Hero Samwich

We are all some kind of sandwich – processed stuff between unlike things. How others see us and who we’d rather be. What we can do and when it’s allowed or acknowledged. Where we’re going and why we’re never quite there. We come to be a self through equal parts power to change and powerlessness to resist. For Samantha Sanchez – the hero of our story – it was especially so.

Sam had always been stuck between what she wanted and what was expected. Tired-looking eyes – maybe brown or hazel – lingered a bit too long. Her broad shoulders and wide calves rejected generational fashion trends that should otherwise compliment her slender frame and height. Nothing quite shook her shoulder-length curls like femme-fronted 90s songs, although they topped the charts years before she was even born. Her few misfit friends seldom called, but everyone at school knew who she was.

Her name was especially sticky. She’d been born into a name her mother left, and it was seldom, “Samantha,” except at school. “Sammie” to Mom. “Sam,” “Samwich,” and occasionally “Sam-ma-man” when Dad hoped to boost her confidence or challenge her decided indifference. She wasn’t sure which version she preferred. But any “Sam” was better – or at least less uncomfortable – than her last name.

“You don’t look Hispanic,” was the usual – but seldom spoken – response to her last name, Sanchez. Samantha and Sanchez had always been joined by eyebrow lifts, the gentle intonation of a question mark, a gesture – or worse – an uninvited tussle of her auburn hair before she started to dye it black. It wasn’t that she wanted to look Hispanic. She just didn’t want to look like she “didn’t look Hispanic.” Mom just saw the black hair as a “phase.”

But phases pass, and Sam had been stuck here for as long as she remembered. Dad wasn’t biological. Mom was pregnant when they met and married before Sam was born. And although the union passed quickly, it lingered long enough to decide a life sentence for their child: Samantha Sanchez and the girl sandwiched between them.

Thoughts like these regularly interrupted the last ten minutes between sleep and awake. It didn’t matter where she was sleeping. A new weekday routine, Dad squeaked past her room and down the stairs to burn some coffee at 5:50 AM. He did his best, but it was impossible to sneak in their new 120-year-old house. The gauntlet of yet unpacked boxes made it harder besides. Beep. Bubble. Hiss. Just like the last four places they filled with boxes and slept in for a while.

Sam ran the tattered edge of one bandaged finger along a crack in the wall to a calendar taped over it. She traced the neatly organized pattern of her coming days: schoolwork, a Spring Formal she wouldn’t attend, soccer games – home and away. Each event was catalogued in bubbly script and jagged shorthand like the memoirs of a serial killer.

Tap. Tap. March 15th, 2022. Sometime in the night, Sam turned seventeen. Mom was never exactly clear as to when, although she told her plenty of times – plenty of times. The numbers kept changing. Sometimes by minutes. Once by a day. Sam’s age ricocheted between tellings. It didn’t matter. She felt older by the minute. Sam sighed as her VI-Watch sounded an alarm. “Doll” by Void played. Any minute now, someone would tell her how old she was, and that’s what she’d be until someone said different.

“Here we go again…”

Sam blew the hair from both eyes, throwing one leg over the other to escape her bed. The moment she crossed to touch the worn, brass knob of her bedroom door, she felt a tremble. Over the hushed rumble of morning commuters passing through her sleepy Pennsylvania town of Middenburg (halfway between Littlestown and Biglerville), a steady droning beat grew louder and closer like a helicopter. Chipped paint and plaster dust trickled through the morning light as her windowpanes rattled in their frames. Mom was here.

The front door opened and closed in a single crash, and the brief hush that followed was soon filled with half-whispered insults and argument. Sam might as well have been standing between them.

“You – selfish... That’s your daughter’s birthday cake, Samantha,” Dad declared.

“Do not disempower me, Bas,” Mom recoiled, lingering on her ex-husband’s name like a curse. “You may not care, but I’m Drive. It’s who I am until I’m ready to let it pass on… You, of all people, should know that – Bas. And anyway, I’m not eating all of it…”

Sam spun around the upstairs banister and came to a sit on the top step. It was better to wait out the fight than get caught up in the all too familiar push-and-pull.

Dad turned up the volume on the morning news. It didn’t help. Even cutaways of shouting crowds from the recent protests weren’t enough to drown out those at home. “Twist the issue. Play the victim and ignore all –.”

“I have never been a victim, Bas,” she interjected, “and I don’t ignore anything. Sam doesn’t care about her birthdays. You’re just adding pressure.”

“I’m adding pressure? This is what normal people do. They celebrate another normal year doing normal things: school, sports, friends, fights, boys, girls, whatever. They don’t push their kids into inheriting some self-aggrandizing mantle that you never quite…” Dad’s voice trailed off into a whisper.

“She’s beyond normal,” Mom declared. “And I haven’t pushed her into anything. She likes to run! So what if it’s soccer? And so what if I’m eating my half of her cake now?”

“I baked that cake. For our daughter.”

“I’m saving her the best part. She’ll love it.”

“Stop. Eating.”

Dad wouldn’t budge. Mom wouldn’t stand still. That was usually how it went. Before the same old argument got a chance to replay in all new ways, Sam deliberately squeaked the stair she was sitting on. The fighting stopped. The news quieted. Dad clinked the coffee pot against his mug and then a second and finally a reluctant third. Sam pulled her lips in like a smile and marched down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Coffee still sucks,” Mom murmured before a rapid turn in Sam’s direction. Bottle blonde curls whipped across Dad’s face. “Happy Birthday, Sammie!”

Mom hugged her between erratic thrusts to arm’s length for inspection. Her Drive brand athleticwear (black and green with white checkered accents) was drenched in sweat. Each hug felt like pulling up a cold, wet bathing suit.

“Can you believe it? Seventeen years and 9 months ago, 3:28 in the morning. And now…” Those green eyes like traffic lights. Urging her forward. A building pressure to accelerate or get the horn.

No, Mom. Not yet, Sam thought.

“Has it happened yet?”

“Drive, stop.”

Mom rolled her eyes and honked again. “Well, I was 15. It’s a legitimate question…”

“No, Mom. Not yet.” Sam shrunk and slipped away in the direction of a waiting NWSL mug on the counter. Mom chattered on about “late bloomers” and “good things to those who wait,” but Sam prioritized her breakfast buzz over the hype. The last cut of birthday cake rested beside her mug: a black pentagon in a circle of crumbs.

“You made me a – soccer ball cake?” Like I’m twelve?

“Happy Birthday, Sammie.”

“It’s delicious,” Mom chimed. “You’re going to love it. Was that lemon peel? Don’t mind your dad. He’s just grumpy I was a little piggy and couldn’t wait.”

Did Dad even get a piece?

“I – mostly just followed the box. It’s no big deal.”

“No, it is. I know. I’ll get you a new one.” Mom sighed and gestured to her sneakers like a gameshow assistant. Although the laces were brand-new, the nylon was frayed, and treads worn down to the soles. “You know I need calories after a run, and I’m burning through DRIVEbars. I’ve been training a lot. Barely holding 60 mph. The Big Race is coming up, and I’ve been pitching in more for the Responders. Couple that with my new timeslot and the studio…”

“You could drive.”

“Drive,” Mom giggled and pulled Sam backwards into another humid embrace. “That’s who I am. Could be both of us soon. We can do it all. Right, Sammie?”

“Mom, I’m not –.”

Mom jabbed Sam in the chest with a brown, cardboard box. An unwrapped case of Drive brand energy bars: DRIVEbars.

“Thanks. I’ll – eat these...”

“Happy birthday, Sammie. Look at those legs!” Mom pressed her thick calf against Sam’s. The muscle was coiled and hot. “All Drive. It’s gonna happen. Might be today. First match for JV Powers tonight, right?”

“Coach said she’ll start me.”

“Why wouldn’t she? You dominated Varsity Regs.”

“Because she belonged there...”

“Dad, I just want–.”

“I feel – like you want –.”

“It doesn’t matter what you feel; it matters that she can.” Mom inched forward with Sam between them. “We can do it all, Bas. This isn’t about you.”

“What? I never said –.”

“You didn’t have to, Bas. I know you’re just scared...”

“I’m scared she’s gonna get hurt!”

“Kids get hurt, Bas.”

“Unless reasonable adults step in to –.”

“There you go again, holding her back in the name of reason–.”

“And there you go pushing her into something for the sake of legacy–.”

“You have no idea what -.”

“I have no idea what? I’m the one who’s been here!”

“I only want what’s best for her,” they shouted in tandem.

Sam pushed through and retreated to one of the mismatched chairs at the kitchen table. The tv droned on about other wars far away. Sam pretended to listen. Mom gripped one arm against her body, but her fingers tapped relentlessly. Dad still hadn’t moved.

“Sammie, we’re sorry.”

“We’re sorry, Sam.”

“I know I can be a lot.”

“Your mom’s – a personality.”

“And your dad – is trying...”

“…”

“We both love you. We’re proud of you and the incredible woman you’re becoming.”

“Whoever you want that to be.”

Mom took Dad’s hand before he could pull away. Mom was quick, and Dad usually took a bit to react. “Your dad and I don’t agree on much, but we both want what’s best for you. We want you to be happy, Sammie.”

“And safe, Sam.”

“And kind,” Mom added. “And – you’re trying…”

“Well, cake for breakfast makes me happy,” Sam mumbled, glancing sidelong at the counter. “That’s a good start. And you should never hold hands again. That kind of makes me feel unsafe. So, stop...”

Dad shook his hand loose, and Mom playfully released him so she could deliver the last piece of cake personally. Sam picked at the sponge with her short, chipped nails to nibble the tiny crumbs between. Dad passed her a fork, but she continued eating as she was. Sam felt his eyes linger on her red, swollen knuckles.

It’s just a sports thing… “Are you coming to my game?”

Dad groaned after a long slurp of coffee. “Somebody there should know your blood type…”

Sam sneered at her dad through a mess of dark curls. He returned the face playfully, leaving his mug exposed to attack. Sam slipped one finger into his unguarded drink before he could react. He recoiled with a laugh, spilling coffee down the front of his red tie, but seemed more intent on returning fire than protecting himself. Sam’s quick reflexes blocked his every effort. She denied him twice, dipped her finger back into his cup and lunged forward to poke him in the nose.

Dad jerked back so quickly that he knocked over his chair and spilled his coffee. He wasn’t laughing anymore, but he didn’t look angry. Sam’s smile faded too. She knew he didn’t like to rough-house. He always looked so… afraid?

Afraid he’s going to hurt me? Or that I’ll hurt him? “I’m sorry, Dad.”

He forced a laugh. “It’s just – it’s time to stop…”

Mom appeared beside them with a roll of paper towels. “Your dad’s – ticklish. That’s all.” Neither paper-thin response could quite clean up that mess. Mom hesitated before touching her ex-husband again. They did a sort of dance before Dad snatched the wad of half-soaked towels to pat himself dry. Now it was Mom’s turn to pretend she was watching tv. Sam played along, her knees pulled up to her chin, eating cake by pinches.

The news seemed to be on repeat since the “difficult times” of the pandemic. Violence. Outbreak. Recession. Registration. All deadly. All a hoax. Problems are somebody else’s fault. Solutions are somebody else’s responsibility. Celebrity love triangle like it mattered. Kids playing dress up in grandma’s closet. Foreign army masters teenage dance craze. All alone. All together. In the streets, raging against. Like it lasted. Like it ended.

“…the deadliest incident in U.S. history, killing 61 people and injuring at least 850,” announced the grim voiceover. “Our thoughts – and prayers – with all of them.” Blood and flashing lights switched seamlessly to a cheerful newsperson. His beaming smile turned to the audience like a welcome, but unexpected guest, interrupting a game of catch with his kid. “A decade sure can go fast. And it’s about to go – a little faster. Thousands of runners from across the country are heading to Harrisburg for the 10th Annual DRIVE for Life race, sponsored by DRIVEwear…”

Mom squeaked and slipped into Dad’s abandoned chair. She gestured one hand towards the tv and tapped Sam’s arm with the other. Sam obliged, but Dad took the cue to leave.

He sighed and air-kissed Sam above her wriggling crown, wishing her, “Happy Birthday” over a swarm of shushes. “See you in class.”

Sam nodded and watched Dad leave through the corner of her eye, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, one shoe on, one shoe in his hand, half-spilled coffee cup pinched between chin and chest. Never quite ready for where he was going.

Mom’s tapping intensified as the anchor cut away to footage from last year’s race, the screen now entirely Mom’s face:

“It’s just a great time for a good cause,” her year-younger self explained. “There are no categories. There are no limits. Just everyone being their fastest.”

“But there is a fastest…,” the interviewer baited her. “Overall?”

Mom beamed a bit, but didn’t bite. “It’s just a lot of fun.”

“You heard it from the Person’s Fastest Person,” he replied: “just a lot of fun. Now, Drive – can I call you Drive?”

“You better.”

“Drive, I was listening to your podcast, ‘The Long Drive Home’ –.”

“Over 10,000 downloads! I love you, Drivebys!”

“As part of the Drive Hive myself, I can say that we love you too,” the reporter replied, stopping just short of touching her arm. “But – in your podcast, you recently said that of all your success, founding the Responders, all your years of service –.”

“Not that many years,” she blushed.

“You said that the DRIVE for Life race has been most meaningful. Can you say more?”

“Oh, well, it’s just so important: every life,” she replied, her hands fixed to her hips. “Every life – deserves a chance to be well-lived. To have opportunities. To be seen. To be heard. And sometimes, change comes too slowly. And people have had it with all that, I think.”

Mom’s mouth moved like she was coaching her year-younger self.

“DRIVE for Life is a race against yourself. All ages and categories come together to run, walk, roll, crawl, whatever – as far as they can as fast as they can. We race against our own best times and distances tracked by the DRIVElive App for the year. And I’ll be running too, just trying to do my best.

Every second faster, every step farther, and DRIVEwear donates 1 dollar to provide lunches, books, art supplies, and sports equipment to Pennsylvania schools. And that’s in addition to everything we make at the event from our incredible volunteers and venders.”

“And that adds up.”

“Last year, we donated almost 2.5 million dollars.”

“Two – million – dollars; you must be very proud.”

“Two point five. So proud.”

Sam buried her face in her hands when she saw her own disheveled self from the final leg of last year’s race, hobbling across the screen. Her cheeks were bright red. Her mouth hung open. The camera zoomed in for a blurry half-smile, more wince than joy.

“There!” Mom shouted, pointing at the tv. “I asked them to keep the clip a full 2 seconds longer so you could see yourself!”

Groan. Sam snatched the remote and turned off the news.

“What?”

“I looked like garbage…”

“You look like someone who just ran 15 miles – amazing!”

Sam held her mother’s stare, hoping the glee would fade. But it didn’t. With a prolonged groan, she flew from her chair and spun around the corner, back down the hall towards the stairs. Mom was already there, waiting by the front door with another swampy hug.

“Nobody will see it.”

Groan.

“I love you.”

Groan.

“Say it.” Mom squeezed a bit harder and kissed Sam rapidly. “Say it. Say it. Say it.”

“You too,” Sam fussed away with a brief smile. “You are a lot...”

“And your head tastes like coffee,” Mom kissed her again twice before Sam could react. “Gotta run, Sammie. Recording cutaways today. You give ‘em hell tonight. Tell Dad to tape it – record it – stream it, or whatever…”

Mom chucked Sam on the chin before bouncing down the front steps and out to the street for a stretch in front of the house. A neighbor walking their dog stopped at the sight of her. He did what they always do. A point and unsure smile. Are you? Mom waved with one arm folded behind her head but otherwise ignored him. She kept her attention split between the morning commuters and her daughter, still lingering to one side of the door in an oversized Void band tee.

“Even I’m too young for that shirt…”

After a quick wink, Mom’s focus steeled. She fell into a rigid runner’s pose in line with traffic. Her calf muscles coiled and flexed. She breathed in time with the passing cars. Under-sized sedans and over-sized trucks flashed past her shoulder, blur after blur: 35 – 40 miles per hour. She held out one hand to signal the turn. Sam blinked and Mom was gone, feet slapping the pavement like the fading drone of a helicopter.

Sam’s VI-Watch chirped.

Key: “saw u on the news (barfing monkey emoji).”

Sam snarled. She tapped her watch to snap a quick pic of her middle finger and sent it as a response. She’d deal with Key later. Now was Sam time, and there was precious little cake and coffee standing between her and school. A flick of her wrist turned up the volume on her post-punk, femrock and singer/songwriter playlist, almost exclusively 90s. “Skip School” by the Debbies played. She danced back into the kitchen and crammed a handful of cake into a single, glorious bite.