands, and admired his clean soccer trophies and Nintendo systems on the TV stand. He had done a great job dusting, he thought, so much so, that he could see himself on the TV screen.
His phone buzzed. He sat up and saw a message from Andrea: Be there soon. He smiled and responded: can’t wait. He remembered how much they had kissed at her house and wondered if they would be able to do the same here. But then he heard his mom yelling at Diego and Karen as they raced through the house and realized there probably wouldn’t be much kissing.
He went back to examining the room, his eyes moving from the left side of the room to the right, slowly capturing every inch of the space, and stopping once they settled on the black spot near the ceiling corner. His heart sank. He had forgotten about the kidney-shaped patch of mold that had been growing there slowly over the past few months. His parents had told him there wasn’t enough money to replace the roof and fix the ceiling, so Raúl had accepted that the mold would grow there, forever. It was nearly the size of his hand now, too big to go unnoticed. But he couldn’t let Andrea see it, he decided, wondering what he could use to hide the hideous black spot.
Maybe a piece of cloth from an old t-shirt. No, that wouldn’t work, he thought, remembering failed art projects involving fabric and tape. Maybe a piece of white paper. He walked over to the computer desk in the living room and opened the drawer where the printer paper was stored. The drawer was empty. Maybe there was some in the printer. He crouched down and snapped open the printer compartment. No paper.
“Mom, where is the printer paper?” he said in Spanish.
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’re the only one who uses it.”
He remembered using the last few pages to print a history paper last week, but he couldn’t remember whether or not he had told his mom to buy more. “Well, we’re out.”
Before she could respond, the dryer filled the small space with its loud, drawn-out buzz. He looked at his oversized shirt and baggy shorts. Andrea would be here soon and he wasn’t ready. He ran his hand through his long hair, wishing he had asked his mom to cut it a few days ago. This would be a disaster, he thought, as he stood up from his crouched position and walked through the kitchen to the cramped laundry room.
“Are you going to help me?” his mom said, walking into the room.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he said. “I need to get ready before she gets here.”
“Well at least take the clothes out while you’re here.”
As Raúl placed handfuls of clothes on top of the dryer, his mom said, “So tell me about her. You barely said anything to me and your dad last night.”
He watched his mom sort the socks and underwear, unsure of what to say because this—having a girlfriend and talking about a girlfriend—was all new to him. This was the first time she was coming over to his house. He hadn’t wanted her to come over, especially after he had seen her house, but she had insisted. They had met in their Spanish class. He remembered how on the first day of class, after they were paired together, and after she learned that Raúl spoke Spanish, Andrea had declared to him that she would be the second best in the class. And she did, staring at Raúl during their speaking exercises as he mouthed the words slowly, trying her best to repeat Raúl’s pronunciation. Whenever she messed up, he would laugh at her, which annoyed her. But once he realized he liked her, and her oversized glasses and peculiar outfits, he stopped laughing and helped her with anything she needed help with, because no other girl had ever looked at Raúl like Andrea had.
“She’s in my Spanish class,” he said, finally, deciding that starting from the beginning was the best option.
“Oh, so I’ll be able to talk with her.”
“Well, not exactly.” Raúl thought about how he’d have to translate for his mom, how awkward that would be. “She’s still learning.”
“I can help her practice,” she said, laughing.
“Please don’t,” Raúl said, thinking about the things his mom might share about him.
“Okay, fine, I won’t.”
They sorted clothes in silence for a while.
“I vacuumed and swept,” his mom said. “And the kitchen is clean. Did you clean your room?”
“Yes,” he said, annoyed she had even asked.
“Have you eaten? There is fruit in the fridge. And we have leftovers if she’s hungry.”
He wondered if Andrea would like his mom’s food. “I don’t think we’ll be hungry.” As he thought about Andrea, he remembered the mold spot. “Do we have paint?” he said.
“In the shed. Why?”
“I need it for a project.” And then he added, “Can I go now?” He grabbed his outfit. “I need to get ready before she gets here.”
“Go,” she said. “But this will be here for you when she leaves,” pointing to his pile of clothes.
As he walked through the house, he noticed Diego and Karen in the living room. His younger siblings, both about half his age, were watching a movie. They always made things difficult for him when he brought anyone over, refusing to leave him and his guests alone. Deciding he wouldn’t let them ruin this visit, he walked in front of the TV and turned to face them.
“If you come into my room while Andrea is here, I’ll kill you,” he said in English.
“You can’t do that,” Karen said, throwing a couch pillow at him.
“Yes, I can,” he said. He caught it and threw it back as hard as he could. Diego and Karen curled up, preparing for the impact, but the pillow hit the wall behind the couch and landed on Diego’s head.
“You missed,” Karen said, sticking out her tongue.
Raúl, now angrier than before, rushed her. She tried to escape but he picked her up and squeezed her, hard. She yelped and started crying. He dropped her on the couch and stared at Diego who didn’t move.
Karen’s black curls moved up and down with her sobs, tears falling on her pink pajamas. Raúl had wanted to show her he was to be taken seriously but now he felt he had gone too far.
His mom walked into the room, her curls also bobbing up and down. “What happened?” she said, looking from Karen to Raúl.
Between sobs, Karen said, “Raúl. Squeezed. Me”
His mom turned to Raúl. She seemed to want to squeeze him, but instead, she ran her hand through her hair. “Raúl, they’re your siblings,” she said. She sat down on the couch, between Karen and Diego. Karen fell into her lap and his mom rubbed her back.
“I know, but they don’t listen to me.”
“Because you’re not their mother.”
“Tell them that they can’t come into my room when Andrea gets here.”
His mom looked at Karen and Diego. “Your brother’s girlfriend is coming over today,” she said. “Don’t bother them.”
Karen stopped crying and raised her head. “You have a girlfriend?”
Raúl straightened himself to answer the question. “Yes, I do.”
“No way,” Diego said. “You’re ugly.” He laughed.
Raúl looked at Diego, thinking of a witty response. He noticed that Diego was wearing his old clothes. Everyone always said Diego looked like Raúl. “If I’m ugly, that means you are too,” Raúl said, balling his fist and moving his arm back as if he was going to punch him. Diego grabbed a couch pillow to use as a shield.
“Enough,” his mom said.
Raúl stood there, frustrated, wishing he didn’t have any siblings. Maybe then his life would be better. Maybe then his family would have more. He hadn’t always felt this way but things had changed for him after seeing Andrea’s house, which was like no other house he had ever seen. He looked at their lumpy couch, scuffed coffee table, and empty walls. He wondered what she would think when she saw the house. Would she laugh at him behind his back? Would she break up with him?
Raúl left the living room and walked outside. Despite the distractions caused by his family, he calculated he had about ten minutes before Andrea arrived. Enough time, he thought. Inside the shed, he saw a few cans of paint on the back shelf and hoped one of them contained white paint. Standing on his toes, he pulled a can from the top shelf but it wasn’t the right color. He pulled two more cans but no luck. He could see there were more cans on the shelf but he couldn’t reach them.
“What are you doing?” Karen asked, standing in the doorway.
Why was she was always following him? “I need to get some paint,” he said without looking at her. And then something in Raúl’s mind clicked and he turned to her. “I need your help, come over here.”
“I don’t want to help you,” she said, crossing her arms, her eyes still red. “You made me cry.”
“I’ll buy you a slushie from Mike’s tomorrow,” he said. He watched as she uncrossed her arms and stepped closer to him.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She smiled. Her eyes were big. “Deal.” She stuck her hand out.
Raúl shook it. “I need you to look for a can of white paint up there,” he said, pointing to the shelf. “I’m going to put you on my shoulders.”
“What do you need paint for?”
“None of your business.”
He lifted her up, and as Karen moved the cans, Raúl realized he had begun to sweat in the stuffy shed. He didn’t want to be in here much longer. “Have you found it yet?”
“Found it,” she said.
He could feel his heart slow down as he relaxed. He lowered Karen down to the floor and she handed him the paint can. He grabbed a paint brush from the middle shelf.
“Thank you,” he said and ran back to the house.
Once inside, he grabbed a stepladder from the kitchen and carried it to his room. Realizing he needed to lay newspaper on the floor to catch any falling paint droplets, he propped the ladder against the wall, walked back to the kitchen, and pulled a newspaper from the recycling bin. Back in his room, he placed the individual pages on the ground in a perfect square, making sure the pages overlapped. Then he set down the paint can and moved the stepladder directly under the mold spot.
“What are you doing?” Diego said, standing in the doorway.
“Painting,” Raúl said, looking down at the sealed paint can. Not wanting to leave the room again, he asked, “Can you tell mom to get me a screwdriver?”
“Okay,” Diego said.
While Diego was gone, Raúl looked at his painting supplies, making sure he wasn’t missing anything else. He wasn’t. Diego returned with the screwdriver and watched Raúl open the can from afar.
Raúl dipped the paint brush in the thick, white paint and stirred it slowly.
“Why are you painting?” Diego said, moving closer to Raúl. The newspaper crinkled.
He pulled the brush out, wiping off the excess paint carefully on the sides of the can. “Because I can’t let Andrea see that,” he said, pointing to the black spot which seemed smaller to him now.
He climbed the ladder and stopped on the second step, deciding he could reach the ceiling from here. Raúl had never been this close to the mold. It was dry and smelled like the pile of grass clippings they collected behind the shed, the middle of the pile, specifically, which he had exposed one day with a stick when he was Diego’s age.
“Why not?” Diego said.
“Because it shows that we’re poor.”
The statement seemed to confuse Diego.
Raúl watched him, thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have said it. But eventually Diego’s expression changed and he said, “We’re not poor. I have a lot of toys.”
Annoyed at his response, Raúl said, “We live in a trailer. We’re poor.” And then he added, “Now leave me alone. I need to paint.”
Diego left the room. Raúl heard him ask his mom if they were poor. Raúl knew she would be upset with him once she found out he had planted the idea in Diego’s mind. As he brought the brush into contact with the ceiling and moved it from the left side of the mold spot to the right side, he wondered how she would respond. But he didn’t hear her, or rather couldn’t hear her as he assessed his work. One more layer, he thought. He moved the brush from the right to the left this time, applying a little more pressure.
But as he finished the brush stroke, he felt the ceiling move. He froze. Carefully, he lifted the brush away and watched as the left half of the moldy patch detached itself from the ceiling. As he stared at the piece, dangling from the ceiling, Raúl questioned if all his effort had been worth it. Would it have been better if had he ignored the mold? Using his thumb, he nudged the piece back into place, but the ceiling was complete for only a moment before the entire moldy piece fell, hitting him in the chest and landing on the newspaper. He looked at the piece on the ground. The black, unpainted side faced him. He looked at the hole in the ceiling. Then he looked at his shirt, oversized and now paint-stained.
There was a knock on the door. Diego and Karen ran to the door and greeted Andrea. He stepped down from the ladder, placed the brush on the newspaper, and closed the paint can. He changed, slowly. Then he walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch.
It was a warm and sunny June day.
Andrea’s hair moved in the slight breeze.
“We should go for a walk,” he said.
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