Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Of course.”
Yester-me may regret encouraging my youngest daughter’s interest in gymnastics. How could I have known she’d be so darn good at it? Or that it would be so expensive? Baby girl better bring home the gold one day, as much as this “hobby” is costing me in coin and sleep. “We’ll go straight to school from there.”
“So how will I get to school?” Inez asks with a frown, her dark eyes pinging between her sister and me. “Daddy leaves so early for work.”
“I’ll come back to scoop you up while Lottie’s practicing. Here, hon,” I say, passing a platter of perfectly marinated steak (if I do say so myself) to Edward. “We’ll drive by the gym to grab Lot, and I’ll drop you both off at Harrington.”
“God, I’m glad I don’t go to that elitist school anymore,” Lupe drawls.
“Yeah. You’re soooo cool all up in APS,” Inez says, rolling her eyes. “While me and Lottie, poor things, have to attend one of the top schools in the state, with an Olympic-size swimming pool, world-class facilities, and restaurant-quality food in our dining hall. Public school rocks, huh?”
“We make the sacrifice,” Lottie pipes up. “Every time I play water polo, an angel gets her wings.”
I smother a laugh behind my fist and scoop up some risotto, which for once turned out perfectly fluffy.
“Well, I’d trade all that to be in a school that’s even vaguely diverse,” Lupe fires back. “Harrington’s the Twiwhite Zone.”
“You got that from Deja.” Inez rolls her eyes.
“Of course I did,” Lupe says, a pleased smile on her face. “She’s my best friend.”
I love that my daughter is best friends with the daughter of one of my best friends, Yasmen Wade, and have never regretted allowing Lupe to leave private school when Deja did. Lupe may look more like Edward than my other two daughters, who took a deep dive into the African American and Puerto Rican end of my gene pool, but her fist stays in the air for the culture.
It used to bother me when people assumed that with my textured corkscrew curls and darker skin, I was Lupe’s nanny. I look around the table, seeing my mother and her mother in Inez and Lottie, with their hair and skin and eyes so like ours. With all the ethnicities and cultures running through my blood and Edward’s, we played genetic roulette and won big-time. All our girls are beautiful exactly as they are, and I always make sure they know it.
When my two sisters, Lola and Nayeli, and I would visit our abuela for the summer, she used to tell us about the colorism she’d witnessed in the old days on the island.
“First time my mami met her husband’s mother,” Abuela said, quickly crossing herself, “may she rest in peace, she threw away Mami’s cup after she drank the coffee. White Puerto Rican. Black Puerto Rican.”
My abuela assessed us three girls with omniscient eyes—me and Nayeli lighter and with silkier hair than our half sister, Lola. “All the same,” she used to say. “You love each other, take care of each other all the same, eh?”
“All the same,” we always repeated, giggling a little at the ridiculousness of it because it never occurred to us that we were anything but all the same. To us, Lola wasn’t our half anything. She was our whole heart, and we were hers. Everyone knew my mother’s kids stuck together. You messed with one of Catelaya’s girls, you messed with them all.
Now, parenting this beautiful palette of daughters, I know too well the rest of the world doesn’t always love the same. I appreciate my abuela and mami always making sure we understood. I can create that same unconditional love here in my home for Lupe, Inez, and Lottie.
“I would help getting them to school,” Edward says, slicing into his steak, “but I need to go in extra early tomorrow. Amber and I have a huge presentation to the board in a few days.”
My spine straightens involuntarily. Amber’s name may always be triggering for me. A side effect of lying awake beside your husband while he says another woman’s name in his sleep.
“Seems like you and Amber have had lots of overtime lately,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“Yeah, thanks to that Judah Cross.” Edward saws at the tender meat so hard his plate scrapes across the table. “Asshole making my life hell poking into things that don’t concern him.”
“Edward,” I say, glancing at Lottie. “Language.”
“I know the word asshole,” Lottie assures me, steak sauce ringing her mouth. “Coach said it last week.”
“Well, we don’t say it,” I tell her. “And neither should he in front of you.”
I make a mental note to talk to Coach Krisensky. He can cuss at his own kids, but not mine.
“I shouldn’t have said it,” Edward admits, taking a deep gulp of his wine. “That man is just always up my—”