“Chalupa?” Marisol mouths to me and shakes her head while Roan cackles at his own Mother Goose rhyme. She points to herself, then to me. I point back to her and vigorously nod my head yes; the Latina should clarify Mexican culture to the Irish marrying a Jew. This Jamaican is out.
“It’s called a chuppah, not a chalupa, you lapsed Catholic. That’s what you’ll be standing under when you marry your Jewish bean counter from Jersey. You didn’t learn this before you packed up your fabulous single-in-San-Francisco life and moved here to settle down? A chalupa is what you eat at the summer street fair in Santa Ana,” Marisol explains with a hint of really? in her voice. “You know, that one day a year when rosary-wielding devout grandmas are okay selling overpriced Mexican food smothered in queso to men roaming their neighborhood hand in hand,” Marisol offers for added context. “Abuela’s rationalizing of course, not mine.”
Roan tips his chin in full understanding. As director of admissions, the gatekeeper of diversity and inclusion at Royal-Hawkins, the fact that Roan has mixed up the two cultural traditions should be unnerving, but it’s not. Whenever Roan shatters his cover of cultural competency, he simply chalks it up to being an equal opportunist. Jewricans, Mexipeans, Blaurvians—Roan loves them all. And he’s made love to them all, as he takes every opportunity to brag. That’s why Marisol and I are waiting to buy our dresses for the wedding until forty-eight hours before go time.
“Whatever it’s called, we’re going to slay. Everyone’s going to be so jealous. I can’t wait.”
“Building your wedding ceremony based on best angles and a jealous audience, that touches me deeply.” I tap my heart with my index and middle finger. “I’ll remember to bring tissues for the Hallmark moment.”
“Everyone personalizes their wedding in their own special way.” Roan raises his glass for a snarky salud.
“Gotta down and dash.” Marisol finishes her last sip. “If I don’t hit the grocery store before I get home, my family will be eating meat-lover’s pizza for the fourth night in a row. A vegetable has not passed a Garcia mouth in days. My thirteen-year-old is growing chest hair, and the can of Glade in the bathroom is empty. Why I didn’t hire a nanny who can cook is beyond me. A decade in I can’t fire Spanny, though. The boys are too attached, and she irons Jaime’s boxers. They have a little thing.” Roan raises his eyebrows at Marisol.
“It’s okay,” Marisol assures, waving off Roan’s concern, “she’s inching close to sixty and is as wide as she is tall. And even if they were having an affair, I’d have to turn the other cheek. I can’t parent without her,” Marisol admits, knowing her family train doesn’t run without Super Nanny as the engine.
“Can I get a ride, Sol? Roan drove me here. My car’s getting a massive tune-up so I can drive it for two more years and then pass it on to Xandra. She needs something to drive when she’s home from boarding school.”
“You’re a head of school now, why are you still driving around in that duct-taped jalopy?” Marisol questions. “You’re making bank, it’s time to start treating yourself.”
“I was planning to cheat on fashion with new furniture and a new car this year, but the financial aid office at Pemberley School got hip to my new salary bracket. Higher salary, no financial aid package. Between that, the nonrefundable custom-made sectional I had already ordered, and my dad staying with me since August and showing no signs of leaving, I gotta keep the jalopy in fighting shape.” Since Mom died and Clive moved to London for a two-year stint for work but fell in love and stayed for a Somali PhD student at Oxford, I think my father has been lonely in Queens. Each visit to Pasadena has become longer and longer to the point now that I only buy him one-way tickets.
“Damn those FAFSA forms. Okay, hustle if you want a ride! My two gamers and their father will grow restless if I’m not home with some grub to throw in front of them.” Marisol hands my nail technician my flip-flops to slip onto my feet so we can waddle out of here without jacking up our paint job.
“Nina, hope you’re back to your old self soon. This whole half-healthy thing is not a good look on you. Royal-Hawkins needs you on point,” Roan says as I shrug into my caramel-hue sleeveless duster that hits me perfectly midcalf; a staple piece from my closet I’ll never toss out.
“Awww, thanks, Roan.” Finally, someone who loves me acknowledges I haven’t been feeling my best self.
“Those pants you’re wearing,” he says with a small shake of his head. “They scream ‘I quit. Game over.’”
I’m horrified at Roan’s take on my high-waisted navy harem pants. Despite boarding school’s claim on my paycheck, I’ve been trying to up my style to match my salary bracket from what Marisol calls my “bank branch manager look.” Even if I don’t feel like I own the Royal-Hawkins boardroom, I need to look like I do. I paired my harem pants with gold heels, a fitted off-white silk tank top, and a chunky walnut wood bracelet. I think the ensemble is fabulous New York eighties throwback chic, minus the shoulder pads. I look to Marisol to have my fashion back.
“Sí, mami. Basta. That outfit is done. Never go shopping without me again. And that includes online. Leo’s gone, and you’ve put your whole sexuality on lockdown so soon after you got it up and running again. Is that how you’re going to survive not getting any?”
“Roan, you’re never invited back to our sip and clip club again. Today was considered a tryout, and the committee of me has unanimously decided you failed miserably,” I say, taking back the conversation. “And Marisol, you’re now on club probation. One more infraction and you, too, get the boot.”
“Uh, I own the spas and the alcohol you consume, so no, I’m not going anywhere. Besides, drinking alone is not a good look.” Marisol turns my hands over several times, making sure Clean Slate store number eight has done an up-to-standard job, and then she gives me the let’s go thumb. “Nor is it considered a club; it’s considered a problem.”
Roan leans forward enough to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Go home and rest, Nina. You’ve lost your sense of humor and your sense of style.”
SIX
A few more days of this and I’m going to get worried,” Marisol declares, circling her finger at me. “Are you sure you’re starting to feel better?”
I give Marisol the universal maybe head bobble.
“Now that we’ve ditched Roan, tell me about the board meeting last night,” Marisol says, starting the car. We use our Friday spa dates to catch up on school gossip, but with Roan in tow today I had to keep some semblance of professionalism.
Even though Marisol’s a parent at Royal-Hawkins, she was my friend first. An only child, Marisol Santiago was raised by her Mexican grandparents in Queens one apartment building over from mine. Being from Mexico, and living in New York, she was not only a long way from home, but the Mexican community was so tiny that Marisol and her grandparents were ruefully removed from their roots. So, the day I met her I brought Marisol home, and my family welcomed her with open arms. My family wasn’t much better off than hers, but my parents were just hitting their stride in the US and managed to always have enough so Marisol could be included. She came with us to church and to Jamaican festivals where she learned to love reggae more than her grandparents’ preferred Tejano music. Everywhere we went, Marisol came too. In fact, Marisol spent so much time with us that my father began affectionately referring to his adopted Mexican daughter as his little Chaco Taco.