Mamacita by Alexandria Juarez

Mamacita gives me the birds and the bees over bloomin onions off the 710. Mamacita asks the waitress to play Los Smiths, she wants Moz. The waitress smiles and nods and smiles wider. Mamacita says you need to learn this so you don’t get fucked like I did. I keep the food inside my cheeks until she reaches her hand over and pries her French tips into my mouth and pushes the mush down. 

The other week for Halloween, Stefanie and I dressed up as two cats, matching costumes from the 99, we told everyone we were sisters. 

Mamacita says that men—boys—only want one thing and to never trust any of them. I can only sleep at Stephanie’s because there are no men in her house. She can’t spend the night at mine because of Mamacita’s delicate rest.

The blooming onions are best dipped in ranch. We’ve got a budget, so I stick out my bottom lip til you can see my gums. When the waitress returns she hands me a little pool of white and specks. I tell myself it’s blue cheese and don’t touch it anyway.

I’ve been tardy eight times this semester, I’ve kept track. 

Mamacita goes to the bathroom and I try her drink. There are things I know and things I think and things I’m scared of—like the silence in our home without TV and chupacabra and a soccer ball straight to the nose. Her drink is sour and I reposition it right over the wet rings, everything in place.

In the hallway, there’s a photo of the gap between us, I practice my faces to look like her. 

I want to ask Mamacita what it means when I sleep in Stefanie’s bed, her hair wrapped around my hands like gauze. Her dog, Coco, in between us, the only buffer. 

Alexandria Juarez is a Chicana lesbian writer, editor, and pop culture enthusiast from Southern California. A graduate of the BFA Writing Program at Pratt Institute, they have work in Electric Literature, Catapult, Autostraddle and more. Find them @alexbethjuarez

19 May 2023