The Fresh New Face of Griselda

by Jennifer Torres

Except for that nibble of blueberry muffin, I haven’t eaten all morning. “Actually, food sounds—”

  “No, thanks,” Maribel says. “We already have plans. I just need a couple of these.”

  She scans the maps on his desk, grabs two, and spins around toward the hotel’s revolving door.

  “But, Maribel, where are we going?”

  She doesn’t stop.

  I blink as we pass from the soft hotel light out into the bright late-morning glare. The first deep breath of cold air makes me cough, but the breeze against my cheeks is a refreshing change from the stale warmth inside. I flip the collar of my new wool coat up so it covers my neck.

  Maribel is already halfway down the block. I see the purple scarf still tied to her bag. I jog after her.

  “Maribel, slow down!”

  “Walk faster,” she says. “It’s freezing.”

  I catch up with her at the corner. While we wait for the signal to change, Maribel unfolds one of the maps, then looks up at the street sign. A double-decker tour bus lumbers past. I pull my hands back into the sleeves of my coat and shiver. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  She folds up the map and tucks it into her makeup bag.

  “That’s because it’s a surprise.”

  We come to a long carpet of grass stretching left and right in front of us and finally stop for a break. The lawn is yellow and patchy in places, damaged by the winter cold. The trees are still bare, but soon new green leaves will unfurl on their branches. Maribel dodges a soccer ball that comes flying toward us while we wait for our order at a hot dog cart.

  At one end of the lawn, the dome of the Capitol Building looms stark white against the blue sky. So far away, it still looks like a picture on a postcard or in one of my schoolbooks. I remember what Mrs. Ramos-McCaffrey said about how our history books are filled with the stories of ordinary people, and I think about how different my story is from what I expected.

  After we finish eating, Maribel leads us toward the towering Washington Monument at the other end of the National Mall. Tourists crowd around its base, aiming their cameras up, up, up.

  “Is this where you’re taking us?”

  We still don’t stop. Maribel walks a little farther down a paved walkway and across a busy street.

  “Now can you tell me where we’re going?”

  “Geez, you don’t give up, do you? Relax. We’re almost there.”

  Finally, she stops. We are near the edge of what appears to be a lake. Maribel looks around. She scrunches up her nose and takes a pamphlet out of her bag.

  She glances down at the pamphlet, then out at the dirt.

  “It should be right here.”

  “What should be right here?”

  “Something called the Floral Library.”

  I look harder and can just make out the edges of flower beds.

  “There’s supposed to be ‘ten thousand tulip bulbs to fill the library’s ninety-three beds,’” Maribel reads. “I saw the brochure when we were waiting for the keys to our hotel room. I thought, if we had time, you would want to see it, but…”

  “But tulips don’t bloom until spring!” I burst into laughter. “This pile of dirt? That’s the big surprise?”

  “Oh. Geez!” Maribel shouts. A man in an olive National Park Service uniform turns around and looks at us. She lowers her voice. “I don’t mean you, Geez. I mean, geez, I didn’t think anything else could possibly go wrong today.”

  I cannot stop giggling. “You thought there would be tulips? In February?”

  She’s shaking her head, but she has started laughing, too. She socks me playfully on the shoulder.

  “Quit laughing. You’re the garden expert, not me.”

  “No kidding.” I snatch the brochure from her hand. “Let me see that.”

  The Floral Library—also known as the Tulip Library—was created in 1969 as part of Lady Bird Johnson’s Capital Beautification Project. Each fall, National Park Service gardeners plant 10,000 tulip bulbs to fill the library’s 93 beds.

  Under the words is a picture of Lady Bird Johnson. She has one foot on the ground and one resting on top of the blade of a shovel, about to plunge it into the dirt. She isn’t wearing her yellow ballgown, but work clothes. Gardening clothes: a cowboy hat and checkered shirt, the kind Nana wears all the time.

  I fold the brochure and put it in my coat pocket. It’s more than just a pile of dirt. So much more. The beds in front of us only look empty because the flowers are still hidden underground. I can imagine them blooming, pink and yellow and orange and red. Already, the green tips of a few eager shoots are sprouting up from the soil. Ten thousand bulbs. Year after year, someone has to kneel down on the ground, dig into the dirt, and replant them, trusting that after every winter, the flowers will come back. Not exactly the way they were before, but still beautiful.

  “I’m so sorry, Griselda.”

  I like the sound of my name when she says it. A fighter.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad we came.”

  There is a mirror hanging in the hotel lobby, and I catch our reflection as we walk past on our way to the elevators. We definitely don’t look like the fresh new faces of anything. Maribel is carrying her shoes after kicking them off the second we stepped through the revolving doors. My shoes are damp and even grayer than they were this morning. Our cheeks are pink and our hair is frizzy.

  I remember the mirrors in Tía Carla’s salon. How if you stand in just the right spot, you can see a dozen different versions of yourself staring back. But what version will I see the next time I’m there?

  The version of me who lived in my old house is gone. And so is the version who couldn’t do anything on her own—not even let herself out of a bathroom stall.

  But the version who can plant beautiful things and make them grow is still here.

  When we get to our hotel room, we find a gift basket wrapped in cellophane and topped with a satin bow. Taped to the front is a little envelope with my name on it.

  “Who’s it from?” Maribel asks.

  “Don’t know.”

  Inside the envelope is a notecard with a bouquet of violets printed on the front and in gold letters along the bottom, The Soul of Beauty.

  I open the card and read it aloud.

  Dear Miss Griselda Zaragoza,

  We truly appreciate the talent, hard work, and dedication you put into Alma’s Fresh New Face Challenge. Although you were not selected as the Fresh New Face of Alma Cosmetics, we are proud of your accomplishments and you should be, too. We hope you will consider opportunities with Alma as you continue to pursue your goals.

  Please accept this gift as a token of our friendship.

  At the bottom of the card, in curling handwritten letters, is written Wishing you a beautiful future. Yours sincerely, Mary Ellen Bloomer.

  “I guess that makes it official. I lost.” I lift up the basket to take it to my bed. Underneath is an envelope for Maribel.

  “Hey, they left something for you, too.”

  “But no gift basket. I guess you had to actually give your speech to get one of those.”

  “Don’t you want to see what it says?”

  “Why not?” She tears open the envelope. I watch her face as she reads.

  Eyebrows wrinkle. Eyes widen. A gasp.

  She flips over the letter to see if there’s anything on the back. The other side is blank, so she flips it back over and reads again.

  “Oh, my gosh.”

  “What is it?”

  “Is this for real?”

  “Maribel. Tell me.”

  She reads: “‘Dear Miss Maribel Zaragoza,’ blah, blah, blah, you didn’t win the contest, fresh new face, etcetera. Okay. Here’s the good part: ‘We at Alma Cosmetics believe that opportunity is the seed of success. Based on your tenacity and entrepreneurial spirit, we are pleased to offer you an academic scholarship, renewable annually for as long as you are a full-time student in good standing at an institution of high
er education.’”

  It’s not the grand prize, but I know what a scholarship means: maybe a new way for Maribel.

  “Is it enough? Does this mean you get to go?”

  “With what I’ve saved so far? I’m a lot closer than I was before.”

  I make her read it again. The words sound like magic. They sparkle. They sound like Once Upon a Time and Happily Ever After all swirled together.

  “You should call Mom. And Dad.”

  “In a minute. Hey, Geez?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.” She holds the letter over her heart. Her eyes glisten, and I think she might cry. But she’s still Maribel. She blinks once and it’s gone. “Now, are you going to open that basket or what? Seriously, you’re worse than Nana.”

  I untie the ribbon and peel apart the cellophane.

  The basket holds dozens of Alma samples: moisturizer, lipstick, eye shadow, blush. It reminds me of a piñata from the birthday parties we used to have in our old backyard—and even more so when Maribel turns the basket upside down and dumps it out onto her bed.

  She picks out a moss-green eye shadow. “Ah,” she says. “Close your eyes, and in no time, Alma will have you looking as wicked as a witch.” She pops open the little container. I scoot over to let her brush the makeup over my eyelids.

  “I feel more wicked already.” I flutter my eyes. Then I dig through the pile of samples and pull out a shimmery bronzer. “Your turn.” Maribel leans in. “Just a little bit of this, and you’ll be as dazzling as a disco ball.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Where flowers bloom, so does hope.

  —LADY BIRD JOHNSON

  Mom is waiting for us at the bottom of an airport escalator after our flight lands in California on Sunday afternoon. She’s pointing her cell-phone camera at us. Maribel and I look at each other.

  “What do you think she’s doing?” I ask.

  “No idea.”

  When we get to the bottom, Maribel complains, “Mom, please. We’ve been on an airplane for, like, six hours. I look like a zombie.”

  “Oh, stop,” Mom says, still recording.

  She takes a step toward Maribel and slips into her reporter’s voice. “Tell me, Miss Zaragoza, how does it feel to be the newest recipient of Alma’s Soul of Opportunity Scholarship?”

  “Ugh.” Maribel pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her face.

  “All right, all right,” Mom says in her usual voice, and lowers the phone so she can hug us. “I missed you two so much this weekend, I started watching home movies. And then I realized how long it’s been since I’ve gotten you girls on video.”

  “We were only gone for two days,” I say. “You couldn’t have missed us that much.”

  She puts one arm around my shoulders and one around Maribel’s, and we walk clumsily toward the luggage carousels to pick up our bags.

  “Of course I missed you. It doesn’t feel like home without you. Speaking of home, remember to call your dad when we get there. I’m sure he wants to hear all about your trip.”

  An hour later, we park in Nana’s driveway. Yet another toilet is sitting on the lawn.

  “Where’d that one come from?”

  “A neighbor? A garage sale? I don’t know, it just appeared this morning.” Mom shakes her head. “You know how Nana is. There’s no stopping her.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I say, opening the trunk to take out my suitcase. “I was just wondering if she knows what she’s going to plant in this one.”

  After I empty my suitcase and start a load of laundry, I call my dad like Mom suggested, only it’s not the trip I want to talk to him about.

  “I’ve been thinking about the mint problem.”

  “Have you?”

  “We could smother it like we did our old lawn, but digging it up would probably be faster. Either way, we have to get rid of it or nothing else will be able to grow. Only, Nana won’t want to get rid of all of it.”

  Dad is quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, “You could try replanting some of it in a pot or container. That way, she’ll still have the mint, but it won’t grow so out of control again.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” And I know just the container we can use. It is sitting on Nana’s lawn, never to be flushed again.

  “Maybe this weekend, or the weekend after, I can drive up there. If you want some help with it?”

  I think about it. “You should come March third,” I tell him. “There’s this thing at school I want you to see.”

  We say goodbye, and I carry my suitcase back to the bedroom.

  My new black heels are in their box next to the nightstand. All the clothes I didn’t take to Washington, DC, are still piled on the bed. Normally, I’d put them back in the suitcase. But this time, I fold the T-shirts and match the socks and put them away in the drawers Maribel left empty for me when we first moved in. I borrow some hangers from her side of the closet and get to work on my jeans and dresses.

  Mom says I can stay home from school on Monday to catch up on sleep, but I want to go. I even wake up before the alarm clock starts bleeping.

  Maribel is at the kitchen table, dunking the end of a gingerbread pig into her cup of coffee and working on a crossword puzzle with Nana. Her makeup satchel is on the floor next to her chair.

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit next to her. “Give me a ride to school, since you’re up?”

  Maribel swallows the last bite of gingerbread and shakes the crumbs off her fingers. “Sorry, Geez,” she says. “I’m on my way out. Alma appointment. Those college books aren’t going to buy themselves.”

  Mom walks into the kitchen with a gray suit jacket draped over her arm. “I can drop you off.”

  “Aren’t you on your way to Tía Carla’s?”

  “No,” she says, leaning over Nana’s shoulder to grab a piece of pumpkin empanada. “I’m going to your school for a few hours this morning.”

  “What for?” I hope it’s not another trip to Dr. Keckley’s office.

  “Mr. Singh asked me to come visit with his journalism class. I’m going to help them out with a little videography project. No big deal. Should be fun, though.”

  Maribel picks up her bag, reaches in, and takes out a tube of lip gloss. Carnation pink with flecks of gold.

  “Here you go, Mom. Flatters everyone.”

  “Just what I needed.” She kisses the top of Maribel’s head.

  I finish breakfast and get ready for school. One last time, I zip a few Alma boxes into my backpack, hug Nana, and meet Mom out in the driveway.

  Sophia is sitting three tables away with Daisy.

  I check my watch again. Only five minutes left until lunch break is over, and I still haven’t talked to her.

  “Geez, just go over there already,” Logan says. “What’s the worst she could say? You’re still friends, right?”

  I think so. But I don’t know for sure, and I’m afraid to find out.

  “Just go and get it over with. This is so boring.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

  I take my backpack and walk over to her table. “Hey, Daisy. Hey, Sophia.”

  “Geez. You’re back.” She says it as if I missed weeks of school instead of just one day.

  I take the boxes out of my backpack. “I have some things for you.”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Not more makeup?”

  “Sort of, but not exactly. You might actually like this stuff.” First, I give her a sample of sunscreen from Alma’s Overprotective line. “So your nose doesn’t get so burnt next summer.”

  Next, a trial-size bottle of Clean as Crystal clarifying shampoo. “It’s supposed to keep your hair from turning colors after swimming. I thought you could try it. I mean, not that chlorine hair looks bad or anything.”

  She grabs the bottle. “No, I hate having chlorine hair, and I’ve tried everything.”

  Last, a tube of lip gloss. “The color is called Red Riding Hood. It’s for your Rita Mo
reno costume. I looked up a picture of her. I think this is the perfect shade.”

  That was the easy part. I wish I could just stop there. But I remember something Lady Bird Johnson once said: “The way you overcome shyness is to become so wrapped up in something that you forget to be afraid.” It worked at the Alma Expo, so maybe it’ll work in the school cafeteria. I make myself keep going. I try to forget to be afraid.

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I should have just told you about Dad and the house and everything. I was just scared. And sort of embarrassed.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I felt so stupid afterward, and I didn’t know what to say to you.”

  “Do you think your mom would let you come over after school? I’m working on a project and I need some help.”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Maybe she already has plans with her other friends. Or maybe she feels weird about coming to Nana’s.

  She squeals and claps her hands. “Yes! I’ll ask my mom when she picks up Lucas.”

  Sophia hung out in my room—my old room—millions of times before. But this is the first time anyone besides my family has seen my new room, the one I’m sharing with Maribel.

  I stop in the hallway, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  “This is it.”

  “It’s nice,” Sophia says, running her fingers over the daisy-chain wallpaper. “But why is it so empty? Where’s all your stuff? It almost looks like you don’t really live here.”

  I don’t, I almost say. But I stop myself. I do live here, and that’s part of my story now, too.

  “That’s what I need help with.”

  I had gotten the idea from the toilets.

  I take the Lady Bird Johnson teacup off my windowsill, and dump the loose change onto the desk. Then I reach under my bed for the rest of the collection. “Let’s go.”

  I carry the box to the backyard and set it down on the grass. Sophia lifts a corner and peeks inside. “All your teacups?”

  I take one of them out of the box, carefully unroll the bubble wrap, and set it aside. Sophia starts popping it between her fingers. “I love this stuff.”