Tell Me Something True (3 page)

“Gabriella is my crazy cousin,” Juan Carlos often tells people, and compared with his other cousins, who are all MBAs, she
knows she is. And she loves it. She does things just to provoke him, like the time she visited him at the New York firm where
he was working as a summer intern, wearing a dress with oval cutouts along the sides.

“Gabriella,” he muttered under his breath as they rode down in the elevator. “Could you try not to look like an artist for
just one day?”

One night, in a moment of weakness, she tried to explain the psyche of the musician. “We dress like musicians to hide our
insecurities, Juanca,” she explained earnestly after smoking half a joint. “All musicians are nerds, and all classical musicians
are bigger nerds. We need to make it up, somehow.”

Ever pragmatic, he really looked at her as if she were high. “Insecure people don’t get onstage,” he said quite logically.

“They do. They have to,” she countered. “That’s the only time they can show off.”

“But you don’t even like getting onstage, Gabriella,” he said smugly. “I’m the one who likes it!”

Gabriella always waves him away dismissively when he says things like this, but she knows he’s right. She is like her father,
more comfortable behind the scenes than on the spot. And yet, everyone expects her to be in the forefront: her grandmother,
who considers her perfect, her father, who tells her anything she wants to do is fine with him, and yet, she can almost touch
the voids he wants to fill with her actions. He may not say it, but he wants her—no, he
needs
her—to shine.

When she’s down here, she can physically feel the pressure of perfection easing from her chest. She is almost someone else;
a glamorous stranger whose depths are rarely plumbed, who is never here long enough to make an impact, who can glide effortlessly
in the shadow of an older cousin with just the right connections.

Juan Carlos has the golden eyes and pixie, youthful looks of her mother’s family. He looks so young sometimes he’ll go without
shaving for days at a time, like tonight. He really, really thinks this makes him look tougher, more manly. She’s always thought
it makes him look like an overgrown schoolboy, and that’s why girls cling to him. They want to take care of him. She has never
told him this, because he would genuinely be offended; more so because he is her designated protector. A traditional kind
of guy who will still open the car door for her.

Gabriella likes it.

She thinks it’s the Nini in her. Maybe her outfits are crazy, but she likes guys who dress like prep schoolers and introduce
her to their parents.

So she lets Juan Carlos be a little dictator about her outfit tonight. It’s his party, not hers. And he’s playing it safe,
with an untucked, dark blue polo shirt over his jeans, loafers, and a handwoven bracelet that all the preppie guys are wearing,
the kind they think makes them look cool.

Gabriella wanted to go all out and wear this very, very little, very, very red dress, partly because she’s really stepped
up on her running and her legs, with all due respect, she thinks, look fabulous.

But Juan Carlos thinks she’ll stick out like an athletic gringa in a red dress, plus she’ll be taller than him with her high
heels. She likes to provoke him, but not make him look bad.

“Jeans?” she asks.

“Jeans is cool,” he says, looking at his watch.

“Relax,” she tells him. “I won’t embarrass you in front of the new girlfriend.”

“Oh, please,” he says scornfully. “She is not the new girlfriend, and I could give a damn what she thinks. All I ask is normal.
Normal. Is that too much? Hooker dresses aren’t normal for a party.”

“Hey, I’m wearing the jeans,” she informs him good-naturedly from the walk-in closet. “And it’s not a hooker dress,” she adds
huffily, considering it. I mean really, as if he were some fashion plate. “It’s Juicy Couture.”

But she puts on her jeans, tight, very expensive jeans, and a white T-shirt and a studded black leather belt. A dozen necklaces
and her Celtic silver cross. She looks as normal as she can possibly look.

Juan Carlos stares at her hair, but she anticipates it.

“Don’t even mention it,” she warns.

He shrugs. “You look like a lioness,” he snorts.

“Well, roar!”

Gabriella loves her hair. It’s very curly and long and thick, and she likes streaking it in multiple shades of silver and
blonde and brown. Drying it straight, she finds, is a pain in the butt. Plus she thinks it makes her look like a Cali Stepford
wife, which she simply will not contemplate, no matter how much she identifies with Cali.

It’s also the single physical trait she’s inherited from her mother.

Gabriella likes to think that people who knew her mother will look at her hair and be reminded of her. No one has ever told
her that. But still, she likes the thought.

Querida Gabriella:

You turned two today.

Incredible.

You used to fit in the crook of my arm.

Today, you opened the door for the guests!

We had 20 two-year-olds. Remember this piece of advice from your mom: When you have kids, NEVER invite 20 two-year-olds to
a party. Invite eight, maybe. Tops.

NOT TWENTY!

Well, thank God for backyards. You have a best friend, it turns out. Someone called Melanie. She’s a terrorist. Managed to
uproot all the petunias.

But you were so, so happy.

This was your first bona fide party. You ran around like crazy in that yard. Did the swing set thing, ate cake, cried (boo-hoo)
when another little girl took your seat at the head of the table. Poured pink punch (that will NOT come out) all over the
brand-new, handmade dress I brought you from Colombia. All that good stuff.

And I must say, I was the perfect mom. I actually chatted with all the other perfect moms and baked a cake from scratch.

No, I’d never done that before, in case you were wondering! But, you see, becoming a mother is nothing.
Being
a mother. Now, that is definitely an act of love. Sometimes I’ll watch you sleep. For hours and hours. I like taking your
picture when you sleep. It’s innocence upon innocence, your arms splayed open, your legs splayed open, your mouth open. You
are not afraid of anything.

Grown-ups never sleep like that. They’re always afraid of something. They hug themselves or fold their hands over their chests,
like dead people.

I always sleep on my stomach, with both my hands tucked under my pillow. Your daddy sleeps sideways, with the pillow tucked
against his chest. He stopped using the pillow after you were born. You would sleep in bed, between the two of us, and he
was afraid he’d accidentally smother you during the night.

S
he now thinks she’s been roped into going to this crazy party, and they’re almost there and she knows already it’s a mistake.

Juan Carlos is driving, and he’s excited because of his new babe. He’s set up his buddy Camilo with the babe’s friend. But
Camilo’s sister, Angela, who’s Gabriella’s friend, couldn’t make it. So now Gabriella is supposed to find someone to talk
to once she gets there. Alone. She has a headache just thinking about this.

Why, why did I agree to come? she thinks.

Everything is warped about the evening, Gabriella muses. They’re crashing the party via the babe, who doesn’t live here, but
in Cartagena. Turns out she studies in Boston, where Juan Carlos met her, and she’s here visiting her friend—the one Juan
Carlos has set up for Camilo—who’s friends with this guy who’s having the party.

And the place is far, far, far. If she gets bored, finding someone to drive her back will be next to impossible. There’s nothing
to see as she stares out the window. Nothing. Pance is Cali’s most suburban suburb. You might as well be in the middle of
the jungle, it’s so dark there. They’ve already passed Juan Carlos’s old high school, which is as far up the hill as Gabriella’s
ever gone.

It’s a really beautiful school, like nothing she’s seen in the States. Set up in the middle of this pasture—cows graze there
in the afternoon—and with a real river that runs right through the middle of the soccer field.

Gabriella came here for one semester, when Marcus put his foot down because her Spanish was slipping. The houses around here
are massive, too, she remembers. Big pools, huge trees, ponds, huge gardens. It’s just so far. And so dark. It’s funny how
the entire world changes with the light. Her father always says that.

Damn, damn, damn, Gabriella chastises herself, her thoughts racing ahead. Is there something in my DNA that says I have to
go to every single party that crops up? Is staying in on a Thursday night so terrible?

“Hey, I think we’re here!” says Camilo from the backseat, pulling her out of her reverie.

She looks up and figures they’re somewhere because there’s a veritable army of guards with machine guns at each corner of
the street they’re about to turn into. One of them nonchalantly comes up to the car.

Juan Carlos slows down and rolls down the window.

“We’re going to the party?” he says, a question mark lurking at the end of his sentence. It occurs to Gabriella for the first
time that they don’t know whose party this is.

“Open the trunk, please,” the guard says in answer.

Juan Carlos pops it, and when the guard goes back to check, Camilo leans forward, and Gabriella sees he’s visibly perturbed.

“You know, Juanca, this is a bit over the top,” he says nervously, lighting up a cigarette. “Do we know who this guy is? I
mean, are we cool here? This has mafioso written all over it.”

Juan Carlos shakes his head.

“It’s cool, man, don’t be such an idiot. It’s her friend’s cousin. It could be anyone. And if it’s mafia, well, big deal.
We’ll stay a little bit and leave. Hey, it’s an adventure, right, Gabriella?” He’s speaking heartily, which tells Gabriella
he’s not that certain about it all.

She shakes her head. They’ve been driving for forty-five minutes.

“At this point,” Gabriella says, “we have to go on and at least check it out. But I’m telling you, if this is some mafia bash,
I don’t want to hang out all night.”

They’re all whispering furiously, and Gabriella practically jumps out of her skin when one of the guards outside taps her
window. Did he hear?

Juan Carlos rolls it down and the guy—huge guy—just nods.

“You’re okay,” he says, looking directly at Gabriella, letting his eyes wander over the T-shirt. “Enjoy.”

Juan Carlos gets the car in gear and drives up to a gate, where another guard greets them, with a clipboard in hand.

“Names, please,” he barks.

“Ca—” Camilo starts to say from the backseat, and Juan Carlos cuts him short.

“Felipe Gómez, Andres García, Ana Gómez,” he rattles off, giving fake names.

The guard obligingly writes them down and opens the gate.

There are so many cars there already, parking has moved to the huge lawn, and Gabriella’s high heels sink in the grass as
they plod their way up the hill to the house.

“Man, oh man,” she says, picturing her lime green Coach shoes turned to dust. “This better be good.”

The party is on the roof of the house.

The roof is reached via an elevator. Yes, an elevator.

Juan Carlos, Camilo, and Gabriella look at each other uncertainly as it goes up. They’ve already been frisked at the door
to the house, which gives Gabriella a semblance of security. At the very least there shouldn’t be a gunfight in here tonight.

“I heard Oscar D’León is coming to play at midnight,” someone says excitedly.

“Great,” says Juan Carlos stiffly. Gabriella tries not to giggle. He hates anything nouveau riche.

Gabriella tries to casually check out the blonde beside her, who wears a tight, short, strapless black dress and dominatrix
lace-up black and silver boots.

“Very cool,” Gabriella tells the blonde as Juan Carlos raises an eyebrow incredulously, the irony completely lost on him.