Chapter 27 I want to faint like a nineteenth-century farmer’s daughter.
I want to faint like a nineteenth-century farmer’s daughter.
Josie
“HELLO, SAVANNAH BATEMAN. Nice to meet you.”
Hearing my real name come out of his mouth knocks me off-balance—like those moments in movies when the villain reveals his hand, and the heroine says, Wait, I never told you that.
Do I deny it? Own up? Make up some crazy explanation? I can’t make a run for it since I’m trapped on a Ferris wheel.
“Blond, huh?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before turning back to his phone. “Now let’s google your real name and see what comes up.”
I watch in terrified suspense as Sean types my real name into the search bar. I’ve never done this. It feels like tempting fate, like some silent alarm might be triggered when he hits ENTER, and FBI paratroopers will swarm us, rip off the gondola door, and shout, Aha! There she is!
He scrolls through the results while I wait in agony. “Whoa, there’s a lot! Except this isn’t you. This Savannah Bateman is some kind of foodie influencer. She lives in Texas. She’s got quite a following.”
“What?” It’s the first word I manage to get out.
But, sure enough, when I study his screen, almost everything he’s scrolling through is about a different Savannah Bateman.
This lovely, spatula-happy woman has stolen my spotlight, God love her.
And there are other Savannah Batemans, too.
Lots of them, with way more recent history than me.
Sean has to click through five pages of search results before he even gets to something I recognize.
“That one,” I whisper, pointing to the article. “That’s me.”
It’s a relief to say it. I haven’t been to confession in a long time, but it feels like that—only without the scary priest box and the nine Hail Marys.
He clicks on the link, and the browser immediately translates. “Beloved Puppet Destroyed During Temper Tantrum by ‘Yeehaw’ Actress.”
“Yeehaw actress?” he asks.
“My character said ‘yeehaw’ a lot. You know, like all us Americans do.”
“How offensive,” Sean says dryly.
“Not nearly as offensive as every Mexican on our TV shows being a drug dealer.”
He nods. “Or every Irishman being a drunk. I get it.”
The rest of the page is just a blown-up snapshot of the newspaper article, not translatable by the browser’s software.
Sean scrolls past the main image—a grainy black-and-white photo of the headshot my mom took me to get when I first auditioned for Club Bilingüe.
The second image is one of Chuy with his sad eyes, lumpy nose, and spotted furry ears, perched on Lupe’s knee.
The third picture is a famous shot of Chuy in flames, sprawled across a Day of the Dead altar, his wide mouth open to the sky as if in mid-scream while I lose my shit in the background.
All my muscles contract at once. I can’t move, and for a split second, I almost believe the stories about duendes and curses. Did Chuy have a fleck of ancient magic in him? Did I curse myself to turn to stone the moment I shared this secret?
“That girl in the meme is you.” I give him credit for not laughing or, really, reacting at all. He squints at the text, trying to read the Spanish. “Let me get this straight. You murdered a puppet?”
“It was an accident.”
He scrolls down some more, and there’s a fourth picture of Lupe in tears. Not just crying—weeping and wailing.
“Who’s this girl? Was it her puppet?”
I cover the screen with my hand. “She’s my stepsister.
And Chuy wasn’t just her puppet. He was everybody’s puppet.
He was like Yoda or Elmo, with tons of people who loved him.
I burned him and then hid the evidence, and I was canceled because of it, before canceling was even a thing.
Not only did I lose my job, but the entire show tanked.
All my friends lost their jobs. My stepfather’s studio almost went under. Everyone suffered because of me.”
“I thought you said it was an accident.”
I stop myself there. I don’t know how to explain it, how some things can be an accident and a person’s fault at the same time.
When I don’t reply, Sean turns his attention back to his phone and taps a video icon before I can stop him.
My face heats as the live broadcast of Lupe and me improv-ing in the cemetery plays out.
We’d been picking at each other all day, it was late, and we were both tired.
Juan Ernesto could probably tell we were a tinderbox, ready to blow.
Your characters are best friends, he’d reminded us right before the cameras rolled. You’re examples to children everywhere—a bridge between cultures. Remember that.
I watch myself ad-lib the scene in a bright voice. “Yeehaw! Halloween is such a fun holiday. What should I be for Halloween this year?”
Lupe mimes thinking hard for an answer. “A witch.”
The flash of a frown on my face tells me there was some backstory there, though I can’t remember exactly what. “I think I’ll be an astronaut,” Teenage Me says cheerfully, not taking the bait.
“No, you should definitely be a witch,” Chuy replies from Lupe’s lap.
“See?” Lupe says. “Chuy thinks you should be a witch, too.”
“It suits you,” Chuy adds.
I could have played along and agreed, made it about costumes and how much fun it would be to pretend to ride a broomstick while I collected candy from my neighbors. I could have used the segment to teach kids about Halloween—that was my job. But I didn’t.
“Actually, you should be the witch,” I retort. “You’re much better at it than I am.”
The gauntlet is thrown. Lupe’s eyes flash. “No, you should definitely be the witch. Meanwhile, Chuy and I will eat candy skulls and make a beautiful altar dedicated to our ancestors for el Día de los Muertos.” Chuy nods his head in agreement.
Yes, it was another dig, but it was followed by an out. All I had to do was take it. But I didn’t.
“I bet your ancestors were witches,” I blurt. Even now, watching this twelve years later, the contents of my stomach solidify into a block of concrete.
After a long, painful beat, Chuy is the one to respond.
“Wow, she’s disrespecting your ancestors, and on a day specifically meant to honor and pray for them.
” Lupe makes him shake his head in judgy disbelief before dropping his voice to a puppet stage whisper.
“Maybe I got the English word wrong. What’s that other word? The one that starts with ‘b’?”
She’s careful not to cross a line and outright call me a bitch on TV, but the message is loud and clear.
I’m not doing a very good job acting at this point in the clip.
My lips move, but nothing comes out. In fact, it looks like my head might explode.
I remember this moment vividly: Chuy’s open, taunting mouth, Lupe’s wicked grin, the fury and embarrassment spreading through me like poison.
Juan Ernesto’s horrified expression off camera as he waved his arms to signal us to stop.
I remember reaching for the puppet. Hurling it.
“You’re the bitch!” I blurt. “I hate you! And your stupid puppet, too!”
Chuy bursts into flame, and the video cuts out to the sound of our live audience crying out in dismay.
Humiliation and shame magnify the motion of the Ferris wheel, making my head swim. If this ride doesn’t end soon, I might actually be sick. I think about nice smells—eucalyptus, mint—while I grip the bars inside the gondola and await Sean’s reaction.
“Wow, you two got along like Siobhan and Seamus,” he says, scrolling farther down the page. “Looks like your sister milked it, too.” He clucks his tongue at the still shot of Lupe crying dramatically.
I’m so stunned it takes me a second to react.
Why isn’t he more horrified, or even a little bit horrified? “Is that all you have to say?”
He waggles the phone at me. “Josie, this is kids’ stuff.”
“‘Kids’ stuff’?” I scoff. “I cussed out my costar on live TV during a children’s show.
I taught a bunch of Spanish-speaking kids the word bitch!
We lost tens of thousands of dollars in contracts over this.
I destroyed our brand. My stepfather’s dream.
We were supposed to teach kids how to respect other cultures, and I insulted hers. Did we not watch the same video?”
His eyes, dark as pine in the dim light, train on me. “I saw a video where two girls were shitty to each other. Not one. Two.”
“But I was the one who crossed the line.”
“Well,” he scratches his chin, “first of all, your sister started it. And second of all, you didn’t expect the puppet to catch fire. That part was an accident. You said so yourself.”
“Well, yeah, but…” I trail off.
“I’m sure you apologized.”
I don’t respond.
Sean gives me a hard look. “You did apologize, didn’t you?”
“Well, er,” I stammer, averting my gaze from the swooping view.
Sean lifts the phone from his knee and aims the screen toward me. “In twelve years, you never apologized for this? Never made a statement? A tweet?”
That sick feeling rolls through my stomach again. “Everyone was so mad at me. And I was mad at myself… and ashamed.”
He scrolls some more, tapping on a video of my family being interviewed.
I flinch as the audio crackles to life. I hate this video, maybe even more than the one in the meme.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw the news footage of Juan Ernesto, flanked by my mom and a swollen-eyed Lupe, fielding questions from reporters, apologizing on my behalf, condemning my behavior, and assuring the world that I didn’t represent what Club Bilingüe and Castillo Studios stood for.
When the video cuts out, Sean is frowning and shaking his head. Now he must be getting it. The gravity of it all. What an embarrassment I am. What a liability. Finally, he’ll understand why we can’t be together.
“Wow,” he says, wiping his face with his hand. “That was harsh.”
“Yeah,” I agree, studying my lap. “I tried to tell you.”
“No wonder you ran away.”
My heart lurches, and my head snaps up. “What?”