Seriously?I stifle the retort that springs to my lips:says the lady in a track suit and orthopedic sandals.
I can’t tell if this is a battle I should fight, or if I’m feeling extra stubborn because the Cronies have had all the victories lately. But this is about doing my job and ensuring a higher quality of life for my grandmother and her friends. If that means going out with a hot doctor with my makeup overly done and hair extra coiffed, so be it.
I’m determined, but so are my trio of grannies, who take it a step further—as they so often do—turning me away from the mirror so I can’t argue as they apply. Without letting me check my reflection so I can see what they’ve done, they escort me to my room where I discover Rita’s brought me a dress, proving the conversation about what I should wear was all a ruse.
I’m shaking my head at the rows of fringe and high slit, the crimson red color with glittering beads, and conjuring reasons I’m absolutely not wearing that. “Wow, it’s beautiful, but it looks like something one would wear to a dance competition.”
“It is.” Rita charges inside my room, beaming as she lifts the dazzling number off the bed and drapes it over me. “I wore it the last time I performed andlook, it fits!”
“I’m not so sure—”
“We’ll give you privacy to change.” Grandma Helen closes the door before I can argue, and I’m getting sorely outplayed here.
As I shimmy into the dress and crane my arm around to zip the back, dozens more explanations about how I can’t wear anything like this to a modern-day club crop up.
Until I turn to check my reflection in the mirror. Darker beads create a flattering diagonal design from shoulder to hip, and the corners of my cherry-red lips lift at the swish of beaded fringe.
It’s so over-the-top and glittery and…sexy. Even better, it makes me feel the same, a rare sensation for me.I’m not actually debating wearing this for date night, am I?
“Are you done yet?” Grandma’s muffled question comes through the door.
“Let us see, let us see,” Wanda chants, and I’d bet money she’s the one twisting the knob, a breath away from barging in.
I smooth a hand down the front. “It’s on.”
The three of them rush inside the room, nearly colliding as they proudly survey their work. The makeup is both bolder and not as bold as I expected, the shade of red lipstick actually complementing my skin tone, while my smoky eye smokes two packs a day. This dress, however, will never be anything but attention grabbing, and I usually try to do the opposite, especially out in public.
“Well, she’s certainly not overburdened with clothing,” Grandma Helen says, and if I can get her on my side, I’ll have a better chance at leaving in a different dress.
“Sí, no restrictive fabric. For the dirty dancing.” The devilish gleam in Rita’s eyes matches her grin, yet there’s a dreamy quality in the mix as well. “My dances with Rafael were always so choreographed and precise, which is why he tried to convince me to sneak away to the club one night. He gave me a preview—spun me around and around and then dipped me so low my hair brushed the ground…”
All three women sigh, and whoops, I accidentally do, too.
“Never before nor since has a man made me feel like such a woman. I wish I would’ve gone dancing with him, nothing but us and the music, just for one night.”
Yeeeah, I’m totally going to end up wearing this.
“One last touch.” Rita surges forward, a red rose hairclip poised in her fingertips. She secures a section of my hair, steps back to observe her handiwork, and throws her hand over her heart. “So beautiful.”
“Thank you, but I’m worried this might cross into cultural appropriation territory.”
“Oh, you kids and your made-up words,” Grandma Helen huffs, and then the ring of the doorbell sends my pulse out of whack.
“He’s here,” I blurt, spinning in search of shoes and finding my black slingbacks with the chunky heels.
Then we’re all exiting my room and clogging the hall, and I’m struggling to step into my shoes. I reach down and adjust the straps, contemplating taking off like a sprinter from the starting blocks to get to the door before they do. But the space is too narrow and, despite the fact that I can see over the tops of their heads, the three of them create a surprisingly formidable blockade.
While these interfering grannies think I need to relax to enjoy life, being busy and in control of each and every aspect of itiswhat makes me happy.
Wearing an outfit that shouts I’m trying too hard, not so much.
“We just want you to show her a nice, respectable time,” Grandma Helen says to Dr. Carlos Vasquez the second they open the door.
Wanda sways in his direction a beat after, cupping a hand to her mouth and stage-whispering, “Nottoorespectable, though.”
Rita rocks onto her toes to pat his cheek. “Pretend like you’re in a Havana club in Cuba and it’s your life’s mission to show this beautiful young woman how to dance.”
Heat crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks, and I shove my way between Rita and the entryway table. “Okay, I think that’s enough embarrassing me for the evening.”
