“Gabriel?” I throw out quickly. I had run my projected numbers by my data analysis dork of a brother before submitting them to the show, and he was pleased with my work. My mother shakes her head while running her hands over the skirt of her cherry-red belted A-line dress with a scoop neck. A littletooscooped for an abuela on network TV in my opinion.
“David?” It has to be David, he’s the one who sent me the mystery powder in the first place.
“No.” My mother points to the sky. “Your father. You and your brothers have become the success stories he always wanted his kids to be. And it all started with a Puerto Rican import.”
“The cacao bean,” Mrs. Eisenberg agrees.
“No, my parents.” I smile at my mom and touch the cross and the wedding ring resting on her heart.
“MynameisToniArroyo,” I rush through my introduction as I see the time start to tick down on the teleprompter directly in front of me. Ifeel moisture forming in my armpits and curse my decision to wear an orchid-pink silk button-down primed to show pit stains. When I saw the shirt paired with a pencil skirt—also pink but two shades darker—in the Bloomingdale’s window, I couldn’t resist. I swear that mannequin waved me inside and asked for my credit card. She also insisted I buy the slingback gold heels to complete the look.
Mrs. Eisenberg squeezes my hand hard. I swallow, and my voice catches on the peach pit–size lump now in my throat. “Excuse me, excuse me, can I start over?” I shake my head vigorously and take an enormous inhale and exhale to steady my nerves. Three of the four judges are looking at me expectantly, their wrinkled foreheads telling me to get on with it. Only Ash speaks up, encouraging me to take my time and noting thatInnovation Nationhas a whole slew of editors for this exact reason. I nod and will the tears I feel pooling not to drop. Creatives are emotional, entrepreneurs are not, and though you need to employ both to make it as a founder, today my tough, resilient side must lead the way.
“I am Antonia Arroyo, founder and CEO of Brown Butter, Baby! a lotion company dedicated to meetingyouat yourhue.” I pause for dramatic effect and to let the tagline settle into the hearts of the judges. I notice the two women write the motto down, or add to their grocery list—it’s never been revealed to the audience what the judges actually scribble on their notepads. Of the roughly thirty-two catchy taglines I came up with and collected from my airport family, this one was the unanimous winner. Turns out Dieting Donna is quite the clever wordsmith. I haven’t told her that out of all the entries, I chose her catchphrase. I want her to be surprised when the show airs.
Feeling a wind catch my confidence, I blow wide open with my most endearing grin and announce, “Brown Butter, Baby! is a lotion company with inclusivity in mind.” All the judges nod in approval of my mission and hopefully of me.
“Today I am here seeking three hundred thousand in investment for 20 percent of Brown Butter, Baby!. I have with me the first four ofmy signature shades to help women of all ethnicities celebrate their skin color because contrary to centuries of history, white is not always right.” I had worried a bit about using that line, but Mrs. Eisenberg assured me of the importance of making bold statements when presenting to investors. She insisted this is how a fledgling CEO comes across as assured in the future viability of her company, particularly for women who tend to undersell their worth. I see one side of Ash’s mouth turn up at the corner in approval, but the other three judges sit stone still. The poise I am working to project starts to waver, and I flex my leg muscles to solidify myself on the stage.
On episode six of last season, Dwayne Washington said to the entire country that retailers are looking for Black female company founders, so while I may have botched my opening line, I have that ace in my back pocket. Simon and the tattoo guru don’t. I look right and then left down my row of women. Zwena, my mom, and Mrs. Eisenberg are my true winning hand, my dream team. The squad that got me to this stage. Zwena who, with youthful enthusiasm often reminds me that I can do anything I set my mind to and is the first to wave away my excuses. My mother who, though taking on her first full-time job at sixty-five, has finally learned to honor her brain and mine. Me, who has taken note from Gloria that it’s a beneficial bonus that my smarts come wrapped in a well-groomed package. A little lipstick never hurt any woman’s cause. And finally, Mrs. Eisenberg. A woman who taught me that forward momentum is a superpower. Whether I walk through fire, a forest, or the walls I have erected around myself, I just need to keep walking. One foot in front of the other. One bite of life after another. These three women are responsible for getting me here, and thank God I was finally at a point in my life where I was sharp enough to listen and follow their lead.
“The first lotion I would like to introduce you to”—I pause to let my words sink in—“is called Zwena.” I turn my head left to see Zwena’s mouth open enough to trap flies in surprise. “Go ahead,” I encourage with a lift of my chin, hoping she will catch my drift to walk over toher display case with the newly labeled lotion. This morning while my dream team was settling into our dressing room and speculating about my evening, I pulled our assigned intern aside to appeal to her “can do” attitude and asked if she could quietly print new labels for me. Five minutes later she returned with what I asked for. I then crept to where my product was staged and slapped the new labels onto the crowd-facing Brown Butter, Baby! jars without letting on to my ladies what was to shortly be revealed. I tick off a list of sensuous adjectives to describe the hue of Zwena as my best friend unscrews the top, beaming with pride. I tilt and turn my head just enough to spy her image on the screen holding the open jar, and even I’m impressed with how well the cream matches Zwena’s rich skin, still smooth from only twenty-eight years on this planet.
“Next isGloria,” I say, releasing my mom’s hand so she knows it’s time to take her walk across the stage. Mrs. Eisenberg squeezes my hand again, and this time I know it’s in approval. She sees what I’ve done renaming my skin shades and, as my mentor, I sense she is full of pride. With a twinkle in her eye, my mom glides across the stage like it’s the Miss Puerto Rico pageant runway that she was always meant to walk. The slow sway of her hips and swing of her arms takes up valuable seconds, but I am more than happy to let her have her moment in the spotlight. I know, between the four of us, she is enjoying it the most.
“Then we haveAntonia.” I look to Mrs. Eisenberg to confirm with her that I have to let go. She nods, letting me know she is steady with her cane, and drops my hand.
“Nowthat’sa Boss Lady,” Mrs. Eisenberg declares to the judges and the entire nation before giving me a little push toward my own display case. The judges chuckle, allowing for a moment of levity since my botched introduction.
Standing firmly in place, Mrs. Eisenberg is the only one left center stage, in a purple power pantsuit and pressed lavender shirt to match her grandson’s. Her eyelids droop closed and my stomach flutters, the scene in the airport when Mrs. Eisenberg fell into my arms racing through mymind. I’m about to hurry to her side when her eyes pop back open and her smile grows wide, embracing the whole room. Before I can say my next line, she announces to the panel of judges as she saunters over to her display case, “And this is theSylvia.” As practiced, Mrs. Eisenberg rests her cane against the case, picks up her lotion, and unscrews the top without a hitch from arthritis or hint of her recent stroke. “And you all would be idiots not to invest in Brown Butter, Baby!. This here is the future of the beauty industry, and you do not want to miss it.” I should have known Mrs. Eisenberg would not go quietly across that stage, particularly in her position as the punctuation to my product presentation. Standing by our designated display cases, there is not much more for me to say that would enhance Mrs. Eisenberg’s final words. We are a skin rainbow, representing the first dedicated lotion company to celebrate just that, and it is an honor to have done it with my mom, Zwena, and Mrs. Eisenberg.
The taped moving box of my jars is weighty on my legs, but I rest my cheek on top of it, my head too heavy to hold up as we crawl through Los Angeles traffic on the way to the airport. My mom is rubbing my back, and Mrs. Eisenberg is dabbing at my eyes with her embroidered handkerchief. Zwena is in the front seat with the Uber driver carrying on an inane conversation about the weather, I’m sure to distract him from chatting with the three of us in the back seat about where we are from and what we were up to in LA. Though Zwena knows little about meteorology, she is informed enough to bring up the troubling threat of drought, and I’m relieved we’ll be conversationally safe until we reach Departures. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I have no interest in answering it. Most likely it’s not Lou or Coco, so it’s either Simon or Ash, neither of whom I have any desire to talk to.
“If we have time after we check the box as luggage, let’s go to a bar near our gate. I’m thirsty,” Zwena says as we inch toward the firstUnited sign, our Uber driver jockeying for a place to safely pull over and unload us.
“I think that would be wise,” Mrs. Eisenberg concludes, placing one of her hands over my mother’s that hasn’t left my back, both seeming to make sure my heart is still beating.
I added a few stats to my company spiel about future projections after Mrs. Eisenberg’s proclamation that the judges best make the smart move and invest in me. The four of us stood like warrior statues by our display cases, me ready to answer, deflect, or lob back any challenge that came my way. While I was excited at the prospect of negotiating, all I really cared about was walking away with a deal where I retained at least 75 percent ownership of Brown Butter, Baby! coupled with a somewhat decent cash infusion. I know I don’t know what I don’t know when it comes to scaling a consumer products company, and that I am at the beginning of my journey, therefore I need a lot of experienced guidance. I have skin in the game, but no ego. Any of these four judges would help me accelerate Brown Butter, Baby! tenfold and I wanted all of them, but only needed one of them.
Instead, the studio had fallen silent. I looked side stage for our intern to check that I didn’t miss a signal to stop filming on set, hence the quiet of the judges. As I searched for her, she was nowhere to be seen. I turned back to make eye contact with the female judge directly in front of me. As she cleared her throat, I said a silentthank you Godfor being saved by a sister in spirit, and then she hit her buzzer and proceeded to give a thirty-second monologue on why she was not sold on Brown Butter, Baby!. The veteran followed with nothing other than, “I’m not sold either,” and the pound of his buzzer stung my ears. He then fussed with his tie, not even paying attention to what played out in the remaining minutes of the season finale.
Ash flung what felt like a couple of softball questions my way about research and development and end-of-year projections. I answered earnestly, but his possible investment in Brown Butter, Baby! died after his mild line of questioning as he averted his eyes and hesitantly pressedhis buzzer. My future was now left in the hands of the one remaining female judge who had yet to speak. I could only pray this moment was scripted to ensure a tension-filled season finale.
With the clock running out, the last judge took on the persona of a compassionate albeit condescending patron and wished me the best of luck, but that my company wastoo, tooearly-stage and I wastoo, tooinexperienced for her level of comfort. And the last buzzer of Season 18 shook the studio.
The flight passed in a blur, and right on time, Krish is curbside to pick Zwena up from SFO. Seeing us, he inches his car forward and parks under the sign that saysANY UNATTENDED VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AT THE OWNER’S EXPENSEand hops out to jog over and give me a hug. I don’t need to ask if Zwena has filled Krish in on what happened. From the strength of his embrace, I know she has, and I leave my head resting on Krish’s chest for a couple of long, reassuring moments.
When I finally let go of Krish, Zwena asks him for the keys so she can take the wheel of his unattended vehicle. She directs him to retrieve my heavy box of lotions spinning around carousel twelve. I would have left the box, my interest in taking my lotions home being zero, but Zwena informs me that a single, unclaimed cardboard box with a raggedy tape job would likely set off an airport-wide alert. The last thing I need on this day is to add the monikerterroristnext toloser.
Mrs. Eisenberg had been uncharacteristically quiet when nursing her chardonnay at the LAX bar, resting her head on the plane with closed eyes, and greeting Livy mildly at SFO. Twenty-four hours ago, the four of us chatted lively on our way to the airport. In contrast, this evening as Livy pulls into my driveway, barely a dozen words have been exchanged in forty minutes, none of them from Mrs. Eisenberg.
Without my having to ask, my mom gets out of the car with me to spend the night. She takes my phone to text Frances Antonelli a lie that our flight has been severely delayed and can she keep Coco and Lou until morning. Mrs. Eisenberg reaches her right hand out of the passenger-side window and grabs on to my sleeve. With all her strength shepulls my upper body over to her, our heads now face-to-face through the open window. Mrs. Eisenberg’s expression is serious with a resolve I have never witnessed before.
Waving her fingers, pleading for me to put my hands in hers, she grasps me tightly. I’m concerned she may never let me go, and my achy, tired brain is desperate for Advil.
I can feel Mrs. Eisenberg is anxious to transfer every ounce of conviction and faith she carries in her body through her hand and into me. I hate being the one who has created such palpable worry in a woman whose only concern should be getting her health back in shape so she can return to her beloved Arizona this coming winter.
“This is not the end, Antonia.” Mrs. Eisenberg’s eyes beg me to believe her. “I promise you, this is not the end.”
