Amadeo’s head jerks up. “You invited her?” He tosses the orange back in the bowl. Fruit flies rise in irritation, then settle. “What about a quiet night, just us?”
Yolanda snatches the orange and drops it in the trash. “Of course I invited Valerie. She’s my daughter. She’s your sister. You need to be nice.” As an afterthought, she dumps the rest of the contents of the bowl, too, then looks at each of them sternly. “This place is a mess.”
“We didn’t know when you were getting home,” Amadeo says. “You could’ve called. Things were really busy here. With Good Friday and all. And it’s hard for me to clean and stuff.” He lifts his hands. “Plus, it wasn’t just me making a mess.”
Angel casts him a dirty look across the counter. “I tried to keep it clean, Gramma. I did the dishes literally eight times in a row, but he had to take a turn, too. And I have my program and I’m doing my GED, and Brianna says we got to prioritize—”
“They’re the same thing,” Amadeo interrupts. “The program is for the GED.”
“No, it’s also to learn baby development. Also my back’s been hurting and I’m tired all the time. You know how it is, Gramma.”
They both feel entitled to be here in her home, and it surprises Yolanda that she doesn’t necessarily think they are. “Things have to change around here. By the time this wonderful little baby comes, we are not going to be living like animals.”
They groan, but without conviction. Really, they’re relieved. They’ve been waiting for her, Yolanda realizes, waiting for her to put their lives in order. She will right what’s wrong, referee their contests, soothe their hurts and uncertainties. She’s raised babies before. No one loves these two more than Yolanda does, and she will know how to proceed. She looks into their grouchy, childish faces, and sighs.
Amadeo’s sister apparently doesn’t notice that he isn’t speaking to her and hasn’t since her obnoxious gift last Christmas. When Valerie comes in, her arms filled with bulging shopping bags tearing at the sides, the first thing she does is drop it all and hug him before he can dodge. Still gripping his arms, she steps back and takes Amadeo in. He almost can’t look at her: the absurdly long hair hanging loose, the oversized earrings, her draping black dress, the ambiguously ethnic scarf. And that superior forbearing expression, as if she’s willing to humor him, but only up to a point. “Good to see you, little brother.”
Amadeo nods coolly but she misses it, because she’s already turned to Angel. “Oh my god, Angelica! Let me see you! You’re enormous!”
Angel ducks her head, pleased and a little shy. “Hey, Aunt Val.”
Valerie hugs her, then crosses the living room to switch off the television. Two years ago Valerie got rid of her TV. If she’s not making a big show of ignorance whenever someone mentions The Bachelor or a piece of celebrity gossip, then she’s going on about some project one of the girls has done with the endless stores of time and intellect and creativity endemic to television-free households. “I don’t know how you guys can hear yourselves think with that thing going all the time,” she says, dusting off her hands.
Armed with a brand new master’s degree, Valerie is now a counselor in the Albuquerque public school system, and is therefore an expert on everything. She took night and weekend classes for three years, and for three years she swanned around, sighing and rubbing her temples, talking about how overworked she was. “Full-time job, full-time school, full-time single mom.” She tosses around theories and diagnoses, pressing her lips. “Hmm,” she says, nodding knowingly. “Ah-hah.” She has the maddening tendency to read into even the most banal comments. If, for example, Amadeo says that he wanted to kill the lady with the six hundred coupons in front of him at the checkout, Valerie’s eyebrows will pinch in concern. “Are you having urges to hurt other people, Dodo?” Amadeo’s theory—and god knows he’s no school counselor—is that Valerie never got over his birth, which means she’s spent all but five years of her life resentful.