Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

03 | Keeping Fuel

Then, my father had to be relocated into the Middle East and he didn't come back until I was four.

We moved to America at that age.

"Estaba pensando en hacer la sopa de la abuela. ¿Qué piensas?" I was thinking of making grandma's soup. What do you think? She looks at me expectantly, like I could say no. I love everything that my grandmother made—sometimes a little too much.

My grandmother would call me conejita, like the bunny we owned that ate anything we fed it. Sometimes it would hop back and beg for more, never satisfied.

"Chevere." That sounds good.

My mother grins, and nods, returning back to the recipe book as her fingers quickly skim through the pages, reading the crisp paper. I turn back to my homework, sucking in a sharp breath as I gave myself a mental pep-talk.

I can do this.

I split all my time, dividing and conquering. I finish one of my mine, and switch to Hannah's homework. Finish that, then I switch into my second packet, and when I'm done with that, I return to Josie's. It kept me paced, and it was enough that, by the time I was on my third packet, my mother neared competition of her craft and it was almost dinner time.

When I was busy writing down the answers for the third packet, my mother places a steaming bowl of porridge soup in front of me. I look up from the notes, my mother giving me a soft smile. I knew it was time to take a break from the books and enjoy my mother's cooking.

Because, dios, did I need it.

I shove my homework to the side, tucking the finished ones into a folder and into my backpack. I drop the pencil onto the notebook, taking the spoon my mother offered and took a dive.

I moaned in delight.

My mother seems content with my sound effect, returning back with a bowl of her own and sitting right in front of me. Usually, we would try to have family dinner in the dining room—it was a rarity.

I hear the door swing open, the loud hmph of my father entering through the wooden door. "I'm home," he announces gruffly, as the sound of him slipping out of his work boots were heard. We don't wear shoes in the house.

I look to my mother, to which she merely grimaces. I think she was planning on talking to me about something—but was interrupted by the presence of my father returning.

The kitchen door swings open, and my father enters through the door. He looks neatly tucked in a UPS driver's uniform; brown khakis, a brown shirt and a hat that reads the company's brand.

He waves at us, acknowledging our presence, and goes immediately to the stove. My father flips open the top, seeing the soup, before quickly setting it back down. "¿Hay algo para comer?" Is there anything to eat?

I chew on the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from saying something I might regret. I don't know how to explain how I feel without sounding delirious to the situation but it's just—it's right there.

"Hice la sopa de mi madre." I made my mother's soup. My mother points to the pot, her fingers blank of any color. My father hates it when she wears nail polish, stating how the toxic chemicals are bad for us. Especially since we eat with our hands a lot.

"¿Hiciste algo más?" Did you make anything else?

My fingers pulled into a clench and I stop myself from talking, biting the inside of my cheek. I glance over at my mother, the smile on her lips were slowly slipping and she sucks in a soft breath.