The Go-Between Page 5

  I’ve mentioned that she’s dramatic, right? But the funny thing is that because she speaks so quickly, what might sound like a speech in English comes off as more like a side comment in Spanish. Speedy Gonzales isn’t really a stereotype; his speech pattern is totally accurate.

  Sometimes we went to Miami for red carpet events, like the Latin Music Awards. My mother liked these a lot more. I never got to go with her to an event—my father was always her date—but really the party started way before she hit the red carpet. Watching my mother get ready for a big awards show was like watching the Fairy Godmother transform Cinderella for the ball. The studio would rent a whole apartment-sized suite for my mother’s team of stylists to come with what my mother called los contendientes, the contenders—a dozen or more dresses that my mother had chosen from runway photos but that she hadn’t actually tried on.

  Each dress had pinned to its garment bag a photo with a corresponding hairstyle: an elaborate updo for a strapless dress with an Old Hollywood feel, a faux bob for a more modern dress with a dramatic asymmetrical hemline, loose beachy waves to soften a tuxedo-style dress. Two giant Louis Vuitton trunks held all her lenceria—the shapewear, bras, and undies that were the perfect undergarments for whatever dress she chose.

  Once my mother had picked her dress (and I’d tried on one or two of the ones she’d rejected), we ordered lunch: burgers for me and my dad, salads for the stylists and glam squad, and one large green juice (sometimes a beet juice with greens) for my mom. She couldn’t risk eating and being bloated on the big day. Then after lunch, the jewelry guys arrived, men in dark suits with earphones subtly tucked into their shirt collars. They looked like a presidential detail, the Secret Service or FBI agents, but their black leather suitcases gave them away. They were carrying hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds. #Blingbaby.

  That was the extent of my American experience. We never went to schools or even malls. When we went to restaurants, we were whisked from our SUV to private dining rooms. Which is all to say that as our plane touched down at Santa Monica airport, it occurred to me that as many times as I had visited the US, it was always under the steam of my mother’s work. I did not have and had never made an American friend. I did not know American girls my own age except for the ones I had watched on TV dramas about boarding schools and about girls in small towns who might or might not be guilty of murder. That being said, I knew, maybe more than most, just how much you shouldn’t believe everything you saw on TV.

  We flew private to LA, a tiny jet with just eight seats in two mini seating areas, one at the front of the plane and one at the back. The inside of the plane had beautiful, honey-colored leather seats. As we threw our bags into the chairs opposite us, my father and I both took a whiff and said, “Aroma de carro nuevo,” new car smell. Then we looked at each other and said, “Encantado! Me debes un refresco!”

  “Jinx, you owe me a Coke” isn’t really something you say in Mexico, but my dad had learned it in one of his voice-over roles and he, Sergio, and I have been saying it ever since I was a kid.

  My mother wasn’t exactly afraid of flying, but she was superstitious. She always sat in the back of the plane, listening to Spanish covers of the Beatles’ “Blackbird.” Only when she’d heard the song three times through would she come and join me and my father.

  When she finished listening to her song, she came over and squeezed my hand. “This is so exciting! We’re going to Hollywood.”

  “You’re going to Hollywood,” I corrected her. “I’m going to a new school.”

  She didn’t look worried. “But you love school!”

  Not true. “Sergio looooves school. I like school okay.”

  “Like is good,” my mother said, in Spanish, as the flight attendant handed her a Coke Zero. My father had suggested that when we arrived in California, we speak English at home. But we weren’t there yet.

  “I couldn’t stand school,” my mother continued. “I was a bad student.”

  This was something I knew. “But you were beautiful and talented, so you became a rich and famous actress.”

  “I wasn’t so beautiful,” my mother insisted. “And nobody thought I was that talented. In fact, I was pretty average….”

  Como yo. I urged her to complete the sentence. She was pretty average, like me.

  It’s not that it wasn’t true. I knew that I was average. I didn’t want her to lie to me. But not wanting to be lied to isn’t exactly the same thing as wanting to hear the truth.

  My father, sensing a tense moment, jumped in. “So how’s that fellow of yours?”

  I smiled. “He’s good.”

  When I found out we were moving to LA, I made Amadeo promise that we could take a break. Not for my sake, for his. He was a college guy dating a high school girl. I couldn’t help but think that once he fell for someone his own age, that would be it. And I honestly thought that hearing about him falling in love with another girl would be easier if I was twenty-five hundred miles away.

  We were hanging out at my favorite little caf in Coyoácan when I first broached the topic. “You want to date American guys,” he said.

  “It’s not that,” I told him. “You should see other girls. I mean, women. You’re practically old enough to get married.”

  He guffawed. “Married?”

  I smiled. “My mother got married when she was twenty.”

  “So did mine. But that was a different generation.”

  I was insistent. “I still think we should take a break.”

  He leaned in to kiss me. Then when I reached for him, he pulled away.

  “None of that,” he said flirtatiously. “We’re on a break.”

  I scowled. “The break will obviously start after I leave for California.”

  Then he kissed me and said, “You’re going to miss me.”

  “Of course I will,” I answered. “But we can video chat.”

  He said no. “If we’re going on a break, then no calls, no chats. It’s going to be easy for you. You’re going to be in LA, hanging out with movie stars and meeting all those cool American guys. Six months is going to feel like a vacation for you. I’ll be in school, practicing procedures on cadavers. I’ll be lucky if anyone even wants to have coffee with me, as I’ll smell of formaldehyde.”

  I laughed.

  “Voy a ser infeliz,” he said. I’m going to be miserable.

  He said it with so much feeling that I actually believed him.

  Amadeo and I said goodbye so many times in the days leading up to our move. Each time, I promised that I would not call him or text once I got to LA. But the plane was in the air and we hadn’t landed yet. So I figured I was legitimately, and cloud-wise, in the gray zone.

  I went to the back of the plane and hit the video chat screen. When he appeared, he looked more sad than bothered.

  “Cammi, you promised.”

  “But we haven’t landed in LA yet,” I said cheerfully. “Miss me?”

  He sighed. “Sí. Claro que sí.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I have a great idea,” he said. “Let’s not break up.”

  “We are not breaking up!” I told him. “We’re taking un pequeño break.”

  We talked for a few minutes. I kissed the phone again and again. Then we said goodbye, the way we always did.

  “You’re crazy,” he said.

  “And you like it,” I answered, hitting the End Call button.

  Four hours. That’s all it takes to fly from Mexico City to LA. Less than the time it takes to fly from New York to California. But when you’re coming from south of the border, everything is different.

  When we arrived at the Santa Monica airport, an immigration official met our plane and escorted us to a plush lounge. A few minutes later, he returned with our passports and my parents’ work visas. A town car was waiting for us and we were off to the Chateau Marmont, which would be our home away from home until we got settled. We had officially come to the USA. We weren�
�t exactly Mexican immigrants.

  At the hotel, my mother was registered under her real name: Carolina del Valle. No cheeky pseudonym, borrowing the names of Mexican silent-movie stars, like the ones she liked to use when we checked into hotels—Fanny Aritua or Oralia Dominguez.

  My mother’s new show was what they call a backdoor pilot. The character would be introduced through a few cameo appearances on an existing hit show. Then in the summer, when that show went on hiatus, my mother’s show would be introduced.

  The show that my mother would appear on first was called Shot Callers. It was a one-hour drama about four Harvard biz school grads who are all married and living in the suburbs as stay-at-homes. None of the women are using their degrees, and they’re not happy about it. When one of the women’s fathers leaves her a sizable inheritance, they decide to band together and start an online retail business. The business is called Lady Parts, and every month it sends each subscriber a box full of her favorite drugstore items, from tampons to deodorants. The business is a huge success, and that’s where the drama starts.

  The spin-off series begins when Kelly James, one of the main characters on Shot Callers, is cut out of the Lady Parts business. Determined to prove her frenemies wrong, she buys a homemade hot sauce recipe from her maid, María José, played by my mother. The ten-thousand-dollar fee is enough for María José to buy a house—cosigned by Kelly. But it’s not enough for her to quit her job. The new show, called Scoville Units, follows the two characters as the success of Kelly’s Kaboom Sauce forces the women to renegotiate their relationship from employer and domestic to business partners.

  “You see,” my mother said. “It’s not like I’m really a maid. I’m a woman with ambition. Like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl or Jennifer Lawrence in Joy.”

  It didn’t bother me. I didn’t see any stigma attached to my mother playing a maid. It was just another part, right?

  Bright and early the morning after we landed, our real estate agent arrived to show us houses. My parents were hopeful about my mother’s TV role and decided to rent a place for the year to come.

  We took the elevator to the lobby, and I heard the agent before I saw her. “María Carolina Josefina del Valle y Calderón!” she screamed, using my mother’s full birth name in true superfan fashion. “It’s you! You’re even more beautiful in person.”

  The real estate agent was a thirtysomething Latina with dark blond hair, rocking hot-pink lipstick and a bright turquoise sheath dress. Basically, she was like the poster child for my mother’s fans.

  My mother looked so pleased that I was worried that the agent could’ve shown her a one-room shack with a dirt floor and an outhouse and my mother would have said, “Mundial! We’ll take it!”

  The agent’s name was Digna Durán, and when she led us to her car, a black Range Rover, it was my dad’s turn to smile.

  “I love this car. I have one in Mexico. May I drive?” he asked.

  Digna smiled and said, “Sure, why not. I heard your takeover of the Rev Arriba podcast. You know a lot more about cars.”

  As I got into the backseat, I have to say, I was impressed. A lot of people knew about my mother. But to be able to quote an obscure car-fan national radio podcast that my dad hosted every once in a while? Digna Durán was good. In the car, Digna told us she was born in Costa Rica but grew up in Los Angeles.

  My parents were seated in the front, and Digna was in the back with me. She turned to me and said quietly, not so loud that my parents could hear her, “You are so lucky to have Carolina del Valle as your mother.” I tried not to fake wretch. In case I was missing life in Mexico City, here it was, back in my face: “You’ve got a famous mom; you’re a spoiled little MAP” (Mexican American Princess).

  Then Digna said, “You’re so pretty. You’re like a taller version of her.”

  This was not true. But I appreciated the compliment, especially the way that Digna spoke directly and quietly to me. She wasn’t doing what most people did, which was say nice things about me in front of my mother, in an attempt to get on my mother’s good side.

  I’d been to LA on short trips before. When I was very little, my parents took me and Lydia Sepúlveda, my best friend from the second grade, to Disneyland. Then a few times, in the years since, we all came up for a weekend when my mother had an event to attend. Most of the Latin media was in Miami, so we went there far more often.

  I texted Sergio:

  I heart LA. It’s like a country club compared to Mexico City.

  He wrote back:

  Mexico City so dense bc they stole California from us. Remember?

  I smiled. You could count on my brainiac bro to bring up the subject of historical misappropriation. I texted back:

  I thought Switzerland was neutral?

  He wrote:

  Mexican heart. Clocking francs. Money over everything, sis.

  I laughed. Whenever one of us wanted to end a conversation on a light note, we quoted a line from one of our favorite comedy albums by Hannibal Buress: “Money over everything.” Long story. Well, short story. But the point is, it always made us laugh.

  Digna showed us houses all over town. The valley was a short drive to the studio, but it was too far from the beach for my mother. “I finally get to live in LA,” she said. “I want to be close to the beach.”

  My father and I fell in love with a beautiful three-story modern house in Venice. It had views of the ocean and a roof deck, and it was literally a ten-minute walk to the beach. I snapped a selfie in front of the house and texted it to my brother. He texted me back a thumbs-up.

  After a thorough tour, my mother shook her head. “It’s pretty, but I don’t like it,” she said. “It’s a box upon a box on top of a box. It’s got coffin energy.”

  We were standing on the roof of the house, and the California sun was so bright, it was like something out of a music video. Digna, however, seemed to hear my mother’s concern. “Point taken,” she said. “Please keep in mind, I know an excellent feng shui guy. All my celeb clients love him.”

  My mother looked intrigued but not appeased. As we stood on the roof, staring out at the Pacific Ocean, she turned to us and said, “I want to look at houses in Beverly Hills.”

  Digna said, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll pull together a few listings.”

  My mother sat down in a lounge chair. My father sat to one side of her, and I sat on the other. She said, “You know, when I was your age, maybe a little younger, there used to be a TV show called Beverly Hills, 90210. It was all about teenagers in Beverly Hills. I never thought back then that I could live in a place like that.”

  Which is how we ended up in a 1920s Spanish colonial in Beverly Hills. After my parents signed the lease, I texted another selfie to Sergio and wrote:

  Home Sweet Home.

  He sent me a series of emojis back:

  I wrote him back:

  Exactly.

  The next day, my mother invited me to come along to the studio for her first costume fitting. When we arrived at the Skift Studios, I could see it was a lot like TexCoco. Heavy-duty security to even get on the lot—check. Big airport hangar-style buildings for all of those sets—check. Sets that looked like life-sized dollhouses—two walls and a living room here, three walls and a kitchen there? Yes. Air-conditioning on turbo so everyone was freezing? Check, check, checkity, check.

  We were met outside Stage 16 by my mother’s new American agent, Lucy Cortés. Lucy was from Colombia, petite and pretty, with an “It’s handled” authority. We all kissed hello, Latin style. Then she said, “None of the leads for the show is shooting today, so we’ll just go in for a quick tour and then over to wardrobe. We’ll introduce you to the cast and the crew more formally next week.”

  Even though they weren’t shooting, the stage was abuzz with action: carpenters were building sets, lighting engineers were testing cues, set decorators were running back and forth to the storage rooms. In Mexico, it would have been “all hail the one and only Caroli
na del Valle,” but this was different. No one recognized my mother. For all they knew, we were nobodies, the country cousins of a production assistant, or sweepstakes winners cashing in on a tour.

  “It’s kind of nice to fly under the radar,” my mother whispered to me, because, of course, she noticed it too.

  I agreed, but I was embarrassed that the word “nobodies” had even flashed through my mind. My parents hadn’t raised me that way. “This elite status we enjoy is a fabrication of a culture that makes the little people you see on your TV screens into BFDs—big f***ing deals,” my father liked to say. He said the real BFDs are the heroes of real life—the teachers, the doctors, the firefighters; the people who walk toward danger, not away from it; the dreamers who were committed to changing the world. I was none of those things. Just a girl who was lucky enough that my mother’s job meant that I’d never wanted for anything in my life.

  We took a golf cart over to wardrobe. I’m not a big fan of golf, but I love to ride a golf cart around a television studio. At TexCoco, my mother had her own cart and driver, with her name, Carolina, on the license plate. In wardrobe, Lucy introduced us to the wardrobe heads, Gabrielle and Margo. There were clothes, tape, pins, and other quick-tailoring tools in neat piles everywhere. I instantly felt at home. I’d been coming with my mother to wardrobe fittings for as long as I could remember. When I was really small, it seemed like my mother trailed sequins everywhere she went. I used to collect all the sequins that fell off her magical, Las Vegas diva–style dresses, and I would make art projects out of them. I glued them to my notebooks and onto the birthday cards and Mother’s Day cards that I made for my mother. Later, when I was a little older, Roxanne and Nelly, my mother’s wardrobe queens at TexCoco, would help me sew the fallen sequins into outfits for my Barbie dolls.