Clarissa Guzman's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Clarissa Guzman typed the first line of her novel, then deleted it. She had done this nine times. The national young authors prize wanted the manuscript in six weeks. She wanted to win with a story about her Colombian heritage. But the cursor blinked on an empty page, and her chest felt tight. She was born in Colombia. She left as a baby. She remembered nothing real about it. She pushed back from her desk and hugged her purple plush unicorn. The upstairs window of her Bay Area home showed a gray afternoon. Below the screen sat a stack of library books about Colombia. Flags. Maps. Photos of a coast she had never walked. None of it felt like hers. She couldn't write a lie. The judges would smell it. Her phone buzzed. Nia, her best friend since middle school, had texted three times. "Open the door, baka. I brought snacks." Clarissa smiled despite the knot in her stomach. Nia understood her the way few people did. They were both autistic. They both loved pink and plushies and old Y2K everything. Nia rolled in on her skates, pink hoodie dusted with glitter. She dropped a bag of chips on the bed and studied Clarissa's face. "You're stuck," she said. Not a question. "I can tell. Your shoulders are up by your ears." "I can't write it," Clarissa said. "I want to write about where I'm from. But I don't know where I'm from. I was a baby when we left. Everything I put down feels fake." Nia sat on the floor and crossed her legs. She thought for a moment, tapping her skate wheel. "Then stop guessing," she said. "Ask someone who was actually there." Clarissa frowned. "Who? Nobody here remembers." "Your mom remembers," Nia said. "She was holding you on the plane." Clarissa went still. She had asked her mother about Colombia before, years ago. Her mother always changed the subject fast. It hurt her somehow. Clarissa had learned to stop asking. But a vague story would lose the prize. She needed real details or none at all. "She never wants to talk about it," Clarissa said quietly. "So make it easy for her," Nia said. "Don't interview her like a reporter. Just sit with her. Bring tea. Let her start." Clarissa stared at the empty page on her screen, then at the stack of borrowed books. Guessing had failed nine times. She stood up, legs shaking a little. She found her mother in the kitchen, trimming a bright bouquet of roses and orange blooms. Clarissa pulled out a chair. "Mami," she said. "Tell me about the day we left Colombia. I want to write it down. All of it." Her mother's hands stopped moving. The scissors rested on the counter. For a long moment she said nothing. Then she sat, folded her hands, and looked at Clarissa. "You should know," her mother said. "But some of it will hurt to hear."