And azúcar. I’m out.
My mother thinks slower than she types, so what should be one communication hovers around four on average.
12:37 p.m. (Gloria)
Ven acá. I’m doing Sylvia’s hair soon.
12:38 p.m. (Toni)
Unless you have a broken bone or a leaking roof, can I come over tomorrow? I only have a little time before I have to be at work.
12:39 p.m. (Gloria)
My bones are bien. Come ahora.
When Gloria leans on Spanglish, I know she’s flustered. She uses her native tongue to socialize with her Spanish-speaking friends and with David, Gabriel, and me in casual conversation so she can check that we haven’t lost our accuracy or accent. English is mostly reserved for the grocery store, her volunteer time at the Senior Connection, and begrudgingly her granddaughters. She loves to remind me that I have failed at building their authentic Spanish fluency to her standards sinceLou and Coco entered kindergarten, and I was no longer their primary source of conversation.
“Girls, grab your shoes, we’re going over to Abuelita’s,” I holler, gathering up our shared laptop that has become all mine in the summer months. I’m not even met with a rustle of movement at my request. My house isn’t that big, and I know Lou and Coco heard me. I also know they’re awake, because there’s an empty box of cereal and a wilting blueberry muffin wrapper on the kitchen counter.
The floor creaks, broadcasting one of my lazies is creeping from the bathroom back to her bed. “Be ready in five, or I’m not taking you to meet your friends at the Stanford Shopping Center tomorrow.” This will push them along. Lou and Coco have been working as assistant camp counselors for the six- to eight-year-old group at the YMCA, so for the first time in their fourteen years they have money to burn, and they want to light it on fire at a shopping mall that is outside of our budget. I can’t wait for them to return home with the realization that they can purchase a full-length pair of leggings for every day of the week from Target for what it costs for one capri pair at Lululemon. Some math lessons are best learned in the real world.
“Be down in three.” My upstairs suddenly sounds like a couple of recruits scurrying to tidy their barracks before rack check.
“What does Abuelita want?” Coco asks, the first to make it downstairs. I hand her a barely-been-used brush out of my purse. She looks from me to the brush. “Hypocrite much?”
I look in the mirror behind me. My hair is twisted around two chewed-on Bic pens holding the bun in place. I grab the brush, pull out the pens, and take a few swipes through my knotted waves. “Better,” I admit out loud, and then give the brush back to Coco.
“That just saved us five minutes of you bickering with Abuelita,” Coco concludes as she brushes her own hair, not taking her eyes off me. She’s not wrong, but I don’t like that Coco recognizes that her mother and grandmother squabble over such trivial concerns.
“Mom, can we stop and get a latte on the way?” Lou asks, sauntering down the stairs like stopping at Starbucks is something we do on the regular, and so is fourteen-year-olds drinking coffee.
“Ehrm... when have you ever had a latte?” I probe, hinting to Lou she just made a request that landed with a thud.
“Dad takes us to get one on the mornings he drives us to the Y. We get a latte and coffee cake.”
“And then you jitter yourself into camp?” I snap, misplacing my annoyance at Simon.
“You can’t start work with little kids without caffeine.” Lou speaks her truth like a mother who’s been parenting on interrupted sleep for years. In what world does Simon think this is okay? And with what money is he dropping a twenty on breakfast twice a week? I make a mental note to text Simon about this when I get to the airport. Then I make a second mental note that I will probably forget by the time I get there.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed yesterday’s lattes, because those were your last ones,” I update the girls and point toward the garage.
“Always the funpire, sucking the life out of anything cool we do with Dad,” Coco slings under her breath, perfectly timed as she walks past me.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not even giving Dad a chance,” Lou accuses, eye to eye, which I note is a new development in her growth trajectory on her way to pass me by. I’m tuned in enough to know that Lou’s comment has more to do with me not allowing Simon to live in our house than it has to do with specialty caffeinated drinks.
“You don’t give anyone a chance,” Coco follows up with a punctuated jab. That snippy remark is coming right from Coco’s desire to paint the extra room aqua before moving in. Needing only two seconds to consider the mess and shoddy workmanship of it all, I gave her decor plans a hard pass. I know Coco, and after one wall she would cry boredand we would be left with half a job done crappily and three cans of pointless paint. Plus, I hate aqua.
There’s a pristine black Range Rover with beige leather seats squeezed tightly into my mom’s carport. That’s usually where I pull up right behind Gloria’s Toyota so as not to piss off Mr. Aberdeen next door. The girls and I run our fingers along the driver’s side of the car, hoping, I don’t know, maybe that a life of luxury can come through osmosis.
Using my key to let ourselves in, Lou yells, “Abuelita,” to announce our arrival. “We’re here!” And then the girls head right into the kitchen to see if there is any sweet majarete.
“Here, here, let me help you up,” I hear my mom offer from behind her bathroom door.
“You know I’m much steadier these days. I’ve been working hard with Sophie on my balance and strength. We just might be able to pull this off.” The voice behind the door is so muffled in comparison to my mom’s insistence of help that it’s hard to tell if Gloria is in there with a man or a woman.
“Are Abuelita and her apartment building buddies planning a robbery?” Coco jokes, cuddling a large bowl of majarete she’s found in the refrigerator. She’s been influenced by a summer of reading bank heist novels from the library and dessert for breakfast with her father.
