“Oh. Well, maybe we can do something next weekend.”
She studies me for a moment. “I think I’d rather just keep things simple, if that’s okay, but thanks for the ride, Millie.”
That night, after Malik and I proofread each other’s AP Psych essays, I open up my notebook to dig into my journalism-camp personal statement again. For background noise, I turn onThe Princess Diaries. I never get tired of the way Julie Andrews saysGenovia.
“Genovia.” I let each syllable drag, trying to pronounce it as regally as she does.
What would Julie Andrews write? Just as I pick up my pen, ready to channel the one and only Ms. Andrews, my phone buzzes.
CALLIE: I guess y’all could come over to my dad’s.
CALLIE: It’s far.
CALLIE: Probably not even worth the drive.
I laugh to myself. Surely by now Callie has to know that an out-of-town drive is no match for my determination. Especially in the face of an impending birthday.
MILLIE: You’re talking to the girl who once road tripped hours on a school night for a Dolly Parton drag show. Your dad’s house is barely an hour away. We’ll be there.
CALLIE: Wow. Dolly. Parton. Drag. Show. Those are four words I never expected you to say in one sentence.
MILLIE: Don’t tell my mom, but it was more life-affirming than any sermon I’ve ever heard.
CALLIE: Millie, Millie, Millie. Always breaking your mama’s rules.
I drop my phone onto my desk and gasp. “That’s it!” It’s a true eureka moment.
I take my GIRL BOSS pencil and begin to write.
Sometimes we have to break the rules to get what we want. But now I think it’s time we change them.
Callie
Twenty-Six
My abuela’s house is a tiny three-bedroom bungalow on acres of land. Soon after my parents divorced, my abuelo died on a Sunday afternoon while taking a nap in front of the TV. I don’t remember him as well as Claudia does. My great-grandmother, who was still alive at the time, said at the funeral that he left this world much more peacefully than he entered it. And I guess if you’re going to die (because we all have to eventually), that’s a good way to go.
After he died, though, Abuela couldn’t let go of this house she’d spent almost her entire married life in, so rather than forcing her into something she didn’t want to do, my dad moved back home to take care of the house and the property—and Abuela too, even if she swears she doesn’t need it.
My dad grabs my bag from out of the truck bed, and I follow him inside through the kitchen door on the side of the house.
“She’s here!” my dad calls as he walks in.
Abuela pushes past him and proceeds to squeeze my cheeks and then almost every other part of my body that’ssqueezable. Sometimes I think my abuela’s memory is all in her hands, and if she can’t touch it, she’ll never truly know it. “Please tell me why the hell you haven’t called to update me on your life. Everything I hear is secondhand information. Callie broke up with her boyfriend. Callie has a new job. Callie has new friends.”
I look up at her. “Because I’m an awful person? And really with the guilt trip?”
Abuela waves me off and then hugs me. “Well, if you’ve got any awful in you, it’s from your grandfather’s side of the family.”
I chuckle. I think she and my great-grandmother were the original frenemies.
It’s easy to just melt into Abuela’s embrace. She’s a towering woman with broad shoulders and hands so big she can balance a pizza in each of them. Mama calls her the Mexican-American reincarnation of Katharine Hepburn, and it’s true. Her deep, lightly accented voice commands attention. Her style is definitively utilitarian while still looking put together and somehow ethereal. And even though her once caramel-colored hair is grayer than it used to be, her shoulder-length natural waves still perfectly frame her long, narrow face.
My dad, though, carries my grandfather’s genes, with slightly darker hair and skin and a shorter, stout physique. He’s living proof that you don’t have to be tall to get the girl. What he’s lacking in height he makes up for in game. He’s a total flirt. You should see him with the lady at thegrocery-store customer service desk. It’s pretty amusing until I remember he’s my dad.
I look over Abuela’s shoulder to see a frying pan of migas, my favorite, and her Texas-shaped waffle maker warming on the counter. Breakfast for dinner is almost as good as dessert for dinner. “Oh my God. Feed me before I waste away.”
“That’s the plan,” she says.
