She angles her phone in my face, scrolling through a store shop made up of lampshades, throw pillows, mug coasters, everything the color of white granite with the occasional shimmering minimalist metallic design. All the models are thin, with light-colored skin, able-bodied, traditionally pretty according to Western beauty standards, and they wear nothing but flowing, silky clothes in beige and white.
It’s boring as hell.
I force a smile on my face. “That’s so great—”
Lani interrupts me by pulling up a photo of a house. “There she is,” she breathes, thrusting the image too close to my eyes.
I back up, letting my vision focus. “Your dream home?” I squeal. I can’t really tell what it looks like, since the view is aerial.But it’s got a Spanish tile roof, with a pool in the back that overlooks the ocean. It’s massive, probably with ten bedrooms or something like that. “But…” My voice deflates when I notice that the landscaping looks weird. The property’s covered in palm trees, the kind you only see in places that don’t get deep frosts in the winter. “You’re leaving.” When I finally realize what she’s telling me, my stomach sinks. My shoulders tighten. My heart begins to beat too fast, too loud.
Leilani grins. “And I have you to thank.”
“Me?” I can barely get the word out. Lani doesn’t notice.
“Remember how Nadia was doing all that research on your ancestry? And she mentioned those caves they had found in that area of Texas where she thought you guys were from?”
“It was rock art. Not caves.”
Leilani shrugs. “Either way, I did some research of my own.” She pulls up another image on her phone, one of ancient Indigenous paintings. People from long ago, people who may have well been the ancestors to us Flores women, ground minerals and used them to paint sacred designs into rocks. I remember Nadia’s excitement when she first saw them. How some of the paints glittered with gold—a sign to our family that a deity is close by. How some of the forms resemble what Nadia says are the old gods.
Lani holds one of her new bookmarks side by side with the phone photo, pulling me away from that memory. “My mom’s friend? She saw these and hired me instantly.” She smiles and shrugs. “It never would’ve happened without you, Teal.”
I can’t keep my eyes from the photo versus the bookmark. It’s…it’s thesameimage. Obviously the materials are different. In the original, mineral paint sits atop a rock somewhere in southern Texas. In Leilani’s bookmark, it’s embroidered with metallic thread. But both designs are of geometric patterns, some formedinto what resembles human figures. Or maybe the old ones, like Nadia believes.
I can envision it now. A white woman in California is going to order these from this homogenous Instagram-influencer accessory store, for her book club, also full of white women. They will gush over the design. They will pat themselves on the back for supporting a female artist of color. They probably will assume Leilani is Indigenous herself. Even though she is not. She is a white Latina, with most of her ancestry from France. She has never even been interested in her Puerto Rican heritage.
Just everyone else’s.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, as deep and dangerous as a hungry jaguar.
Leilani doesn’t hear it. She tosses her hair and puts her phone away. “Like I said, Teal. The universe is inmotion. This is just the next stage oflovefor me. The unconditional love of thisworld.”
Lightning flares across the sky so big and bright, there are a few startled gasps all around us. Even Leilani blinks out of her the-universe-is-only-love stupor. “Yikes, it looks like it’s going to rain.”
“So when do you leave?” My voice is quiet. I’m trying to count by breaths, but it’s hard.
“Aren’t you listening to me? That’s the big news. That’s what’s happening this week, that my mom and I were talking about?” She laughs. “I leave on Thursday. I’ll be completely moved in by Saturday.”
The wind picks up all around us, making the tents’ fabric crack like whips. I need to get a handle on this. I begin to deep-breathe again.
Leilani watches me closely. “Why aren’t you happy for me?”
“Give me a minute.” I gesture to the weather.
“Oh, right.” Lani rolls her eyes, which does not help my mood. I turn away from her, desperately pulling the most calming images I can while doing my four-beat-inhales and eight-beat-exhales. I imagine myself on the beach, lying down on a towel while sipping a mojito. Me dancing with my sisters at the wedding.
Carter’s hand on mine, as his voice counts with me.
When I open my eyes, the sky has cleared. The dark clouds aren’t completely gone, but it doesn’t feel like a thunderstorm is upon us anymore.
Leilani’s closing a transaction with a customer.
“That was almost bad,” the lady says, taking the bag of culturally appropriated bookmarks, gesturing to the receding dark line of clouds.
Lani laughs as the lady turns away, but when she angles her face back toward mine, the laugh, the smile, everything isgone, just like that. Her expression is forlorn. “And that, Teal, is why I really need to speak the truth of my heart.” She takes my hand in hers and begins speaking slowly, as though I were a small child. “I’m creative director of a thriving company. I got here on my own, without any help. And I just need to cut any and all negative energy from my life now.”
I snap my hand back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighs and lifts her hand, pointing at me like that explains everything. “That’s what I’m talking about. You with your anger and your”—she lowers her voice—“bipolardisorder. You’ve been dragging me down for years and I didn’t make the connection until both my aromatherapist and guardian angel connected the dots for me. They said I’m a hashtag girl boss now, and all my old so-called friends have to go. You see, Saturn is in myninthhouse. You probably don’t know—”
