The Education of Margot Sanchez

by Lilliam Rivera

  When she tells me the concert is in some park in the South Bronx I almost bail. It’s like forces conspire to keep me there no matter how hard I try to leave. And the band? A mash-up of salsa, rap, and reggae, music I used to love back in the day. Now I take my musical cues from Serena and Camille. They like the latest bad-girl pop stars, the ones with the super-tight clothes and sugary lyrics that don’t quite make sense with their naughty image. There’s no flavor to the music but I can play along with their tastes.

  “Can’t we go see someone else? I don’t like the Boogaloo Bad Boys.”

  “What are you talking about? You used to love Fuego when he was the lead singer of the Cumbia Killers. It’s the same guy.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t anymore. Let’s see who else is performing.” I go to my computer and search for another concert.

  “Sarah Sez is playing at SummerStage. Let’s go see her.”

  “No way. I hate those wannabe rappers. I can’t believe you even listen to that junk. It’s not even real music, just Auto-Tune,” she says. “I perform this grand feat for you and you can’t even come with me to see Boogaloo. They’re only playing that one day.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay, I owe you. I’ll go.”

  “Yes! Since it’s on Saturday, we can meet here and ride our bikes to the train station. It will be like old times.”

  When we were younger, Elizabeth and I would take to our bikes every weekend. She followed me through alleyways and streets, places our moms told us never to go. We acted like sisters on the run. I was always in front, pushing Elizabeth to go to sketchier areas.

  I wonder if I’m running ahead of her. Maybe Elizabeth can’t keep up. It’s not my fault I have Somerset now. I’m making decisions about my life without her.

  “What time do they go on?” I search the concert online. I won’t diss her even if seeing the Boogaloo Bad Boys in concert is no longer my thing. “We’ll meet here at eleven a.m. Does that work?”

  “Let’s dress up in their colors,” she says. “Black and gold.”

  “I said I was going. No one said anything about dressing up.”

  “You used to love dressing up. Oh well, I’m dressing up.” She does some stretches. “Don’t forget. Saturday at eleven a.m. And if you’re bored later today, come over. I’m working on some new paintings.”

  Whenever she starts a new project, Elizabeth will paint through the night. Her internship at the museum must inspire her. What does working at the supermarket inspire me to do? Go off with Moises. I’m sure it’s not exactly what Papi had in mind.

  “I’m too tired,” I say. “And don’t worry, I won’t forget. You’re going to keep sending me texts to remind me. Right?”

  “You better believe it,” she says, then leaves.

  Before I even hit the shower, I receive a text from her.

  Boogaloo baby! Can’t wait.

  CURRENT MOOD LIST

  Slightly annoyed

  Sleep-deprived

  And every time I think of Moises—confused

  Chapter 12

  Before getting on Skype, I paint my face and put on a rose-colored top with a chunky necklace. My complexion is too pale so I create a little magic with the lighting in my bedroom. Mood lighting always works.

  I missed my last couple of check-in texts with Serena. She decided we needed a Skype session. This is new to me and I’m nervous. I don’t want to be criticized for wearing the wrong color eye shadow. I can never be flawless enough.

  Camille caresses her collarbone. Her hair is even blonder from the sun. She covers her freckles with makeup but they still peek out, which is a shame since I think girls with freckles are pretty. I made the mistake of saying that to her once and she practically jumped down my throat, complaining that it was because of her dumb Irish side of the family she has these ugly marks on her face. Camille is also angry at her nonexistent “fat” ankles, inherited from her father, and her thin lips, a gift from her mom’s side of the family. It’s hard to be sympathetic. Camille already has a personal trainer and she plans to plump her lips when she turns eighteen.

  “She almost lost her top!”

  Serena sits next to Camille in a bright pink bikini top that shows off her olive skin. She recounts what happened at a party last night. Another event I missed. Serena doesn’t have as many hang-ups as Camille when it comes to her body. Her parents are Serena cheerleaders, always singing her praises. I see this just from following her Facebook page. Her mother uses emoticons like they’re about to expire. I don’t think Camille’s parents ever give her much public love. She rarely talks about them, only when she’s rattling off what awesome place they’re visiting. Her parents seem too busy living that glamorous life.

  “What a skank!” Serena says. “She did it on purpose.”

  It’s hard to concentrate. The last couple of days at work have been the same ol’ routine with one exception: Moises hasn’t been around. Is he avoiding me? I’d imagined seeing him and exchanging knowing glances. Or maybe having to explain to him that we could only be friends, that the other night was a fluke, but I haven’t had the chance. The space in front of the supermarket has been empty.

  “Are you listening?” Camille asks.

  “Of course I’m listening. The girl is a total skank,” I say. “She’s the queen of the skanks.”

  Camille’s in the foulest mood. She’s on day three of a seven-day juice cleanse, in preparation for Nick’s party. Last Christmas, she forced us to do a three-day juice cleanse. Although I told them I was doing it, I snuck in food whenever I could. When we did the big “weigh-in,” I’d gained a pound. Camille accused me of cheating. No amount of juicing or preppy clothes will ever do away with my curves. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to camouflage them, they still sneak out.

  “Is Margot sucking face with anyone?” Serena giggles. “Is that why you’re not paying attention? You did disappear on us a couple of days ago.”

  “No, not really.” I don’t want to mention my pathetic exploits. They aren’t interested in them. It’s not like my moment with Moises can compare with their pool parties.

  “She’s lying,” Camille says. “Who are you tonguing? You can’t possibly be working at your father’s store the whole time.”

  I remind her that I’m not working at a store but a chain of supermarkets. Presentation is everything.

  “Sorry, I mean supermarkets,” Camille says. “So, what have you been doing to make yourself look good? What’s your angle?”

  Camille wants to trademark that phrase. It’s on constant repeat. Her mother is the owner of an interior design firm. Clients are super-rich celebrities and fashion designers. It actually sounds like a dream job. Camille’s mom has taught her the importance of creating buzz that will leave an impression, hence the “what’s your angle” question. I don’t want them to think I’ve kept myself completely secluded like some reject.

  “My angle? I’m not doing anything serious, just keeping things casual.” I hesitate but they want more.

  “Talk!” Serena yells.

  “Okay. Okay. There is this one guy.”

  “Oooh, you whore! You’ve totally been holding out on us!” screams Serena. “Who is he?”

  “It’s no one special,” I say. “Just some local.”

  Camille scrunches her face in disgust. Big mistake. I should never have said “local.” Even with the clumsy Skype connection, I can tell I’m losing points. I have to spruce up this story or I won’t hear the end of it.

  “I don’t have much to pick from,” I say. “The selection is pretty slim. But he’s fine, was fine. I mean he’s good-looking enough.”

  “What’s his name?” Camille asks.

  There’s no doubt that as soon as I tell them they’ll look him up online. Scrutinize him. Analyze Moises from head to toe. I could make up a name but that would be ridiculous. I better come clean. They just want a visual. They’ll never meet him.

  “His name is Moises Tirado.”

  S
erena immediately takes to her phone. Camille sips her green kale juice and waits. The image that pops up of Moises is of him at what looks like a community rally. He holds that infamous clipboard and pen. The picture isn’t close enough for them to see his scar but he does have that beaded necklace he always wears.

  “Hmmm-hmmm. Nice beads,” Serena says. Serena wears a similar necklace but she purchased hers during a safari she went on with her parents a couple of years back. Her father is a corporate lawyer. Big-timers. I think Moises’s beads are made of plastic.

  “He has beautiful eyes,” I say. “They’re dark brown and really intense. He’s smart. Total body.” I push too hard trying to sell him but even they can’t deny how good-looking he is.

  “He does have a nice body,” Camille concedes. She puckers her thin red lips. “But he doesn’t have much style.”

  The tension in my neck increases. I don’t want to lose any social standing.

  “How did you meet?” Camille asks.

  “He collects signatures in front of the supermarket,” I say. “He’s a community activist.”

  “A community activist. Like rallies and demonstrations?” She caresses her long extensions. “Interesting.”

  Camille is not impressed. The more I talk the worse Moises seems.

  “He gave me a book of poems,” I say. “Anyway, we kissed. That’s all.”

  “Ooooh, poetry. That’s pretty hot. Are you sure that’s all you did?” Serena says. “Anything else you want to share with us? Did anything pop off? You better tell because we have ways of finding out.”

  “There’s nothing to say. I swear. We kissed. I was slumming it.”

  Jesus. Slumming it. That magical night between us is quickly betrayed with two words. Just like that. It’s what Moises accused me of doing and here I am tossing him aside because I’m too scared to admit anything honest and real to Camille and Serena. If I present that side I’m left vulnerable. My role in our trio is to follow and copy. That doesn’t include sharing anything of depth.

  But what exactly am I winning by tearing Moises down like that? If I’m honest with myself, I’m left with this revelation: I don’t fit in with them and I don’t fit in with Moises. The last time I felt completely like myself was back in junior high with Elizabeth. But now Elizabeth and I are out of sync. So where do I stand? It’s easier to lie and hurt someone who isn’t present. Serena and Camille are in front of me now. I’ll focus on them. It’s wrong what I said but I’m too gutless to take the words back.

  Camille finishes her juice. She’s bored. Time to move past Moises.

  “Any word on Nick’s party?” I ask.

  “It’s happening. August twenty-first. Are you going to be here?” Camille says. “That is, if you’re not too busy swapping spit with some guy.”

  “Of course I’ll be there,” I say. Nick’s party lands on week number eight of my supermarket imprisonment, which means it’s only a little under a month away. Papi didn’t technically give me the green light but I will work my magic somehow. I will be in the Hamptons, trying my best to align myself with the girls and with Nick. “I won’t miss his party.”

  “If you get an invite,” Camille says.

  Oh. I thought I had an in already.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, you did promise to spend the summer with us and then that whole drama went down with your parents,” Camille says. “I don’t know if Nick will remember who you are. It’s not like you’re here to remind him.”

  My face drops. What am I supposed to do about that? Hire a plane and write it across the sky that MARGOT IS STILL HERE!

  “What should I do? Do I send him an e-mail?”

  “Camille is teasing.” Serena nudges Camille, who laughs.

  “Of course you got an invite,” Camille says. “You’re with us. Don’t worry about it.”

  If Camille ate more, she wouldn’t be so mean.

  The girls head out to some bonfire. Another Saturday night and I’m home with no plans. There’s nothing to do but beautify myself and erase the pit of ugly inside me for denying Moises.

  “Mami, have you seen my tweezers?” I yell from the upstairs bathroom. She’s at it again. Rearranging the bathroom medicine cabinet and moving things around. I can tell by the amount of cleaning products she’s used that something is bothering her. She’s been fixating on keeping the house in order. Snapping at Papi, and sometimes even snapping at Junior. When she starts doing that, I know it’s serious.

  The house is clean but the supermarket is falling apart, what with money being stolen. Mami argued with Papi this morning before he left for work. She wanted him home for dinner. He said this mean thing about paying for another class for her to take. It was a cheap shot. He can be so cruel to her.

  “I put them here.” Mami hands me a new crystal case from atop a shelf. It’s much too extravagant for the over-the-counter tweezers I buy. I start to work on my forsaken brows. Mami decides my beauty challenge is a spectator sport.

  “What are you doing? You have to pluck in the direction of the growth.” She grabs the tweezers from my hand and pulls my face closer to the light. Even though she’s spent the day cleaning, she still has makeup on. Her long dark eyelashes are even longer with mascara. Mami’s older sisters taught her how to wear makeup and she taught me but I had to unlearn some of her lessons since caked-on paint isn’t “natural-looking” enough for Somerset.

  “Please don’t overpluck,” I say. She clucks her tongue, insulted by me bringing up the obvious.

  Sometimes it’s hard for me to imagine Mami my age. There aren’t that many pictures of her as a kid. I know she was poor and that they lived in a small town. I know she met Papi there and he whisked her away to New York. She was the last to marry in her family, already in her midtwenties. Papi likes to joke that she was the old maid. Sometimes his jokes are not funny.

  “Mami, what were you like as a teenager?” I ask. “Did you have a lot of friends?”

  “I had my sisters and my cousins.” She sets the tweezers down and lightly runs her finger across my brow. “I was never alone.”

  “But what about boyfriends? Did you have guy friends?”

  “No, Princesa. There’s no such thing as guy friends. Ese concepto es Americano,” she says. “Papi was the only boyfriend I ever had. I met him and then we had Junior and later you.”

  She purses her lips, picks up the tweezers again, and concentrates on my other eyebrow. Papi took her away from the people she was closest to and moved her here. It must have been scary. When Elizabeth wasn’t able to go to Somerset I had to fend for myself. I can relate to being alone in an unwelcoming space. Weird thing is that Mami has her classes and her friends from the neighborhood. Why does she choose to stay home and be sad? It wasn’t that long ago when Papi used to take her out to romantic dinners. They would even watch their favorite singers perform, but I can’t remember the last time they did that. She once told me that the first concert Papi ever took her to was to listen to Cheo Feliciano sing. She still has the gold dress she wore that night. There’s a picture of them together that sits atop her bureau.

  “Is everything okay between you and Papi?”

  She sets the tweezers down again. “Of course. What makes you ask that?”

  “You guys argue every day. You seem so down.”

  She holds my face with her slightly cold fingertips. We have the same eyes and at this angle, I can see even more of a resemblance.

  “We are fine,” she says. “Don’t worry your head. You’re young. Let the old people clean up their messes.”

  It would be nice if I had the type of mother-daughter relationship shown on television, where the mom is always there for the daughter and they share long discussions on serious matters. But those relationships probably only exist on sitcoms.

  Can’t she see that I’m not young anymore? There’s no way I can talk to her about my feelings for Moises and Nick. She would never understand. Mami comes from the old school of
thought where guys are considered the enemy until they gallop to rescue and marry you.

  “There you go,” she says, and places the tweezers back in the glass case. “Perfect. And leave your necklace alone.”

  Whatever is upsetting Mami she will never share. I will do the same and keep Nick and Moises hidden.

  COUNTDOWN TO NICK’S PARTY (29 DAYS LEFT)

  Create vision board of fashion selections for Serena and Camille

  Shape those brows Keep them shaped

  Straighten out the hair

  Practice what you will say when you see Nick

  Chapter 13

  In between taking deli orders, my eye drifts over to where Moises should be. His partner is handing out brochures and Moises is not around. How many days since the roof? I tell myself not to count. Instead, I count the weeks. It’s the beginning of week number five. The halfway mark. I’ve made roughly twelve hundred dollars. Only twenty-six days left until Nick’s party. I can do this.

  “Come with me to get a slice,” Jasmine says.

  I look around. Is she really asking me to go out with her?

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Who the hell else am I talking to?”

  “I already have my lunch.” Jasmine usually eats with the other cashieristas. They never ask me to join them. Why do I feel like I’m being tricked?

  “Don’t give me that.” She taps loudly on the deli’s glass window. Her nails are painted blood-red. “Fuck. You’d think I was asking for a kidney.”

  “No tapping on the glass,” Roberto warns.

  “Don’t yell at me!” Jasmine’s voice drowns out everything around her. She catches me looking out the window and refocuses her wrath. “Oh. I’m sorry. Are you waiting for a better offer?”

  Did Papi send Jasmine to distract me from Moises? Seriously. I thought that drama was behind us. This could be a test to make sure I’m through with him. Jasmine is a spy and I’m going to have to treat this lunch like some undercover mission. Anything to keep my record clean in time for my only trip to the Hamptons.