The volume of my mother’s voice escalates as does the profanity.
“Whoa, even I know what that means,” Jordan says as I finally get my ass off the porch.
The scene inside the front door curdles my insides. My mother is hurling the word puta at her daughter like it’s not a dagger capable of inflicting real damage. At least the little ones are nowhere to be seen. I slam the door.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand in English, because being pissed and articulate in my second language is not my forte.
“Your mother is calling me a whore for going to the movies on a Tuesday night.”
“Look at her!” my mother exclaims. “If she’s going to the movies, I’m Mother Teresa.”
From their expressions, they’re both expecting me to settle something that’s actually an on-going war with a few words. What a joke.
I start with Desiree, who as usual, is all sass, all attitude, hands on her hips, ready to bite my head off. Her soft curls are like a halo around her head . . . but she’s definitely not dressed like an angel.
“Since when do you go to the movies dressed like that?” I ask, trying to keep the accusation out of my tone. She’s wearing a dress that she’s been poured into, leaving little to the imagination and her makeup has been applied with a trowel.
“It’s fine,” she claims. “I’m perfectly safe with Jordan.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Des.”
“I don’t have to answer you, Scott. You’re not my parent.” When our mother takes a breath, Desiree holds up a finger that’s tipped with a long, red nail. “And you don’t qualify either.”
“You see how she talks to me?!”
“Ma, you’re not helping.” I turn back to my sister. “All I want to know is why you’re dressed like this, Des, and don’t tell me that this movies thing isn’t bullshit.”
Her hackles are rising fast, I can see that. Of all my sisters, she and I are the closest. We know each other even if there are four years separating us. We have a lot in common; my father is white, and I’m perceived as white by the world at large, her father is black, and she’s perceived as black. We’ve both spent our lives trying to fit in and many times we’ve only had each other and our grandmother. Which translates into: I care and I’m not about to let this go, and she knows it.
She sighs. “Fine, I’m going dancing.”
“I knew it!” our mother screeches. “Que puta –”
“¡Mamá, ya párale!” I yell, because I’ve had enough of her. I’d had enough of her when I was five years old. Desiree and I have always taken the brunt of her crap, and I’m done at this point in my life. “Leave. Go help with dinner or something. Por favor.”
Lips pursed, eyes flashing, she stomps her way down the hall to the room she shares with Mari and slams the door behind her.
I brush my palms down my face. “What’s going on, Des?” I ask softly, resignation taking anger’s place.
“You mean besides having a mother who calls me a whore?”
“Don’t. We both know she’s never going to change. She is who she is. But us? We can make choices. Tell me why you thought you had to lie.”
Her chin juts out in that stubborn way she has. “I didn’t want it to be a thing, okay?”
“What did I say about bullshitting me? You lied because you know it’s not okay for a seventeen year old to go clubbing, especially when she’s dressed like a twenty-seven year old looking to hook up.”
Her fire re-ignites. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions, Scott.”
“And you’re thinking this,” I gesture to her up and down, “is a good decision?”
“Yes, I do.”
I feel her slipping through my fingers. I try a different angle. “Where exactly are you going at six thirty on a Wednesday night, anyway?”
“Jordan is taking me out to dinner in San Francisco first.”
She must see my displeasure at that, because she volunteers some more information. “I wanted to do something special for our six month anniversary, that’s all. Are you going to spoil it for me?”
“Why? Are you going to stay home if I ask you to?”
Her expression hardens. “No. I want to go.”
“Well, I don’t see how I can stop you unless I lock you in your room. And we both know you’ll have the cops at our door in five minutes with the fuss you’ll kick up. All I can do is hope you’ll take care of yourself while you’re out.”
She scurries forward on an absurd pair of high heels to throw her arms around me. “Thanks, Scotty. You’re the best.”
Grudgingly, I hug her back. She feels so young, too thin, too fragile and I wish I could make her see reason. “Just promise me you’ll stay with Jordan at all times, and don’t take drinks from anyone you don’t know . . . actually, don’t drink at all, okay?”
“Okay, I’ll be good.” She pulls back. “I promise.”
“Make sure to call if you need me. And remember that you have school tomorrow.”
“Yes, Dad,” she grumbles sarcastically, reaching for her coat. When she tries to slip out the front door without me following, I give her a derisive snort.
On the porch, Jordan’s entire face lights up when he sees her. “Oh, you look amazing.” He draws out the word amazing until he catches a glimpse of my scowl.
“I do, don’t I?” she says with a self-satisfied purr as she turns in a circle to give him a better look at her.
Gesturing at the car keys in his hand, I tell him silently to get her to wait in the car. “You want to drive, baby?” he asks, holding out the keys to her.
“Yeah, I want to drive!”
We both watch her teeter down the steps and get in the car.
“Listen, man,” he begins, but I shut him down.
“She’s a kid,” I say bluntly, stepping up to him. I don’t normally use my height to intimidate people, but I’m making an exception tonight. In my work boots, I’m pushing 6’4”, and I’ve got to say, I like the way he tenses as if he’s about to get pummelled.
Though he’s reluctant to concede my point about her age, he gives me, “I know. I . . . this was her idea. I just don’t know how to say no to her. She’s a force of nature.”
“And that force of nature is my baby sister. I’m fucking trusting you to keep her safe.”
“Yeah, why do you think we’re doing this on a Wednesday? I’m keeping it low key.”
My head shakes of its own accord. “I want her back in one piece by midnight.”
His grimace tells me what I already know: Desiree will be home when Desiree wants to be home and not before. “I’ll do my best,” he says, making his way to the car.
When the tail lights have disappeared down the block, I go back inside to find my girls. They’re not in their bedroom, so I go to the kitchen which is also empty. The screeching of the screen door to the back yard calls their attention.
Rosa sees me first. “¡Papá!” She comes running and throws herself on me. I hold her tight for a long moment before I put her down. “Did you eat pizza?” she accuses. “You smell like pizza.”