CHAPTER ONE I wasn''t fast enough. Abuela appears behind me, already dressed with her makeup on, hair in a perfect bun. "Ven," she says, holding two brushes and a flatiron. She gestures for me to follow her into her room. I really wanted to get a few knots out of my hair before she got started. She sits me down on the footstool facing her full-length mirror. As soon as my butt touches the seat, she hammers away with the hairbrush like she''s some kind of blacksmith hairstylist. My head jerks as Abuela pulls.
She takes a skinny comb with a long, pointy handle and splits my hair into sections with hair clips that look like chomping alligators. With one section in her hand, she takes the flatiron in the other. She feeds my hair into the iron and clamps down on the strands. Steam curls out like a dragon exhaling as the iron slides from the top of my head to my tips. Even though she''s never burned me, I get nervous when Abuela gets close to my ears. I don''t have my mom''s jet-black hair, but I have her curls. Or waves--my hair swooshes like a rolling tide. But after Abuela''s done with it, it''s as flat as a pancake.
Today she straightens my hair out and puts it up into a ponytail. "Pa''que se quede liso," she says. I guess she''s worried that if I don''t put my hair up, it will get wavy later. Abuela turns my head toward the window and keeps working. There''s something comforting about the way the sun enters the room through the curtains in the morning--it''s like a tap-tap-tapping on the window, telling me it''s time to get the day started. A cardinal chirps on the branch of our cedar tree. It flits around, and I''m jealous of the little bird for having so much energy in the morning. I lean over to draw the curtains open and let in more light.
"Quédate quieta, muchacha," Abuela says. "You''re moving around too much." "Aurelia," Mom says, popping into the room. "Déjala con su pelo risado." Abuela stops tugging and looks back at Mom. "She''s going to go to school with her hair curly and out of control? She won''t be able to focus," Abuela says. "What?" my mom replies. "That''s ridiculous.
" "Well, what will people think? I''ll tell you: that she doesn''t have anybody to take care of her. Is that what you want?" "That''s what this is about," my mom says. "It''s always about what other people think." "It''s important to put your best foot forward," Abuela says, continuing to brush out my ponytail. "And I think her wavy hair is beautiful. It''s her best foot, and I won''t let you tell her otherwise." Mom winks while she scrunches her own hair. "It''s fine, Mom," I finally say.
It''s not really fine--Abuela''s daily hair rituals hurt, and I think my hair is like a lion''s mane. And I love lions. But I''m not interested in Abuela and Mom getting into another argument over my hair. Abuela finishes by putting a large blue bow on top of my head. I get up and move toward my mom, who is still standing at the door. She''s wearing baggy sweatpants and a tank top and has her favorite fluffy argyle socks on. Her long, curly black hair falls along her shoulders like a waterfall in the dead of night. I look back at my grandmother.
She''s wearing freshly pressed pants and a blouse with circles and stars on it, her auburn hair perfectly in place without a loose strand. Her round rosy cheeks and thin lips are stained the color of an Arkansas Black apple, and she''s wearing the same gold-and-pearl earrings she''s worn since my abuelo died. Between my mother and grandmother, I''m a blend of both. Short, head of wavy auburn hair, eyes large with dark yellow-green colors. I don''t have Mom''s complexion. One that, as she once said, shows she is a "descendant of the Yoruba." "Emilia viene de sangre española," Abuela replied. "She resembles my side of the family.
" "She may have some Spanish ancestry," Mom said. "But she also has West African blood coursing through her veins. She needs to know all parts of her heritage, not just the European one--" "Bueno," Abuela interrupted. "Remember, most of our family came from Spain. And some from Ireland. That''s why your hair is that color, mi''ja." "Si, pero you can''t deny the orishas guide her spiritual journey as well," Mom said. "Aye, muchacha," Abuela responded, clearly frustrated.
"She''s baptized Catholic." "You baptized her Catholic, Aurelia," Mom said. Then she whispered to me loudly enough for Abuela to hear: "No matter what, nunca dudes lo que está in your mind and spirit, mi amor. That, and sea como sea, our Yoruba heritage teaches us to respect your elders." Mom kissed my forehead. I smiled. Abuela frowned. "Come on," Mom says now.
"Let''s eat breakfast." "Espérate." Abuela stops me before I head out. She slathers her hands with gel and smooths the hair at the top of my forehead so it''s flat against my scalp. I stare at myself in her full-length mirror as the plastering continues. My eyes follow Abuela''s arm to the short cylindrical can she''s digging into. Actually, it''s pomade she''s using. Not gel.
Pomade is greasier and stays in my hair longer. It gives it a slick sheen, but honestly, I hate it because it takes forever to wash out. I don''t say anything, though. We walk downstairs, past the dining room that leads into the kitchen. Mom and I start our daily ritual of making café con leche, with a little slice of Cuban toast and melted butter, plus a large glass of my daily spinach-peanut-butter-banana-and-almond-milk smoothie. "Doctor''s recommendations!" Mom says, pouring the last of the smoothie into my glass. "Why do I have to drink that horrible green monster every morning? It leaves specks of green in my teeth." "It''s not that bad! Here, take your fish oil pill.
" "I hate that thing!" "The doctor did say it''s a natural way to help you concentrate." Mom tries to add healthy foods into my diet all the time. She says it will help with my lack of focus. I think she''s just trying to cut out sugar. Which I love. As the coffee brews, the sweet and bitter smell wafts my way. Whoever figured out that those opposite tastes could blend together so perfectly in a coffee drink was a genius. Mom puts her arm around me, and I lean into her shoulder.
"What''s up, Not-Buttercup?" she jokes. I perk up and smile. I recently saw an old movie called The Princess Bride with Mom and Abuela. It''s about this princess named Buttercup who falls in love with a guy named Westley. At one point in the movie, they''re in a forest and these gigantic rats attack them. Westley falls to the ground while wrestling the rat, but Buttercup doesn''t do anything. There''s a humongous rat chewing on Westley''s shoulder, and Buttercup doesn''t even pick up a stick to bash it! She just stands there screaming for Westley to save her. It really annoyed me.
Mom and Abuela eyed each other and said they never saw the movie that way. Mom rubs my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Ready for school?" "No," I say, looking out the kitchen window, slurping up the last of my smoothie. Mom goes to the toaster and pulls out the warm bread and cuts it in half. Steam rises when she adds butter, and it melts instantly. She moves the knife like she''s conducting an orchestra across each slice. My mouth feels dry, but it''s not because I''m thirsty. "Do you have to leave?" I ask her.
"Yes, baby girl. The conference starts tomorrow." "But it''s, like, a thirty-hour time difference, Mom." "It''s San Francisco, mi amor. Not China. And it''s only a little more than a week. Who knows? Something exciting could come of it." "Like what?" I ask, moving over to help her.
I grab a paper towel and start wiping the loose crumbs off the counter. "We''ll see! Anyway, Dad is coming home tonight," she tells me. "You''ll get some one-on-one time with him for a few days!" "And apparently he''s okay with your mother leaving even though he''s been gone for eight months," Abuela says, stern at the kitchen door. It doesn''t seem to faze Mom at all. She''s used to what she calls Abuela''s "puyas"--side comments meant to get under her skin. Abuela throws shade like a chameleon changes colors. Mom rubs my forearm and squeezes my hand a little. "Bueno, Aurelia, luckily my husband and I have communicated, and fortunately for both of us, we understand that our jobs may require a certain amount of travel on occasion.
As I''m sure you''ve experienced over the years with his deployments." Abuela huffs and leaves the kitchen. Mom exhales slowly. "How do you not get flustered by her, Mom?" "Patience, mi amor," Mom says. "The older you get, the more important patience becomes." I glance over at my backpack and think about all the classes I have and how Mom is always there to help organize my work and how I can''t let Abuela help me because she won''t understand and suddenly I feel the vibrating in my head that happens sometimes when I get nervous. It''s like a whole bunch of little bees buzzing around and it''s hard to concentrate. "Mom, who''s going to help me with my homework when you''re gone?" "Dad will!" The calendar Mom and I go over every Monday morning to help me organize the week sits in front of me.
Friday is circled with two little star.