The Dirty Girls Social Club

by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

  I can’t go to the grocery store anymore without someone stopping me to ask for my autograph, without someone telling me I look smaller in real life than I do on TV. I guess TV makes you look big, and that’s why my mom likes it so much—she thinks everything she sees there is better than what she has in her own real life. And that’s why she likes me more now, because she finally saw me on TV. It made me and my ideas real to her for the first time.

  The only place I can really go in public without being bothered anymore is the West Side, where pretty much everyone is a celebrity and no one thinks much about it. If I go anywhere east of the Los Angeles River, forget it. I guess most of the Mexican kids aren’t listening to the Mexica radio rock shows Gato claims are trashing me. The kids are falling out of their Chryslers, pointing and screaming, so they must like me, eh? It’s the price you pay, I guess. I stopped going to the danzas at Whittier Narrows, because I kept getting swarmed, and it took away from the ceremony. That probably made the movement people think I was selling out, now that I think about it.

  I gave my first big concert in Los Angeles last week, and my brother showed up. I sang the first English single, “Brother Officer,” and he stared at me from the front row. He was still uptight, but I thought I saw something sacred in his eye, the eagle power rising in him. I don’t think he realized until that moment what I really am. Now he knows. I think he’s starting to realize who he is, too. He is an Indian. A proud Mexica man. Maybe that’s what this is all about for me. I’m preaching to those who need to hear my message. The converted can reject me, but I’ll increase their numbers. They’ll see.

  I turn on the computer in my office and check my E-mail. There’s a message from Frank, outlining the dates of my world tour. It’s all set up. I scan the dates and names of the cities. I’ll be traveling to more than thirty nations with my message. Goose bumps.

  I write back to Frank: “This looks good, all except for May 30 in Managua. I can’t be there for that.”

  That night, the sucias are meeting.

  I should be depressed. Why? Well, for one I had a birthday last week, and I’m only a year away from thirty now. I’m not married, engaged or divorced. I have no kids.

  So there it is. Oh, and then there are all those new articles about how women actually start to lose fertility at the age of twenty-seven, which means I’ve had two years of declining egg quality and am nowhere near to being a mommy.

  But none of this has me down, incredibly. On the contrary, I’m happy. For the first time in my life—I think—I’m happy. Now, for those of you out there who regularly read my column—enthusiastically or reluctantly, I don’t care as long as you’re reading—you might think I’m happy because of my beau. And it’s true, he’s made my life a good place to be. But the main reason I’m happy is that I finally realized I already have what I’ve been looking for all these years. And I’ve had it for a decade.

  I’m talking about family. We know the one I was born into wasn’t very good. And we know I’ve had bad luck finding the right man to create a new one with. But what I’ve been too blind to see is that the women who have been my friends for the last ten years are my family. In all the ways that count, they are the loving, crazy, creative, animated, vivacious family I always wanted.

  Whenever I begin to doubt my own self worth, whenever the pain of my past comes back tugging at the legs of my pants, it’s my girlfriends—not my mom, not my dad, not my boyfriends, not my employers—who have my back. They’re the ones who remind me I’m beautiful. They’re the ones who put things in perspective.

  Whenever I start to feel old and despair that I will never have a family, it’s my girls who step up and remind me loud and clear: I already have one.

  —from “My Life,” by Lauren Fernández

  usnavys

  THIS IS WHAT you call a sucias powwow.

  All of us are here, except for Sara, who’s still in the hospital, and Amber, who’s on tour in Tennessee somewhere, promoting her album. Album, m’ija. She called me a few weeks ago to play one of her finished songs for me from the studio. It gave me chills. Or maybe it was the batido de guayaba I was drinking, extra cream, extra ice. We teased her, but that’s what we do. I am so proud of her.

  Sara’s the reason we came to dinner tonight. Rebecca thought it would be a good idea for us to pool our resources and figure out a plan to keep her from putting herself in danger again. After visiting Sara myself and seeing the way she defends that man—she thinks he was trying to hug her when she fell down the stairs, and says we don’t understand what a hard life he’s had—I’m all for the idea.

  We meet at Caffé Umbra, one of the city’s most fashionable new restaurants. It’s a long, narrow room, with high ceilings. The food is sort of European gourmet, and paints the air with intense garlic and cream streaks. Lauren turned us on to the place, ragging in one of her columns about how few women chefs get to be stars the way Umbra’s has. I could not care less what kind of genitals my cook has, okay? I want to know one thing: Is the food good? Each table comes with a large green bottle of Italian sparkling water sitting in a champagne bucket. Not once while I was in Rome did I get a bottle of water this nice. I had to come back to Boston to get gourmet Italian water. See what I’m saying? That’s just not right.

  Rebecca is already seated at a table near the bar when I arrive with Lauren, whom I picked up at her office on my way. I don’t know why that girl doesn’t get herself a car. She must think we like driving her curly head all over town, listening to her constantly complain about her boss. If she hates him so much, why doesn’t she quit, or do what I did—shut her mouth long enough to end up the boss?

  Rebecca wears a chocolate brown double-breasted blazer I saw in the Anne Klein boutique at Saks, over a taffy blue silk sweater. She picked my favorite table, with a view of the Holy Cross Cathedral across Washington Street. To sit and look out at that beautiful gray stone structure while drinking that sparkling water and eating this food, you’d think you were in Europe, only better because everyone here speaks English and Spanish the right way. The crowd is mostly professionals in their twenties and thirties, I’d guess, with good manners and stylish yet casual clothes. I’m glad I splurged on the Carolina Herrera herringbone suit for this get-together, and these “Oprah Winfrey”–type Stuart Weitzman ankle boots with the spiked heels. I left work a couple of hours early, too, and stopped at the Giuliano Day Spa on Newbury Street for a Swiss Goat Butter body wrap—my favorite. My skin is so soft now, I could melt. Because I’m a regular, they threw in an eyelash tint, royal black. I like it. They have a full salon at Giuliano, and even though everyone raves about it, I look at the little thin-haired white women who work there and I’m pretty sure they don’t know how to do hair like mine. I’ll leave that to my girls in Roxbury. I know I look good, and so do those guys at the bar looking at me. I wonder what this kind of real estate costs, on a square-foot basis? I look like I own the place.

  Rebecca reads the latest InStyle magazine, with one of those older women stars on the front, the kind who’s still sexy at forty-five. Next to her, in a stack on the table, are half a dozen pamphlets on battered women’s syndrome, violence against women, and effective intervention/communication skills. See what I mean? Rebecca thinks of everything. I should have thought to bring things like that. I’m the one who works for a non-profit. There aren’t many people I feel like I can learn a lot from, but Rebecca is one I admire. Her hair looks slightly different tonight.

  “Did you get highlights?” I ask.

  Rebecca’s hand lands on her head and she laughs. “I did just a little red. What do you think?”

  “It suits you, m’ija. I like it.”

  Our waiter is fashionable, swishy, and arrogant, and he does not need a pen or pad to remember even the largest orders. Sometimes, m’ija, I feel bad for all the really talented people out there who waste their gifts. I mean, couldn’t he find something better to do with a memory like that?

  Hugs all around. We
’ve seen each other at the hospital a few times, and talked on the phone, but this is the first time we’ve all gotten together since Sara was hurt.

  “It’s so terrible,” I say.

  “It was a total shock,” Rebecca says. “I had no idea.”

  “Poor Sara,” Lauren says. “I can’t believe it.”

  We all shake our heads.

  “All those tubes,” I say.

  “She’s in a lot of pain,” Rebecca says.

  “That’s why we need to have Roberto offed,” Lauren says.

  We stare at her in disbelief. “You’re joking, I hope?” I ask.

  “No, not really,” she says.

  Rebecca looks at me and sighs.

  “That’s a pretty color on you,” she tells Lauren, referring to the olive green suede shirt-jacket Lauren wears over a scrumptious Devon cream-colored turtleneck. She also wears tight jeans tucked into butterscotch riding boots, and small gold hoops in her ears. She’s thin lately. She looks good.

  “Where’d you get the shirt, m’ija?” I ask, feeling it with my fingertips. It’s good quality.

  “The usual, Ann Taylor,” she says. “I’m not very imaginative with my shopping, sorry to say.”

  “It’s really pretty with your hair,” Rebecca says. I’m surprised because she rarely compliments Lauren. “It would look great with that silver necklace you have.”

  Rebecca smells like crisp, fresh apples; I take a guess that it’s Green Tea perfume by Elizabeth Arden. Lauren wears a perfume I can’t recognize, citrusy, with dark spicy top notes.

  “What perfume is that?” I ask her. “Qué rico!”

  “Oh, this?” She sniffs her wrist. “It’s something called ‘Bergamot,’ from the Body Shop. I fell in love with it. You like it?”

  “It’s really nice. What’s it called again?”

  “Bergamot.” Lauren digs through her roomy Dooney & Bourke shoulder sack and pulls out the bottle of fragrance. She hands it to me. “Take it,” she says.

  “No, I couldn’t,” I say.

  “Don’t be silly. I can get more. I go to that store almost every week. I love their stuff. Go on. It’s practically new. I just got it.”

  “But it’s yours.”

  “I want you to have it.” She plants a kiss on my cheek.

  Lauren is so Caribbean sometimes. I wonder if she realizes it. “Thanks, mi vida,” I say, knowing it’s useless to argue. I open the bottle, dab a couple of drops behind my ears. “I love it. Smell this, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca sniffs the open bottle and nods approvingly. “Very nice. I’m glad you both could make it,” Rebecca says, motioning to the table. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Me too, sweetie.” I give her hand a squeeze. “It was such a good idea to do this. Wasn’t it a good idea?” I elbow Lauren, who seems tense. She’s definitely got something against Rebecca, and I’m definitely getting sick of it.

  “It’s a good idea, yes,” Lauren says.

  We all sit. I take my cue from Rebecca and put the white cloth napkin in my lap. Lauren doesn’t follow suit, even though she’s begun to happily gnaw on a hot roll from the basket. As carefully as I can, I reach over and put her napkin in her lap for her. She looks embarrassed, and smiles.

  “Little bites, sweetheart,” I whisper. “Break off little pieces with your fingers, don’t take bites with your teeth.”

  “What can I bring you ladies to drink?” the waiter asks.

  “I’d like a Coke,” I say, “with lemon.”

  “Diet or regular?” he asks.

  “Do I look like I’m on a diet?” I ask. I push back from the table and gesture to my belly. His nostrils flare. He blushes and doesn’t seem to know what to say. The sucias laugh.

  “One regular Coke,” the waiter says. “And for you, ma’am?”

  “When did I become a ma’am?” Lauren asks us. Her eye makeup looks great, too. Purples. She finally did purples. I’ve been after her to try them for years.

  “Miss, then,” the waiter says, pleasantly bitchy. “Is that better?”

  “Much,” says Lauren. “I’m fine with just the Pellegrino.”

  Rebecca already has a glass of iced tea. When the waiter leaves, she hands us both a set of pamphlets. “You guys might already know everything in these,” she says, “but I found them very informative.”

  “I bet you did,” Lauren says. I have no idea why the girl always has to be so rude.

  “Elizabeth should be here any second,” I say, trying to change the subject. I feel like when I’m around Lauren I’m always running behind her, cleaning up her messes. She’s like my mother, always speaking before thinking.

  “Yes,” Rebecca says. “I think we should wait until she gets here.”

  “Poor Sara,” I say. I remember her bruised face, and I want to cry. “Why didn’t she tell us?” Lauren and Rebecca both shake their heads. No one speaks for a few minutes and we look over our menus.

  Elizabeth comes through the door, and walks toward us quickly. She’s wearing her usual jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, with a men’s parka. No makeup. Hugs all around again. Elizabeth smells like Dove bar soap.

  “I think they followed me here,” she says. She looks frightened.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The reporters.”

  Lauren walks to the window, swaggers really, as if she carried a baseball bat. That girl is ready for a fight anytime, anyplace.

  “They have no lives,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Lauren is out on the sidewalk now, up in someone’s face, yelling. The man she’s attacking wears a camera on a strap around his neck, and as with most people who come into conflict with Lauren, he quickly backs down and walks away. She searches for other hostile forces, and starts toward a car double-parked across the street.

  “She’s going to get herself killed one of these days,” Rebecca says.

  “She’s fine,” I say. “She can handle herself.”

  Rebecca passes Elizabeth a set of pamphlets. The waiter returns. He recognizes her instantly, his face lights up.

  “Oh, my God,” he says. “It’s you! I can’t believe it’s you.”

  Elizabeth braces, not sure what to expect. I do too.

  “I, like, so love you,” the waiter says. “You’re my hero! I have your picture on my wall at home. You are so courageous. You’re a real inspiration to all of us.”

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth answers, but she looks uncomfortable. She looks out at Lauren arguing with a couple of middle-aged men in a minivan, and the waiter’s eyes follow.

  “If any of them tries to come in here, trust me, we’ll defend you,” he says. “I may look like a queen, but I fight like a man.”

  Elizabeth laughs. “Thanks.”

  “You know,” the waiter gushes, “you’re even prettier in real life than you are on TV. I didn’t think that was possible!”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. What can I get you to drink, Liz? It’s on the house.” At the bus station, the other waiters are whispering and pointing at us.

  “Just water.”

  “C’mon! It’s on the house. How about some wine? We have a fantastic, exotic wine list.”

  “I don’t drink, thanks. Water’s fine.”

  “Tea? Coffee? Nothing?”

  “Uhm, you have hot chocolate?” Elizabeth flinches, like she’s afraid she’s asked a stupid question.

  “I can whip you up a mocha cappuccino. How’s that?” He puts his hand on her shoulder as if they were old chums.

  “Fine.”

  “Be right back.”

  Elizabeth seems relieved when the waiter leaves.

  “You okay?” I ask her. She nods.

  “Celebrity for all the wrong reasons,” she says. “It’s weird.”

  “I bet,” Rebecca says, still suspiciously eyeing the waiter.

  Lauren comes back in, cursing under her breath, cheeks flushed from the cold air.

  “You own a gun?” she asks Elizabet
h.

  “No.”

  “You should consider getting one.”

  Rebecca looks up from her menu. “Lauren, please. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “She needs a gun,” Lauren repeats. “Ridiculous is letting these people ruin your life. I am ashamed of our business.”

  “Let’s figure out what we’re going to eat,” I say brightly.

  “I’m just trying to help,” Lauren says.

  “Of course you are, m’ija,” I say. “Now sit down and find something you like on this wonderful menu.” I hand her the menu. It’s like having a child, hanging out with Lauren.

  The waiter returns with our drinks and rattles off the day’s specials. “For an appetizer we have mussels on basil ratatouille, which is fabulous. Our soup today is a cream lettuce with lobster butter, too good to be true. For entrees we have a lean pork roulade—to die for, I promise you—and a potato and salt cod soufflé you have to see to believe.”

  My mouth is watering so much I have to swallow.

  “You gals ready to order?”

  Rebecca nods and looks at each of us; we nod.

  “Liz, let’s start with you,” says the waiter.

  “I’ll have the lettuce soup. Can you tell me more about the skate wings?”

  “Excellent choice,” says the waiter. “The skate wings come as four boneless triangles of fried fish, served on a bed of cauliflower and potato, trimmed with peas and crumbles of smoked bacon.”

  “That sounds good,” Elizabeth says. “I’ll take that.”

  “And for you?” He’s looking at me.

  “I’ll have the brisket appetizer, and the shrimp salad appetizer.”

  “Both?”