The Dirty Girls Social Club

by Alisa Valdes

  That’s the TV show. The biggest Spanish network in the country already wants it, for weekday mornings. Sara wants to call it Casas Americanas, American Homes. Sounds good to me.

  Maybe all this newfound happiness is why Sara wears brighter colors, too. I’m not saying she’s up and made herself look like a peacock or something. But look at her. She’s wearing a bright orange blouse, with a white sweater tied around her shoulders, and expensive jeans, with orange pumps. She looks like a different woman. Her makeup is still perfect, and her hair, and she’s still telling stories. She’s still loud as hell. But there’s something new to her, a genuine joy. It almost, almost, makes me want to cry. You should have seen her in the hospital, with all those tubes and machines. I didn’t think she’d pull through. But she did. And now look at her. My sucias.

  Here comes Liz. Selwyn dropped her off. They had to throw the college girls out of Selwyn’s house, where they live again. I’m glad she’s back.

  Liz has devoted herself full-time to producing the show. She says she can’t wait to move to Miami where they hope to base the show, says maybe there she’ll be able to finish writing a book of poems. Miami. It makes me sad because I’m going to miss my girls, you know what I mean? I’m starting to feel the pull back to the South myself. Maybe Miami would be a nice change, if that little newspaper down there would actually ever hire a leftist Cubana such as myself. Not! Maybe Amaury will do well enough in marketing that I’ll be able to retire from the toxic newspaper business and do something truly important, like raise a couple of kids. I don’t want to get ahead of myself here, but, hey, it doesn’t hurt to dream.

  Now then, Cuicatl—I’ve finally learned to say her name, okay, because it’s impossible not to with every teenager on the street shouting it and wearing it on T-shirts—comes next, in a white stretch limo. She tells us her record label arranged it for her, and that she didn’t pick it. But, she says, it’s about time a Mexica got to ride in style.

  Well, excuse me.

  Who does that Mexica princess think she is, anyway, huh? I’m kidding. We are so happy for her, you have no idea. She’s the one we worried about the most. She walks in wearing that halter top and those hip-hugger jeans and those boots and those sunglasses, with her hair wild, in every direction, and Usnavys cries, “Ay, Dios mío, sucias, I can’t believe she still remembers who we are. I told her, when you finally make the big time, don’t forget us. But look at her, she acting like she don’t know me now.”

  Cuicatl smiles. She looks good. She looks happy. She got dumped by her man and just kept going like nothing happened. She actually prefers being alone—that’s what she says. Why can’t I be more like that? And, I have to admit this, but only to you. I love that girl’s music. With all that money behind her new record, she came up with some songs that blow my mind. Her music is deep, and it’s beautiful. And I’m just starting to think maybe she has a really good point with all that Mexica talk I used to call “garbage.” It’s not garbage. It’s history.

  It’s true, most of what she says. And now that she has traveled, she tells me she understands what I was talking about when I used to lecture her about how different all us Latinas can actually be, as diverse as all the world, we are. Now that I hear her music and see what all of us have been through, I think she has a point, too. We may be really different in a lot of ways, but there’s something to it, this whole being a Latina—perception becoming reality and all of us finding each other and helping each other and—shoot. I don’t even have to drink to start sounding like a sentimental fool.

  Rebecca comes last. I don’t mean to front, but she’s looking a little chubby—for her. And that’s not saying much. She’s still skinnier than any Latina I’ve ever seen, but she has some meat on those bones now. She still dresses like Margaret Thatcher, though—what are you going to do? She looks happy, too. It’s Andre. What a catch. I am so glad she dumped that Brad fool. Best thing she’s ever done. And even though her parents are being weird about Andre, she doesn’t seem to care. I hear she even dances now. Not sure I want to see that. Andre’s been a good influence on her. She takes out the latest issue of Ella, flashing that big-ass rock of hers, and gives us our requisite copies. And guess who’s on the cover, girl?

  Cuicatl.

  Huh. And I thought it was gonna be me. Not.

  We move to a bigger table, and talk and order our beers and juices (thank you very much, I’m not about to go off the wagon now) and talk the way only sucias can talk.

  There’s a lot of catching up to do.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  Lauren spends much of her time feeling inadequate and like an imposter. Where do you think these feelings stem from?

  How do you think Rebecca’s husband was raised to view Latinos? How does this impact their marriage? Is his disappointment in her fair?

  Elizabeth is the only foreign-born of the sucias and yet she spends the least amount of time thinking about her Latin identity. There are two big reasons for this. What do you think they are?

  Elizabeth does not seem to think her secret and her religion are at odds with one another. Why not? Do you agree?

  Sara seems to feel some responsibility for what is happening in her home life. Do you agree that she is partly to blame? Why, or why not?

  How could it be that Sara’s home life and the image her friends have of her could be so different? Why do you think she hid the truth for so long?

  Why does Gato finally stray in his relationship with Amber? How does Amber react? By contrast, how do you think Lauren might have reacted in the same situation?

  Why does Usnavys think she needs to find a rich man? What in her past makes her believe this? How does this belief impact her happiness?

  The sucias, like many groups of friends, seem to end up in sets of two. Who do you think these pairs are? Why do you think they are drawn more to each other than to any of the other friends?

  The sucias are all Latinas, but they are also of different races, religions, and backgrounds. How does this compare to images of Latinas you see in the U.S. media?

  FOR MORE READING GROUP SUGGESTIONS VISIT

  WWW.STMARTINS.COM

  Read on for an excerpt from the next book

  by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

  Dirty Girls on Top

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Press

  usnavys

  So, you know I’m not hoochie, okay? But an unhappy marriage can make a woman do questionable things. Things she’s not proud of, things she only tells her closest friends—and even then with the understanding that if they blab about it, they’ll get their butts kicked. So it is, m’ija, that I am cheating on my husband at a big, adobe resort outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. I have never cheated on him before, and I’m not sure I’ll do it again. Alls I knew what I had to do it just this once.

  My college friends, the sucias who’ve been my support network for fifteen years, since we met as freshmen at Boston University, will arrive here in a few days for our annual reunion vacation trip, a tradition we started two years ago. Me, though? I flew here from Boston yesterday to take care of some personal business. A seven-year-itch kind of thing, only a little early. I am not proud of it. I decided I’d seduce the golf pro after I saw his photo in the brochure for the resort. I learned what I could about him, and I concocted my strategy. It worked.

  My husband Juan? He’d looked up at me through his smudgy Clark Kent eyeglasses over the morning paper across the breakfast table before I left yesterday, his curly black hair sticking up all greasy wherever it wasn’t receding. “Why are you going early, mi reina?” he wanted to know. Reina means queen, and to him, I’m still an empress. He doesn’t know about the golf pro, and I don’t think you should tell him, either.

  Yesterday morning, I’d told Juan I wanted to get to the resort early, to observe some outreach programs having to do with Latinas and AIDS in New Mexico, for my work as an executive with the United Way of Massachusetts Bay. It sounded very official when I said i
t, and he was duly impressed with his empress. “They’ve been very successful,” I assured him, with a wave of my hand. “It’s a model that might be emulated here in New England.”

  He believed me, el pobre. He thinks marriage changed me. For a while I did, too, but now I know better. Listen to me. After ten years of juggling no less than two men at a time, a woman does not just up and change, even though God and the world know there’s a piece of paper and shared taxes involved now. I am a manizer the same way my daddy was a womanizer. I was to the manor born, as the Americanos say, and, even though I’m not proud of it, I seem to have stayed the way he met me.

  Juan thinks I’m different because he chooses to see the best in people, even when it isn’t there. His heart is an emotional hallucinatory. I know, you think that’s a plus, right? Being married to a loving optimist like Juan. But nena, that’s just it. Juan believes everyone and he does it indiscriminately. Ain’t no backbone in that. The boy is naïve. Back when he had him a job (ah-hem), he believed all them drug addicts when they told him they were clean and sober as an Osmond now, he believed them when they said they were going to get jobs and stop doing shit like steal cars. Then he acted all surprised when they came crawling back into rehab after getting arrested for crime and crack again. I try telling him: “People don’t change that much, m’ijo, no matter how bad you want them to.” Badly. Yes, I know the difference between good and bad grammar; no, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Whatever, no?

  This resort is supposed to look like a pueblo Indian village, like in those Georgia O’Keeffe paintings, where the pastel flower petals looks all coochie unfurling in their glistening glory. I think this place looks like a big bunch of caramels all stacked on top of each other, or like a dusty old stack of wedding cake. Depends on your attitude. At the moment, I’ve chosen candy over cake.

  Chocolate, to be exact.

  His name is Marcus Williams, and he’s the golf pro—like an older, darker Tiger Woods in his crisp white polo shirt and khaki shorts, with that salt-and-pepper hair and that little sexy moustache. He’s probably forty-five or so, but he’s got him some deltoids like cantaloupes. You don’t think you’re going to find a fine black brother teaching golf up on an Indian reservation near Santa Fe, nena, but life is full of delicious surprises, sí? From what I read about him, I know that Marcus used to be a professional golfer. He retired and came to work here because he likes the desert and dislikes Arizona’s take on black people. I’ve seen his car, and it’s a white Cadillac, so you know he’s got at least a little something-something stashed away from the days when he almost won the U.S. Open and Nike came knocking on his door. I learned all this about him on the Internet, following his comments on message boards and things like that. I plan my attacks like an army general, always have.

  I should tell you, Juan don’t play golf. Doesn’t. He doesn’t play golf. Dominos, yes; golf, no. Nintendo, yes; skiing, no. I try telling him, you will never get ahead in business inviting CEOs to play dominos, nene, but he’s like, “I don’t want to play anything with CEOs except Revolution, I want to play with my tio and my sobrino and the people I actually like.” Whatever.

  All my life I’d dreamed that I’d marry the kind of man who played him some golf, and liked to ski and go places like Jackson Hole, okay? I imagined it, and it felt good. So, I’m not saying I’m falling in love with Marcus or any nonsense like that, I’m just saying Marcus plays golf and Juan doesn’t. Marcus has a Cadillac and Juan doesn’t. Marcus wears polo shirts, Juan does not. I’m just saying that sometimes you have things in your head a certain way and life spins you a different way, and you still wonder about that road not taken, only my road not taken is more like a little path for golf carts. I like Marcus, and I wonder, you know, if I’d married me someone like that would I still be struggling to pay the Bloomingdale’s charge on time. I wonder if I’d still be choosing to go to fancy dinners for work alone because I can’t bear the sight of my husband in his Che Guevara t-shirt and tuxedo jacket sitting next to me. I am a woman of class and substance, and I’d like to imagine what it would be like to be married to a man of class and substance, or at least to spend some time with one. So sue me.

  Oh, and the best part? Marcus likes me back. I knew he would, though, and not just because he said my Boston accent was cute. It’s because I look good and I smell good and I’m full of compliments of the type and caliber that make a man feel important. That’s all. Oh, and he likes some big thighs, know what I’m sayin’? You know how black men feel about curvy women of a generous size and proportions. Uh huh. He gave me a lesson this morning, wrapping his big old arms around me to show me how to swing, holding me so close I could smell the manly spice of his deodorant and the heat of the sun on his clean cotton clothes. He eased his hand over mine and whispered in my ear, “Don’t swing carelessly, Usnavys, don’t lose focus on your game, girl.”

  I could have taken him right then, okay, nena? I coulda had him this morning, that’s how bad he wanted me. But I had lunch to attend to in the resort cafe. Some things are better if you have to wait for them—including me. I sat outside, behind my big sunglasses with the golden DIOR on the sides, with a view of the kiva-shaped pool and the jagged plum-colored mountains, with my copy of Oprah’s magazine and a Gourmet magazine to keep me company. I started with some baby pork ribs marinated in red chile and hoisin sauce—with a side of rainbow-striped designer cole slaw with black seeds in it. To drink, I had sparkling water with a twist of lemon, and a sweet white Zinfandel. Then, because I knew I’d need some energy for the afternoon, I had the leg of lamb, marinated in garlic sage oil. There was polenta on the side, which is really grits but nobody around here is going to tell you that, baby, with tomatoes and pine nuts all sprinkled up on it. They say pine nuts are the most expensive nuts in the world to harvest, because it’s so damn hard to get them out of the pine cones, the caviar of the nut world. I had a local red wine with the main meal. Even though I am not big on drinking so much in the middle of the day, I knew I might need to drift away a little bit because of what was coming. There was something else I wanted to tell you. What was it? Oh, right, m’ija. The rest of the meal. What was the side dish? I remember now. You would have died, girl. It was sautéed vegetables, which ordinarily would not sit well with me because I do not do vegetables, but they were tossed with a pecan demiglace and mint. It was so good I almost decided not to go for dessert, but when I saw the light, simple strawberry cheesecake, I could not refuse.

  Same goes for Marcus. Look at him. Look at him. You know what I’m saying?

  No, Marcus will not be finding out I’m married. Are you crazy, girl? He doesn’t need to know. Four years married. I’m not trying to hurt Juan, the main man in my life since high school. Seriously. He’s good enough at doing that all by himself, okay? He started that masochistic trend by not having him a real job, with real pay. He made it worse by deciding he wanted to quit his job as the director of a rehab center for Latino men to be a “stay-at-home papi”—because I, an executive with style and grace, made three times his salary. We agreed we didn’t want a nanny raising our Carolina, because I can tell you from personal experience, that whole nanny thing is for people who care more about their dogs than their children. I always thought it would be me at home with the kid, not him. He’s all, “Go ahead and stay home, but we’ll have to downgrade a few things on my salary.” I drive a BMW, nena, and I wasn’t about to go back to a backfiring Neon with a dragging tailpipe. So here we are.

  Pero, Mister Mom, how joto, no? I don’t care how good he is with her. Watching Juan answer questions from Dora the Explorer with our daughter does nothing to make me exactly lustful for him. Dora’s all, “Do you see a monkey?”, and Juan’s like, “Right there, Dora!”, pointing his finger and shit. I can’t stand that show. That Dora girl, and Diego too, they sound like they been drinking lead paint. I appreciate my husband. I do. Seriously. I just don’t want him. He might as well dress his hairy ass up like a French maid, m’ija. That’
s how much he’s turning me on lately.

  I know kids need their parents to stay together and all that. I mean, I thought that was basically true, until I heard some guy on a progressive talk show saying how the Bible actually doesn’t say squat about monogamous marriages, and how David in the Bible had him seven hundred wives, and how up until three hundred years ago, polygamy was the damn norm for most of the world. I didn’t believe it, and went and looked it up, and saw that it was true. All these “family values” people who thump the Bible around don’t even know what they’re thumping, that there was lots of humping going on in that book. That made me think. Lots of things do.

  God knows I don’t want to hurt our daughter (even if she does act like a filthy little tomboy), but I was raised to want a real man, a man’s man, and right now I can’t believe my stay-at-home flojón fits that description. Anyway, he’s too tired to seduce me anymore, right? Girls like me? We’re raised to be conquered by our men, okay? That’s the verb we use for seduction, m’ija. It’s conquistar. To conquer. With his dishpan hands and aching back, Juan doesn’t have the strength to conquistarme. It’s sad.

  Don’t get all preachy with me about this, either. Listen. Tell me, nena, do real men make their grandmama’s sancocho recipe from memory, cracking the corn cobs in half like a practiced campesina, with their favorite daytime talk show playing on the kitchen flat-screen? Do real men call abuelita in Bayamón to ask her the best way to mash the tostones, all the while licking yellow cupcake batter from the wooden spoon out of the pink Williams-Sonoma bowl I bought myself for Easter last year? Cupcakes he takes to Carolina’s exclusive preschool for her snack day, while I’m slaving away at the office in a pants suit? Tell me. Don’t be shy now. I’d like to know. Do they? Bueno.