The smell of old grease in the deep fryer greets me when I open the door to the fast food place where I work. I nod to the assistant manager. He is a strange, older guy who gives me the creeps the way his eyes always seem to be looking me over. I hurry to the tiny room off the kitchen to punch in. The odor of Clorox follows me into the room, rising like a mist from the tile floor. Adjusting the headset, I go to the cash window to take over from a teenage boy. 

Early-season rain is slowing Thursday evening traffic, rising from the warm asphalt in puffs of steam, glistened in the headlights, and on the windshields of the cars waiting in line. 

When I slide the window open to greet the first customer, I inhale a lungful of exhaust fumes that make me cough. As each car rolls up, I take the money and make change, paying no attention to the drivers, thinking about papa and the text messages I’d had with my so-called boyfriend, Ryan, before leaving the house. 

He’d texted to ask if I would join him the next night? “An event I want you to go to with me. You will find it interesting. Then we can go to my place,” he’d texted. 

I texted back, “Okay.”

I didn’t think I was in love with Ryan, but he’s a nice, gentle guy. Handsome. Fun to be with. An economics major. He had been my introduction to college life. The constant hum of activity on-campus—concerts, plays, poetry readings, parties—enthralled me whenever I could get time from my job and family to attend. I met a lot of girls who had cute clothes at UCLA. Sometimes they talked about me when they didn’t think I could hear. I never made any close friends with those college girls. It was a small price for getting away from Monte Vista. 

No question guys like Ryan could offer me a different life, but I’d held back from him, and hoped he didn’t notice. Of course, he did, but I’m a virgin and want to make sure he’s the right man, not just my ticket out, before giving myself to him.

I hand the wrong change to a customer. 

“Can’t you count, Señorita?” The man snaps and moves his car on to the pickup window. 

“$6.79,” I tell the next car. I take the ten and reach out to give the driver his change, making sure I’ve counted right. The face peering from the car’s window startles me so much I pull back. Its owner grabs my wrist. I’m used to the gangbangers who pull up at my window, but this one is different. He seems much older than the teenagers who hang around on street corners. His eyes bore into me. His shaved head, large and lopsided, with ridges and knobs, reflects the building lights, glistening in the drizzle. A tattooed snake crawls down his arm from under his T-shirt. I jerk my hand back, but the knobheaded man doesn’t let go.

“I know about your father,” he snarls. “They carted him down to the Otay crossing with the other men —”

“Let go my hand, Creep.”

“I could help you, Chica, if you let me.”

“Forget it.”

“Maybe find your father.”

“How do you know about my father?” This time I jerk my hand away hard.

“I know about him. I hear things. I have friends.”  

       I hold back, just looking at him, not sure what to say. The car behind Knobhead revs its engine. Farther down the line, another one honks.

We should talk,” he says. “When you’re done—?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself. You got a better way, take it. I don’t give a fuck.” He keeps staring at me. “You’re one of us,” he snarls.

I return his snarl, “Never!”

He grins, and I can see his teeth are horribly stained, a couple in front are chipped. “You think you’re so fair-skinned you pass for a gringa. You don’t pass with us, Chica. We know. You’re very hot. Best for you to be my Mujer. I take care of you.”

He grins, and his car moves on. Another takes its place at the window. “You spend too much time talking to your boyfriend,” the woman, whose kids in the backseat are jumping around out of control, almost spit at me. “We’re hungry, and it’s raining you inconsiderate bitch.”