"Warriache," by Daniela Catrileo, translated from Spanish by Jacob Edelstein

Santiago, San Bernardo, and back to Santiago, that's the trip. I open my eyes and listen: the music, at least, keeps me from running away. I'm crossing the city from one end to the other to celebrate my friend Yajaira's thirtieth birthday. She's my best friend, or at least the one I've known the longest. Neither one of us now lives where we were born, but every so often we go back to pick up pieces of what we abandoned, and visit family while we're there. We reappear to let each another know how the years have been treating us, now that we aren't isolated little girls at the poor Catholic school where we met.

I show up late, as always. I'm a little embarrassed. Her party is a kind of intimate dinner, at least that's what she tells me on the phone. How very her, I think. The house is just like the ones next to it, save for the shape of its fence bars. The colors don't vary much: blandness that feels distinctly middle class. I feel like this condo could be in any part of Chile, housing people who believe themselves to be of that class. I'm not sure when they began to spring up in this graveyard. When I left, we were still girls raised in projects, semidetached but disparate houses, handmade extensions and multicourts without nets. When I left, there were still hills and vineyards where we could camouflage ourselves, get drunk in peace, and lay out on our backs under the sun.

Through the window, I see the guests and don't recognize anyone except for Yajaira's parents, who look older. I feel strange. Just seeing them makes me realize how much time has passed since we lived in this place we put so much effort into hating. I'd like to skip the introductions. Maybe if I'd gotten here earlier, I wouldn't have to make an entrance in front of everyone. It doesn't matter; I head into the house. There's a knot in my stomach and I'm trying to play it cool. It's not that I feel obligated to be here, I'd just rather it was like the parties when we were teenagers, where everything was so dark you didn't have to introduce yourself. [End Page 344]

The first to greet me is Yajaira's mother, María. She hasn't changed. She says a ton of superficial, insufferable things. I've never liked her very much, probably because I know Yajaira so well. She's one of those people you respect only because someone you love respects them. Though that doesn't mean you should. I admit it's hard for me. I was there for the neglect, the separations, the screaming. Those days are etched into my memory. I'm not someone who forgets easily. Still, I can admire her strength from a distance; it's what allows her to stay here. We all drag along more ghosts than even she imagines: knots that not only entangle our hearts, but bind our tongues forever. That's why, in front of her, I prefer to stay silent.

I try to seem normal. María informs me that she no longer lives in the projects, but rather, she lives in a condo now. She speaks in a derogatory tone that I know and abhor. On the outside, I nod with a smile. Inside, I repeat, like a mantra, that she is my best friend's mother, that she has never not been this, that she will never change. Behave, I tell myself. If I keep smiling silently, she won't ask so many questions or realize I came alone. As she continues with her monologue of success, she offers me heaps of canapés. I awkwardly avoid making eye contact. Little by little, her figure begins to blur. It must be a defense mechanism. I can't clearly see her mouth moving anymore. I rub my eyes, but they've already gone...