Star heard my footsteps echoing on the tiles past her door. “Inside. We need to talk.”
The tone of her voice didn’t sound promising, nor did it sound like the person who was always more likely to share her opinions about the building’s tenants, food and George, than scolding me. Why would she do that? I took care of my grandmother, helped her up and down the stairs when the elevator wasn’t working and brewed her tea in the evenings. But I knew exactly what Star wanted to talk about, at least, I had a good idea. It was about Roque, and more generally, about boys.
Now a thirteen-year-old, I filled out my tops, round in all the places where I used to be flat, my breasts, my butt, and my hair thicker after grandmother had brushed it with olive oil; my skin was smooth, except for the occasional pimple I treated with baking powder and vinegar. Even Chanel, who before leaving permanently to study French in Paris, commented on my olive complexion, advising me to wear bright colors. “Mais oui, they’re in your palette.”
“I have to go upstairs,” I told Star.
“I just came from the second floor; your granny’s fine; she’s watching Jeopardy,” which was her favorite TV program, “and since when don’t you have time for me?” Star pushed me past her open door into the living room and ordered me to sit down. “Who was that boy?” Before I could answer, she said, “Doesn’t his uncle own Greg’s Garden?”
I peered into my palms. “I’m not sure. I think so.” I had no idea why this was relevant. My relations weren’t top-notch, so why would Roque’s even matter?”
“You can’t see him. His uncle’s been to prison twice.”
What did that have to do with anything? I suddenly felt like Blanca and said, “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Star rose, flesh from beneath her arms shaking like two shirts on a clothesline. “What!” She didn’t know what else to say.
“Why are you so upset?”
“I didn’t raise you to be stupid. That boy will get you into trouble.” Roque had told me as much himself.
“You’re not my mother, Star. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Star’s mouth opened wide, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything. “Not your mother? Tell me who made you breakfast on most mornings and listened to you cry about Hilda; who taught you how to dance, and who got you coloring books and bought your first brassiere after you got your period? Tell me that!” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Who’s been looking in on your granny and helping her when you couldn’t?” A candle on her mantle flickered and nearly went out, but I made it last, to burn brighter. She stopped and raised a finger to her lips. “It’s strange,” she said.
“What?” Maybe she noticed the candle.
“Granny has been feeling so much better lately, even George told me she’s gained weight. Has she been seeing a new doctor?” I shook my head. “Taking a different medicine?”
I was grateful Star’s attention was now fixed on my grandmother and not myself.
“She even said she was planning to eat hot dogs and baked beans tonight for dinner this evening.”
“Yes, with pickles.”
“You know what I think?” I was afraid to ask. “I think we should visit Joey the Witch and ask him what’s happening, with you, with me, and your granny. He’ll be able to tell you all the reasons why you shouldn’t see that boy.”
I wasn’t getting off easily, but still, I was grateful. Star was no longer angry. I wanted to kiss her, but all I said was “Thanks,” and went upstairs to cook hotdogs.