Gabi, a Girl in Pieces. Isabel Quintero
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My mother named me Gabriela after my grandmother who—coincidentally—didn’t want to meet me when I was born because my mother was not married and was therefore living in sin. My mom has told me the story many, many, MANY times of how, when she confessed to my grandmother that she was pregnant with me, her mother beat her. BEAT HER! She was twenty-five.
That story forms the basis of my sexual education.
Every time I go out with a guy, my mom says, “Ojos abiertos, piernas cerradas.” Eyes open, legs closed. That’s as far as the birds and the bees talk has gone. And I don’t mind it. I don’t necessarily agree with that whole wait-until-you’re-married crap though. I mean, this is America and the twenty-first century, not Mexico one hundred years ago. But, of course, I can’t tell my mom that because she’ll think I’m bad.
Or worse: trying to be White.
Less than a month before school starts again. Ugh. It’s not like I don’t want to go back to school (because I do), but I also want to lie around and do nothing for a little bit longer. Eat some tacos. Eat a few more Rocky Road ice cream cones from Rite-Aid so I have an excuse to talk to the really cute guy there who has a full sleeve but has to cover it up because apparently Rite-Aid keeps it classy. Not like he’s asked me for my number but, hey, at least I can say he’s given me something sweet.
What I really want to do before summer vacation is over is try the new super-hot wings from Pepe’s House of Wings, located—conveniently—down the street. The wings are rumored to be so hot that you have to sign a waiver before you put one little drumstick in your mouth. Which makes me wonder, what horrible thing happens when you eat them? Could you possibly have a heart attack from ingesting so much capsaicin? (I like that word. It makes me feel scientific.) DEATH BY DIGESTING FIERY WING. Sounds borderline mythical. Maybe you stop breathing but are on such a spicy-wing high that it doesn’t matter because it’s