The Almost Murder and Other Stories by Theresa Saldaña

the same. I have, in my heart, but I’ll never visit him, as he wants me to. I can’t and I won’t. It’s my decision.
    Recently, Pops sent a second letter, a real apology, saying he’d joined AA in jail and was a model prisoner. He wrote that he’d been drunk, jealous, stupid and wrong, but had never meant to hurt Mom or any of us.
    I stuck that letter in the closet, too.
    Last year, Mom met a great man, Jimmy. They’re planning on a June wedding. He treats Mom like a queen and me like a princess. Jimmy loves and respects Abuela, too. He works construction, lifts weights and doesn’t drink. He’s Irish-American, but that doesn’t bug me.
    Mom and Jimmy asked me how I’d feel about them giving me a baby brother or sister. I told them I’d love it and gave them my blessing. I’m glad Jimmy’s a big guy, over six-foot-four, and fearless. He’ll protect us from Pops, in case he ever gets out.
    Mom has the right to notification if Pops gets out. He doesn’t have a chance at parole for many years, and, evenif he gets it, Pops won’t be allowed to leave the state of New York.
    I worry sometimes that Jimmy will change after they’re married, like Pops did. I asked Mom what she’d do if he started yelling at her or took up drinking. Mom says she trusts Jimmy completely and that I’ll come to trust him, too. It isn’t easy, since I know that love can start out as something good but end up rotten and scary.
    Mali’s dating back in Brooklyn, but I’m not ready for that. I don’t want some boy bossing me around. Single, for me, is good.
    Today, I’m not the kid whose dad stabbed her mom. Not the witness, squealer, the crazy man’s daughter. I am me. A New England fifteen-year-old girl with a whole new life.
    Abuela and I have a knitting business here, but we’re not all frantic like we were in Brooklyn. When Mom’s out, I hang with Abuela. We watch television and knit goodies for a whole new group of girls and ladies.
    Abuela babysits for my cousins when Tía Lucy’s at work. I watch them on weekends when Tía and Mom double-date.
    Pretty soon, I bet we’ll be knitting baby clothes for Mom. She wants a baby with all her heart. She’ll get her happy ending—all three of us will. We pretty much have one already.

Be So Pretty If …
    I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard somebody say to me, “You’d be so pretty if you lost some weight,” or another version of the same thing, usually said to my parents or friends, “She has such a pretty face, but she’d be so pretty if …”
    Despite actress América Ferrara doing her show
Ugly Betty
and that movie,
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
, as well as JLo, with her famously big booty, no one really thinks that being, or seeing, a fat girl is cool.
    I’ve tried dieting, but it’s a real yo-yo thing with me. I lose some, then gain more, lose some, then gain more again.
    Between genetics and my extreme love for food, chocolate and fried things, in particular, I am a “big girl.” I have the large, rounded behind of my mother and the jutting belly of my father.
    Until I was eleven years old, I was pretty much just an average chubby kid. Then, at twelve, once I stopped growing—vertically, that is—the only inches I’ve added have been in width. I just got fatter and fatter. I mean, I’m not an elephant or anything, but, still, I’m not too far from becoming obese.
    When nutritionists come to talk to girls at school every year, I can always feel them eyeballing me. They might act as if they’re speaking in general about the health perils of being an overweight teenager, but it’s just me and a few other fat girls and boys they’re actually hoping to get through to.
    In Phys Ed, I surprise everyone by running every bit as fast, or even faster, than my way-skinnier friends.