Free The Almost Murder and Other Stories by Theresa Saldaña Page A

her, I fell asleep, too.
    All of this took place on the first day of my new life as a would-be killer’s daughter.
    I stayed in bed, cuddled up to Mom, most of Friday and Saturday. Neighbors brought us home-cooked meals. Abuela bustled around, gave Mom her medication and tried to pry me out of bed. I stayed put.
    On Sunday morning, I finally took a shower and helped Mom get dressed. Abuela insisted we all go to Mass. Valdo gave us a lift to the eleven o’clock service, in Spanish, at St. Andrew’s.
    Father Salinas said our names during the prayer request. Afterward, neighbors came over to our pew. There were hugs and tears.
    Valdo offered us a ride, but Mom wanted to walk the four blocks home. Mom’s pal Betty held her arm; they whispered together. I followed behind them, arm linked in Abuela’s.
    The next day was my first one back at school. Every kid and teacher knew one version or another of what had happened. I felt many curious sets of eyes, all focused on me. Some bolder ones spoke aloud about my dad, my mom’s injuries and me.
    My father was in jail: big news. Other South Brooklyn Middle School kids had dads or brothers in jail. I was the only one whose father had tried to kill her mother.
    I walked to my first class, feeling numb and lonely, until my best friend, Mali, linked her arm through mine.She became my five-foot-tall bodyguard, snapping fiercely at kids who stared or asked questions. Mali was a pit bull.
    After lunch, we sat together at side-by-side desks in study hall. I was taking out my loose-leaf binder when a kid came in with a note. The monitor called my name.
    Miss Reyes, the guidance counselor, wanted to see me.
    I looked at Mali, who whispered, “Stay cool. Meet me next class.”
    Then I left.
    The boy, who told me his name was Marco, led me to the main office. Miss Reyes was waiting and introduced herself.
    I didn’t get why she knew me on sight and asked her if we’d met before.
    She quietly said, “Your picture was on the news this weekend.”
    I hadn’t known.
    She was tall and curvy, with short, thick, curly hair and eyes that looked at me, straight and true. I trusted her. Miss Reyes led me out of the main office and down the hall. At a blue door with her name on it, she took out her key and let us into a tiny room barely bigger than a cubicle.
    It was an inviting little space, unlike the rest of our institutional-looking school. Everything was in shades of blue.
    I expected Miss Reyes to hit me with nonstop questions. Instead, she simply said, “I’m happy your mom is okay.”
    At the sound of these words, I wept. Deep, heaving sobs wracked me.
    Miss Reyes handed me tissues. I went through almost a whole box. I couldn’t seem to stop crying.
    Miss Reyes’ skirt made a swishing sound as she came around her desk. She embraced me, and I inhaled perfume. In a few minutes, my sobs began to subside. Miss Reyes touched my cheek, then went back to her seat. I’dnever had physical affection at school, but was glad she’d given it.
    The bell rang, and I jumped. Then, I gathered up my things.
    She asked if I wanted to see her daily, instead of going to study hall. I nodded yes gratefully.
    As I went out the door, Miss Reyes reminded me, “Keep breathing.”
    This was the first of many sessions with her. I bonded with Miss Reyes, who confided that her father was an alcoholic, too. When she was a kid, he’d slapped her mom around, right in front of Miss Reyes and her sister.
    The cops were called to her house more than once. Her parents divorced, but not until Miss Reyes was out of high school. She had seen plenty in her youth. I related to her.
    At home, Mom, Abuela and I tried to act like things were normal. Abuela insisted we say the rosary together each night, like we did years before when I was getting ready to make my First Communion. Mom and I obeyed. My rosaries had been misplaced, so Abuela bought me a fine set