CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I always did like the unexpected and am waiting with intense interest the next jump.
—GRACE COOLIDGE
Kennedy and Ava still make room for me at their lunch table when we go back to school after winter break. But without the Alma catalog, I feel even more out of place sitting with them than I ever did before. After two awkward lunch periods, I go back to my old table in the corner.
“What, no nail polish? No lipstick?” Logan says, sitting down across from me.
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
I gulp down a big drink of milk, wipe my mouth, and tell him the whole story.
“Whoa,” he says at the end of it. “So your aunt saved the day? Do you really think you can win, though?”
“Why? Do you think I won’t?”
“No. It just doesn’t seem like you, that’s all. You never want to be the center of attention.”
“Well, maybe this is the fresh new face of Griselda Zaragoza.”
A few weeks later, the letter arrives. Nana gives it to me as soon as I get home that afternoon, before I’m even all the way through the door. Purple confetti flutters onto the kitchen floor when I open it.
Congratulations!
Your exemplary sales place you among the elite ranks of young people from throughout the country who truly embody the Soul of Beauty.
As a Fresh New Face finalist, we are pleased to invite you to attend this year’s Alma Expo, with all expenses paid. As always, the Expo will be held at the Regal Hotel in our nation’s capital.
You will be an honored guest at the annual Soul of Beauty Brunch, where you’ll celebrate the Fairytale Collection, mix and mingle with our top-selling associates—and compete to become the Fresh New Face of Alma Cosmetics.
Please prepare a speech, no more than five minutes in length, on the person who, for you, best represents the Spirit of Success.
I put the letter down. It’s official: I did it. Nana is smiling at me, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
I try to smile back. “I’m in.” But I’m not as excited as I thought I’d be.
A five-minute speech. In front of all the top-selling associates. In front of all the other finalists. When I think about it that way, five minutes sounds like forever.
Possibly the best thing I’ve learned so far about Lady Bird Johnson is that she was the top student at her high school until she let her grades slip—on purpose. She did it because the student with the best grades had to make a speech at graduation, and she hated public speaking that much.
It probably shouldn’t surprise me that the Fresh New Face of Alma Cosmetics is also supposed to say something. I just wasn’t expecting a speech.
But five minutes isn’t actually forever, I tell myself.
Five minutes is shorter than a visit to the dentist. It’s faster than I can run a mile in PE.
Five minutes is longer than I’ve seen my dad in weeks, and that means I just have to do it.
“Are Mom and Maribel here? I want to show them.”
“Maribel just left, and your mother hasn’t come home from the salon yet, but she should be back soon.” Nana kisses my forehead. “Congratulations, mija.”
I take the letter to the bedroom to leave it on the desk where Maribel will find it.
Living with Nana is the first time we’ve ever had to share a bedroom. With Maribel saving money all these months, she must have almost enough to move out. Mom’s old room is going to feel so empty without her in it.
Back when we first made our deal, half my profits seemed like a lot to trade for Maribel’s signature on the Alma entry form. Worth it, but a lot.
Now I think I owe her so much more than that for all the advice she’s given me and all the car rides we’ve shared. Maybe it’s been a long time since I locked myself into that bathroom on the first day of kindergarten, but Maribel is still getting me unstuck.
I unfold my letter and smooth it out on her desk. That’s when I notice the purple confetti. Another letter, printed on the same lavender stationery as the one I just opened, peeks out from under one of Maribel’s notepads. I slide it out.
Congratulations!
Your exemplary sales place you among the elite ranks of young people from throughout the country who truly embody the Soul of Beauty.
Oh, I think. They wanted Maribel to have a copy of my letter, too.
I’m such a baby sometimes.
Half a second later I realize how silly that sounds and how silly I have been.
Silly to think the fresh new face of Alma Cosmetics could be anyone’s but Maribel’s. Least of all mine.
Her name literally means beautiful.
Of course the letter is hers. Of course she entered the contest, too. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure Nana can hear it from the kitchen. I take both letters to my bed and lie down.
Silly to think Maribel believed in me. Everything she did, she did to help herself.
The more I sell, the more money you make.
I stay there on the bed, staring at my Lady Bird Johnson teacup until Maribel gets back.
“Geez! You scared me,” she says, holding her hand over her chest and letting her makeup bag fall to the floor with a thud. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” She flicks the light on. “Congratulations, by the way. Nana said a letter came from Alma? You’re a finalist?”
I hold up my letter.
Then hers.
“Congratulations to you, too.”
She collapses into the desk chair. “Oh, Geez, I’m so sorry.”
“You’ve been competing against me this whole time?”
“No, of course not. I’ve been trying to help you. It’s just that I could really use that money, and I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think I could do it?”
“I didn’t think it mattered so much to you. But now I know, and I’m dropping out.”
“So you can tell everyone you let your baby sister win? No way. Better idea: I’ll win without any more of your help.”
I have less than a month to prepare—not just to give a speech, but to take on Maribel. I’ll have to be flawless to even stand a chance.
Mom and Nana take me to the mall, where I spend a little of my Alma money on a winter coat and something new to wear to the Soul of Beauty Brunch. The first dress I take off the rack is long, floaty, and floral, and exactly what I would have picked a year ago.
“Qué linda,” Nana says.
“Do you want to try it on?” Mom asks.
It’s pretty, and I almost say yes. Almost. Then I try to imagine the dress on Maribel and can’t.
“Nope.” I hang it back up and keep looking.
Finally, standing in front of the dressing room mirror in a plain gray skirt, a white blouse buttoned up to my neck, and a lavender cardigan, I nod. “This is it.”
“Are you sure?” Mom says. “It’s very… serious.”
“Professional?”
“Mmm… grown-up.”
“Then it’s perfect. Next, shoes.”
I try on a pair of black pumps, shiny as mirrors, with two-inch heels and straps around the ankles. They’re snug, but not tight. “These feel good.”
Then I stand up.
I’m not used to walking in anything besides my white school sneakers. I wobble and almost fall, clinging to Nana’s shoulder for balance.
“I think maybe you should try some flats instead,” Mom says, looking over the rows of shoes. She holds up a pair with pointy toes. “These are nice. They look comfortable, too. And they’re on sale.”
I picture Maribel about to knock on a stranger’s door, makeup satchel slung over her shoulder. She stands straight and tall.
“No, I’ll take the heels.”
“You don’t want to stumble on your way to the podium.”
“I won’t stumble. I’ll practice.”
When we get home, I walk back and forth across Nana’s kitchen, my shoes click-cl
acking on the tile floor, until it’s time for dinner.
Every day after school, I change into the heels and practice walking up and down the front porch steps, and even across the driveway to Logan’s house.
“You should try playing basketball in those shoes,” he says one afternoon. “That’d be real good practice.”
If I wasn’t worried about scuffing them, I would. I cannot fall down.
On my way back to Nana’s door, I stop to look at the mint patch again. It’s in a sunny spot, perfect for an herb garden, if only I could figure out what to do about that mint.
On the night before my flight, I unpack all the clothes I’ve been storing in my suitcase and replace them with the ones I’ll be taking to Washington, DC.
“Need some help?” Mom asks, leaning against the bedroom door. She’s been following me around the house all day, and I keep expecting her to tell me she’s changed her mind and I can’t go after all. She doesn’t, though.
“I can handle it.”
Then Maribel steps into the doorway, and Mom moves aside to let her through.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
“I’ll leave you girls to it,” Mom says, turning around and walking back down the hall.
I still want to be mad at Maribel for lying to me about the contest. But if she hadn’t entered, if she hadn’t qualified as a finalist, I might not have been able to go. If you’re under eighteen, a parent is supposed to accompany you to the Alma Expo. Only, parents have to pay for their own airplane tickets, which I didn’t even bother asking Mom about. As a finalist, Maribel’s ticket is covered. We arrange it with the Alma people that she’ll be my guardian for the weekend.
She goes to the closet and takes dresses and jackets off hangers. She folds her clothes and places everything in neat stacks on her bed, then fills little zippered pouches with makeup, soap, shampoo, toothpaste. On her nightstand, a notepad is opened to a checklist. Every time she adds something to a pouch, she draws a line through another item on the list.
I finish packing before she does, zip up my suitcase, and prop it against the wall next to the door. I go to the living room—where Mom’s been sleeping on a fold-out couch—to call Dad.
I want him to know that the speech I wrote for the Soul of Beauty Brunch is all about him. It’s about how, once upon a time, just like Lady Bird Johnson, he took a small business and turned it into a big one. Maybe he didn’t become a millionaire like she did, but at least we didn’t worry about money.
And the story isn’t over. That’s what I really want them to know. The trees Dad planted are still growing. There’s still a street sign out there with our name on it.
I leave out the parts about owing money and leaving town, because we’re going to rewrite all of that.
But when Dad answers the phone, he sounds so tired and faraway that I change my mind.
“I’m all packed for the trip. I just wanted to call and say bye.”
“You girls have a great time. Take lots of pictures. I can’t wait to see them.”
But when will he see us in person, I want to ask.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“You know that spot out in Nana’s backyard where all the mint is growing?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I was thinking it would be a good place for an herb garden.”
There’s a pause, and then Dad says, “You’re probably right. Gets good sun.”
“But I don’t know what to do about all that mint. It’s out of control. Nothing else can grow there.”
“You’ll find a way, Griselda,” he says. “You always figure it out.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Had I stepped into Noah’s Ark, I do not think I could have been more utterly astonished.
—LOUISA ADAMS
Every two minutes, it seems, from the time we pull out of Nana’s driveway until we turn into the parking lot at the airport, Mom warns Maribel, “Don’t take your eyes off your sister!” Then she turns to me. “Don’t wander away from your sister!”
“Mom,” Maribel moans, throwing open the trunk to pull out our bags. “Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to Geez.”
Nana hooks her arm through mine and walks with me to the terminal. “That girl doesn’t stop,” she whispers. “Make sure she feeds you.”
“Nana. We’ll be fine.”
Maribel and I check our suitcases and wave to Mom and Nana as an escalator carries us toward our boarding gate. Mom cups her hands around her mouth. “You two take care of each other!”
Once we’re on the plane with our seat belts pulled across our laps, I can almost forget that we aren’t just taking off on a family vacation, with Mom and Dad sitting a row behind.
I reach down to get my headphones from my backpack. But when I see Maribel studying her Expo itinerary, I take mine out, too.
Opening ceremonies are tonight.
“We should try to go if we get to the hotel in time,” Maribel says, tapping a pen against her teeth.
The Soul of Beauty Brunch is on Saturday morning, and there are all kinds of workshops on the schedule for later that afternoon. We can go to any we want. Maribel draws circles around two of them: “From Pastime to Full-Time: Your Career Is in Your Hands!” and “Hidden Beauty: Finding New Customers Where You’d Least Expect.”
I fall asleep to the soft rustle of Maribel flipping through her papers, then jolt awake hours later when the plane wheels hit the landing strip in Washington, DC.
Foggy-headed, I stretch in the aisle and follow Maribel off the plane. She’s tied a purple scarf to her black makeup satchel, and I train my eyes on it as she winds her way through the concourse, down to the baggage claim area, and outside to the hotel shuttle stop. We pass a food court along the way, and I yell ahead at her to stop for a snack. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even slow down.
“Geez. Come on,” she calls back. “We don’t want to be late.”
Nana tried to warn me, I think as I scamper to catch up.
Our room is on the ninth floor of the redbrick hotel. Maribel lets me have the bed nearest the window so I can look out onto the street below. Even though it’s cold, and even though the sunlight is beginning to fade, crowds of people—carrying newspapers, carrying cameras, carrying briefcases—stream over the sidewalk. Maribel tosses me one of the bean-and-potato burritos Nana packed us this morning and locks herself in the bathroom to change and freshen her makeup for the Alma Expo.
On the itinerary, the opening ceremonies are marked Casual! We know you’ve been traveling! so I stay dressed in the wooly green sweater and blue jeans I wore on the plane. I splash some water on my face, though, and rebraid my hair.
Swallowing the last bite of smooshed burrito as Maribel comes out of the bathroom, I start to realize I haven’t done enough. Maribel is wearing a lilac blouse and a suit I recognize from Mom’s closet. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek, low ponytail, and she’s pinning one of Nana’s old brooches onto her lapel.
“Let’s go.”
I look down at my sweater and jeans. “Should I change?”
“No time,” Maribel says briskly. Maribel is never late.
Before we can get to the hotel ballroom, where the opening ceremonies are about to start, we have to wait in a long, looping line that coils like a snake with a million violet scales. I might be the only person on the whole floor—maybe in the whole hotel—who isn’t wearing some shade of purple.
Maribel fits right in. When I first saw her in Mom’s old suit, she seemed smaller to me somehow. Like she was playing dress-up. But now, with her candy-apple smile back on, she just looks like one more flower in this purple bouquet.
Finally, we make it to the front of the line.
“Zaragoza and Zaragoza,” Maribel tells a woman sitting behind the registration table.
The lady’s fingers fly over a file full of yellow folders. She pulls two of them out.
“Ah, two of our Fresh New Face finalists! C
ongratulations. These are your registration packets. You’ll find your name badges inside. I just know you’ll find this an inspiring weekend. Best of luck tomorrow!”
She waves over the next woman in line before Maribel and I can thank her.
We find some space away from the crowd to open the envelopes and take out our badges. I slip a lanyard over my head. GRISELDA ZARAGOZA, JUNIOR ASSOCIATE. I’m sort of surprised it doesn’t say GEEZ.
The lights inside the ballroom are dimmed, except for onstage, where a spotlight casts a lonely, lavender glow. Maribel leads us to two empty seats.
Just as we’re sitting down, the spotlight goes dark. The audience gasps. I grab Maribel’s hand. She squeezes mine back.
When the light switches on again, a woman wearing an evening gown covered in a dazzle of purple sequins stands onstage. I catch only a glimpse of her because, in a moment, everyone on the floor jumps to their feet and starts cheering.
The woman’s voice, rich and velvety, pours out of the overhead speakers.
“You!” she sings. “Are the soul of beauty!” Silvery streamers and purple balloons rain down from the ceiling. The applause swells to a roar.
My stomach growls. The burrito hadn’t been enough.
I look around for food and spot a long table at the back of the room with a lemonade fountain and piles of cookies.
I pull on Maribel’s sleeve to get her attention. I point to the table and point to my stomach. She leans over to say something. I can barely hear her, even though she’s yelling right in my ear. “Come straight back! Mom’ll never forgive me if I lose you on the first day.”
I weave through the cheering crowd, stepping on toes and tripping over handbags. But no one seems to notice as the speech continues. When I get to the refreshments table, I resist the urge to take more than two cookies.
I would have gone right back to our seats, but the floral centerpieces on the table distract me, even in the low light. A bowlful of peonies with petals like ballet skirts fluttering in midleap. Creamy orchids with amethyst centers bursting above the edges of a crystal vase.
The Fresh New Face of Griselda Page 11