The Fresh New Face of Griselda

by Jennifer Torres

  Partly because of the flowers, but also because I’m so tired, my mind drifts.

  I yelp when Maribel taps on my shoulder. “Geez! Where were you? You said you’d come right back.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, I found you, anyway. Let’s go.”

  Outside the violet chaos of the ballroom, the hotel seems eerily still and quiet. “You didn’t want to stay until the end?”

  Maribel pulls a streamer from her hair. “I could do with less glitter. Let’s go find some real food.”

  It’s still early—and even earlier back home—when we finish dinner, but Maribel wants to go back up to our room to lay out her clothes and practice her speech.

  I had assumed it would be about Tía Carla. Besides Dad, she’s the only businessperson we know. And she’s super successful.

  Instead, Maribel recites, “She might not be a businesswoman, but if you ask me, there’s no one who better embodies the spirit of success than my nana. That’s because success begins with recognizing potential, and Nana sees potential almost everywhere she looks.”

  She rehearses in front of the mirror and twice in front of me before we both collapse on our beds.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to practice?” Maribel mumbles into her pillow. “Just once?”

  “No, I just want to get it over with.”

  “Then do me a favor and toss me my phone so I can set an alarm?”

  “We don’t need an alarm.” I yawn. “I always wake up early on days when something important is supposed to happen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  You can make it, but it’s easier if you don’t have to do it alone.

  —BETTY FORD

  We wake up to sunlight pouring through the gauzy hotel curtains.

  “Geez!” Maribel barks. “What time is it?”

  I pat the top of the nightstand until I find my rose-gold watch where I had taken it off last night.

  I hold it a few inches above my nose. “It’s okay. It’s only six thirty.”

  “Oh, good. Wake me up in half an hour.” She pulls a pillow over her face.

  But wait.

  My watch is still set to California time. I sit up. The hotel clock flashes a scolding 9:31.

  “Maribel, get up!” I jump out of bed and tear off her covers. “Get up!”

  She pulls the blankets back over her face. “Geez, what are you doing? We have time.”

  “No,” I insist, switching on all the lights. “We don’t.”

  Maribel sits up, shakes her head, and looks at the clock. Then she pulls it off the nightstand for a closer look. “Geez!”

  She bolts for the shower and slams the bathroom door.

  I’ve never seen Maribel frazzled before. I’m not sure what to do.

  Don’t make us any later, I think, and change into my gray skirt and white button-up blouse.

  Three minutes later, the shower stops running, and not much longer after that, Maribel pokes her head out the door. “Geez, you can come in here if you need to get ready.”

  She has toweled off a clear spot in the foggy mirror and is smoothing foundation onto her forehead with a sponge. She dusts rosy blush over her cheeks and nose, then lines her eyelids with a charcoal-colored pencil.

  I brush my teeth, then wipe off my own little patch of mirror.

  It isn’t good.

  “Maribel, I need your help.”

  I slept in my braid, and now my hair is stiff and crinkly. My lips are chapped from the dry hotel air.

  “Geez, you look fine,” Maribel says, without even glancing at me.

  “No.” I grab her wrist. “Maribel, please.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, putting her hairbrush down by the sink. “Sit down.”

  I hop up on the counter. Maribel puts dots of foundation all over my face, then blends them with her fingers. Next, she swirls a feathery makeup brush in a little container of blush. I sneeze when it flutters over my nose.

  She opens a tube of mascara. “Look up.”

  I try not to blink as she swipes it over my eyelashes.

  “All right. Now get down so I can do your hair.”

  She brushes it smooth, then pulls it into a tight ponytail high on top of my head. She twists it into a bun and pins back my bangs.

  Finally, Maribel steps back, tilts her head, and narrows her eyes, trying to decide what else she should fuss with or fix. “Maybe lipstick?” She rummages through her bag and pulls out a peachy-pink shade. “But not too much.”

  She dabs it on my lips, rips a scrap of toilet paper off the roll, and hands it to me. “Blot.

  “There,” she says. “What do you think?”

  I turn to the mirror. Even though I’ve sold a lot of makeup, I’ve never really worn much before. My eyes seem brighter, my cheeks pinker. The foundation covers up all my freckles. I look more like Maribel and more like Mom. But I can’t tell whether I look more or less like myself.

  “You look beautiful,” Maribel says. “Finish getting dressed and meet me in front of the banquet room. Can you find your way? I’m going up now in case they’re looking for us.” She slips her arms into her plum-colored blazer and flies out the door. I shudder as it slams shut.

  There isn’t very much left to do. Just put on my lavender cardigan and my new black heels. The sweater is in the closet where I hung it last night. The shoes should be in the front pocket of my suitcase.

  Only they aren’t.

  I reach into the pocket again and take out everything that’s inside. No shoes. I dig through the rest of my suitcase, tossing out sweaters and pajamas and jeans.

  My palms start to sweat.

  I get on the floor and peer under the beds—maybe we kicked them underneath without noticing. I go back to the closet. I check behind the bathroom door. I even empty the wastebaskets. The shoes aren’t anywhere.

  I know I must have packed them; I had to have packed them. But when I stop and think about it, I have to admit I can’t remember packing them. A knot tightens in my stomach.

  It’s already 10:02. I picture Maribel upstairs, tapping her foot impatiently and wondering what’s keeping me. I don’t know what else to do, so I put on my sneakers.

  Laces tied, I hang my lanyard around my neck and race to the elevator. I press the button for the twelfth floor and hold my breath as the car lurches upward.

  The doors open on Maribel, hands on her hips. “What took you so—” She stops when her eyes land on my feet. “Geez! What is going on with your shoes?”

  They’re more gray than white now. The rubber sole is starting to come apart at the heel of the left one. The yellow-orange ribbons are frayed at both ends.

  “These are all I have.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  I shake my head, wishing I were.

  “Okay. It’s okay. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Come on, Mary Ellen is waiting.”

  Mary Ellen Bloomer is standing outside the banquet hall. The badge around her neck says she’s Director of Inspiration, and she looks as if she has been dipped in a giant bucket of purple, from the twinkle of her amethyst earrings to the tips of her eggplant pumps.

  “This must be Griselda,” she says, opening her arms to envelop me in a berry-scented hug. I pull away and recognize the lollipop shine of Mary Ellen’s lip gloss when she smiles. Sugar Plum.

  She takes one of my hands and one of Maribel’s and looks us over. “Oh!” she says, grimacing when she notices my shoes. “Oh,” she says again, composing herself. “Well, let’s get the two of you seated. You don’t want to miss brunch.”

  The swirling notes of a piano melody and the low hum of a hundred voices escape from the banquet hall when Mary Ellen opens the doors to lead us in. She steers us to a round table near the front, the only one that still has empty seats.

  “Here we are. Now, you just enjoy some breakfast. We’ll call your name when it’s time for you to come up and give your speech.” She whirls around and walks away, lavender scarf flyi
ng out behind her.

  Maribel smiles at everyone around the table. She pulls out her chair, sits down, shakes out her napkin, and lays it across her lap. Then she holds out her hand and introduces herself to the man on her right.

  I just sit and stare at the pitchers of orange juice and grapefruit juice, and the pretty ceramic teapot on the table in front of me. I can’t believe we made it.

  Maribel reaches over for the orange juice. She pours, still nodding as the man next to her keeps talking.

  She offers me the glass.

  “OJ, Geez?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You should eat something,” she whispers.

  At the center of the table, next to a bowl of sky-blue hydrangeas, is a tray of croissants and scones and tiny muffins—some with blueberries and some freckled with poppy seeds—and a three-tiered tower of fruit, strawberries at the bottom, melon in the middle, and bunches of grapes dripping over the top.

  Using silver tongs that look almost doll-size, I drop a muffin on my plate and nibble a bit of the streusel topping.

  The piano music fades. Then, table by table, the voices hush, too, until the only sounds are the scraping of forks on plates and the clink of ice in glass pitchers.

  “On behalf of Alma Cosmetics, I wish each and every one of you a beautiful morning!”

  I turn around and look to the very front of the banquet hall. Mary Ellen is behind a podium onstage speaking into a microphone.

  Here we go.

  “It is my pleasure to welcome you to our annual Soul of Beauty Brunch. This year, we are especially proud to introduce the finalists in Alma’s first-ever Fresh New Face competition, celebrating the launch of our new Fairytale line for teens and tweens. Finalists, will you please stand?”

  There are fifteen of us, one or two at each round table. The audience applauds as we scoot back our chairs and stand.

  “Look around, ladies and gentlemen, standing in this room, right here, right now, is the fresh new face of Alma Cosmetics.”

  They clap louder.

  “Thank you, ladies. You may sit down. And now I’d like to introduce our panel of judges.…”

  The woman on my left has billowy brown curls and a name tag that says she’s Assistant Regional Manager of Outreach and Opportunity. She leans toward me.

  “Nervous?”

  “I guess a little.”

  “Well, don’t be.” She squeezes my arm. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Anyway, it’s an accomplishment just to have made it this far.”

  I smile back at her, but all I can think is how awful it would feel to have made it this far and not any farther. To have to face Mom’s sad half-smile and Dad’s tired voice and tell them that once again we’ve lost.

  I look back up at Mary Ellen, who is still speaking.

  “…And who better than our Fresh New Face finalists to tell the story of how Alma opens the doors of entrepreneurship to ambitious young people across the nation? Without further ado, please welcome our first finalist, from Duluth, Minnesota, Miss Audrey Cole.”

  It’s a big room, but it feels stuffy. I want to take off my cardigan, but instead I roll up the sleeves. I can’t eat. I can’t concentrate on the speeches. I try to go over mine in my head, but I keep stumbling, forgetting the words. I wish I had practiced last night.

  I don’t notice my foot tapping until Maribel touches my knee to stop it.

  “Geez, are you okay? Try to calm down. Here, have some tea.”

  The teacup has ribbons of gold painted around the top and bottom edges, and between them is a bluebonnet against a field of tiny golden dots. The handle curves gently like a grapevine, only it’s so delicate it looks as if it might snap off in my hand if I hold on too tight. The porcelain glows as though, instead of tea inside, there’s a candle flickering.

  I think of my teacups back home, the ones I always thought were so precious and elegant. I picture them next to the one I’m holding, and all I can see is dull, chipped glaze. I can almost feel the clunky weight of them. They were never really worth anything. They are old, secondhand. Things that other people had thrown away, but that I, for some reason, thought were worth more.

  The bluebonnet goes all blurry. I blink hard to stop the tears from spilling down my cheeks and smearing the mascara Maribel has applied. It’s not because I’m nervous about speaking. It’s because deep down I know that selling every shade of lip gloss won’t bring back the sparkle of the way things used to be. Because the way things really used to be isn’t how I’ve been remembering them. Everything I thought was storybook perfect was really cracked and breaking. I don’t know if five thousand dollars will bring Dad home. It might, but it won’t erase everything that’s happened. And becoming the fresh new face of Alma Cosmetics won’t make me feel like myself again.

  Maribel nudges my shoulder. “Geez,” she whispers. “Geez, it’s your turn.”

  “What?”

  “You have to get up there. She’s calling you.” She squeezes my hand before I go. “You’re fine.”

  I wind around tables, trying not to look at my feet, but also trying not to think about the hundreds of eyes following me up the steps to the stage.

  At least I don’t fall down.

  I get to the podium and tap the microphone. It crackles.

  I clear my throat and try to swallow down the shake I expect to hear in my voice, but when I open my mouth and recite, “Thank you and good morning,” there isn’t one.

  My feet are still. My palms are dry. I know the words I have to say.

  “My dad once took a small business and turned it into a big one.”

  I look to the table of judges. One of them smiles at me and makes a note on the paper in front of her.

  “Maybe he didn’t become a millionaire, but at least we didn’t worry about money.”

  I look at Maribel. She has turned her chair all the way around so her back is to the table and she’s facing me. She’s leaning so far forward her necklace skims her kneecaps. She nods at me to keep going.

  “Until he lost his business.”

  Maribel sits all the way back.

  “And we lost our house. And a lot of other things, too. My older sister, Maribel, especially. She’s supposed to be at college right now. She worked really hard for it. But when she lost the thing she wanted most, she didn’t run away, and she didn’t pretend everything was all right. She worked even harder to find another way. Maribel is the person who best represents the spirit of success. She’s sitting back there, and she should be the fresh new face of Alma Cosmetics.”

  My nerves catch up to me, and so do my tears, and this time I can’t blink them away. I’m down the stairs and out the door before Mary Ellen can introduce the next finalist.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  You may not always have a comfortable life, and you will not always be able to solve all of the world’s problems at once, but don’t ever underestimate the importance you can have because history has shown us that courage can be contagious and hope can take on a life of its own.

  —MICHELLE OBAMA

  I make it all the way back to our room before I remember that Maribel has the key card. Figures.

  I slide down the wall and onto the floor. The carpet in the hallway is cranberry-colored, and the walls are drab beige. It’s hard to believe I’m still on the same planet, let alone in the same building, as the purple explosion upstairs in the banquet hall.

  Maybe it wasn’t all for nothing. When we fly home tomorrow, Mom and I will still be living in Nana’s house. Dad will still be living someplace else. His truck will still be stuck at the mechanic’s. But maybe Maribel will be on her way to college again. She’s probably giving her speech right now. Unstoppable as always.

  But she isn’t giving her speech. She’s on her way down the hall. I’d recognize her quick, sure footsteps anywhere.

  “Oh, Geez.” She drops her satchel and slides down next to me. “That was some speech.”

  “How did yours go?”
<
br />   “Oh, they ate it up.”

  “Good.”

  “Or, at least, they would have if I’d given it. It was a pretty good speech, you know.”

  “Mari!” I look up from the carpet to face her. “You didn’t give your speech?”

  “I wasn’t going to just let you run off by yourself. I would have been up here sooner if Mary Ellen hadn’t kept me down there to explain what in the world you were talking about.”

  “So I ruined it for both of us. Great.”

  “Five thousand dollars would have been nice, but I didn’t really want to be the fresh new face of Alma Cosmetics. I mean, did you?”

  “No. But now you won’t be able to move out and go to college.”

  “I’ll go. Maybe not as soon as I wanted, but I’ll go.”

  To anyone else listening, her voice might seem only a little bit quiet, just barely sad. To me, it sounds like something about to crumble. Like a crack spreading across fine porcelain.

  But her face is a cool, half-smiling mask.

  “So,” she continues. “We’re going to need to do something about Mom’s old curtains. I think I’ve seen enough purple over the past two days to last the rest of my life.”

  She pulls her lanyard with her name badge over her head and then takes mine, too.

  “Maribel, stop.”

  I check my watch.

  “You should go back down there. The brunch isn’t over yet. I’m sure Mary Ellen would still let you give your speech. You could still win.”

  “Better idea.” She stands up, unlocks the door, and nudges it open with her hip. “Get your coat.”

  The elevator doors open up onto the lobby with a friendly ding. Maribel strides out and heads straight for the concierge.

  He flashes a smile as cheerful as a field of sunflowers. He’d make a great Alma Cosmetics salesman. “Good morning, ladies. Can I help you arrange a tour? Or maybe you’d like a recommendation for lunch?”