From School Library Journal
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Gr 9 Up—Margot is disappointed to be spending her summer working
in her family's Bronx-based chain of grocery stores, away from
her elite prep school crowd. She is suffering the consequences of
using her her's credit cards to finance her wardrobe and would
much rather be partying with her friends and her crush in the
Hamptons. Margot is rude to her family's employees, rejects her
childhood friend, steals from her family to impress her new
friends, and casually loses her virginity (to a guy who clearly
doesn't value her much) after she's been drinking. Her attempts
to redeem herself as she finally sees the error of her ways are
effective, though, and over the course of the summer, Margot
slowly learns the value of real friendship, navigates some family
secrets, and begins to see her Puerto Rican heritage in a
different light, culminating in an unsurprising but happy
conclusion. VERDICT A fairly standard problem novel, but the
realistic Latinx characters make this a welcome addition to YA
shelves.—Kristin Anderson, Columbus Metropolitan Library System,
OH
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Review
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"Introducing Lilliam Rivera, one of the most unique and exciting
new voices in YA. The Education of Margot Sanchez is funny,
poignant, compelling and authentic. She nails the music and
conflict of an evolving Bronx, New York. I adore this novel." --
Matt de la Peña, author of LAST STOP ON MARKET STREET
“In the hands of debut novelist Lilliam Rivera, Margot's choices
-- which friends? which boy? which future? -- take on a tense
urgency. Lively and telling, smart and compelling, Margot
Sanchez is a character to take to your heart and Rivera a voice
to remember.” -- Karen Joy Fowler, author of The Jane Austen Book
Club
“With a passionate voice, Lilliam Rivera weaves a layered,
complex story of a girl awakening to herself and her family.” --
Cecil Castellucci, author of Tin Star
“The Education of Margot Sanchez shatters the myth of
assimilation by exposing the loss and ache that comes with it.
Instead, Lilliam Rivera tells the reader that there is nothing
more powerful and beautiful than staying true to oneself.” --
Isabel Quintero, author of Gabi: A Girl in Pieces
“The Education of Margot Sanchez feels as classic as Judy Blume
and, at the same time, entirely new. It’s a rich, page-turning
tale about a teenage girl stuck between a rock and the growing-up
place.” -- Veronica Chambers, author of Mama's Girl and The
Go-Between
"A debut of great candor, depth, and empathy.", Booklist
"[A]n emotional story about class, race, hard work, and finding
one’s place.", Publishers Weekly
"[T]he realistic Latinx characters make this a welcome addition
to YA shelves.", School Library Journal
"[A] solid entry novel about family, friendships, and
culture. [This] will appeal to teen readers who like
coming-of-age tales and stories featuring Latinx culture."
, VOYA Magazine
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About the Author
----------------
Lilliam Rivera is an award-winning writer and author of young
adult novel The Education of Margot Sanchez. Her work has
appeared in The Washington Post, The New York Times, and Elle, to
name a few. Lilliam lives in Los Angeles. Visit her at
LilliamRivera.com.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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The Education of Margot Sanchez
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Chapter 1
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A cashierista with flaming orange-red hair invades my space the
minute I step inside the supermarket. I search for Papi but he’s
walked ahead into his office already.
“Look who’s here!” the cashierista announces while eating some
sort of pastry. “La Princesa has arrived.”
I wince as she calls me by my childhood nickname and not my real
name, Margot. The rest of the cashier girls give my preppy floral
outfit the once-over.
“What are you doing here?” She ignores the pastel de guayaba
crumbs that fall on her too-tight shirt, which reads MIRA PERO NO
TOQUES, a warning to the masses to look but not touch her looming
chest.
Before I can even respond, O, the manager, comes up to me and
places a protective hand on my shoulder.
“She’s helping us this summer,” O says. “Verdad, Princesa?”
“Well, more like supervising.” I say this with just enough
emphasis on the word “supervising” for the cashierista to shift
her weight to her right hip. O laughs at my work
declaration/aspiration and offers me a pity pat on my shoulder.
I take a good look around. It’s been a while since I’ve been
here. Sanchez & Sons Supermarket used to be bright and cheerful,
a welcoming oasis in a sea of concrete buildings. Now the blue
paint is peeling, the s are the same from five years ago,
and there’s some funky odor that I can’t place. I spot a large
sign with a banana dressed in a ridiculous mambo costume. The
banana smiles back at me as if she’s in on the joke. And she is.
Everyone is. My year at Somerset Prep is being scrubbed away with
every second I spend here and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“This is Melody and Annabel. Say hello, girls.” O’s gained
weight since I saw him last, at my parents’ annual Three Kings
Day party. To combat his thinning hair, he keeps his head
completely shaved. A Latino Mr. Clean. “Here’s Rosa, Brianne, and
Taina . . .”
These girls are just a couple of years older than me but some of
the other women have been working at my her’s supermarket for
a while. Some even have kids my age. The ones with kids are a
little bit friendlier but there’s no point in remembering their
names. I have no intention of staying here.
“You look just like a Sanchez,” one of the older cashieristas
says. “La misma cara of your her.”
“Thank you.” I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or if she’s saying
I look like a middle-aged man. The cashier girl from earlier
continues to eyeball me. I locate the exits and make a mental
list of the possible escape routes. There’s not much else I can
do.
“Buenos días, Señor Sanchez.”
A stock boy wearing a Yankees baseball hat tilted to the side and
droopy, extra-large pants that fall off his hips greets Papi.
Finally, Papi makes an appearance.
I adjust my skirt and pull down my matching short-sleeved top.
The blouse barely covers my big butt. I might be overdressed but
my stylish clothes are my only armor against perverted stock boys
like this one, who now leers at me. Even with the hat I can still
make out his Dragon Ball Z spiked hair, gelled so hard that it
looks like a shellacked crown. I stare him down until he looks
away.
It’s seven in the morning on a Monday. This is how I’m spending
my first day of vacation. I blame my parents for this summer
imprisonment.
I was this close to joining Serena and Camille on their vacation
to the Hamptons. Two months of hanging with the only squad that
matters by the beach. It took some serious scheming on my part to
secure an invite from the girls, right down to me doing things I
never thought I would. There was that time they dared me to make
out with some nerd, Charles from English class. Serena and
Camille were joking but I did it. When I pulled my lips away,
Charles’s large eyes registered confusion, and then he turned
bright red. What was truly messed up was that Charles didn’t miss
a beat. He covered up the embarrassment by laughing along with
Serena and Camille. There wasn’t much separating me from him. We
were both outsiders in that school. Both didn’t know how to
dress. Both surviving. Still, I ignored that awful pit of guilt
growing in my stomach because taking that dare was worth it.
There were other things I did—denied my natural curls by
straightening out my hair, stole some expensive lipstick—anything
to make Serena and Camille notice me.
My parents have no idea who I have to compete with at Somerset
Prep. How far down I was in the social caste system until Serena
and Camille took pity on me. If I was going to be the great brown
hope for my family by attending this super-expensive high school,
I knew I needed to make friends with the right girls. Papi said
to me on my first day of school: “Don’t waste your time with
idiots. Always look for the kids who stand out.” Camille and
Serena stood out because they were popular, like
straight-out-of-a-CW-TV-show-episode popular. Fashion girls. I
thought I was stylish but I had no concept of what that meant,
with my dated vintage dresses in too-loud tacky colors. I tried
to explain this to my parents but they called off my summer plans
to teach me a lesson. Now I’m stuck in their supermarket in the
South Bronx, far away from the sun and the gorgeous Nick Greene.
Grounded. Stuck personified.
“Take a seat,” Papi says. Chairs are arranged in a haphazard
circle right behind the rows of cashiers. He points to an empty
chair. “We are going to start the monthly staff meeting in a
minute.”
I pull him to the side, away from the workers.
“I made an appearance.” My voice trembles a bit for a more
dramatic effect. “Let’s forget about this whole thing. I learned
my lesson.”
“Not another word. Siéntate. Let’s get started, everyone.” The
cashieristas gather around him. If only Papi had sent me to work
at the other Sanchez & Sons supermarket. The Kingsbridge store is
way smaller and managed by my uncle Hector, who is a total
pushover. Papi works at this location, which makes d that
much harder.
“A couple of things. O, I want a new display stand to promote
July Fourth, not that old one.” Papi leans against a conveyor
belt. His sleeves are rolled up and his unbuttoned shirt flashes
a small gold cross on a chain. He has hair that’s more salt than
pepper and a gut that spills a bit over his dress slacks. His
name is Victor but everyone here calls him Señor Sanchez.
“People want to buy so set it up next to the seasonal
items.” He continues with the announcements while I compose
another emotional plea in my head. How will I get out of this?
“Girls, make sure to push the customers to the display stands,”
Papi says. “Remind them of the holiday.”
Stomping heels bang against the floor. The sound grows louder and
louder. I join the others as they crane their necks to see what’s
up.
“Where’s the coffee?” Jasmine, the only cashierista I sort of
know, refuses to take her sunglasses off and greets everyone with
a curled lip. “I’m not doing shit until I have some.”
“You’re late. Again,” Papi says. “Sit down.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming in?” she says. Although
Jasmine’s clearly pissed off at something I did or didn’t do, she
still comes over to me and s a kiss hello with such force
that I almost fall off the chair.
Jasmine has worked here forever. She even lied about her age to
get the job. With her heavily painted face and a body that rules
in these parts—big ass and even bigger tits—she looks way older
than twenty. Her long, pointy nails are painted in Puerto Rican
colors, reminders of the recent parade.
“You all know my daughter Princesa. She’s joining the Sanchez
family this summer to help at the store,” Papi says. “Stand up
and say hello.”
I thought being born into the family made me a true Sanchez. I
face the cashieristas. A bored cashierista snaps her gum while
her friend whispers in her ear. Someone laughs. There’s no way to
deflect the player-hating killer rays being thrown my way.
“You can call me Margot,” I say. “My name is Margot.”
No one is really listening to me, not even my her, who has
turned his attention to the butcher.
“Who is going to train her?” Jasmine puts the question to the
cashieristas. “Don’t look at me because I always get the dumb
ones.”
I glare at her and then back at Papi but he is too deep in his
conversation about meats.
“No seas dramática. You barely trained me,” says the cashierista,
who has managed to find another pastry to eat. “If anything, I
had to show you what to do.”
Jasmine looks like she’s about to clobber the girl. The stock
guys in the back seem too eager to witness some girl-on-girl
action.
“I don’t need to be trained.” I say this loudly so that everyone
is clear on what I’m willing to do. “I’m going to help Papi in
the office.”
“No, that’s not what you’re doing.” Papi squashes my dream.
“Jasmine, have Princesa start with the boxes in the back.”
I’m not unloading boxes, not in these clothes and not with the
pervy stock boys.
“Seriously, I’m better equipped by a desk,” I say. “I can just
answer the phones—”
“This isn’t up for debate. Jasmine, show her what to do.”
This is not happening. He never said anything about hard labor.
Granted, I’m being punished but I thought this was for show. Papi
didn’t even want me to work at the supermarket. He was more than
willing to ship me off to the Kingsbridge store but Mami put a
stop on that. She wanted to make sure Papi kept an eye on me. I
don’t understand why I can’t learn a lesson in the comfort of an
office.
“These boxes don’t belong here.” A familiar voice rings out. The
focus shifts away from my dilemma. “Get over here now!”
Although the sign at the front of the grocery store reads SANCHEZ
& SONS, there’s only one boy in this family. Junior, my older
brother, walks in.
“Oh, look who it is,” he says. “The Private School Thief.”
My own blood shouts me out in front of everyone but I won’t take
this quietly. I’m not the only bad seed in this family.
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t get kicked out of college.”
“I work for a living,” Junior explains to the cashieristas. “I’m
not trying to pretend I’m someone else. You know what she did?
She charged six hundred dollars on Papi’s credit card. So what if
she’s only fifteen years old? I would have called the cops.”
Cashieristas suck their teeth in disapproval. Junior is jealous
because Papi decided to send me to Somerset. Junior’s proven what
a poor investment he is after he lost his wrestling scholarship.
While he works I study at one of New York’s prestigious prep
schools. Basically, I’m the last saving grace for the Sanchez
family. There’s some unwritten family commandment that states
that I will graduate from Somerset, attend an Ivy League school,
and major in some moneymaking profession. The pressure is on to
excel. They don’t call me Princesa for nothing. I’m being groomed
for bigger and better things.
Papi lets out a long sigh. “Go to your stations.” His whole
demeanor has changed. It’s as if the control he demonstrated
moments ago while running the meeting diminished the second
Junior appeared. Junior is technically the assistant manager and
I bet he loves to fling that title around like it means
something. At home, Papi always reprimands Junior for something
he forgot to do at work or for showing up late. No wonder this
place is falling apart if Papi has to oversee my brother’s
messes.
I watch Junior approach each of the cashieristas with a lingering
hug. They coo back at him in Spanish as if he’s some telenovela
star. Another reason why we don’t get along: He’s allowed to chat
up every girl he comes in contact with while, according to Mami,
I can’t even speak to a guy on the phone until I finish high
school. Not that any guy calls, but Nick might have if I’d had my
way.
“Wake up, Princesa! I don’t have all day to babysit you.” Jasmine
snaps her fingers at me.
“Please don’t do that,” I say. “I’m not some dog.”
“You mean this?” She snaps her fingers again. And again.
“Princesa, if that’s going to bother you then you’re not going to
last here. Why are you working anyway? Don’t you go to some fancy
school and shit?”
“It’s a mistake,” I say. “This whole thing is a mistake.”
“A mistake?” she says. “I don’t believe in mistakes. There are
only actions. It seems to me like you got busted big-time.”
Her cackle hurts my head.
“No, that’s not true.”
“You didn’t get busted for stealing?”
“I did get busted but I wouldn’t consider it stealing,” I say.
“It was an advancement.”
“Girl, please.” Jasmine’s eyebrows are raised so high that they
practically rest on top of her head. “Who are you trying to play?
You can’t hustle a hustler. Let’s go.”
She pulls out a pack of s from her purse and leads me
toward the back.
Jasmine doesn’t know a thing about Somerset Prep. If she were in
my shoes, she would have done the same thing. We walk past my
brother, who’s talking to a girl.
“Damn, your brother es un sucio.”
“You don’t have to tell me he’s dirty,” I say. “The guy only has
one thing on his mind.”
“He talks a good game but he’s the type of guy that probably
lasts for only five minutes. Then you’re lucky if he doesn’t make
you cook afterwards.”
I don’t want to hear about Junior or anyone else’s bedroom
skills. It’s gross and also I’m a virgin but it’s not from lack
of trying. The boys at Somerset are very selective. Although I’ve
shed my cheap tacky style, I still don’t get any play. I arrived
at Somerset sporting a full-on tribute to girl groups from the
sixties—pencil skirt, heavy black eyeliner, and slightly teased
hair. In junior high, everyone thought I looked cute in my
vintage outfits. Sometimes I would rock seventies bell-bottoms or
try a version of a forties pinup girl. It was my idea to create
an Instagram account, WEARABLE ART, to document outfits but the
looks never translated at Somerset. Somerset boys just don’t go
for curvy girls in low-quality clothes. I ditched the pencil
skirts that accentuated my full backside and followed Serena and
Camille’s tame, chic style. Taylor Swift is their icon and now
she’s mine too.
I follow Jasmine to the end of aisle four. The Dragon Ball Z boy
sits crouched down in front of a tower of large boxes.
“Dominic, let her do it. I need to take a drag before they open
the doors.” Dominic grins as if he won the lottery.
“We need to restock this,” he says. “You know, the female
feminine things, the shampoos, and this stuff right here.”
He points to an empty condom stand. My face burns red.
“Yeah, this is kind of important. Safe sex and shit.” Dominic
licks his lips and reveals a chipped tooth. “You know what I’m
talking about, right? They probably teach you that in your cushy
school. No glove, no love. We got all kinds of sizes up in here.
Magnum, triple magnum, and for the girls who want . . .”
I close my eyes. I want him to shut up but he goes on, enjoying
every humiliating second.
“After that, I got some other things for you to unload,” he says.
“Good luck, Princesa.”
This can’t be my life right now. I grab my phone to text Serena
and Camille but there’s no reception. Another cashierista walks
by and laughs. Papi is delusional if he thinks I’ll stay locked
up in this depressing grocery world. The minute I find an out,
I’m taking it. I roll my eyes at her before throwing a condom box
meant for the display rack onto the floor.
“Ouch!”
The tip of my new gel manicure gets caught on a hard corner of
the carton and tears. A tiny drop of blood emerges from the
finger. Jesus. I need to connect with reality, my reality. I
press down on the injury and walk away from the aisle, leaving
the opened boxes a mess on the floor.
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