The Almost Murder and Other Stories (3 page)

“She's perfect. Just perfect,” she finally announced. I hadn't said or done a thing.

David told me Agatha wanted to interview me on camera, too. I headed for my director's chair again and David shot while Agatha stood nearby, relaxed and cool. Her questions were different: like whether I was closer to my dad or mom, what I'd want to change about my life if I could and whether I'd ever experienced prejudice. I told Agatha the truth, like I was used to being interviewed by a total stranger—Not!

I admitted that my dad drinks too much, but we love him anyway, at least when he's sober. I described Moms as the rock of our family, and you as the sister I never had. Agatha asked me what role I played in our “household.”

“I'm the bigmouth comic relief of the family,” I blurted. Moms nodded in agreement. I told her that you'd escaped to college, the first Rodríguez to do so, and that I want to go to NYU, just like you.

I even told Agatha that my brother, mistaken by a cop for a gang member, was shot in the leg. I heard Moms gasp, but it felt right to say. I explained that he'd survived, gotten a settlement from NYPD and moved with his wife and baby to Florida. He felt it had happened for a reason: to get his family down south, where he's become a church deacon, bought a home and opened a small restaurant that's always packed.

Agatha and David were elbowing each other. Mr. Oliver nodded and grinned, which made him look even more like an elf. All three acted like they'd just discovered the new America Ferrara [but you know I'm prettier, and skinnier, even with my big butt].

Moms' cell rang—loud. She apologized and shut it off, but giggled from nerves. That made me crack up, so we
had one of our laughing fits, and I nearly fell off that high chair. David kept the camera rolling and asked if he could shoot Moms and me together.

Agatha suggested we sit side by side on a small, tan sofa. We settled in, and David turned on the camera. He asked us about each other and our relationship. Agatha watched intently. After a while, she said, “They're the Hispanic Gilmore girls! Oh, and the hair! Two Latina redheads, perfect, just perfect.”

Agatha said that she had kids, so Moms warmed up to her. They traded mother stories. Next, Agatha asked if I'd like to be a mother like my own Moms.

I said, “Yes,” and went on and on about what an adorable creature Moms is—the best on earth.

Charlie, the receptionist, brought in mini sandwiches. This time, when asked if we wanted drinks, Moms asked for coffee and I ordered a Coke. Charlie was back in a flash, my Coke in a fancy wine glass, Moms' coffee on good china.

Agatha and David asked questions while we munched our sandwiches. They were delicious but so small they'd barely fill a cavity. By then, we were calmer and hungry. Charlie put fancy Italian cookies on a table by me. As we finished, Agatha nodded at David, who shut off the camera. He asked us to excuse them and all three left. Sticky-fingers Moms slid the last two cookies into her purse.

Agatha and David came back, saying Mr. Oliver had sent his goodbyes, since he had to “make his curtain.” Maybe he sews costumes—I don't know. Agatha handed Moms TWO contracts, saying we can sign right there and then, or take them home to show “Red's father.” A joke since Pops is usually too drunk to decide on anything.

David and Agatha took turns giving us details: that the show starts shooting in two weeks, we'd meet the rest of the cast at “an event” before it started and the set would
be “family-friendly.” Since I'm a minor, and the other
Brooklyn
teens are, too, there'd be a social worker and teacher on the set all day.

Moms asked if both my parents had to give permission for me to do the show and Agatha said, “No, unless you're divorced.” Big relief. Since they ARE married, Moms could legally sign for me without even asking Pops—thank God.

David said all they wanted me to do for twelve weeks is be myself and let the company film me—at home, in school, hanging out, babysitting—whatever. It's all legit. It'll air on cable this summer.

Then, Agatha said my paycheck would be a thousand dollars a week. Real money! Moms will get three hundred dollars any day she's in it.

Moms asked if they could shoot without Pops being on camera. He and Agatha went to a corner of the room together and had a whispered mini-conference.

They came back, and Agatha reassured Moms, saying, “Either way is fine, Margarita. If your husband is willing, we'll include him—drunk or sober. If he'd rather not, we won't, but the audience may come to know he's a drinker even if he stays off camera. People's reaction could inspire him to get sober.”

Moms looked doubtful.

David sat by Moms and said he'd be extra sensitive to the situation because he's a recovering alcoholic himself, with three years sobriety in AA. This made her feel better. She thanked him for being so open about his private business.

Moms and I thanked him. Agatha, who looks like an ice queen but isn't, hugged us. She wrote down our contact information and said if we did the show the company would get permits and releases from my school and other places or people “involved in my storyline.” MY storyline! Girl, can you believe this? It's not a scam either, it's real!

When they walked us to the door, Agatha asked Moms for a hint as to what her answer would be and Moms said, “I am thinking Yes, but can't promise. I have to pray on it to get the real answer. And ask my niece.” Everyone knew she meant it.

The receptionist had me fill out a form with my sizes, foods I like and other silly stuff. Then, Moms and me were out of fairy-land, back on cement. We went to Starbucks again.

Side by side, we read the whole contract over, between sips of a second frappuccino. Then Moms asked me to call you. I did, but got voicemail.

Moms said it was great, but also serious. She asked if the library was still open, so we could email you. I told her it was, so we left for the subway.

We found seats together, so I leaned on Moms' shoulder and was quiet most of the ride. I felt weary, yet buzzed. Moms was praying.

Moms nudged me before our station, and out we went. On our way here, Moms reminded me that, as her sister's daughter and the lone Rodríguez in college, only you can advise us on this. She wanted you to have every detail. So now you do!

¡Ay!
I have five minutes to finish up.

Moms is leaning toward saying
yes
, especially since Pops doesn't have to give permission. Moms' been going to Al-Anon and is not ashamed of Pops' drinking; it's his issue. She just said to tell you—again!—that David Appel used to be a drinker and, if Pops making an idiot of himself all drunk on TV can help even one person to quit, she'd feel good with it.

We'd put every dime we make in the bank for college. Moms thinks the show could lead to a scholarship. She's still praying, talking to God and to her big sister.

A minute ago she said, “I feel like
Dios
approves. But I have a question.”

Peeking around to be sure the librarian wasn't watching, Moms called David up and whispered, “If I sign this contract, my daughter won't be seen drinking or doing anything out of character, will she?”

David said all they'll shoot is me being me. Since I'm not a partier, I won't be one on TV, although another kid on the show might be. Moms felt better and said she'd let him know tomorrow. I got scared they'd dump me and use a girl with a less protective Moms, but nah … She's part of why they want me.

We finally got cable, so I see
Laguna Beach
and
The Real World
. The people act so foolish, but that's because of what they do; they'd be at it anyhow without a camera in their faces. I have a straight-up life except for my drunk dad.

All I know is I want OUT of Brooklyn. I love the spotlight, and it'd be cool being on TV. You KNOW we need money. There's college applications, tuition and Moms wants to spend some on an SAT prep course for me, just like those white kids take.

Can you believe people would recognize me!!!!—especially with this hair of mine. Soooooo red! It even says in my contract I can't color or change it! I Could Be Famous! And I want you to be in the show, too.

What do you think, Cuz? PLEASE, pleeeeeeeeez get in touch with us the minute you read this and pleeeeeeeeez say “Yes.” For sure, Moms won't sign the contract—even though I know she wants to—until we hear from you.

Please, pleeeeeeeeez call.

Love,

Tu prima

Red

I've almost forgotten what it was like to have a normal body, one without scars snaking around practically every inch of it, but there's no way to forget completely. Often, in my dreams, I'm back in my original, all-in-one-piece skin. Then, I wake up to reality.

Before the crash, I took my body for granted—its silken smoothness, its seamless expanses. Now, years after the accident, I am still disfigured—a young woman scarred for life.

My physical alteration isn't, in truth, a surprise. After sailing headfirst through our family Volvo's windshield, and being cut to shreds by shards of glass, I couldn't have escaped unscathed.

Altogether, I have twenty-seven scars of various shapes and sizes. On my face, there's a huge one. It starts above my left eyebrow, slants diagonally across the bridge of my nose, and swerves over my right cheekbone. Then, it comes to a screeching halt at the bottom of my jaw. There's a T-shaped one on my forehead, and a curved scar on my chin.

My neck, too, is marred by zigzag gouges. Even now, they're still an angry shade of purple. Though deep, each is only an inch or two long.

The scars on my face and neck are the ones people see first. I wear a heavy make-up base to tone down their redness. They are keloids; ropy, raised scars, with texture and bulk, which can't be completely concealed.

My neck and face aren't alone when it comes to graphic reminders of the crash. In fact, my entire body is one big scar festival. Here, there, everywhere, the scars slink and slither, serpentine, ineradicable. The rips, tears and slashes scattered all over my being are the brutal, ever-present proof of the frailty of human flesh. My flesh.

Clothing covers most of the other scars. When I use a locker room, or try on clothes at a mall, strangers stare and whisper. I'm used to it. The scars are part of me.

I wasn't always so forthcoming about my scars, or eager to tell my tale, but much has happened since the accident shattered me, inside and out, four years ago.

Before the crash, my only worries were of identity and alienation. I was the sole Latina in a lily-white prep school; my parents were the only Mexican home owners on our street, ironically called Isla Verde—green island,
en español
.

The only other brown faces seen in and around La Isla were those of workers: nannies, gardeners and laborers who came on busses or in jalopies to keep La Isla's lawns manicured, its children fed and bathed.

In supposedly open-minded California, racism was alive and sick. It reared its ugly head at me many times.

Today, anti-immigrant protesters are everywhere. The Minutemen and others proclaim their hatred and fear out loud, in your face.

When I was a kid, racism was quieter, subtler, but just as sinister. At twelve, I got my first foul taste of it.

One Sunday in May, my mom let me walk three blocks to our main street, Ventura Boulevard, by myself. I'd always been with a parent, relative or, yes, my nanny, who just recently had moved home to Mexico. It was my first time out alone.

I felt giddy, free and so grown-up as I walked, swinging my arms, excited by independence. I caught sight of
myself grinning in the sparkly clean windows of our neighbor's Mercedes SUV.

“Wow” I thought, “I look like a teenager.” And I did.

Safe and sound, I approached Ventura and saw banners everywhere announcing Encino Spring Fair. Sponsored by local merchants, it was an annual event—always packed, with traffic closed to cars, and people everywhere.

I slowly walked a block on the north side, crossed over and came back the other way. I saw many ways I could quickly spend the twenty-dollar bill I had in my back pocket.

Teenagers, mostly boys, tossed darts at fuzzy creatures, trying to knock them down for giant stuffed-toy prizes. At a wheel of fortune, players watched the wheel spin, shouting for it stop on their numbers. This wasn't my thing. I wanted something concrete, a gift for Mom.

I stopped by a jewelry table and held a sparkly rhinestone earring to my face. The woman in the booth snapped, “You're too young for those!” I fumbled to put it back in its velvet box, knowing by the look on the lady's face that she thought I was a housekeeper's child. This happened a lot.

A craft table caught my eye with bright paints and animal figurines. That was it! I'd make something for Mom: a turtle. She collected them.

Flipping back my thick black braid, I took a place in line. While waiting, I daydreamed, tuning out the sounds around me. I smiled, remembering that I'd see my cousins later. How silly I was not to have asked them to come to the fair with me!

Soon, it was my turn. As I stepped up to the table, two blonde girls around my age yelled from the back of the line, “Look at the Mexican!”

I stood, stunned and still as they shouted, “Wetback,” “Beaner!” “Chiquita Banana!” Then, the common but disgusting, “Go back to Mexico!”

I gripped the wooden table so hard my skinny body shook, but I was frozen, unable to speak or move. Sweat slid from my neck down my spine. My braid felt like it weighed a ton; my head was clanging.

As the blondes kept jeering, adults nearby looked away, pretending not to hear. Not one of them defended me or chastised the girls. Their silence stung me.

I stood still until the girls rolled their eyes and sauntered away. As the crowd swallowed them up, my muscles thawed and I fled from the table, the line, the people, bolting into the first shop I saw: Baskin Robbins. Rushing inside the ice-cold sanctuary, I gasped, “Emergency!” Then I ran to a white door marked “Ladies” in the back of the store and flung it open.