Us, in Progress Page 2

  “What are you searching for?” asked Mamá as she retrieved her insulin vial from the refrigerator door and filled a needle with fluid.

  “It’s my ring,” said Marla. “I mean, my neck.” Sometimes Marla struggled to say what she meant. “It’s getting darker.”

  Kevin, Marla’s younger brother, overheard her from his bed in the living room.

  “Marla has a dirty neck! Marla has a dirty neck!” he started chanting gleefully.

  “Moron!” Marla screamed, lunging at her brother. She chased him around the apartment and out into the open hall until she got winded. She steadied herself against the banister of the outdoor stairs. Recovered, she walked back inside.

  “Don’t pay attention to him,” said Mamá as she injected the sharp needle into her stomach with a jab.

  The familiar sight sent shivers through Marla. No matter how many times she watched her mother inject herself, Marla couldn’t get used to it. She dreaded becoming like Mamá, sick and tired all the time. Mamá lived from insulin shot to insulin shot. Four days a week Mamá would drag herself to the minimum-wage job she had at the nearby cell-phone repair center. Mamá used to be an assistant manager at a moving company, but the job had required such long hours that she’d had to quit. Diabetes tired Mamá. Still, Mamá refused to go on disability. You have to earn your living, she would say to Marla all the time.

  “Have breakfast, Marla!” Mamá called as Marla was getting ready to leave. Marla grabbed the last bag of potato chips and headed for the school bus stop at the corner of Tim and Eastern.

  As she saw the bus approach, Marla turned on her cell phone and swiveled its camera to look at herself on the screen as if it were a mirror. For her thirteenth birthday, a hairdresser friend of her mother’s had highlighted her hair. Now Marla swept her hair over her chest. She didn’t want her friends Keisha and Tina to notice the ring on her neck.

  Marla boarded the bus and found her friends in their usual seats.

  “Hey!” Marla said, sliding into the seat in front of her friends. “Love your earrings, Keisha!” she said. Marla liked being friendly.

  “And I like your highlights,” responded Keisha.

  “Thanks,” said Marla, running her fingers through her hair. “Hey, look over. Selfie!” Marla snapped a photo of the three of them. She was always taking pictures. She looked at the picture. Neither of her friends had a neck ring. Marla frowned and put her phone away. She remembered her last visit to the doctor. She had gone into the examining room on her own. Mamá had stayed behind to fill out some paperwork. Dr. Lee had examined her skin. The ring had been much fainter then. Still, the doctor had asked many questions. Did she get tired easily? What did she eat at home? Did she avoid sweet drinks? Did she choose healthy meals at school? Did she play sports? Marla had told Dr. Lee that Mamá bought whatever was on sale at the Food 4 Less. Sports were not her thing, but she liked math and social studies. Dr. Lee had explained that the dark pigmentation around her neck was a sign of prediabetes. It meant that Marla was not processing sugars well. Marla remembered Dr. Lee’s every word: You have strong risk factors for type 2 diabetes. You need to make an effort to eat better and exercise. Otherwise you’ll become as ill as your mom. Marla’s smile had vanished.

  All day at school Marla looked forward to seventh period. She loved her social studies teacher. Ms. García was young and pretty and funny, and she knew so much. She always called on Marla whenever Marla raised her hand. The period was almost over when Ms. García asked if anyone had gone to the 234th birthday of the founding of the city of Los Angeles. Before anyone could answer, the bell rang and all the students stampeded out of the room. Marla felt sorry for Ms. García and stayed behind.

  “How was it?” Marla asked, picking up her backpack with one hand and pulling down her tunic with the other.

  “You would have loved it, Marla,” Ms. García said. “There was a procession of pedestrians and bicyclists that started at the Mission San Gabriel and ended in El Pueblo de Los Angeles. There were reenactments, readings, musical numbers, and food vendors. I even joined the cyclists in the procession,” she added as she gathered her things.

  “You biked all that way?” asked Marla, arching her eyebrows.

  “It’s not much of a ride. Just nine miles!” said Ms. García as she walked out of the classroom. “Do you bike, Marla?”

  “No. I mean, yes,” Marla answered. “Last time I biked I was real little.” She looked sideways. “I don’t have a bike anymore.”

  “Maybe one day you can borrow a bike and join one of these events,” said Ms. García as she headed toward the parking lot. “You’d like it.”

  Marla thought that she wouldn’t be able to cover nine miles even if she owned a bike. She touched the back of her neck. Watching the teacher weaving gracefully in between the hordes of students running every which way, Marla wished she could be just like Ms. García.

  The next day was September 10, and Marla went with Kevin and Mamá to the Food 4 Less in Huntington. It was time to get a month’s worth of groceries. Marla always liked shopping for food. The huge warehouse had big aisles lined with items sold in large quantities. Bright lights shone on the food items, and bunches of balloons decorated the displays.

  “I’m hungry,” whined Kevin as soon as Mamá leaned over her shopping cart to read the store’s flyer.

  “¡Ay, niño!” complained Mamá. “Let me finish checking the sales!” Mamá always tried to stretch the money as much as she could. That often meant buying food that had a long shelf life. Just recently, Mamá had taken a nutrition class, and she was intent on making better food choices. Mamá examined her grocery list to see if anything on it was discounted.

  “I’m so hungry,” whimpered Kevin. “Please.”

  Mamá gave up. “Okay. Pick something healthy that’s not more than a dollar.”

  Marla looked at her brother and rolled her eyes. The ten-year-old was such a pain.

  After Kevin left, Mamá sent Marla to the produce section to look for a couple of the cantaloupes on sale. She would soon follow, Mamá told Marla.

  Spotting the cantaloupe bin, Marla noticed a big, muscular woman standing next to it, browsing through the melons. The woman was wearing a T-shirt from the event Ms. García had been talking about. Curious, Marla thought of a way of making conversation.

  “This one’s ripe. Yes?” Marla asked, a cantaloupe in her hand.

  “Let me help you,” said the woman. She smelled Marla’s melon. “No. Not yet. They should smell sweet.” The woman tested another melon and handed it to Marla. “This one’s ready.”

  “Thank you!” said Marla. “Do you like to bike?” she blurted out. “I’m sorry.” Marla giggled. “That’s so rude of me. I didn’t mean to be nosy. I’m Marla.”

  “No worries,” said the woman. “I’m Emma.” Emma told Marla all about the Eastside Bike Club, which she was a member of. “We’re like a big family. Want to join?”

  “Thanks,” said Marla. “But I don’t have a bike.”

  “Well,” said Emma, “one of our members has a bike shop and sometimes lets young people ride one of his rental bikes for free.”

  “Really?” Marla asked. She waved Mamá over as soon as Marla spotted her. Marla eagerly introduced Emma to Mamá, wanting to talk about the club. But after a quick exchange, Mamá excused herself to continue their shopping.

  As soon as they had left the produce aisle, Marla started thinking about how great it would be to ride a bike again. She’d fallen in love with biking the first time she rode without Abuelo’s steadying hand, back when she was five. Now, years later, to go on her own around Los Angeles would be really, really cool. Marla touched her neck. Maybe the ring would fade.

  “Mamá! Can I join Emma’s bike club?” Marla squealed once they were far enough away from Emma. “They ride on Tuesday evenings at six thirty, and they’d lend me a bike for free. Free!”

  “Marla, ¿estás loca?” asked Mamá. “What has gotten into you? You can’t ri
de at night! And with strangers.”

  “But Dr. Lee said I needed exercise!” exclaimed Marla the moment Kevin returned with his mouth orange from eating a whole bag of cheese curls and carrying the opened variety pack under his arm.

  “Kevin!” Mamá scolded. “I told you healthy and a dollar or less.”

  “There’s twenty packs for eleven ninety-five,” said Kevin. “Cheaper than last month’s, and some are cheesy!”

  “¡Ay, niño!” Mamá nodded in defeat. “I wanted to buy healthy things this time. Now we’re stuck with getting the opened pack. Never again. You hear me?”

  Marla thumped Kevin on the head. He was grinning as he dropped the package in the cart. Then she placed her hand on Mamá’s forearm.

  “Let me try the club, pleeease,” begged Marla. “I’m thirteen!”

  “No, Marla,” Mamá insisted. “No.”

  “What?” fumed Marla, stopping in her tracks. “You want me to be just like you?”

  Mamá turned to look at Marla, her gaze tired and sad. Marla glanced away, and for an instant she wished she could take back her words. But she said nothing. The family shopped for the rest of the items on Mamá’s list in complete silence.

  Marla took a walk during her lunch break the following day. The school felt like a town with its open paths and paved areas between its many buildings. Marla wanted to ride a bike again. She believed that biking was the exercise for her. She remembered how Abuelo used to praise her biking skills. Maybe she could still convince Mamá to let her join the club. After just one loop around the cafeteria building, Marla grew tired and sat on the bench by the vegetable garden. A little while later Ms. García came out with an eighth grader to tend to the plants.

  “Hola, Marla,” Ms. García greeted her. “You’re all flushed. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just that I’ve been walking to get in better shape,” said Marla, sweeping her hair to the front of her neck. “I want to join a bike club.” Marla told Ms. García about the club’s evening rides and how she hoped to convince Mamá to let her join. She didn’t say anything about her prediabetes, or her harsh words to Mamá.

  “I see,” said Ms. García. She looked at the eighth grader and asked him to get her some tools. Then Ms. García sat next to Marla. “You know, maybe there’s another way. Have you thought of looking into a bike co-op? Some have work-to-own programs.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Marla.

  “Well,” said Ms. García as she removed her garden gloves, “if you’d like to get a bike, you might be able to do volunteer work for it. Then you could ride while it’s still light out.”

  “Oh,” said Marla. “That sounds interesting.”

  A few days later, Marla sat with Tina and Keisha at the library. They were all using the computers. Marla began to look up bike co-ops. Several showed up on the map. The closest was Bike Lab on Figueroa Street. She’d have to take two buses. Maybe she could go check it out after school. Marla told her friends about her plan.

  “Hey, want to go with me this afternoon?” asked Marla.

  “Yeah,” said Keisha. “Oh no. I have a dentist appointment.”

  “It looks far away,” said Tina. “We can’t walk there. Did you ask your mom?”

  “No,” said Marla. “Not yet.” Marla bit her lower lip. She hunched over, holding the nape of her neck with both hands. She didn’t think Mamá would let her ride two buses to a place she didn’t know about. She would have to go without telling Mamá. She looked up the bus schedules. Marla was sure she could arrive home first, so Mamá would never find out.

  The bus ride to the co-op that afternoon felt much longer than it actually was. Marla was the first to jump out as soon as the bus got to her stop. She felt butterflies in her stomach as she walked to the shop. It didn’t have a sign, but she recognized it by a mural of bikes on the side wall. She turned around to take a selfie in front of the mural. Inside the shop, a thin old man in a cap stood behind the counter. Nearby a couple of young guys tinkered with a bike propped up on a stand. The place was greasy and cluttered. Several bikes hung from wall racks, and Marla wondered if someday one of them would be hers.

  “Hi,” Marla greeted the old man. “I like your mural.”

  “Have a bike problem, young lady?” the man asked in a raspy voice.

  “Yes,” Marla said. “I mean, no. I’d like to work here. To own a bike. It’s my teacher. She said you might have a program. You have one?”

  “Excuse me?” asked the man as he raised a bushy eyebrow.

  Marla hid her giggles with her hand, realizing she hadn’t been clear.

  “Oh! You mean volunteer,” he said. He went on to explain that one of the donated bikes could be hers if she volunteered at least fifteen hours. She had to be thirteen or older, a student, and have parental permission. He then took out a form from under the counter and slid it in front of Marla. Marla thanked him and stared at the bikes hanging from the racks. She itched to get on one. She looked at the form. A parent’s signature. She glanced over at the guys covered in tattoos and sighed. She doubted she would ever convince Mamá to let her work here. As she was about to leave, she stopped to examine the flyers of past and upcoming bike rides posted by the doorway. The one Ms. García had gone to was there. Nine miles, she thought. She had to convince Mamá. She had to.

  Marla rushed home from the bus stop to wait for Mamá at the bottom of the stairs that led to their apartment. She wanted to talk to her in private. Kevin was inside watching TV.

  As soon as Marla saw Mamá turn the corner, she jumped to her feet and went to greet her.

  “Hola, Mami,” said Marla. “Give me. I’ll carry your things.”

  “Hola,” said Mamá, squinting. “¿‘Mami’? Something’s wrong?”

  Marla started to explain the wonderful opportunity she had found. She could buy her own bike by doing volunteer work! Mamá nodded in agreement. Marla told Mamá it would take only fifteen hours, and then she could ride in daylight with her own bike. A little signature was all she needed.

  “Where’s this place?” asked Mamá as she grabbed on to the railing to walk up the steps.

  “Not too far,” said Marla. “Figueroa Street.”

  “That’s about forty minutes from here by bus!” said Mamá, turning to look at Marla. “And how did you get this form?”

  “It’s closer from school,” mumbled Marla. “I went right after. Nothing happened.” She shrugged and tilted her head.

  “¡Ay! Marla, Marla.” Mamá sighed. “¿Qué voy a hacer contigo? What am I going to do with you?”

  After much begging, Mamá agreed to go on Saturday to the Bike Lab to check it out.

  Saturday morning came and Marla couldn’t contain herself. She kept describing to Mamá over and over again the bikes she had seen. She told Mamá how she knew this was the exercise for her. If he were alive, Abuelo would be happy. Mamá nodded with a smile. Marla kept talking up the opportunity all the way to the co-op.

  After a long chat with the old man, Mr. Ben, Mamá signed the form. Marla would start right then and there and would report to Mamá by text on the hour. She had to be home by four. No excuses. That day Marla did all she was asked. She cleaned the counters. She sorted parts. She learned the names of tools and where to keep them. She buffed two recently donated bikes, one black, one purple, until they were shiny. She reported to Mamá every hour on the dot. Around two o’clock Mr. Ben called her over.

  “You’ve been good,” he said. “Tell you what. You can take that one for a ride,” he added, pointing to the purple bike.

  “Really?” asked Marla. “Thank you, thank you!”

  “Just around the block!” he admonished.

  With the help of another volunteer Marla took the bike off the rack and grabbed a nearby helmet. She walked it to the doorway and climbed on it. She stumbled once, twice. But then it seemed like her muscles remembered what to do, and she rode around the block. It felt so good, even if she tired after only two loops.


  Marla returned to volunteer at the Bike Lab four more times. There she learned about bike mechanics and care and attended a free class on riding in traffic. She jumped at every chance that came up to ride with customers as they tried out bikes before purchasing them. And she began to notice she could ride for longer periods.

  One Saturday Mr. Ben called her away from her work in the bike co-op.

  “Tell you what, young lady,” Mr. Ben said. “You’ve earned that purple bike you like so much.” Marla stood on the tips of her toes, tightly holding her hands near her smiling face, as she listened to Mr. Ben’s every single word. “Take it home today, along with the helmet you always wear. You don’t have to come back anymore, but you’ll always be welcome at the shop.”

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” exclaimed Marla as she clapped her hands.

  “One last thing before you take off,” said Mr. Ben. “Go clean up the old announcements from the wall and find room for the upcoming events, please.”

  “Sure,” Marla said. She grabbed the stack of new flyers and rushed to the wall to clean and spruce it up as best she could. That’s when she saw the flyer announcing the perfect ride for her. The Día de los Muertos Bike Ride. It would be a nine-mile ride in honor of the Day of the Dead, ending with a fiesta held at the famous Self Help Graphics & Art center in Boyle Heights. Nine miles. Marla was instantly hooked. The ride was on Sunday, November 1, starting at three p.m. Four weeks away. Mamá should allow her to ride at that hour. She snapped a picture of the announcement. She could already imagine herself flying by, with a fading ring on her neck.

  That afternoon, before leaving the co-op on her own bike, Marla went over to Mr. Ben and hugged him. Riding in the bike lane most of the way home, she looked at the birds flying above her. And she felt a kinship with them. As soon as she arrived, she called Mamá and Kevin from the parking lot of their apartment.

  Kevin came out first.

  “Wow!” he said. “Nifty bike! Can I ride it?”

  “Not now,” Marla answered.

  “Whatever! It’s a girl’s bike anyway,” he added, and headed back inside to watch TV.