When I was nine years old, my family took our one and only trip to Houston. It could have been because my aunt who lived there got divorced within a year after our visit, or it could have been because I vomited in the car–a lot. My mom, always prepared, twisted around in her seat every time I did it and held a bath towel in front of me, like a basin. Eric, my little brother who never got sick in the car, did his best to ignore the sounds and smells but lost that battle on this trip in particular. It was just too much for him to fight. Our driver, my dad, never stopped the car and rarely spoke.

He uttered things like, “We’re almost there,” and “She’ll feel better once we get there.” But his anger was palatable, like the smell of puke pervading the compact space. His goal was to outrun the situation and just get us to our destination. Then it would all be fine.

Back then, that was kind of true. Within an hour after a motion sickness episode, (and after laying down and sucking on ice cubes), I often did feel better and ready to gobble down large pieces of Long John Silvers’ fried fish along with the creamy coleslaw. This time was different, though. When we got to the first destination, I did start to recover, but once we were off again, I was back to square one.

Arriving in Houston

Once we arrived in Houston, we stopped at my Aunt Aricela’s house. She made spaghetti for lunch. The way she prepared it was so different from how my mom did–she put the meat sauce on top of the noodles instead of mixing it all together. I loved this innovative way of eating spaghetti and was so glad that I felt good enough to eat it. I was reveling in this wonder of a meal when my aunt spoke.

“Net, hun, why don’t you take Jenny up to your room?” she said coaxingly to her daughter.

“There’s nothing to do up there, Mom.”

My oldest cousin, Jeanette, didn’t like me. She’d made that clear every holiday when she’d yell at me, get me to do something that got me in trouble such as selling fake raffle tickets, or locking me out of the room where she and my other cousin were playing.

“Why don’t you do something with her hair? Maybe you could try curling it.”

When I heard that, I knew she meant with a curling iron, which scared me. If my mom curled my hair, it was with pink foam rollers that I’d wear all night. Even though the plastic around the foam was brutal to sleep on, I was never in danger of getting burned from their formidableness.

Jeanette must have noticed my fear because she perked up and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t burn you.”

She was lying. I was smart enough to know that by now.

Since my mom was not picking up on my signals for her to save me, I was trapped. When nice kids are put behind closed doors with mean ones, the nice ones make it out, yes, but with some kind of injury–whether physical or emotional. Again, I had learned a lot by the time I was nine.

“Go ahead, mija. Go have fun.” That sealed my fate. I was ushered up the stairs to my doom.

Image by FILIPE ALMEIDA MIORIM MIORAS from Pixabay

The Burn

After the curling iron heated up, Jeanette started to curl one side of my hair. It smelled just like the vomit that I’d expelled in the car–reheated on a low simmer just like turkey gravy on the stove the day after Thanksgiving. My cousin made a disgusted face. I said nothing. When you’re a kid and there’s a smell–whether it’s coming from you or not, you never admit it. I knew the consequences. In the second grade, when my class had identified that it was Vincent who farted during silent work time (he didn’t deny it), he was labeled–for the rest of the year. Even though I knew that Jeanette knew full well where the smell was coming from, all I could think of was Vincent.

I thought I was in the clear because Jeanette released that strand of hair and moved onto my bangs. However, the fact that I had essentially vomited on her curling iron and assaulted her with the permeating smell of it, must have really pissed her off because she pretended not to notice when the barrel was burning my forehead. I felt a heat on my skin like I’d never felt before, but tried not to cry out.

“Owwww. . . . ,” I finally said when I couldn’t take the pain anymore.

“Oh, . . . sorry,” she said without remorse.

After finishing up the rest of my hair, my cousin tried to cover the burn with my bangs. Eventually, my mom noticed my scorched forehead, but said nothing. Truly, what could be done now? Plus, it was time to head to NASA–the real reason for the trip that had already caused so much anguish. There was no time to deal with such a minor thing.

The scar left on my face for all to see was the only souvenir I kept from that day, but it eventually faded. However, it was the second part of the trip to Houston that left me with a humiliating memory that I would never forget and would plague me for years to come.

**Stay tuned for part two**