“Well, I’m not a Ruíz.”
“No, but you are a girl who’d never stepped foot outside of Puerto Rico before a few weeks ago. I mean, how are you dealing with all this? I know I forget to ask sometimes because everything just seems so easy for you... .”
“ ’Cause I have you.” She grinned, nudging my arm.
“Trust me, I have nothing to do with your celebrity status.”
“Oh, please!” She rolled her eyes as she sat at my desk and fastened my new black sandals onto her feet. She swore she had nothing to go with the black dress she was also borrowing from my closet. “Seriously though, I like it here. A lot. It’s different, but it’s fun. It’s like a never-ending vacation.”
“Don’t you miss your parents?”
“Eh, a bit. But you guys have supplied enough family drama to keep me occupied.”
“You got that right,” I moaned. “I swear we’re this close to getting our own reality show. ‘Coming up next week, find out if Uncle Diego busts a coronary over his long-lost sister, da-da-da-daaaaaa. ...’” I joked in my best newscaster voice.
Just then I heard the front door swing open and a heavy set of footsteps strut into the foyer. I glanced at Lilly.
“It’s like they heard me,” I teased.
The dining room was staged as if we were having a Thanksgiving feast. All of my birthday planning paraphernalia had been cleared out: the brightly colored tablecloths, the linen napkins, the votive candles, the place cards, and the magazine cutouts of floral centerpieces. In its place was the good wedding china and the crystal glasses imported from Prague. Five low arrangements of burnt orange roses and calla lilies filled the expanded dining table, and the buffet was covered with dozens of stainless steel serving platters, all simmering above blue flames.
I sat between Teresa and Lilly. My uncles Diego and Roberto were across from us, joined by my aunts. They had left their kids at home. Too bad I wasn’t as lucky.
“These potatoes are fabulous, Irina,” my Aunt Stacey noted as she bit into a tiny roasted wedge.
“Thank you. I got it out of a new cookbook. Remind me to show it to you before you leave.”
“Yes, please do so.” My aunt fiddled with the other four potato fragments on her plate. They matched her tiny slice of chicken. “Mmm, good.”
The room fell silent again. I could hear the buzz of the chandelier light bulbs overhead. I scooped a forkful of chicken and gravy into my mouth. Lilly was glaring at her plate refusing to look up. I think she was trying to zone out the uncomfortable tension that gripped us all.
“So Mariana, I heard you went to the ballet,” my Aunt Joan commented, trying to keep the dull conversation going.
“Uh, huh,” I mumbled. “We saw Firebird.”
“Now, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that. Is it new?”
“It’s from the early 1900s.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sure you’ve never danced it, right?”
“No,” I said, tightly clutching my fork to prepare for her next statement. I already knew what was coming.
“You know my David plays all the classics. You should have heard how his conductor went on and on about him.”
My Aunt Joan never made it through a visit without praising the modeling escapades of her thirteen-year-old daughter Jackie or the saxophone accomplishments of her fifteen-year-old son David. She thrust them into the limelight every chance she got, but God forbid her niece or nephew scored some attention. If I got straight A’s, it was because I wasn’t in private school; if I won the lead in a ballet recital, it was because there wasn’t much competition. The worst was when Vince got into Cornell. She made sure everyone knew it was “just because of his athletics.” There was a brief moment during Easter dinner last year when I thought my mother might actually slug her.
“So, Mariana,” my Aunt Stacey interjected. “Your sixteenth birthday’s next week. Are you excited for your party? I know we’re looking forward to it.”
“Uh, yeah. It should be fun.” I smiled politely, stabbing a piece of meat as I clenched my teeth.
This dinner was turning into a slow torture. No one wanted to speak to Teresa, so instead my aunts flooded me with benign questions to maintain the appearance that we all got along. I wished I was old enough to drink. At least then I could drown out the monotony that was my family.
“You have a lot of friends coming?” my aunt asked as she cut her tiny slice of chicken into even tinier morsels.
“Yeah, I guess,” I replied, staring at her miniature portions of food. “You want some gravy?”
“Uh, no, no.” She shook her head.
From what I’d heard, my Aunt Stacey had stopped eating after she gave birth to her only child, my cousin Claire. Apparently, my Uncle Roberto wanted more kids, but my aunt could never get pregnant again. (My mom said it was because she couldn’t eat enough to nourish herself let alone another person.) So every time I saw her, I watched her waste away further. No one asked her about it, nor commented on the issue to my uncle. But I knew they thought the same thing from the not-so-subtle glances they shot at her plate. The worst was when she sneezed; I half expected her to break a bone.
My mom dropped her fork and glared at my father, who was seated at the opposite end of the long table. They never moved their lips, but I swear they were having an entire conversation telepathically. I was pretty sure I understood the interaction, assuming they were saying something along the lines of “Wow, this is awkward. Why the heck did we force everyone to do this?”
“So, Lilly, I heard you had your first tennis match yesterday,” my tia Teresa said, speaking for the first time since we sat down to eat.
All eyes flicked toward her. It was like a light finally sparked in the room. I perked up.
“Yeah, I lost though,” Lilly stated.
“But you did great,” I cheered, nudging her arm.
“I hit a girl in the face.” She giggled.
“Well, she should have ducked.” I chuckled.
Lilly laughed. No one else found it funny. They just glared at us silently. A clock ticked in the background.
“Mariana almost got into a fight,” my cousin blurted out.
“Lilly!” I screeched, my eyes stretched.
She shrugged as if she didn’t know what else to say. I could tell the dreary dinner was taking its toll on her too.
“It wasn’t a fight,” I mumbled.
“You didn’t tell us about this,” my father said sternly, wiping at his dark mustache with his linen napkin.
“That’s because there’s nothing to tell.”
“These racist jerks were calling me names.”
“Lilly!” I kicked her under the table.
“What do you mean ‘racist?’ ” my father asked, his brow furrowed.
My uncles’ eyes flew toward us.
“Nothing. These guys just said some stuff and I asked them to stop. That was it.”
“They were total pendejos,” Lilly added.
Everyone chuckled at the curse word, mostly because it was true.
“All these years and nothing has changed.” My Uncle Roberto shook his head.
“I can’t believe there are still people who think that way,” my mother stated.
“They think that way because their parents think that way,” my Uncle Diego spat. “There are a lot of bad parents in this world.”
He glared at Teresa as he spoke, ice in his eyes.
“Good thing we’re all more mature than that,” I stately sweetly, staring at him.
Everyone stopped eating, and my uncle sighed so loudly it almost sounded like a shout. I could see my sarcasm wasn’t lost on them.
“So, Teresa, tell me about your new house,” Lilly jumped in. “Do you like Carlos’s place? Is it nice?”
Teresa smiled and took a deep breath.
“Yes, everything’s muy bueno. Carlos has been very sweet. I can’t wait for my son to meet him. I think we’ll be very happy here.”
“So
who’s the father?” my Uncle Diego asked with the tact of a homeless person.
Teresa coughed slightly, her hand on her chest.
“Oh, um, a former boyfriend.”
“So you guys weren’t married?” he grunted.
I glared sharply at my uncle.
“Um, no,” she responded meekly.
“I guess the apple doesn’t fall far—”
“Diego!” my father interrupted.
“What? It’s just an observation. Unless she’s ashamed of her child ...”
“Oh my God!” I snapped. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Excuse me!” my uncle hollered, rising to his feet.
While I didn’t know Teresa and really had no reason to defend her, I still couldn’t stand the blatant hatred sweeping off my uncle. Clearly my father wanted to get to know this woman, and I wanted him to have that opportunity. Only his brother seemed determined to destroy the relationship before it started.
“Little girl, I don’t need to answer to you,” my uncle hissed.
“No, you don’t need to answer to anyone. Do you, Diego?” My father pushed out his chair and stood up. “You always know what’s best ... for everyone.”
My father cleared his throat and left the room.
Chapter 20
I sat on the front porch swing with Teresa as she waited for Carlos to pick her up. My aunts and uncles left before dessert. My father’s storming off seemed to signify the end of the evening. My Uncle Diego never apologized, and my father never said good-bye to his guests. This was my model of maturity.
“I hope you’re not too upset,” I stated softly.
“No, it’s okay. I kind of expected something like this to happen,” Teresa said as we gazed out at my dark suburban street.
“Then why’d you come?”
She shrugged, saying nothing.
A couple of flies hovered around our faux antique porch light as I swayed on the wooden swing. Something about the scene reminded me of my great aunt and great uncle’s place in Utuado. I half expected to hear the coquis sing. Teresa said that my cousin Alonzo had moved to San Juan with José not long after we left the island, and that Aunt Carmen and Uncle Miguel were bragging to the entire town about how well my family was doing in the States. I missed them.
“You should know that your father invited me to your birthday fiesta,” Teresa stated. “But that was before tonight. And now I’m not sure if it’s a good idea... .”
I didn’t know how to respond. Part of me didn’t want her to attend. Realistically, my Sweet Sixteen would go a whole lot smoother without her there. (An Uncle Diego death match was not exactly on my list of entertainment.) But if I couldn’t muster up the courage to disinvite the two hundred-plus students crashing my party, then I couldn’t exactly rescind her invitation.
“You’re more than welcome to come... .”
“Really?” she asked quickly.
I didn’t expect her to be so eager.
“Sure.” I nodded, a little taken aback.
“Thanks. I’d really like everyone to meet Carlos.” She smiled wide. “And the party sounds like fun.”
“Actually, I could care less about it,” I admitted.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to have a party.”
“So, why are you?”
Teresa looked at me without the slightest bit of judgment. Almost as if she were a psychiatrist there to listen. I took a deep breath.
“It was so important to everyone else that I have a Sweet Sixteen. My mom acted like I would be denying myself this great adolescent experience. My friends acted like I would be denying them this great party experience... .”
“What about Lilly?”
“She really didn’t care either way. She’s the only one who probably understood,” I explained.
Lilly was currently upstairs finishing her algebra homework. And I was glad she wasn’t around. It gave me time to vent.
“She didn’t want her Quinceañera anymore than I want a Sweet Sixteen. But even still, she talked me into having something with this whole Puerto Rican theme. And now it’s being blown out of proportion. All these kids are coming who I didn’t invite—probably just to be near Lilly. She’s been hanging around with these jocks. I mean, I want her to have her own friends and all, but I also don’t want to have to hang out with them, you know?”
Teresa nodded calmly as she absorbed my words. Then she took a slow breath.
“Mariana, you know what it’s like to be the stranger in a strange place. That’s how Lilly feels right now. She might not show it, but I’m sure being here, in your school, scares her.”
“Lilly’s not scared of anything. She became the most popular girl in Spring Mills within an hour.”
“Even still. Even with all those friends, you’re the one she wants to spend time with. You’re the reason she moved here.”
Her chocolate eyes fell slightly as she spoke, and a chill ran down my forearm.
Just then, a set of headlights appeared at the end of the dark street. Teresa stood up. It was Carlos. She grabbed her purse and walked toward my driveway.
“Tell your parents I said goodnight,” she said, clutching the car door handle.
Carlos smiled and waved at me from inside the vehicle. His gray hair surprised me. He looked older than I expected, maybe in his late forties, with a salt and pepper beard and mustache, and weathered lines around his eyes. I grinned back.
“Teresa, I’m glad you came,” I called after her.
She looked into the car at her new boyfriend.
“So am I.”
I logged onto my e-mail after Teresa left. There was a message from Vince with three photo attachments. I quickly opened it up.
The first picture showed my Ivy League-educated brother standing in front of a muddy pond, buck naked with one hand in front of his crotch and the other holding a bottle of wine to his mouth as he guzzled. The second image showed him hoisting a beautiful blond girl on his shoulders as they ‘chicken fought’ another couple on the grounds of an exquisitely maintained vineyard. The third photo showed him on a bus with dozens of guys (who I could only assume were his fraternity brothers) while he puked into a Doritos bag.
I laughed as my hand covered my mouth. It boggled my mind that he wanted me to see this stuff, and it seriously concerned me that these boys represented some of the smartest students in the country. These were our nation’s future presidents, CEOs, and lawyers. And with all this technology, I was guessing that these soon-to-be high-powered professionals would one day find themselves hit with a lot of blackmail.
His message read:
Wineries rock! The fraternity I’m rushing took us on this tour of the Seneca Lake Wineries. We finished a case of chardonnay on the bus before we even got to the second vineyard. I was sooo tanked. We had these chicken fights on the lawn and some girl almost broke her nose. She yacked up red merlot and it splashed all over my leg. So me and this dude jumped in the irrigation ditch naked. It was freezing! And I soo sliced up my foot on a rock. The winery totally kicked us out.
But the brothers got me a bottle of wine because of it. I seriously shouldn’t have drunk it, ’cause I spewed chunks on the bus all the way back to campus. It was awesome, though. I can’t wait ’til I’m initiated!
Later!
—Vince
I smiled as I stared at the screen. After the night I’d had, this was exactly what I needed. It was like he knew.
Chapter 21
The next night we headed over to Bobby’s to view his documentary debut. Prior to leaving, I had assumed that Lilly, Madison, Emily, and I would be among dozens of other Spring Mills students supporting his Dublin masterpiece. Only we were now seated on the couch in his basement in between his Grandma Abigail and his Uncle Lester. There was a gathering of other aunts, uncles, and cousins plopped around us on the floor and only two other students from our high school—photography club presidents Wyatt Benson and Jackson Dilks.
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Madison hadn’t stopped digging her nails into my arm since we had arrived, and Emily just looked embarrassed to be included. Her face fell when I told her that Bobby had invited me to the screening, even when I insisted that he had extended the invitation to all of us. I almost had to drag her through his front door earlier, and now she was seated on the couch, not speaking, and staring at her folded hands.
Lilly, however, was taking the whole thing in stride. She sat on an armchair, engrossed in a conversation with Wyatt over whether digital photography could ever really replace the quality of print images. This coming from a girl who still uses disposable drugstore cameras.
“But with Photoshop, don’t you think you have more range with digital pictures?” Lilly asked, chomping a handful of pretzels.
“Not necessarily. You can have any roll of film made into a CD these days, still giving you those options. But with film, you have more natural colors and skin tones. And don’t even get me started on black and white. The mood you can create with darkroom techniques ...”
Lilly nodded like she understood his views to the point that I thought she should really consider a career in the theatrical arts. I’d have to mention it to Bobby, in case he ever made the switch from documentaries to major motion pictures.
“When is this thing going to start?” Madison droned as she nibbled on a chip. I knew she was desperate if she was eating junk food to keep busy.
“Soon, I guess.”
“Do you even know what the film is about?”
“I’d assume it’s about Ireland, right?”
Bobby’s two preteen cousins were playing foosball in the “playroom” off to the left of where we were seated. Half his relatives were packed in the tiny room cheering with a level of excitement most actual soccer games would not be worthy of, let alone a bunch of plastic figures on metal sticks. Only right now I was half-tempted to join them. If it weren’t for Madison’s nails in my forearm, I probably would have dozed off long ago.
“When can we leave?” she grumbled, her nails plunging deeper. I wiggled my arm free and rubbed my skin.
Amigas and School Scandals Page 13
