1st 5 pages January Workshop - Bates Rev 2

Name: Lisa Lynn Bates
Genre: Middle Grade: Contemporary
Title: Man of the House


After a tragic accident, Freddie Santiago is left caring for his ill mother in a new town. He finds comfort in texting his deceased father’s old cell number—until he receives a reply from a mysterious person.

**

When I moved to Georgia, I did not expect to bury a corpse. And certainly not make friends with a girl named Daisy with a last name most appropriate, Guerra. Which stood for the Spanish word “war.” 

The day I met Daisy, I hadn’t been in the new home for more than four hours when I heard a knock on the door.

When I opened the door wide, I found some girl, holding a lopsided flan on a plate. She looked around my age--eleven.

“Hola.”

“Hi,” I said, wondering what she wanted.

“Welcome,’ she said, and held out the plate. ‘I made this for you.’

I stared at it.

“Take it,” she said, smiling. “It’s not poison.”

I took the plate and said, “Thanks, I guess.”

“I’m Daisy Guerra. My parents want me to show your mom around the Home.”

She looked over my shoulders, into the dark kitchen. “She home?”

I blocked her view with his body. The last time I checked, my mother’s hair was matted in the back and her clothes were wrinkled. Not the image I wanted my mother’s new employer’s daughter to witness. 

Daisy stepped into the kitchen and walked around. Man, she’s nosy, I thought. “She’s busy unpacking.”

“Oh.” Daisy flipped her long brown hair over her tan shoulders. “What about you?”

I stared at the glittering crystal that hung from her tan earlobes. My mother never wore earrings.

“I’m busy too,” I said, slowly backing her out to the exit, maneuvering the flan as it slid over the plate like Jello. When Daisy reached the opening, I forced his body forward jerking her out to the landing. 

“Hey!” said Daisy, looking disappointed. 

I heard my mother mumble something. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.” I shut the door, jabbed a corner of the flan with my finger and licked it. It tasted like vanilla caramel. Girl could cook. 

“I’m not leaving till one of you get the tour,” shouted Daisy through the closed door. 

I held my breath then let it out. My lips flapped. Could this girl get any more annoying?

“Fine,” I said, loud enough for her to hear me.

“Great. I’ll wait,” she replied. Sounding complacent.

I put the flan in the refrigerator and checked on my mother first. She had fallen back to sleep, sprawled over a pile of clothes on the bed. On the nightstand, she had left her medication bottle of pink pills open. I decided not to wake her. After the long drive from Rhode Island, carrying luggage in and out of the car, and unpacking her make-up kits, she needed the rest. Tomorrow she’d start her new job at the salon. I grabbed a sheet from a box and snapped a tent over her frail body, where, before the pills and before my father’s accident, there used to be curves and squishy skin.

**

The tour was short and uninteresting. Daisy showed me into a large room with rows of purple upholstered chairs. Wall to wall carpet the color of beets, my least favorite vegetable. A podium with white phony flowers. A kitchen with a long wooden table and ten chairs. And a dome shaped crystal chandelier that hovered over the main entrance like a giant beehive. It was not the usual salon my mother worked in.

“Now for the great finale,” she said, “Follow me.”

I followed Daisy to a locked door with an Employees Only sign on it. She grabbed a pair of gloves from a box next to the door and handed me a pair.

“Put these on,” she said. “No one’s allowed in here without gloves. You can take the small ones.”

“Whatever,” I said, taking them. The gloves were tight around my wrist and smelled like rubber balloons. 

Daisy flicked a light switch and walked in. “This is your mother’s workspace,” she said.

I didn’t follow Daisy all the way in to the sterile bright, white, room. I scanned it from the entrance. A large furnace hummed loudly in a corner. White tiling covered the walls, two long aluminum sinks, three white trays, white shelving, and a covered cot in the middle of the room.

“What’s under there?” I asked, pointing to the cot.

“Oh that?” Daisy said, “Don’t touch, or you’ll be sorry.” 

“Pff, why not?” She made it sound top-secret. “If my mother’s working here, I should inspect everything, first. Don’t you think?”

She raised her shoulders and stepped aside, “Suit yourself.”

I pulled back the plastic from the cot and jerked back. 

Daisy laughed. “Best part of my job,” she said.

I stared down at the freezer-dried, pale male corpse. I felt my breakfast, a bean burrito, liquify into acid and erupt in my esophagus like a volcano. I couldn’t move my feet. “Wh-what…?” 

“Meet your mom’s first client,” Daisy said, smirking. “Hope your mother is as good as she said on her resume.”

I shook my head, side to side. No-no-no. “Can’t be, can’t be,” I mumbled. I’m pretty sure my mother had no idea her clients were stiffs.

**

After that last scene, I wanted to run home and hide. But Daisy said my mother’s employer wanted to meet me. 

“I need to get home.”

“It’s only proper,” she said. “If you’re mother is not available, then you should come.”

Daisy had a way with words. Words that made me feel guilty. So I consented to meet the parents. My mother’s employers. Besides, as man of the house, it was my duty to ensure my mother’s safety. 

Daisy lived two houses away, also on Fayetteville Rd. Her house was painted a normal color, beige with black shutters. Unlike the pink cinder block house with lemon yellow shutters my mother rented, which looked like a giant guava.

Pink rose bushes lined up across the front of Daisy’s house. The glass panes trembled like hamsters as Salsa music blasted out the front door. 

I followed her to the back of the house. A large garden took up the backyard. There was a screened in porch where three men sat and played dominoes and drank beer. One of the men drummed his palms on the card table to the beat of the music. 

“Bendicion.” Daisy kissed the cheek of one of the men. 

“Que Dios te bendiga, hija,” 

The man she asked for a blessing wore a white embroidered guayabera. Dad used to wear them too during the hot summers, I thought. “You can tell a man from his shirt,” he’d say. I wondered what dad would have thought of the wrinkled, soiled, t-shirt I wore today.

“This is my dad,” said Daisy. “He’s your mom’s boss.”

I waved. 

Mr. Guerra nodded his head and kept playing.

Stepping into Daisy’s kitchen was like entering another dimension. The smell of fried onions and garlic saturated the air like oxygen. My eyes stung. 

Four women huddled over the stove and counter tops. Little kids ran in and out of the kitchen screaming.

“That’s my mom,” said Daisy.

Daisy pointed to a tan, thin woman with large—err—top, about my height, five inches, wearing an apron over white jeans and flowery tank top. My mother only dressed in black. 

“You arrived just in time,” shouted Mrs. Guerra over the music. “Sit here. Help peel these gandules.”

She placed a bowl of unpeeled pigeon peas between me and Daisy. I stared at the plate, wondering if I heard her right. 

“Go on,” said Mrs. Guerra. “Peel.”

I started peeling, staring at Daisy’s mother. Her eye lids were smeared in silver shadow and black liner. His mother never wore makeup. She just applied it to other ladies.

The other women were dressed in jeans and tight T-shirts, with their hair wrapped in a bun. 

“You’re mom going somewhere?” I asked Daisy.

“Nope. Why you ask?”

I shrugged, peeling a pea. 

Daisy raised an eyebrow. As if she read my mind, she said: “She always looks like that.”
Referring to her mom.

“Oh.”  

Mrs. Guerra’s long wavy blonde hair bounced as she stirred a pot of soup and danced to salsa. Mom would have made a comment about her dark roots showing. 

Mrs. Guerra looked over her shoulder at me. “Where’s your mom?” I asked, stirring.

“Resting.”

“At this time?” 

The top of my head burned. “She’s just tired from all the moving is all,” I replied.

“I hope she’s ready for a hard day at work tomorrow.” 

I worried about my mother’s new work environment. My father used to say that stress made her “condition” worse. I didn’t want my mother to stress. After dad’s funeral, my mother saw a doctor who prescribed medication to help her stress. They seemed to help. Most of the time. Her pills were probably not strong enough for dealing with dead bodies.

One of the T-shirt wearing ladies in a bun asked, “So why did you move to Georgia?”

“Mom needed a change,” I said, keeping my head down, peeling. I wanted to avoid eye contact with the women, maybe it would end the conversation. It didn’t.

“Change? From what,” the lady continued. 

I felt like a suspect under interrogation. 

Another lifted her head from chopping, “What does your mother do?

“Do?” I asked.

“You know. Work?” asked yet another.

“Umm.” I looked at Daisy. She looked more interested in the conversation than peeling peas. “She’s a beautician,” I said, realizing Daisy had no intention of saving me.

“She’ll be working for us,” said Daisy’s mom. “Prepping our clients.”

The women burst out laughing. 

Sweat dribbled down my temples and I realized the inquisition could go on for hours. I was about to get up and leave when Daisy said, “Hey, want to see my room?”

Daisy’s room was organized. Her clothes were neatly folded on her bed, shoes lined up in her closet, and her bed was made. The opposite of my own room. She even lined up her jewelry boxes along her white dresser. Daisy opened a box and pulled out a chain. 

“My dad brought this one from Guatemala. She replaced the chain in its box. During slow season, he buys gold from other countries to sell. She opened another box. 

I made a face. I had no interest in looking at girl’s jewelry.

“These earrings are from Colombia. Maybe your mom can borrow them sometime? My mom uses my jewelry all the time.”

“Nah, she doesn’t wear earrings.”

“Why not?” asked Daisy.

“She just doesn’t,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her that my mother feared an alien would try to inject a chip into her earlobe if it had the chance. Which reminded me…“I have to check in,” I said. “Thanks for the tour.” I rushed out the door after saying a quick good bye before a second round of interrogations. 

Daisy ran behind me, “Wait up.”

I kept walking.

“Hey, maybe we’ll end up in the same homeroom,” she said trying to keep up. “We have an end of the year field trip.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, picking up the pace. 

Daisy stopped and shouted behind me, “I’ll walk you to school tomorrow.” 

I waved over my head and rushed into my house.