The pressure—and the weeks of practice—make me braver, at least. I’m not so red-faced and shaky when I have to talk to people. Some days I sell four, five—even six glosses. But other days only two or three, and I start to worry I’ll be out of the competition before it even begins.
Then November winds down, and everything else speeds up.
Maribel books makeup parties weekend after weekend, sometimes two on the same day. In exchange for free babysitting, she agrees to credit any lip gloss sales to me.
Customers at school start adding presents for their friends and relatives to their regular purchases for themselves. They give me one of my most successful ideas yet: selling to parents.
“Lip gloss makes a great gift,” I tell two moms leaning against a van while they wait for their kids after school. “I know I would love to find these in my stocking.”
They buy every tube left in my backpack and take home brochures to order more.
By the middle of December, with a week left of school before winter break, only five more paper links still hang from the back of my closet door. Only fifty more tubes of lip gloss, and I’ll qualify for a chance to become the Fresh New Face of Alma and, more important, to win the five-thousand-dollar cash prize.
The day is almost over. Mrs. Ramos-McCaffrey is reviewing a science test. I’m thinking about how I’m so close now that maybe I should call Dad and tell him. Maybe he’d come home again—and stay this time—if he knew there was hope of starting over.
An office assistant comes in with a note for Mrs. Ramos-McCaffrey. She takes a break from the review to read it, then looks up. At me.
“Griselda, Dr. Keckley would like to see you in her office.”
“Oooooh,” tease voices from behind me.
“That’s enough,” Mrs. Ramos-McCaffrey says. “Geez, why don’t you pack up your things in case the bell rings before the two of you are finished.”
The principal’s office. I have never been called to the principal’s office in my life. My cheeks burn as I gather my papers into a folder and follow the assistant down the hall.
Through a window into the office, I see the back of a familiar head, red-black hair almost, but not quite, skimming her shoulders. This is even worse than I thought. Mom.
The assistant clears her throat, trying to get my attention so that I’ll walk through the door she’s been holding open. I swallow hard and step into the office.
Mom is talking to Mr. Singh, another one of the teachers. She’s smiling, at least. That’s a good sign. Only it’s her pressed-lip half-smile, so I can’t tell whether she means it or not.
“Oh, I’m flattered, but I haven’t been in the business for years. I’m not sure I have very much to offer, but if you think it would be helpful, then of course I’ll come talk with your journalism class. Just give me a call.”
Mr. Singh thanks her and leaves the office carrying a pile of essays.
Mom’s smile vanishes the second he does.
“Griselda, what is this about? The school called Tía Carla’s salon asking me to come down to the principal’s office? What’s going on?”
I have a feeling it must have something to do with the makeup, but I don’t know how or where to begin.
Just then, Dr. Keckley’s door opens. “Good. You’re both here. Why don’t you come in and have a seat?” She wears her hair in twists, dark brown with streaks of silver, that fall to her chin, and she has a different pantsuit for every day of the year. Today’s is turquoise.
On one wall of Dr. Keckley’s office, three diplomas hang one on top of the other in oak frames. The opposite wall is papered over with pictures of former El Dorado School students dressed in their high school graduation gowns. I look for a picture of Maribel until I remember we didn’t order portraits last year. And even if we had, Maribel isn’t sentimental enough to have sent one back to her elementary school principal.
Dr. Keckley pulls out a chair for Mom, who gives me one more questioning look as she sits down. I don’t know, I mouth before sitting down next to her.
Dr. Keckley looks at Mom, then at me. When neither of us says anything, she claps her hands together under her chin and leans across the desk.
“Mrs. Zaragoza, I’m getting the sense you don’t know what this is about.”
Mom meets her gaze and leans forward, too. “You’re right. I have absolutely no idea what this is about.”
I have to look away. On a corner of her desk, Dr. Keckley keeps a jade plant. Its leaves are dropping off—overwatered, I guess. People are always overwatering their succulents.
“Griselda is doing well in her classes, isn’t she? I know I haven’t been paying as close attention as I used to—I’ve had, well… a lot on my mind. But she gets her homework done, and I always check her progress reports, and—”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that.” Dr. Keckley stops her, shaking her head and leaning back. “Griselda is a bright student and, as usual, her teacher has nothing but good things to say about her work.”
Mrs. Ramos-McCaffrey has been talking about me?
“And she hasn’t gotten into any trouble.” This time, Mom isn’t asking; she’s telling. The only time I’ve ever been in trouble over my behavior was in second grade—for talking in class. Only, I wasn’t the one talking; it was Sophia. Still, Mrs. Ross said neither of us was paying attention, and that afternoon, we both had to scrub cafeteria tables while everyone else played at recess.
Dr. Keckley swivels in her chair. “Well, no, I suppose Griselda hasn’t broken any rules. Not exactly. Quite frankly, it didn’t occur to me that we needed a rule for this particular situation.”
“Then, what?”
“Well, it’s sensitive. You see, I received a call from a parent this morning. Her daughter has been going without lunch several times a week. She’s understandably concerned.”
Dr. Keckley pauses and looks at me. I’m beginning to see where this conversation is going, but Mom still doesn’t.
“I’d be concerned, too,” Mom says, looking from me to Dr. Keckley. “But what does it have to do with Griselda? She’s eating, isn’t she?”
Dr. Keckley sighs. “It seems the reason this student has been going without lunch is that she has been saving her lunch money in order to purchase cosmetics—from your daughter.”
“What? From Maribel?”
“No, from Griselda. Now, I realize this might be a… sensitive subject. We know that Griselda is eligible for free lunch this year, and that your family has moved in with her grandmother?”
Mom narrows her eyes and nods. Her perfect mask of calm and steady reassurance begins to melt away.
“Of course, I cannot pretend to understand the financial stress and strain you must be under,” Dr. Keckley goes on.
“There have been some… changes,” Mom says. “But we’re doing just fine. Griselda is fine.”
“Certainly there has been more pressure at home?” Dr. Keckley asks.
“Maybe. But Griselda has always been resilient and responsible and—”
“Ah.” Dr. Keckley points at Mom as if she’s finally landed on the right answer. “And I think it’s perfectly appropriate for a child Griselda’s age to have some responsibilities around the house—washing the dishes, for example, or even preparing a simple dinner one or two nights a week. However, I don’t believe she should be asked to contribute to the household’s income. She is, after all, still a child.”
Mom slaps a hand over her mouth, and her face flushes as red as mine.
Then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath in through her nose, holds for three beats, then blows it out through her mouth. By the time she opens her eyes again, the mask is back.
I start trying to explain, but Mom clamps her hand over my shoulder, shushing me.
“Dr. Keckley,” she says in her serious but soothing voice. “I can assure you that my husband and I have not put our twelve-year-old daughter to work selling makeup. I am beginning to understand what must have happene
d here, and I will put a stop to it.”
“Thank you. That’s all I need to hear. As I said, Griselda hasn’t done anything wrong, not exactly. But I must ask that she stop selling cosmetics at school—it has become something of a distraction.”
Mom puts her purse back on her shoulder and stands. “That I can promise.”
“Just one more thing before you go?”
Mom sits down again.
“If you find you need any resources, some extra help during what must be a challenging time—”
Mom smiles her sad half-smile. “No. I appreciate the offer, but as I said, we’re doing just fine, thank you.”
Mom is silent as we leave the school building, and she walks so fast I have to scamper to keep up.
The afternoon bell had rung while we were still in Dr. Keckley’s office, and outside, students are already lining up in front of buses or tossing their backpacks into the trunks of their parents’ cars. Beth jogs over when she sees me, six dollars clutched in her fist. I shake my head. “Not today,” I tell her, then walk a little faster to catch up to Mom. Behind me, Beth calls, “Wait! What’s going on?”
I wonder if Mom meant it about me not selling makeup anymore and if there’s anything I can say to change her mind. I can’t stop now, not when I’m so close.
When we get to Maribel’s car, Mom unlocks the passenger door, then walks around to hers, stopping to take another deep breath and blow it out again before opening her door. Inside, she drops her head to her chest and rubs her temples.
“Griselda, I have never been so embarrassed. The idea that I would put you to work… that you would take someone’s lunch money.”
“Mom, no, it’s not like that, I—”
She doesn’t let me finish.
“No,” she says, talking over me and sitting up straight again. “Maribel is going to have to explain herself.” She pulls her seat belt across her chest, puts on a pair of sunglasses, and we drive off.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
What in this world can compensate for the sympathy and confidence of a mother and a sister.
—DOLLEY MADISON
Inside Belleza, Tía Carla—her hair ironed stick straight and dyed bluish-black—is standing behind a client, suggesting a cut and color to frame the woman’s heart-shaped face.
Tía Carla spots me in the mirror and waves her fingers, still consulting her client. But when she sees Mom’s face, she excuses herself and hurries over, blocking our path.
“Sandra?” she asks, smiling but with an eyebrow raised. “Is something the matter?”
Mom steps around her. “Where is Maribel?”
She doesn’t need to wait for Tía Carla’s answer. Maribel’s voice, steady and sure, rings out from the nail lounge.
“Our new top coat, Forever After, was designed specifically with working professionals like you in mind. Alma’s miracle formula seals your polish and protects your manicure against the wear and tear of everyday living.”
Mom’s pace quickens. “Maribel!” Her voice is as loud and raw as I have ever heard it.
Tía Carla and I chase her into the nail lounge where my sister is applying the new top coat to a woman’s thumbnail. She stops mid-brushstroke when she sees Mom.
“Maribel,” Mom says again. This time her voice is low, icy, and somehow even more dangerous than when she had raised it just a few moments earlier.
The customers in the nail lounge look away uncomfortably, but I can tell they’re curious, too, wondering what’s going on and what will happen next.
I try again to get Mom’s attention. “Mom, if you would just let me explain—”
“Not now, Griselda.” Mom turns to Maribel. “Would you like to tell me why the school principal just accused me of making my youngest daughter sell makeup to support her family?”
“But, Mom, she didn’t say—”
“Griselda, not now!” Mom waves me away. “Well, Maribel, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Maribel twists the top back onto the bottle of nail polish and puts it down gently on the manicure table. She looks up and says casually, “I say, talk to Griselda.”
“Griselda is a child, your baby sister. And I cannot believe you would put her to work for you. If you insist on wasting your time and your talent on this… makeup, you can either start paying your nana some rent or you can move out. What you absolutely cannot do is drag Griselda into it.”
Maribel stands. She’s not so calm and casual anymore. “Why do you think I’m doing this? To move out!”
Moving out? I thought she was trying to win a car.
Mom looks startled for a second, but not enough to stop. She shakes her head. “But to take advantage of your little sister like this? I have never known you to be so selfish.”
I’ve heard enough. Maribel may be impatient and demanding. But the one thing she hasn’t been through all of this is selfish. She’s the only one who has helped me.
“Mom!” I say, raising my voice so loud that it doesn’t sound like mine anymore. “Would you please listen?”
Not just Mom, but everyone else in the room turns to look at me.
“I’m not a baby. Maribel didn’t make me do anything. This was all my idea.”
Mom squints as though she’s trying to make sense of a complicated instruction manual. Then she sinks into one of the manicure chairs. “Your idea? What do you mean it was your idea?”
Tía Carla presses her hands down on my shoulders and squeezes, partly to calm me down, but mostly to shut me up. “Ladies, let’s take this into my office, shall we? Now?”
She leads us up a narrow staircase and unlocks her office door. Maribel scoops a handful of candy-coated sunflower seeds from a bowl on Tía Carla’s desk, then leans against a bookshelf. Mom and I sit on opposite ends of a navy-blue couch.
All of us sit there, waiting for someone to say something. It reminds me of that afternoon—Mom and Dad, me and Maribel in the living room on West Mariposa Avenue. I remember Dad’s words. Game over.
“But I’m so close!” I plead, as if he’s sitting right next to me. I think about everything I’ve lost in the past year: my house, my garden, even my best friend. I can’t lose this chance, too. “Don’t make me give up now.”
“Griselda,” Mom says. “Please, please tell me what’s going on.”
So I do.
I tell her I know we’re better off than a lot of other people—we have a place to live and enough to eat—but that my chest goes all tight every time there’s a field trip, a costume, or new school supplies to pay for.
I try to explain the standing-on-my-tiptoes-but-still-can’t-reach feeling of not being able to buy a birthday present for my best friend.
I tell her about the contest and the five thousand dollars, about wanting to help and wanting to win again.
“Dad left to make a fresh start. Well, maybe with that prize money, we can have a fresh start right here.”
Tía Carla and Maribel creep out of the office. It’s so quiet I can hear the music, all muffled, playing downstairs in the salon. Mom doesn’t say anything for a while.
Then, almost whispering, she asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Anything. About Dad’s business? About our house? About the truck?”
Mom folds her hands in her lap and drops her chin to her chest. I suspect she’s putting on her sad-sweet half-smile, but when she lifts her head again, she’s frowning. A real and honest frown.
“Oh, I don’t know, Griselda. I think it was partly because I didn’t want to believe it was happening myself,” she says. “But mostly it was because I didn’t want to worry you.”
“I’d rather be worried and try to do something about it than be the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Mom slides closer to me. “I sometimes forget what a fighter you are, in your own way. It’s what your name means, you know?’”
I
know. She’s only told me a million times. “I wish you had given me a beautiful name. Like Maribel’s.” At least I wouldn’t have lost that.
Mom reaches over and brushes my bangs out of my eyes. “Hmm. Maribel does have a beautiful name. I was so young when she was born, and that was all that mattered to me. I had grown up by the time I had you, and I wanted you to have a name that was beautiful because it was also strong.”
Mom says Maribel and I have to chip in to take Grandpa’s car for a tune-up and oil change since we’ve been using it so often. After that, I can keep the rest of my earnings—in a bank account, though, not in a box under the bed. I can still babysit, too, she says. But I can’t sell any more makeup. She won’t budge on that, not even an inch.
Late that night, with only the dim hallway light still on, I kick off my blankets and pummel my pillow as though wrestling with the bedding will help me fall asleep.
Maribel rolls over. “You know, I was wondering what you wanted all that money for.”
“Doesn’t matter now.”
“I thought maybe you were trying to save enough to buy our house back. I didn’t want to be the one to have to break it to you.”
“I’m not stupid, Maribel, and I’m not a baby.”
“I know you’re not.”
She stops talking, but I can tell from her breathing that she hasn’t gone back to sleep.
“I thought you were trying to win that convertible,” I say.
“The Alma-mobile? No. As long as Nana keeps letting me borrow the Crown Victoria, I don’t need another car. What I need is to get out of this house and into college like I planned.”
“But why? Why can’t you go to college here? What’s wrong with community college? Is it just because it’s what Mom wants that you won’t go?”
“That’s not it,” Maribel says. “Community college is great—maybe I’ll end up going to one. But I don’t feel like myself here. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.”
When I wake up the next morning, an Alma Cosmetics order form is resting on my nightstand: fifty Fairytale Collection lip glosses, in assorted colors. Charged to Carla Palomares, Salon Belleza.
The Fresh New Face of Griselda Page 10