Chapter Seven
I SWEAR TO GOD, Celia, if you don’t stop fidgeting, I’m going to ruin your hair on purpose.”
My sister Rosa’s steady hands grip my shoulders, forcing them to remain still. The metal curve of her scissors presses into me, even through the plastic hair cape draped over my clothes. “Sorry. I’m just nervous.”
“I know, hermana, but you’ve got to chill.”
I take a deep breath. My exhale sends a little puff of chopped-off hair flying onto the kitchen floor.
After learning that I would, in fact, be moving to Maine for the foreseeable future, I answered all the texts from my family as fast as I could until they unanimously demanded that I come home to tell them the whole story in person.
Not that I needed much prompting. I was more than happy to jump on the train and spend an evening with them, considering I’m about to move seven hours away for the first time in my life.
Of course, I’ve been living on my own for a while now, but Midtown to the Heights isn’t much of a jump.
During my years at Juilliard, I lived in the dorms, but it was easy for me go home on weekends when I wasn’t drowning in coursework.
Since then, I’ve hopped from place to place, living with roommates (and, for a while, a former boyfriend), until I finally made enough to afford a studio apartment on my own.
It’s that same apartment I’m fighting tooth and nail to keep with this rent increase—a problem that is only partially solved with the paycheck coming my way.
With our tight timeline and uncertain return date, there’s no way for me to find a subletter.
But now I have to contend with the fact that I will not be a quick subway ride away from my parents and sisters, or any of my casual city friends for that matter.
Which is why my mother, María, insisted on a big family dinner at their home, both as a celebration for this achievement and also as a goodbye.
For the last three hours, all of us—my parents; my sister Rosa and her husband, Hector; and my sister Amanda—have been jammed into the same apartment I grew up in.
Dinner ended an hour ago, but the kitchen still smells of tostones, arroz amarillo con pollo, alcapurrias, and even the lingering sweetness of flan—a direct representation of my family’s heritage, a delightful mishmash of flavors from the islands my grandparents came from.
Not even the scent of floral shampoo and conditioner from my hair (washed while bent over the bathtub) can permeate the abundance of culinary smells lingering here.
There’s only one person I trust with my hair, and that’s my sister Rosa.
I’ve always known it was a relief to my parents that my two younger siblings did not want to pursue an education as expensive as mine.
Amanda was content to attend community college, where she earned her nursing degree.
Rosa, ever the beauty queen, opted for cosmetology school—and so, the Rosa Kitchen Cut Special was born (for family and close friends only).
“Hija, will you be done by the holidays?” my mother asks from where she washes dishes at the sink.
“I don’t know.”
“What about my birthday?” Amanda asks while she dries said dishes with a hand towel. “It’s my thirtieth. You can’t miss it.”
“I don’t know, Mandie. You know I’ll try.”
My stomach—already full to the brim with food—sinks even further.
As thrilled as I am about this job, I’m exhausted, too; the initial family celebrations quickly devolved into a game of “What about (blank)?” in which I had almost no answers.
At this point, all I really know is that my agent is negotiating the contract, I’ve never been paid this much for anything in my life, and I’m already behind on reading the script, given the amount of laundry I had to do and errands I needed to run to prepare.
For his part, Oliver confirmed that the house will be ready by Friday—whatever that means.
How does a house get ready, exactly? I’ve Googled the distance and town on my own, only to come to the sinking realization that Boothbay Harbor is farther than I thought it was.
I’ve never even been to Maine. Most of our family’s summer trips were spent along the Jersey shore, or, on occasion, in Florida or Puerto Rico.
I’ve been to a handful of places on my own, but never Maine.
Through text, Oliver has also confirmed that he’ll pick me up on Friday morning. Every time I think about being trapped in a car with that man for hours, my body buzzes with the need to expend nervous energy—which is exactly what I do now, by tapping my foot on the linoleum floor.
“Celia, seriously. I’m going to stab you with my scissors if you don’t stop.”
Rosa’s warning is enough to make me pause. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I hardly notice the snip snip snip of her scissors as she trims my dead ends. “Sorry! I can’t help it!”
My dad ambles into the kitchen then, one hand rubbing his bloated belly while the other runs through his silver-streaked hair. He sidles up to where my mother stands at the kitchen sink. “Deja yo termino los trastes, mi amor,” he says before kissing her on the cheek.
“It’s okay, mi corazón, I’m almost done.”
My heart contracts painfully in my chest; I’m going to miss this, all of this, from the big grand birthday celebrations to the small, everyday moments.
Yet I can’t ignore the feeling that struck me during that initial dinner with Rebecca. It stayed with me, resonating deeply into my bones—that this is it, my chance at the life I’ve been imagining since I was a little girl seated next to her dad in a dollar movie theater.
I always knew success came with a price. I guess this one is mine to pay. Pursuing your dreams is expensive.
When my hair is trimmed and mostly dry, the floor swept, and the dishes washed and put away, I corral my sisters in the kitchen and jerk my head toward the front hall.
All it takes is one nod from me and they understand what I’m asking.
On our way out the front door, we pass my mom, my dad, and Hector, who are all seated in front of the TV, watching the new season of their favorite telenovela.
They say nothing to us as we slip out the door and into the cool, late August evening that smells of car exhaust and, inexplicably, roasting meat.
“Stoop chat or a walk?” Rosa asks as the three of us hover near the building entrance.
“Stoop chat, por favor,” Amanda replies. “I just worked four straight twelves and me duelen los pies.”
Even after all these years, the three of us assume our usual seats: I sit on the top step (an honor bestowed upon me as the eldest), while Rosa and Amanda flank my sides a few steps down. The cement is cold and hard underneath my jeans as I settle in and lean forward to place my elbows on my knees.
Since we were little girls, this is what the García sisters have done.
Whenever one of us (or all of us) was bored, restless, or upset, we parked ourselves on the building stoop.
Sometimes we talked, told stories, or vented; other days we just existed, observing the happenings of our block or chatting with our neighbors.
In the summers, we’d wait for the piragua man to roll by.
We even sat out here in the winters, all bundled in our coats, hats, and mittens, until one of us couldn’t stand it anymore or our parents dragged us inside.
It wasn’t until I was twelve or thirteen—Amanda around ten and Rosa around seven—that we started walking.
Just strolling, usually, in and around the residential streets of the Heights.
We started doing it because walking had been my escape with my father; in retrospect, it was his way of making sure I wasn’t neglected when two little sisters came along.
But it also turned into a history lesson of our community, a safety lesson on stranger danger, and a way to clear my head.
I’ve loved walking around the city ever since.
My little trip down memory lane ignites a question in me. “How long has it been since the last time the three of us sat out here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe last year?” Amanda asks.
“No, I think it was the night before my wedding,” Rosa says as she dusts a clump of my hair off her leggings. “That would have been about two years ago. We sat out here all night, remember?”
The memory of the three of us—accompanied by a bottle of illegally imported Cuban rum—makes me smile. “I remember until around midnight,” I reply. “Then it starts to get a little blurry.”
It came as no surprise to any one of us that Rosa was the first to marry, even though she is the youngest. She always had a proclivity for beautiful things, whether it was a set of fresh nails, a vibrant lip gloss, or a good-looking boy.
When she met Hector as a twenty-one-year-old—with his sculpted muscles and charming smile that seemed to shine a little brighter whenever Rosa was near—it was clear that she had found The One.
Amanda and I are a little slower to the game than Rosa.
Both of my sisters crane their necks to look up at me.
It’s the first time in a long time that anyone has had to do that; I’m short, they’re short, my whole family is short.
Looking at their faces, with their dark eyes and plush lips, is like looking at my own through a kaleidoscope—we are so clearly sisters, yet each of us is a little different from the next.
Amanda’s hair is straighter than mine, her face a little rounder; Rosa has my maternal grandfather’s cleft chin and two dimples that appear when she really, truly smiles.
I have none of these things, but we are all woven from the same tapestry.
We are puzzle pieces meant to make an image whole.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you guys,” I say, willing my voice not to crack. “My whole life, both of you have either been up in my shit or a train ride away. What the hell am I going to do in Maine?”
“The years that we were all up in each other’s shit, we nearly killed each other,” Amanda says.
“Spoken like a true middle child.” This from Rosa.
I snort. “Hey, we always figured it out. Everyone survived the years we had to share bedrooms.”
“Spoken like a true oldest child,” Amanda chides. “Who also had her own room the longest.”
Rosa narrows her eyes as she surveys me, the wings of her black eyeliner creasing ever so slightly. “Is this about leaving us, or having to work with him? I remember how much you used to hate Oliver.”
“Didn’t we use to call him Professor Pendejo?” Amanda asks.
A groan escapes my lips when I rub my hands over my face. “Ugh, sí, we called him that, among other things. Dad says he dressed like an abuelo.”
This earns a genuine laugh from both of my sisters. “Do you remember how rude he was when we met him after your concert?” Rosa asks. “You tried to introduce him to all of us, and he just, like, blinked and walked away.”
“Oh, I remember.” It’s those memories—especially that one—that almost kept me from taking this job. “I think he’s less of a jerk now, but he’s still the same guy.”
What I don’t tell my sisters is that he looks like less of a jerk now, too.
Oliver’s awkward college years, coupled with his odd sense of style, did him no favors in the likability department.
Now that he’s filled out (or, more accurately, grown up), the rest of him makes more sense.
As if Oliver is whole now, no longer just the sum of his parts.
“Listen, Celia.” Amanda pauses to stretch out her tired legs while she stifles a groan.
“Do you remember how scared you were when you found out you got into Juilliard? You were so intimidated by all those fancy people, with their fancy clothes and fancy education and all that other fancy shit that rich people spend money on. But you still went and look how that turned out!”
Rosa nods enthusiastically while Amanda speaks.
Her gold hoops, nearly identical to my own, bounce along her jawline.
“She’s right, hermana. Plus, it doesn’t even matter where you work or what you do.
You’re always going to have to work with assholes.
You remember how much I hated that bitch at my old salon? ”
“Oh yeah. Wasn’t her name Carol?” Amanda asks. Rosa shudders in response.
“You’re right. Both of you are right. I know that.” For what must be the thousandth time tonight, I take a deep breath. “It’ll be fine.”
Amanda puts a hand on my knee and offers me a genuine, consoling smile. “We know. You’ll be great. Besides, you’re not going to be alone up there.”
Just as I raise my eyebrow in question, Rosa chimes in. “Exactly. We’re still going to blow up the group chat every day. You can’t get rid of us that easily, hermana.”
This reassurance from my sisters is exactly what I needed.
Already my entire body feels a little lighter, my stomach a little less tense at the prospect of what lies ahead of me.
I scooch down two steps so that I’m seated on the same level as them.
Wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders, I pull them into a hug, relishing the familiar comfort of my sisters, my best friends, my ride or dies.
FACEBOOK MESSAGE FROM AMANDA GARCíA
Thirteen years ago
hermana
when are u coming back to the house
mom let me paint ur room. it’s blue now. ALL
MINE!!!!
do u even care?
FACEBOOK MESSAGE FROM ROSA GARCíA
Thirteen years ago
it’s so boring here without u. did u forget you have a family uptown
is college really that hard? idk if i wanna go if this is how it is
we never see you anymore
FACEBOOK MESSAGE FROM AMANDA GARCíA
Thirteen years ago
damn girl ur acting like u went to school in another country or something
u haven’t come home in weeks
FACEBOOK MESSAGE FROM ROSA GARCíA
Thirteen years ago
thx for coming to dinner. i miss u but im rly rly proud of u
love u