Completely and Utterly Lost

In high school I was voted most likely to succeed. I was in all the AP classes. I was valedictorian. I was a cheerleader, who dated the star quarterback. I was voted Prom Queen. I hung out with everyone. Really, though. I hung out with the jocks and the nerds and punks and the potheads and the skaters and techies. I liked everyone in my class, and I enjoyed getting to know what everyone liked, what everyone was passionate about. In high school I knew that I wanted to be a nurse. My mom was a nurse. My abuela was a nurse. My tías. were nurses. So. I was going to be a nurse.

In high school I knew that I was going to marry Jason, my boyfriend. He was smart and athletic and good looking and we looked good together. We fit. And we both decided to go to Cal State LA for their nursing program, but I got in and he didn’t. But we decided since he was going to Cal State Northridge, it wouldn’t be so bad. We could visit each other.

When I started at Cal State LA, I decided I wanted to get the full college experience, so I chose to live in the dorms instead of commute. And it was at the dorms that I met Bianca. Bianca. When I was moving into my room, Bianca was already there. Books piled near her bed, a poster of The Ramones already hanging above her desk. She didn’t have sheets on her bed. Just a sleeping bag with a couple of pillows. Her eyes were covered in black eyeshadow and eyeliner. Her clothes were deliberately torn. She looked like she had stepped out of SLC punk. And I didn’t hate it. I could see in her eyes that she was judging me. My matching pink and purple sheets. My organized closet. My pencil holder and pencil case and Hello Kitty laptop cover. She stared at it all with narrowed eyes. But as we started talking and comparing/contrasting Sartre, Camus, and Nietzsche, I could see the judginess go away. She was impressed. And I didn’t hate that either.

What I did hate was nursing. Hated it. I had been so expecting to love it. I had to love it. I was destined to be a nurse. Except I didn’t like the classes. I didn’t like the text books. I didn’t even like my classmates. And I don’t know why except maybe because they seemed to enjoy it. To get it. And I sat there not understanding what I was looking at. I had excelled in all of my AP classes in high school: AP Chemistry, AP Biology, AP Physics. But I sat in these classes and felt like everything was in a language I didn’t understand. And oh. I learned that I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Every time we would watch a demo and someone started bleeding, I felt like I was going to pass out. How was I going to be a nurse if I fainted every time I had to give someone a shot? That’s half the job. More than half the job.

I told Bianca about it.

“Then why don’t you study something else?” she asked.

“What?” I responded.

“I don’t know,” she said, “What do you like?”

I liked a lot of things but I never thought to make a career out of anything except nursing. I didn’t know what else to do.

“You’re a good singer,” Bianca said.

“So?” I asked.

“Why not study music,” she suggested.

I sighed internally.

Having gone to school with kids who were mostly White, I noticed that their parents encouraged them to follow their dreams. To go after whatever it is they wanted to do. Even if it was unlikely. My Mexican household wasn’t like that. You get an education to advance your career. A career that is ‘legitimate,’ that will pay you, that will give you the funds to live a decent life. And not only a decent life, but that will uplift your family and community as well. And singing wasn’t that. Singing was a hobby, not a career. But Bianca was a dedicated Theatre major and she was incredibly talented and also had her family’s support. She could only understand so much.

Reading my mind Bianca said, “You think because I’m White, I don’t get it?”

I shrugged, not looking at her.

“If you hate being a nurse, you have to try something else,” she said, “I mean, how are you going to be a nurse if you can’t stand blood? That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” I groaned.

“At least take some electives,” she continued, “Try a social science. Try communications. Something. You can’t live your life for someone else. Even your family.”

This to me seemed like it was easier said than done.

I had a full ride to Cal State LA contingent on my studying nursing. What was I supposed to do?

I decided to take Bianca’s advice. I took electives. Chicano Studies. Ballet. Singing for Musical Theatre. Acting. Psychology. Anthropology. Knitting. And then I took a painting class. I had always drawn. It’s what I did to calm me down. It’s a me thing. Something I don’t really share with anyone else. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to take a class, learn techniques. And that class was the best part of my day. I lost myself to the work. Or maybe rather, I found myself? I enjoyed even the simple assignments and I loved my professor. And at the end of a class one day she wanted to know why I wasn’t a major. And I didn’t know what to say.

The other best part of my day was Bianca. Going home to Bianca.

In the middle of a sunny, Spring afternoon, Bianca and I were studying in the living room. We had Living Single playing in the background. She was reading Glass Menagerie, and I had a chemistry book open, still determined to fulfill my family’s dreams. It was easier this way, I thought. There was no guarantee I could make a career out of being an artist. No way, I told myself. It was easier to just suck it up and do what I was supposed to do.

“Dance break?” Bianca asked, interrupting my thoughts.

Dance breaks were something we did when we were antsy, or just wanted to be silly. I don’t remember how it started or who started it, but it quickly became something we did on the reg.

“Dance break,” I agreed.

It was perfect because at that moment, the next episode of the show came on and we danced to the intro music, hopping along with the woman in the video, bouncing our heads in time to Queen Latifah.

“I saw your art project,” Bianca said mid-dance move.

“Yea?” I said.

I knew she had seen it. I was going to leave it in the classroom but I wanted to try and work it on it in our dorm. I also secretly wanted Bianca’s opinion. I wanted to know if she thought I was good. Because maybe if she thought I was good, I would have the courage to take a chance. A little bit of a chance.

“It’s really good,” she said, “Really good. Stupid good.”

I smiled.

The music ended and we flopped down on the couch.

“Thanks,” I said, breathless from the dancing.

“It’s what you need to do,” Bianca said, looking at me with eyes narrowed. Her serious face.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

She took my hand and then gently took my chin, forcing me to look at her.

“It’s what you need to do,” she repeated.

And I found myself staring at her mouth. Her perfect mouth. And she noticed. And we both leaned in.

And then Jason walked into the room.

Jason and I had started off our school year talking on the phone every day. And then once a week. And then once a month. And then I got too busy to take his calls so we started doing more texts and emails and then I got too busy to respond to those.

He said he understood, but that he missed me and that he wanted to see me.

And I said I did too and I meant it at the time, I think.

I think I did.

Jason was perfect.

He was Mexican American, like me with a similar family dynamic and we understood each other. There was nothing I had to explain to him. He was comfortable. He was safe.

I jumped up off the couch and said, “HI!” way too loudly.

Jason laughed, taking my volume for enthusiasm and I felt a wave of relief that he hadn’t seen me and Bianca almost kiss.

I hugged him, squeezed him, planted a deep kiss on his mouth.

“Surprise,” he said kissing me back.

I took his hand and turned toward Bianca, ignoring her pale face and the way her chest was rising and falling and the way she looked at me so hurt and angry and trying to hide it.

“Bianca this is Jason, Jason, Bianca,” I said, my voice rising several octaves than normal.

“Hey,” Bianca said, “I gotta go study.”

And she grabbed her stuff and went to our room.

“Good,” Jason said, wrapping his arm around me, “We can have some time alone.”

He sat on the couch and pulled me down onto his lap and as he kissed me, I kept seeing Bianca’s face. Her lips so close to mine. The way she stormed off a moment ago.

I broke away from Jason and stood up, “Hungry?” I asked him, “I’m starving,” I said. “Let’s go get something to eat,” I continued, not letting him get a word in.

I grabbed my keys and could feel Jason’s confusion.

“Uh, ok,” he said, and followed me out to the student lot.

“What do you want to get?” I asked him.

“Um, whatever you want,” he responded, “You ok?”

I nodded and smiled.

Everything was ok.

It was fine.

This was what was supposed to be.

Jason took my hand, while I drove, talking to me about his classes and his classmates and about how we were going to make great nurses.

And he started talking about our future and our children and where we would live.

And I kept picturing Bianca’s mouth and thinking about how I wanted to paint it.

And I could feel my breath coming faster and my vision beginning to blur.

“LOOK OUT!” Jason screamed.

And I swerved, barely missing the car turning in front of me.

And I pulled over.

And I could feel Jason look at me.

“Are you ok?” he asked, “What’s going on?”

And I got out of the car and I looked around me, and it took a few seconds to realize that I was completely and utterly lost.