The Go-Between Page 6

  The wardrobe women are some of the most important people on set because they’re the ones who help the star look good. They know what colors and cuts will make you look amazing and how to hide your every figure flaw. My mother says, “Those women have more tricks than Harry Potter’s spell book.” The thing is that they have to like you to make you look fabulous. So the relationship is an important one to maintain. In Mexico City, my mother always made sure to remember Roxanne’s and Nelly’s birthdays and all of their special occasions, and she never skimped on the presents. Diamonds and other valuables were not out of the question.

  So it was a good sign when Gabrielle said, “Oh my God, that body! You’re going to be a joy to dress.”

  My mother beamed. “Pilates.”

  But then they handed my mother a dove-gray French maid uniform with white cuff sleeves and a little white apron. I could tell that she was dying a little bit inside.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yeah, hon,” Margo said. “Your character is a maid.”

  My mother smiled tightly. “But she’s not a maid twenty-four hours a day. Doesn’t she have any off-duty clothes? Maybe she goes out dancing on a Saturday night with her friends?”

  Gabrielle and Margo exchanged a glance.

  My mother had never had a one-outfit part in her entire life, and I honestly thought she might burst into tears on the spot. “She’s Latin. She’s Catholic,” my mother said. “Doesn’t she go to church on Sunday? Certainly she won’t be wearing that to church.”

  Gabrielle sighed and said, “The producers didn’t ask us to pull any other clothes. But maybe we got our wires crossed.”

  Lucy, my mother’s new agent, jumped into the fray. “Well, this is just the start. As your character develops from domestic to entrepreneur to mogul, I promise you the fabulous is coming.”

  My mother just nodded.

  “First thing next week, we’ll set up meetings for you with all of the major stylists in town,” Lucy continued. “We’ll let them know that their marching orders are to find you the coolest, most elegant, most edgy outfits for all of the network events.”

  My mother, characteristically boisterous and overly friendly, just whispered, “Okay, thanks.” Then she took the maid’s uniform and stepped into the curtained changing room.

  When she came out, it was a clear contradiction—my mother in full makeup and perfect hair blow-out in this dowdy uniform.

  Margo cleared her throat as if summoning her courage, and said, “I totally don’t want to mess up your beautiful hair, but I think the producers would like to see your hair back.”

  She handed my mother a bright orange hair tie, and my mother took it from her like it was something that had been dropped in the toilet.

  “Thanks,” my mother said quietly.

  I looked at her and tried to imagine her in this other life. Usually my mother’s roles didn’t mean that much to me. Over the years, in her novelas, she has played a detective, a construction worker, half a dozen heiresses, and at least two black widow female serial killers. But watching her get into character as María José was different. My mother came to the US with a nice fancy immigration lawyer to fix our papers and a studio to help us get sorted with a high-end real estate agent, a bank account, a private school, and all the things that had made coming here easy. What would have happened to us if we’d come here the way so many less fortunate Mexican immigrants did? What would our lives have been like if we’d come illegally? I hadn’t considered this before.

  Watching my mother in a maid’s uniform, pulling her hair back, I could see her starting to find María José inside herself; the process of becoming that is my mother’s job.

  When Margo said, “Just a few quick Polaroids,” my mother’s smile for the camera was one that I had never seen before—a mixture of exhaustion and humility, politeness and just the tiniest spark of possibility. Then she winked at me and whispered, “Bienvenida a los Estados Unidos.” Welcome to the United States.

  It was my first day at a progressive school that Lucy, my mother’s agent, said was amazing. “It’s got the academics of Harvard and the social scene of Aspen all rolled into one,” she said. “You’re going to love it.”

  My father had wanted me to go to Harvard-Westlake. “It’s most like your school at home, academically rigorous, uniforms….”

  I fake punched him on the shoulder. “You just like the fact that ‘Harvard’ is in the name.”

  He smiled. “What father doesn’t want to say his daughter goes to Harvard?”

  But from the moment I set foot on the campus of Polestar, I wanted in. I wanted LA to be a fresh start, for everything to be different. I wanted to forget some of who I’d become with Patrizia and see if I could become someone new.

  The boy who’d been assigned to show me around reminded me of the brown-haired boy in the English-language books my father used to buy for me when I was very small, A Leer con Dick y Jane. Read with Dick and Jane. He had the same sandy-brown hair, a similar blue polo shirt, and short khaki pants. He was dressed in character, and Polestar didn’t even require uniforms.

  The school was as big as a college campus, and already I was afraid of getting lost. There was a science lab and a library, a theater, a football field, tennis courts, a pool, squash courts, an arts and humanities building, a history and philosophy building. It just went on and on.

  My old school was one big building with six floors. It looked like the dark, brick monastery that it once had been. Polestar, in comparison, was like a small city. When we got to the cafeteria, my guide—his name was Ethan—started to point out the tables as if they were habitats in a zoo. “Those are the jocks,” he said. “I mostly hang with them, despite the fact that this conservative cauldron won’t recognize ultimate Frisbee as a real sport.”

  He pointed around the room like a second hand making its way around a clock. “Those are the nerds. Those are the druggies. Those are the trustafarians. And over there are your peeps—the Mexicans.”

  My peeps. The Mexicans.

  I took a look at a table of dark-haired kids, all dressed in black. One girl was gorgeous. In Mexico, we would have called her a Goth. Although, as Sergio explained it to me, in the DF (District Federal, which is what people from Mexico call Mexico City), Goth, punk, and electronica all blended together into its own weird mash-up of a scene. But whatever. The girl had shoulder-length black hair, although, on one side, it was shaved. She also had tattoos up and down both arms. She was wearing a black-and-white graffiti-print top, black cargo pants, and smart black leather brogues. It wasn’t my style, but she had tons of style.

  She caught me staring at her and looked me up and down. I wondered, for a second, if she recognized me or if she had instantly sized me up as a new girl, immigrant from the planet Doesn’t Have a Clue.

  After the tour, Ethan deposited me at my homeroom class into the charge of a very colorfully dressed young man named James. “Call me James,” he said. “Never Jimmy. Or else!” Then he burst out laughing. I didn’t really get the joke, but that was happening a lot. My English was good. I’d been speaking it my whole life. But then someone would say something and—whoosh!—it went straight over my head.

  James asked me to introduce myself to the class. I stood in front of eighteen sets of bored-looking eyeballs and said, “My name is Camilla del Valle.”

  “Where are you from, Camilla del Valle?” James made the double ls in my name into ys, which was correct, but he dragged them out so that they sounded like a yodel—Camiyyyyyyyyya del Vayyyyyyye.

  I smiled and said, “Nice accent, James.” Then I turned to the classroom and said, “I’m from Mexico City and I’m really excited to be living in California.”

  That afternoon, I had a really strange class. They called it Tapestries, the class where you spilled your soul in an attempt to bond with your classmates. The gym was dark and all of the students sat in a circle around an iron pit with what must have been thirty or forty candles. You could ac
tually feel the warmth of the flames on your face. It reminded me of the last night of camp the summer before, in Santander. The counselors threw a bonfire party on the beach. Patrizia and I wore matching sundresses that we’d bought in town. She hooked up with a soccer player named Rafa, and I spent the night with Ibrahim, just sitting on the beach and talking (and kissing) until the sun came up.

  The Tapestries teacher was a tall, skinny guy who looked like he was barely out of college. His name was Thomas Smythson, but he insisted we call him Smitty. It was a strange thing for me, coming from Mexico, to have a teacher insist on being called by his first name or by a nickname.

  When all the students had settled into a circle around the blazing candles, Smitty explained how Tapestries worked. The class was modeled after a Native American council. The point was to “find our voices and hone our muscles of respect, compassion, and empathy.” The “talking stick” (whoever had it was the only one allowed to speak) was crisscrossed with ribbons of the school’s colors, navy and yellow. Smitty explained that when the person with the stick was talking, the rest of us honored them with our silence or by softly calling out “A-ho,” which is Native American for “I hear you, brother” or “I hear you, sister.”

  One of the boys shouted, “Hey, Smitty, are you sure ‘A-ho’ isn’t Native American for ‘I hear you’re a slut’?”

  The look on Smitty’s face suggested that he’d heard that stupid joke before and he was not amused. “Not acceptable, Duncan,” he said. “Please come see me after council.”

  He went on to explain that students are graded in Tapestries based on three components: attendance, depth of participation, and emotional growth. It seemed like a complicated metric, and I must have looked concerned, because the girl next to me whispered, “Don’t sweat it, blondie. Everyone gets an A.”

  The first person to share in Tapestries that day was a boy. He took the stick and said, “My name’s Simon. My truth is that my father has left my mother for some basic bitch. Nothing earth-shattering there, except we’ve just found out that my father won’t give my mother the house. She can’t afford to buy him out, so we’re moving to a condo on Barrington, divorce central. Mostly I just feel bad for my mom.”

  I was surprised. I couldn’t imagine a boy at my old school in Mexico City sharing such a personal story with a group of classmates.

  Smitty called on a girl named Leigh next, and she took the stick from him shyly. “My name is Leigh,” she said softly. “I smoke too much pot. When I get tired of it, I’ll stop.” Then she sat down.

  Wait? What?

  I couldn’t believe that a student would admit to a teacher, in a public forum, to her drug use. But you would have thought that the Leigh girl was a rapper who’d just spit some crazy cool lyrics, because all of the kids were clapping and stomping their heels like they were at a concert. Smitty tried to put an end to the “woot-woots” by repeating “A-ho! A-ho!” But folks weren’t hearing him.

  Then he turned to me and said, “Camilla, since you’re new, why don’t you take the talking stick next?”

  Red lights flashed across my brain. Every cell in my body was screaming nooooo­ooooo­oooo. You don’t put the new girl on the spot on her first day. Any Native American elder worth his salt could’ve told Smitty that. Not cool, bro. Just not cool.

  I took the stick and spoke as quickly as I could. “My name’s Camilla. I’m from Mexico City. Really looking forward to starting a new life in America.”

  There were a few tepid calls of “A-ho.” That girl Leigh was a tough act to follow.

  Then I heard it, softly at first and then louder. That tool, Duncan, was singing something stupid to the tune of that song from West Side Story:

  I so happy to be in America.

  Crawled under barbed wire to

  Get to America.

  Everything free in America.

  Drug cartel no look for me

  In America.

  Smitty’s face looked as red as mine felt. I knew how some people felt about Mexicans. I just didn’t think that I’d have to face it on day one. Smitty escorted Duncan to the gym door with strict instructions for him to go directly to the school office. As I watched him go, all I could think was, “Wow. That kid is really stupid.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t eat lunch at “the Mexican table.” But that day, and for the entire first two weeks, I ate alone. And the food at Polestar was off the hook. Every day, there was something on the menu I’d never tasted before. The school chef, Chef Rooney, had a blog, so I began to read that during my lunch hour.

  N’awlins Monday. Where y’all at?

  In New Orleans, where I grew up, Monday is for red beans and rice. Traditionally, you throw whatever leftover meat you have from Sunday supper in with the red beans and rice. We’re making ours with chicken chorizo to give it that good N’awlins spice. But, vegetarians, fret not. We’ve got you a big pot of red beans and smoked tofu simmering away. I think you’ll like this dish boo-coo, which is Creole for “beaucoup,” which means “a lot.” Come and get it!

  It’s Tuesday. Are you hungry???

  Today’s lunch features Asian fare. We start with miso soup because me so in love with it. (I’m not being culturally insensitive. That’s my Cookie Monster impression.)

  We are also serving a bánh mi. Fun fact—did you know that the bánh mi is the only sandwich in Asia to be prepared with a European-style bread? The French lived in Asia (some might say “occupied,” but bring that up with your history teacher) from 1946 to 1954. The bánh mi is a result of that culinary cross-pollination. Traditionally the protein is pork, but we make ours with glazed and roasted tofu so that it’s vegetarian friendly. We toast the bread, slather on sriracha mayo, and then layer the tofu with pickled carrots, watermelon radishes, and fresh cilantro. Bon appétit!

  Reading Chef Rooney’s blog felt like getting a daily email from a friend. Which was why I was surprised when she showed up at my table. Chef Rooney was, and is, a beautiful young black woman with a mass of curly hair wound up into a bun. She was shorter than I was, with the same curvy but strong physique that my mom had. She reminded me of the Shakespeare phrase my dad always used when talking about my mother—aunque sea poco, es poderosa. Although she be little, she is fierce.

  She reached out her hand to shake mine, and said, “Hi, I’m Rooney. A little bird told me you’ve been reading my blog.”

  I nodded. “It’s really good.”

  “Do you want to come see how we cook in the kitchen?”

  I did.

  For the rest of the week, as soon as my lunch period began, I went straight to the kitchen to see Rooney and even help out. Let me qualify that by saying that in the beginning, I didn’t so much help as hang out and eat. But she let me wear the chef’s jacket and pulled my hair under a paper hat, because Rooney explained that the city health commissioner could pop in at any time, and Rooney would lose her job if there was even the smallest violation.

  I found out that she was twenty-five and had been out of culinary school for four years. She’d studied in Paris and then had begun working in catering for movie sets, which she’d quickly found to be not as glamorous as it seemed. “But you know how the entertainment industry is—ugh.” I nodded, reveling in the fact that Rooney had no idea who my mother was or what my parents did for a living.

  When she asked about me, I kept it vague—grew up in Mexico City, my parents came here for work, my brother was away at school.

  That Friday afternoon, I took a selfie of myself in the chef’s jacket and hat that Rooney had lent me and sent the picture to Sergio with the caption, “Working hard, or hardly working?”

  By dinner that night, my parents had both received the photo from Sergio, who was so clearly used to me hardly working that he’d sent it to my parents as a bat signal of how poorly I was coping with the move.

  “Are you making meals at that school?” my mother wondered, distressed. “Is it a requirement that all the students work?”


  My father was even more incensed. “Do they think you should cook because you’re Mexican?”

  “Whoa! Calm down,” I told them. Way to get worked up over nothing. “The school chef has a cool blog. Her name is Rooney. She’s from New Orleans. She’s kind of amazing. She heard that I’d been reading her blog, so she invited me to see how she cooks. I have to wear the jacket to be in the kitchen. I like it.”

  My mother started muttering under her breath in Spanish, her way of coping with the fact that my father insisted we speak English at the dinner table. Then she said, “Well, I don’t like it so much. You’re getting ready to go to college, not cooking school.”

  My father, who is normally the definition of Señor Chill, was angry to the point of almost yelling. “My point exactly, Carolina. There are enough Mexicans in the kitchens of American restaurants doing the hard work.”

  I was in shock. “How can you say that? Would you say that—could you say that—about black people or Asian people?”

  He said, “I wouldn’t say it. But when it comes to Mexicans, my own people, I say what I want.”

  “Papá,” I said. “Rooney is smart. She’s fluent in French. She studied under Alain Ducasse in Paris. Someday she’s going to open her own restaurant and you’ll be bragging about how she was my friend.”

  My mother began to say something, then thought better of it. I don’t know if it was the mention of Paris or Alain Ducasse, but my father seemed to have calmed down.

  “Camilla, querida,” he began, “I’m glad you have a new friend. I have the utmost respect for great chefs. I just hope you also make some new friends your age.”

  I wanted to say, “You and me both.”