“Carola,” Abuela chastises. “Language. The girls.” But it’s too late. The little sponges are giggling uncontrollably, chanting in unison, “Titi Luisa’s full of shit. Titi Luisa’s full of shit.”
I’d be pissed, if they weren’t so freaking cute.
“She’s doing that thing with her upper lip.” Carola points one finger at my face. “It curls when she’s lying.”
“What thing?” I spit back.
“That lip thing,” she says, mirroring my face by pinching and twisting her upper lip with her fingers. “Augusto, back me up.”
“I’m staying out of it,” he groans. My sister glares at him, then punches him in the left arm. I punch him in the right for not defending me. “Owww!” He rubs at his biceps, then glances at my lips, stifling a laugh.
“You suck,” I hiss.
“What’s going on, Luisa?” Mami glowers at me across the table.
“I…” I clear my throat, trying to find a way to spin my unemployment situation into something that doesn’t make me sound like a total failure. My sister beats me to the punch. She gasps, bringing her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
“You got fired,” she cries out, like some bruja mind reader. “Oh no, Luisa.” She winces.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I protest, slamming both hands hard against the table.
“Language,” Abuela scolds. “Really, mija? And on your birthday?” she adds, her voice softening with pity, because apparently all the women in my family are mind readers—except me, that is.
“Is this true?” Mami demands. “Did you get fired?” The answer must be written on my upper lip as Carola keenly observed. But it’s Mami’s next question that sends me flying straight over the edge: “What did you do?”
Because of course, to my mother, this is somehow my fault.
“I don’t know.” I huff, pushing back my chair. The legs scrape against the hardwood floors. “Apparently, I’m a hunk of Swiss cheese. I have to pee.”
My feet stumble to the bathroom, where I lock the door behind me. I pull down my jeans and sit on the toilet to pee—and think.
Why was I fired?That’s the million-dollar question.
I take out my phone and search “Griggs Caldecott Johnson III.” His company’s website comes up first. There’s an announcement for a banquet—which starts in an hour—celebrating National Philanthropy Day at Dogwood Hills Country Club. Griggs Caldecott Johnson III is receiving a Young Philanthropist award from the mayor.
I click on various links, featuring the GCJ Foundation’s work with about two dozen affordable housing and urban development organizations. Some of them I’ve heard of: Glendale Community Gardens, Homewood Village, and the new housing development near the stadium. Others aren’t familiar at all, but the list makes one thing clear: this man is everywhere.
Suddenly, I’m feeling very sorry for myself and wondering if Nina was right. Maybe I allowed my affection for the Castillos to cloud my judgment and I missed the obvious: The old man sold the farm and spent the cash. He was probably too embarrassed to tell his son. Heck, look at my own dad and how much he managed to hide from us in plain sight. Guilt and shame can make good people do terrible things—even destroy their family’s lives in the process.
“Luisa,” Carola whispers through the locked bathroom door. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” I sigh, exasperated, browsing through the Dogwood Hills Facebook page, which hasn’t been updated in years. Why do they even bother keeping the thing active? Still, I select the Photos section.
“Let me in!” Carola jiggles the door handle. “Pleeeease.”
Ugh. I lean forward, unlock the door, and open it a crack. Carola squeezes inside.
“Are you done?” she asks, ignoring my question. “I need to pee.”
“Why don’t you use the bathroom upstairs?” I pull up my underwear and jeans, then move to the sink to wash my hands.
“This one’s closer.” She laughs at herself, a little tipsy, then sits on the toilet. “Why didn’t you tell us you got fired? I would’ve done your hair real nice. A little pick-me-up.”
I dry my hands, then reach for my phone to scroll through old photos of the club, mostly weddings and golf tournaments, until I find my answer.
“What the fuck?” I hear myself cry out. “What the fucking fuck? That fucker!”
“Who?” Carola demands. “Who’s a fucker?”
