“Papi, Take me to Toys R’s Us.” “I have to show you something.” “Dad!” “Daddy.” “Dad.” “Papi.” “I’m talking to you!” I stood in front of the TV blocking the view of a Cruz Azul soccer match. “Denisita, que quieres?” While holding the newspaper ads in my hands, I pointed out to him, “Mira.” I put the Toys R’ Us advertisement in his face and pointed to the Barbie corvette, “Dad, for Christmas, I want the Barbie corvette.” “Can you take me to Toys R’ Us so I can test drive it?” My dad responded, “Ok.” “We’ll go to Toys R’ Us.” I envisioned myself wearing the latest Xuxa jelly sandals, while hitting the gas on my brand new corvette. He would take me to the store and I would zoom by the barbies that didn’t talk back as if I didn’t even notice them. Then I would zoom by the board games that I assumed had too many rules and was not actually a game because it required sitting at a table. I thought, “That’s not a game. That’s homework.” “You can’t trick me.” In my world of fun and games you made your own rules and you never wasted a minute sitting at a table. As soon as I walked toward to the Power Wheels my eyes began to shimmer and my little feet danced with excitement. “Dad, can you ask to test the corvette?” My dad would ask the sales associate to take down the corvette. I hopped in the corvette. I loved to drive it like a bumper car. Oopsie, did I just hit the rack of toys behind me. A little giggle. Smirk. Gas. Bump. Oopsie. Reverse. Giggle. Smirk. I hit my dad’s calf. Oopsie. Brake. Gas. Smirk. Giggle. “Dad, Please! Please! Please! I promise I’ll share. I won’t fight with my mom. I won’t fight with my sisters. We can all take turns driving it.” My dad said, “Tengo que hablar con tú mama.” I said, “Please dad! I really want the corvette, I’ll never ask for anything else in my life. I just want the corvette and that’s it.” Bump. Bump. Vroom. Vroom. Up and down the aisle. Look at me I’m drivinggggg. I love to drive. I’m so cute. When Christmas came around, I anticipated midnight like never before. We typically had dinner at my aunt’s house and opened our gifts at midnight. I was expecting a Barbie corvette. My dad accidentally forgot something at our house, so my cousin and I went back to my house with my dad to pick up some gifts. On our way back to my aunt’s house, I said “I hope Santa got me what I asked for.” He said, “Santa?” I said, “Yea, Santa.” I looked at him with annoyance, “Yea, you know Santa who brings our Christmas presents.” I rolled my eyes and turned around to ignore his pesty little attitude. He said, “Denise. I’m going to tell you something.” I said, “What?” He said, “Santa isn’t real.” I said, “No! Dumb! Santa is super real!” I looked toward to the front of car to get my dad’s reassurance, “Dad! Back me up! Santa is real!? Right!?” He looked in the rearview mirror. Then the little dream crusher cousin said, “We should tell her the truth.” I said, “What?!” My dad said, “Yea. Sorry. Santa isn’t real.” I was crushed. “How could you?” I held back the tears. Big girls don’t cry. “How could you do this to me?!” “Why is Santa and Rudolph everywhere!?” “He’s not bringing my corvette?!” “What!?” “Who’s bringing my corvette?!” “Where’s my corvette?!” “I hate you!” “Shut up stupid!” Santa is real!” “I’m getting a corvette!” “I got A’s on my report card!” I wanted to punch him in the face. I resisted. I knew Santa was watching. I had to be nice. I was going to get my corvette. We got to my aunt’s house. We had pan dulce con café. We ran around the backyard playing tag. We had tamales and hot chocolate for dinner. Then we ran around the yard until midnight. My dad said, “Denise, your present is outside.” I confidently walked outside, bien presumida, ready to greet my… motorcycle? “Denise, you got a motorcycle!” I screamed with agony. “No! I wanted a corvette! Where’s my Barbie corvette?!” “No!” I almost fell to the floor, fainting from the fury. I ran away like a crybaby. In the meantime, my cousins were trying to figure out how to ride it. I know because I was watching from the window of my aunt’s house. I thought, “No.” “Nobody’s going to ride my motorcycle.” “It’s my motorcycle.” I abandoned my anger and my self-pity and ran outside to claim my moto. I looked at my dad, “I love my motorcycle! I’m riding it first.” I hissed at everyone to get out my way. Oh yea. Look at me. Look at me ride my motorcycle. Then my cousins started bugging, “Let me ride it next.” “Can I ride it?” “Denise, can I have a turn?” I said, “Yea. You can borrow it. But don’t use it too much. I don’t want the battery to get wasted.” “It’s mine.” That Christmas I learned, “You don’t always get what you want.” I was too young to know about the Rolling Stones, but old enough to know, sometimes, you don’t get what you want. Santa wasn’t real. I learned that too. I wondered why everybody was a big fat liar. I wondered why people put Santa everywhere. And then I stopped caring after I hopped on my moto and let the wind blow in my hair as I zoomed by all the neighbor’s houses.