Photo courtesy of Carlos Porto @ freedigitalphotos.net

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filters into my room rousing my sleepy senses. Before my vision adjusts to the morning light, my ears catch the distant but certain sounds of city life. I recognize the heavy rumbling of a garbage truck gathering the first of its many collections, the angry blare of car horns from motorists, and the annoying barking of mad dogs.  All hail Monday morning. Closing my eyes, I roll over to my side, refusing to look at the wall clock.  Its persistent ticking resonates in my ears, but I do my best to ignore it. Mamá will walk in soon enough.

No sooner does the thought cross my mind when I distinguish the all too familiar slapping of her slippers against the tiled floor.  Not being fortunate enough to own a lock on my door, she walks right in.

“Isabela, despierta, que ya es hora.” The impatient ring in her voice gives away her mood.

“Cinco minutos,” I plead with a pathetic groan, but recognize my cause as lost.  In another desperate attempt, I throw my checkerboard sheet over my face.  A useless gesture, I know, but I revert to the childlike game if perhaps I can’t see her, she can’t see me.  It has never worked before, but that fact doesn’t deter me from trying.

“Dormilona,” Mamá chastises. My twin mattress sinks when she sits on the bed beside me and smacks my bottom.  The strike, clearly not affectionate, causes my cheeks to tingle.  I lay perfectly still, praying she will go away.  Of course she doesn’t and continues her lecturing, her rapid Spanish making me dizzy.  “I told you not to go to bed with that book in your hand.  And it’s not just today you have a hard time waking.  It’s every day.  If you would go to bed at a decent hour, you wouldn’t need me to come into this room every morning.  What would you do if I worked?  You should thank God I’m available to you around the clock.”

Knowing Mamá doesn’t have an “off” button, I pull myself away from the bed and away from her, rushing to the bathroom. My destination lies a mere ten feet from my door, but in my drowsy state seems like a never-ending walk.  Once I get there, I discover the bathroom door locked.  I know Papi went to work already, leaving only one other person -- my twin brother, JR.  His real name is Juan Ramón, but since he wants to fit in with his buds and have a cool sounding alias, he shortened it to JR.  Mamá approves of everything he does she thought it cute.  When my friends call me Issy, she growls.  Go figure.

I knock on the door. “JR, hurry up. I gotta shower.”

“You should’ve gotten up first,” he replies, his deep, gruff voice still groggy. He sounds as bad as I feel.

“Just hurry up,” I call back grouchily.

To my complete annoyance, I hear the sudden spray of water while he calls out, “Sorry, can’t hear you! I’m in the shower!”

I mouth a swear word, careful not to say it out loud.  If I do Mamá’s liable to deliver a fast strike the way she did the last time I slipped up, so I take special care where I say my special words.

But the sting of indignation fills me with cause for grievance. I need to release my woes, and I utter the same complaint I have for years. “When are we gonna live in an apartment that’s got two bathrooms? I’m a teenager for crying out loud! I need privacy.”

“So do I!” JR shouts above the spray of the water.

I clench my fist and bite my lip, another word about to escape. “Mira, sangano, nobody’s talking to you.”

“Then get away from the door. I don’t wanna hear you whine like a little b-”

“The two of you better cut it out if you know what’s good for you!” Mamá threatens in Spanish as she walks past the door. “It’s only six-thirty in the morning. Can’t you behave like civilized beings instead of bothering the neighbors with all your yelling!” And yet of the three of us she yells the loudest. Casting me a final glare, she warns me to stop bothering my brother and stomps in the direction of the kitchen.