The Fresh New Face of Griselda

by Jennifer Torres

  That day Dad had brought us to see our street sign, the houses were newly finished, just about ready to be sold. Next to them, the trees and flowers looked scrawny and scraggy and much too small.

  “This is it? This is all you’re planting?” I had asked. Maribel elbowed me in the ribs, but I couldn’t help it. I knew we were supposed to be proud of his work, but it looked as if Dad had messed up, miscalculated somehow.

  He laughed and tickled me under my arms. “Come back after a few years and then you’ll see, mijita. Landscapes take time to grow into themselves. Just like you.”

  Later, he led us on a tour through one of the houses. I used to wonder what it would be like to live inside a dollhouse, and right then I knew, it would be exactly like that: everything spotless and untouched and plastic-smelling.

  He was right about the landscaping, I think, as Maribel parks. Everything has grown exactly as he trusted it would. It’s as if the plants I had seen before were the first reedy notes of a song in his head, and now they’ve turned into a symphony. It makes me wonder: If Dad had been able to make sure an entire neighborhood’s worth of gardens would keep growing, years after he planted them, why couldn’t he hang on to the one that mattered most—ours?

  Maribel pulls down the sun visor to check her lipstick and eye shadow in the mirror, then unlocks the doors.

  “Remember,” she says, “my assistant.”

  “Your assistant.”

  “And you’ll do everything I say.”

  “I know, Maribel.”

  We get out and walk up the long driveway to Ms. Dominguez’s house.

  On either side of the stone walkway leading up to the door are gardenia bushes. The leaves, which should be a dark, glossy green, are sickly and yellow. These plants need fertilizer, maybe. Or more water. It could be anything with a gardenia. It’s a plant that’s as finicky as its creamy white blossoms are beautiful. Gardenias like to be warm, but not hot. Damp, but not wet. They’re too much trouble, even for me—and it looks like for Ms. Dominguez, too.

  Maribel knocks on the door. She’s wearing a black dress under her purple Alma blazer, and if she’s even a little nervous about her first makeover party, I can’t tell. She stands with her shoulders back, looking straight ahead, her face blank until Ms. Dominguez opens the door.

  Then Maribel beams.

  “Greetings from Alma, the Soul of Beauty.”

  Ms. Dominguez throws her arms around Maribel’s shoulders and kisses her cheeks, leaving behind bright pink lip prints on both sides. “Mija, you look so grown-up!” She sees me. “And you brought Geez along, too?”

  For a flicker of a moment, Maribel looks nervous. She opens her mouth to explain, but Ms. Dominguez isn’t finished yet. “Maribel, you think of everything. Geez can watch the little ones while you make the rest of us beautiful.” She tosses her coppery hair.

  Gold bangles jangle on Ms. Dominguez’s wrist as she takes my hand and leads me into the house. “Let’s fix you a plate—you like chilaquiles, don’t you?—and then maybe you can keep Izzy and Gonzalo busy in the playroom while your sister shows us some makeup.”

  I look over my shoulder at Maribel, my eyes begging her to say something so I don’t get stuck babysitting. I’m here to watch her, not them.

  She wipes off Ms. Dominguez’s kisses with a Kleenex and shakes her head—just barely, but enough for me to know not to argue.

  In the playroom, Izzy and Gonzalo, the three-year-old Dominguez twins, have built a tower of wooden blocks almost as tall as they are. Izzy flings a stuffed bunny at it, and the blocks clatter to the floor. Gonzalo cackles. “Again, Iz, do it again.”

  I kneel on the carpet to help them stack. A little while later, the doorbell rings, and I hear Ms. Dominguez welcome another guest.

  “Good news. Maribel brought her sister along to keep an eye on the little ones while we mamis enjoy ourselves. Just drop Vito off in the playroom with Griselda and come pour yourself a glass!”

  For the rest of the morning, I button up doll clothes and pretend to lick Play-Doh ice-cream cones, as the sounds of Maribel’s party drift down the hall: Sometimes there are cheers, and sometimes ahhs of admiration. But mostly what I hear is laughter. Once, when I bring Izzy out for a glass of water, I peek into the living room where Maribel has arranged makeup and lotion, powders and perfumes around two tabletop mirrors. She massages a dollop of moisturizer into a woman’s hand, then holds it up to show the others.

  “You can see the difference already.”

  They nod eagerly, and Maribel passes around samples.

  It’s almost lunchtime when Ms. Dominguez, bracelets still jangling, returns to the playroom. Since the last time she checked in, her nails have been painted red, and her eyelids have been outlined in metallic blue. Her cheeks are bright pink, but I can’t tell whether that’s from Maribel’s blush or all the laughing.

  “Mija, you were wonderful. How smart of Maribel to bring you along. She’s just finishing up. You go help her. I can take over in here.”

  Some of the guests linger in the living room, flipping through catalogs and checking out the makeup that’s still left on the display tables—just a few tubes of lipstick, some mascaras, and perfume. Everything else has been sold. Maribel is standing in the entryway, saying goodbye to a line of women, each of them carrying a lavender Alma shopping bag.

  “That eye cream should last you at least six weeks—only use a dab at a time,” Maribel tells one of them before slipping a business card into her purse. “That’s my number. Give me a call when you’re ready to reorder.”

  She steps over to the next woman. “You look amazing. Here’s my card. You let me know if you ever need me to show you how to do that smoky eye again.”

  After all the guests have gone home and Maribel has repacked her bags, Ms. Dominguez walks us to the door. As I’m stepping outside, back onto the stone walkway, she taps me on the shoulder, then presses something into my palm. “A little something for all your help this morning.”

  I don’t unfold it until we’re back in the car. A twenty-dollar bill. Maybe getting stuck on babysitting duty wasn’t so bad after all. After adding in my earnings from last week, I have more than enough to pay back Maribel.

  “Here,” I say, dropping the bill into the cup holder while Maribel takes off her blazer. “Now you owe me.”

  She folds the money into her wallet and sits down. “Better idea: You give this to me and consider it an investment in some new product.”

  “New product?”

  “Sure. More makeup. Different kinds. A person only needs so much lip gloss.”

  “But I need to sell five hundred tubes of lip gloss.”

  “For that contest? Fine, so you keep selling lip gloss. But what if you meet a customer who doesn’t want lip gloss, she wants eye shadow? If you have eye shadow to sell her, you keep her happy and you make a couple more bucks.”

  “You make a couple more bucks, you mean.”

  “Are you here for business advice, or what?”

  “Fine. Keep the twenty dollars. Reinvest it.”

  “Good.” She drops an Alma catalog and a stub of red lip pencil onto my lap. “Circle anything you can sell for six dollars or less. That’s what you’ll order.”

  So as Maribel drives back through Valle del Sol, back through the gates, and back to Nana’s house, I comb through the catalog, page by page. I draw thick red circles around anything you can buy with a week’s worth of saved-up spare change: silver eyeshadow called Starlit Walk, blue eyeliner called Wishing Well, and emerald nail polish called Deep Dark Woods.

  The back sides of seed packets have directions written on them in tiny letters. They tell you when to plant the seeds, how far apart to place them. They explain how much water each plant needs and how much sunlight. The Alma catalog doesn’t come with instructions like that. But I study it the same way I used to study my seed packets, trying to learn everything I can to help my plan take root and grow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE
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br />   Life does not seem very simple just now, but kind thoughts like yours help to make it so in time.

  —EDITH ROOSEVELT

  I cut fifty strips out of Nana’s old wrapping paper, bend them into links, and tape up the long chain inside my half of the closet. For every ten tubes of lip gloss I sell, I snip off a link.

  By the time November comes, the chain is only fifteen links long. Just like we had agreed, half of my profits keep going to Maribel. I spend some of what’s left over on lunch and snacks and school stuff—like that time we needed money for a field trip to the museum, or when there was a lab fee for science class, and I didn’t want to bother Mom with it. I invest a little in extra makeup. But most of the money gets hidden away under my bed, in the box with the teacups.

  I’ve learned that Monday, after parents have handed out allowances for the week, is the best day to make sales. Money earned dusting coffee tables, weeding yards, walking dogs, and drying dishes can be exchanged for shimmery, sparkly, shiny lip gloss. So every Monday I make sure to bring new shades.

  Once, after school, I overhear an eighth grader talking with a friend about her birthday party. It has to be perfect, she says, different from anyone else’s. It has to be what everyone talks about the next week at school.

  I walk right by them at first, but then I think about Maribel and the guard at Valle del Sol. Maribel wouldn’t walk past an opportunity like this one. I turn around.

  “Were you just talking about your birthday party?”

  They exchange an irritated glance.

  “Sorry. Eighth graders only.”

  “Right. I get it. But I was just thinking, you know what would make a perfect party favor? Something no one else would have? Something everyone would talk about?”

  They look at each other again, less annoyed this time but still skeptical.

  “Why? Do you have something?”

  “Maybe.” I reach into my backpack. “It’s called Cast a Spell,” I say, pulling out the lip gloss. “It’s a special-edition shade. It just came in yesterday, and I hear it’s already on backorder.”

  One of the girls takes the tube from me. “What’s so special about it?”

  “It changes color with your mood, from pale pink to deep red.” I take the lip gloss back. “But if you’re not interested…” I start to walk away.

  “No wait,” the girl says, chasing after me. “I’ll take them. Just promise you won’t sell this color to anyone else.”

  For eight dollars a tube, two dollars more than my usual price, I promise.

  Another time, a girl in my class, gives me two dollars a week, sometimes counting it out in nickels and dimes, until she’s paid for a tube of Romantic as Rose, a dusty pink. I can tell no one has just given her the money, that she’s had to save it. Coin by coin, like the paper chain in my closet. For free, I throw in an eye shadow Maribel had given me after one of her customers returned it, opened but unused. It was called Cobblestone, a bluish silver. “You’ll be the only one at school who has it,” I tell her.

  But my best customers are still Kennedy and Ava and their friends, especially after I start bringing them copies of Maribel’s Alma catalogs. They’re willing to pay in advance if it means they get to order the newest colors ahead of anyone else. Before long, I’m spending most of every lunch period at their table, watching them circle their favorites. I know they’re not really my friends; I’m only sitting there to sell makeup. But I like it that way. They don’t care that I’m living at Nana’s house, that Dad lost his business, or that Mom can’t afford all the things their mothers keep buying them. They don’t know. They would never even think to ask.

  Sometimes Logan sits with us. He sniffs the scented lip glosses and lets the other girls test new polishes on his fingernails. But other times, he sits back at our old table, working on designs for the new shelter he’s building—out of some Alma boxes I gave him—to put inside Magdalena’s terrarium. “I keep finding her inside Mom’s shoes. I think she just wants a place to hide.”

  Logan is a little like a daylily, I decide. Blooming anywhere, without any fuss. Sophia is a zinnia, cheerful and sun-loving.

  I’m not sure what kind of plant I’d be. Mom seems to think I’m like one of Ms. Dominguez’s gardenias, something fragile that might shrink and wilt if the sun doesn’t shine just right. That must have been the reason my parents told Maribel but not me that Dad’s business was in trouble. That Mom still hasn’t mentioned Dad’s truck. That she keeps insisting everything is going to be fine.

  But, slowly, I’m beginning to feel more like Lady Bird Johnson’s wildflowers: sturdier than I look, growing even where you’d least expect.

  It’s Thursday, and I’m sitting at the end of Kennedy’s lunch table, holding up a mirror while Taylor tries on Twinkling Tiara. Someone tugs on my braid. Expecting another lip gloss customer, I whip around and flash my brightest Maribel smile. “I’ll be right with you, just one sec.… Oh.”

  It’s Sophia.

  She takes a step backward. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  Sophia and I tried having lunch together a few more times at the beginning of the school year, but I’ve been so distracted with selling makeup that after a while she started sitting with Daisy instead.

  “No, that’s okay. We were just finishing up.”

  Taylor gives me six dollars for Twinkling Tiara. I fold it into my wallet and swing my legs off the bench. The rest of the girls go on talking behind me.

  “What’s going on? You don’t want to buy any of this stuff, do you?”

  Sophia wrinkles her nose. “Makeup? No. It’s just that my birthday—our birthdays, I mean—they’re coming up?”

  “Right.” I force myself to nod. It’s not that I’d forgotten, just that I haven’t spent much time thinking about it. Any time, really.

  “And,” she continues, the corners of her lips beginning to curl into a smile, “my mom says she’ll take us to the mall on Saturday—you know, to celebrate? We can go shopping, have lunch in the food court. Sort of on our own. Mom’ll be there, but not, like, with us, with us. So, can you come?” She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet now.

  I don’t want to let Sophia down, especially since it’s my fault we hardly talk anymore. But Maribel and I have a makeover party scheduled for Saturday. She’s been bringing me along ever since that first one at Ms. Dominguez’s house. Her clients spend more if they don’t have to worry about watching their kids—and I always leave with a tip for babysitting. I can’t give up the money, not with the bill for Dad’s truck still unpaid.

  “That sounds fun.” It’s not really an answer, and Sophia doesn’t let me get away with it.

  “Pleeease? Come on, Geez. We always celebrate our birthdays together, and we haven’t hung out in forever.”

  Something about the way she says always makes it impossible to say no. I know what that feels like, when things aren’t the way they always were. “Okay. I’ll ask my mom.”

  But I don’t have to ask. I already know what Mom’s going to say: Griselda, that’s a wonderful idea.

  “Griselda, that’s a wonderful idea,” she says when I mention it at dinner. “You two girls used to be inseparable, and now you hardly see each other. It’ll be good for you to get out of the house, spend some time with someone your own age.”

  Spend some time away from Maribel, she means.

  Mom has never said I can’t tag along with Maribel when she’s selling makeup, but since I still haven’t told her about the Fresh New Face contest, she can’t figure out why I’d want to. “Isn’t it boring for you?” she asked when we got back from a makeover party last weekend. “Your sister isn’t putting you up to this, is she?”

  Once in a while, when we’re home alone together, she tries to pry information from me. “Is your sister dating someone or something?”

  “Mom.”

  “Well, what is she doing with all her money? She doesn’t have new clothes. She doesn’t go out anymore, unless it
’s to see a client.”

  “I don’t know. There’s this car.…”

  “A car?”

  “No. Never mind. I don’t know.”

  I expect Maribel to be angry that I’m not coming to the party, but when I tell her, she doesn’t even look up from running a lint roller over her purple blazer. “Fine,” she says, as if it doesn’t matter.

  But later on, when she’s packing her bag, I catch her rubbing the back of her neck, as if she’s just tallied up how much it’s going to cost her when someone has to leave the party early because her toddler throws a tantrum.

  Mrs. Arong is waiting outside the mall with Sophia when Mom drops me off a little before noon on Saturday. I had borrowed one of Maribel’s purses, and before we get out of the car, Mom tucks a ten-dollar bill inside. “Maybe you can do a little shopping, too,” she says with her news anchor’s half-smile. I do my best to smile back.

  When she sees us coming, Sophia springs off the planter she’s been sitting on. Mom and Mrs. Arong wave at each other.

  “So I’ll meet you back here in a few hours?” Mom asks me, glancing down at her watch.

  “Yeah. I can call you when I’m ready.”

  “Oh, no, Sandra. Don’t do that,” Mrs. Arong says. “I’ll give her a ride back home.”

  I can’t let Mrs. Arong drive me home, because she and Sophia don’t know where home actually is now. I always thought I’d get around to telling Sophia about losing the house and Dad being gone. About everything. But I never did.

  It’s just that every time I think about telling her, I imagine Sophia’s reaction. Surprise, of course, but she’ll feel sorry for me, too. Maybe even embarrassed.

  I shake my head, just barely. Just enough, I hope, for Mom to notice.

  She doesn’t.

  “Oh, would you?” she says. “That would be such a huge help. Griselda can show you the way.”