Acting on Impulse

by Mia Sosa

  Yes, yes, that’s it. He’ll pay for making me want him—in sweat and tears.

  “Tori, are you listening to me?” Eva asks.

  “What? Go with the red.”

  “Red? I’m choosing foundation, not lipstick, which you’d know if you were paying attention.”

  I snap my head up. “Sorry. What are the options again?”

  Eva and I are headed to my parents’ restaurant in North Philly—eventually—but she won’t stop gushing about her makeup’s “amazing” ability to transform her skin’s inner luminosity, and I’m the enabler who drove her to the mall after work so she could buy it.

  “It comes in a range of colors, Tori,” she says. “Even ones for our brown skin tones, and it feels buttery soft on your skin.”

  The smile-free beauty consultant nods approvingly at Eva’s description of the product’s benefits.

  I turn over the dispenser and read the price tag. “Holy shit, Eva. That’s expensive.” It’s called Peau Lumineuse. “The name’s unfortunate, too. Makes me think of luminous urine.”

  She snatches the bottle from me. “It’s my holy grail foundation, chica. Don’t knock it until you try it.” Eva takes my hand and swipes a streak of foundation on it. “And if you think about it, a hundred and thirty-eight dollars isn’t all that much to spend on a foundation that will last you six months, give or take a few weeks.”

  The beauty consultant hands me a few samples. “Peau Lumineuse promises to improve the quality of your skin while providing essential SPF protection.”

  I stuff the freebies in my purse. “With that price tag, will it also promise to give me orgasms on command, too? If not, I’ll pass.”

  “You’re hopeless,” Eva says.

  The beauty consultant nods in agreement.

  “Please pay for whatever you’re getting so we can go,” I tell Eva. “My ten-dollar drugstore foundation and I will wait for you over there.”

  She shakes her head in disgust. “Okay, woman, damn.”

  Before Eva decided to join me, my plan to visit the restaurant had been simple. In the blessedly solitary confines of my car, I would belt out a few songs from the Hamilton musical—yes, I’m obsessed—and try to forget that I’ll be working with Carter for the next six weeks. But Eva’s obsession with obscure makeup brands is rivaled only by her love of my mother’s cooking, so she invited herself to tag along and convinced me to make this “quick” out-of-the-way pit stop.

  After making her purchase, she loops her arm through mine, a small gold shopping bag in her other hand. “What’s the matter? Is being a celebrity’s crush getting to you?”

  I separate our arms and push her away. “I’m not his crush, and my mood has nothing to do with him.”

  She stares at me in horror and shrieks. “Oh my God.”

  “What? What? What is it?” I ask as I brush away the hair on my face. “A bug?”

  She points at me. “No, it’s your nose,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “It’s growing as we speak. Because. You. Are. A. Liar.”

  I walk ahead of her and say over my shoulder, “Someone seems to have forgotten their lack of transportation.”

  She catches up with me and throws her arm over my shoulder. “I’m just kidding, mama.”

  I take her waist as we exit the mall and walk to my car. “I know, and I’m sorry if I’m being moody.”

  “If? Oh, honey, there’s no if about it. You’re in a mood, for sure. And I think I know why.”

  “Feel free to keep your thoughts to yourself. They’re more interesting that way.”

  I unlock the car, and she places her bag in the backseat, giving me glorious side-eye as she does.

  “Seat belt, Eva.”

  “Hang on, I need to grab my notes.” She twists in her seat and reaches for the huge red binder containing her study materials for her personal training certification. After she’s secure, I drive out of the mall and follow the signs to take the interstate toward North Philadelphia.

  “How’s the studying coming along?” I ask her.

  “It’s good. The course I took last weekend helped a lot.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I’m still salty I missed out on a trip to Aruba, though.”

  “There’s no way Ben and Nate would have let us both take time off at the last minute.”

  Eva flips through the pages, or maybe attacks the pages would be a better description. “There’s no way Nate would facilitate anything remotely fun for me, so you’re right about that.”

  I hazard a sideways glance. “What’s going on with you two anyway?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure. He’s been snippy with me lately, and I can’t figure out why.”

  I make a mental note to ask Nate about it.

  Eva studies while I hum along to the Hamilton soundtrack.

  Twenty minutes into the drive, Eva drops the binder onto her lap and stretches.

  I can feel her gaze on me. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She picks up the binder again and flips through the pages. “Aha. Found it. I came across a practice question that was really thought-provoking.”

  I know my friend, and this is a setup if ever there was one. “And you’re going to read it to me, right?”

  She turns to me and gives me a cheesy grin. “Right.” After clearing her throat, she speaks in a stiff and authoritative voice: “Which of the following is an appropriate activity under the Guidelines for Professional Conduct? (a) counseling your client on their personal relationships, (b) devising a calorie-restricted diet plan for your client, (c) referring your client to experts for diagnostic care, (d) straddling your client as he bench presses, or (e) all of the above.”

  Eyes still on the road, I laugh. “It doesn’t say anything about straddling your client. What does it say really?”

  “Okay, it asks about massaging your client. Just wanted to make your choices more colorful.”

  “The only one that’s appropriate is referring your clients to experts for diagnostic issues.”

  She nods. “But you’re missing my point.”

  “I missed it because you didn’t make one, Eva.”

  “If you do find yourself tempted enough to straddle a client, make sure you’re circumspect about it.”

  I pull up in front of Mi Casita and pin Eva with my best no-way-in-hell stare. “I won’t find myself tempted.”

  She pinches her index finger and thumb together. “Not even a little?”

  I grip the steering wheel. “I’d be a fool to do anything with Carter.”

  “Why?” she asks as she climbs out of the car.

  I climb out, too, and stare at her over the car top between us. “Why? I’ll tell you why.” I’m unable to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Does Mason ring a bell? If I couldn’t handle his theatrics, what makes you think I’d handle Carter’s? And let’s not forget he’s my client. I can picture the snide comments on Page Six already. Carter Stone gets worked over by his personal trainer. And when he’s long gone, that bit of gossip will haunt me forever, always one click away on the Internet. No thanks.”

  “Maybe he’s not Mason.”

  I round the car, and we walk to the restaurant’s entrance. “Maybe. But I’ll never know. And I’m okay with that. So, no. There will be no kissing, straddling, humping, or sucking of any kind with a client, especially Carter Stone.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Well, probably.

  Okay, sort of.

  MI CASITA SITS between a flower shop and a bodega on a tree-lined street in North Philadelphia. The trees are artificial royal palms, a project of the city’s revitalization plan and an homage to the Puerto Rican ancestry of most of the neighborhood’s residents. Every time I walk into the restaurant, I’m transported to my grandmother’s kitchen on the island. A mural of Puerto Rican symbols—the flag, the tiny tree frog, and conga drums—covers an entire wall.

  There are no w
hite table linens here. Instead, my sister, Bianca, decorated the place with function in mind: wood tables and chairs in neat rows, dark linoleum floors, and a long luncheon counter for the people who come here to have a quick meal or drink my mother’s café con leche.

  When my sister sees us, she lifts her elbows off the counter and straightens to her full height. “Close the door, please. We don’t want any flies in here.”

  Bianca can’t even be bothered to say hello. Madre de Dios, give me strength.

  Standing behind me, Eva whispers in my ear, “If you need me to, I will cut a bitch.”

  I drag Eva into the restaurant and steer her to a table in the back. “Don’t call my sister a bitch,” I try to say without smiling. “Only I get to call her that. Now sit here and don’t say a word. If you don’t follow those simple directions, there will be no free food for you.”

  “Fine.” She pouts and places her clasped hands on the table. As I walk away, she sings, “I feel petty. Oh, so petty . . .”

  I’m laughing when I claim one of the red-top swivel seats and face Bianca. She grimaces, and I’m thinking the counter between us is serving a useful purpose: protection—although it’s not clear which one of us needs it. “Hey.”

  “Hey. What brings you to this side of town?”

  Bianca and I have never been close. She’s always treated me like an interloper. I’m virtually certain she hated me at first sight when my parents brought me home from the hospital when I was a baby, and her opinion of me hasn’t changed since then. Take now for instance. I come here when I can—admittedly, not as often as I used to—yet she always treats me like a visitor passing through the area.

  I ignore her sour attitude. “How’s it going? Busy?”

  “Steady. Why do you ask? Planning to put on an apron and help?”

  Maybe I will take Eva up on her offer to cut my sister. Nothing dangerous, just a superficial wound that won’t require stitches. “Help? Ha. Like you’d let me.”

  We both know that would never happen. This is Bianca’s domain, the place where she and my mom share their mutual love of cooking. She’d rather chew off her own arm than let me help with the restaurant in any way.

  Eva’s chatting with a patron who’s about twenty years her senior. She glances at me and raises the butter knife from her place setting and points it at Bianca. I shake my head.

  “Where’s Mami?”

  “Fue a la iglesia. She’ll be back soon.”

  My mother visits her church when she can, sometimes before the evening rush, when the restaurant isn’t busy. She lights candles for her deceased parents, for her children, and for many other people and causes.

  A friend is sick? Light a candle.

  The world’s gone mad? Light a candle.

  The restaurant’s deep freeze is acting up? Light a candle.

  El poder de Dios—the power of God—heals all.

  And after more than one occasion in which I witnessed a bad situation improve after my mother lit a candle, I believe.

  That’s why I’m sure she’s never lit a candle to mend my relationship with my sister. This shit is broken—and I have no idea why.

  “Can I get back there and put something together for Eva?”

  Bianca gives me a dismissive wave as though she couldn’t care less what I do. “Whatever.” Still, her eagle-eyed gaze follows me as I move behind the counter.

  After washing my hands, I lift the silver chafing dishes containing today’s menu options. I know what Eva likes, so I heap large amounts of arroz blanco, carne guisada, and platanos on her plate.

  “Don’t forget the relleno de papa,” Eva yells from her seat at the table.

  “Got it,” I yell back.

  The relleno de papa is basically a fried ball of mashed potato stuffed with seasoned beef. It’s one of a dozen fried items that sit under hot lamps near Mi Casita’s storefront window. My father once dined on cuchifritos daily; he loved them, but they did not love him back.

  The bell above the restaurant’s door chimes, and my mother walks in. “Mija, you’re here,” she says to me from the entryway. Several people shuffle in behind her, and Bianca motions for them to follow her to a table.

  Mom gives me a kiss on the cheek and smiles at the plate in my hand. “You’re eating?”

  “No, this is for Eva.”

  The brightness in her eyes dims. I suspect she thinks I’m rejecting her, not just declining her food. It’s a balancing act, and sometimes I’m off-kilter.

  I bump her with my shoulder. “I’m not hungry, but I’ll take a to-go plate, okay?”

  She gives me a reluctant smile. “Bueno. I’ve got to get back into the kitchen before the dinner rush. Can you stay?”

  I shake my head. “Not long. Eva’s meeting her dad, and I have to drive her back. Where’s Papi?”

  “Your father’s helping one of his friends with an engine.”

  My father fixes cars on the weekend, a hobby he’s had for decades. After he experienced a stroke last year, he spent most of his days on the couch watching the news. I’m glad to hear he’s not holed up in the house. “He’s never around when I’m here.”

  My mother peers at me. “Sometimes I think you prefer it that way.”

  I avert my gaze and swallow the lump in my throat. “That’s not true. Why would I?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Eva clears her throat, sending the bat signal for her food, and I’m quick to answer it. Anything to get me away from this conversation. “Excuse me, Mami. La reina quiere su comida.”

  My mother walks with me to Eva’s table, and I set the plate in front of my friend. “Your food, my queen.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Eva says as she unfolds a paper napkin and places it on her lap. She closes her eyes in appreciation after eating a forkful of the carne guisada.

  My mother claps, and then she squeezes Eva’s chin. “Te gusta la comida?”

  “Como siempre,” Eva replies, still chewing.

  My friend learned enough Spanish to tell my mother she likes her food—“as always.” The woman is resourceful.

  My mother glances at me, and then she shuffles away, eventually disappearing through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen.

  “Be right back,” I tell Eva.

  She digs her fork into the food. “No rush. I’m happily occupied.”

  The kitchen is small and clean, and my mother, who’s short and sturdy, fills the space with her energy. Dolores, my mother’s kitchen helper, stands in the corner chopping vegetables for the dishes they’ll make this evening.

  “Hola, Dolores.”

  “Hola, Tori.”

  I shadow my mother as she moves about the room. “So has Daddy been eating okay?”

  My mother’s nose flares. “He’s been eating fine.” She spins away from me and pulls items from the fridge.

  “No cuchifritos, right?” I ask.

  She freezes at the open fridge. Several seconds of silence pass before she turns around with a stick of butter in her hand. “Every once in a while, yes.”

  This is what I was afraid of. My father has no self-control, and my mother has no control over my father. He can’t afford to slide back into his old bad habits. “Ma, remember what the doctor said.”

  “Yes, mija, I remember what the doctor said, but your father’s a grown man, and if he wants an acalpurria from time to time, I’m going to let him have it.” She raises her chin as if she’s daring me to object.

  I should have known better than to broach the subject. The wall of indignation that rises when I question her about Papi’s diet is getting too steep to climb. If I keep pushing, eventually it’ll be insurmountable. Just let it go, Tori.

  Bianca enters the kitchen and stands shoulder to shoulder with her. “Everything okay in here?”

  “I was just asking her about Papi’s diet.”

  Bianca’s face hardens. “You don’t get to march in here whenever you want and act like
a food inspector. Everything’s under control.”

  “Bianca, please,” my mother says.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s fine, Mami.”

  My sister and I can’t even find common ground about our father’s health. There was a moment when I thought that wouldn’t be the case: the day my father had his second stroke. It was the first time in our adult lives that Bianca and I hugged. Between taking turns consoling our mother, we’d clung to each other, both distraught and unsure whether our father would survive. I’d never felt so helpless, and my sister’s embrace was the support I hadn’t known I needed. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers that day.

  Although I know everything’s not under control as Bianca claims, if I push too hard on this, I’ll push them away, too. “Okay, I’m glad to hear everything’s okay. I’m going to head out soon. Tell Papi I’ll see him next weekend.”

  I kiss my mother’s forehead, and she squeezes my hand.

  “Bye, mija,” she says. “Take care of yourself.”

  I know she means that literally, but in my head, I hear it differently: Take care of yourself—and don’t worry about taking care of us.

  EVA AND I don’t talk much during the ride back to Center City. There’s nothing I can do about my family’s resistance to my advice. It’s just how they are, and I don’t want to alienate them by pressing for changes they’re not ready to make. So I’m going to focus on what I can control—namely, my life and the people I allow into it.

  When Eva and I get home, she pulls me into a hug as soon as we close the apartment door. “Cheer up, chica, and get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  I pull back and give her a blank look. “I do?”

  She gives me a knowing smile in return. “Yes, you do. Operation Resist Carter Stone begins tomorrow morning.”

  “No, sweetie, you’ve got it all wrong. Tomorrow I begin Operation Crush Carter Stone.”

  Picturing him in Eva’s Advanced Zumba class, I squint and press my steepled fingers against my lips like a villain.