Confetti Girl (4 page)

Because of her decorating business, Ms. Cantu’s garage is packed with candelabras, vases, ruffled table skirts, and a huge
heart-shaped
arco.
There’s also a giant bird-cage for Romeo and Juliet, her doves. When they’re not cooing at weddings, they stay in a smaller
cage in the living room.

Ms. Cantu doesn’t put much effort into her decorating business. She says it breaks her heart to see brides and grooms when
she knows about the fifty-percent divorce rate. The only reason she gets jobs is because she doesn’t charge much, which is
also the reason she never gets to decorate the fancy rooms at Selena Convention Center where the
real
dances are. Most of the weddings and
quinceañeras
she decorates take place at Tito’s Icehouse or Milagros Dance Hall, an old barn off Robstown Road.

“Hi, Mom,” Vanessa says.

“Hi,
m’ija.
” Ms. Cantu spots me standing by the kitchen doorway. “Ay, Lina. Don’t be so shy. Come here.” She pats the sofa cushion and
I obediently sit beside her. “
Pobrecita,
Lina. Growing up without a mama. And she was such a good woman. My closest friend.”

She hugs me and pats my back as if burping a baby. I have to stoop since I’m so tall.

“That’s enough, Mom,” Vanessa says. “You’re smothering her.”

Ms. Cantu lets me go. “I can’t help it,” she says, almost in tears. “I can’t stand a real-life tragedy. And your father is
such a good man, Lina. He doesn’t deserve this.”

I want to say that my father isn’t as good as she believes, that he can be selfish like all other men, that he’d rather read
books than pay attention to his poor orphan daughter.

“Come help me with these
cascarones,
girls.”

Vanessa and I sit around the coffee table. Ms. Cantu has already dyed the eggs, using bright colors like yellow, hot pink,
and red. She’s also painted stripes or flowers on the shells. The whole house stinks like vinegar. While Vanessa cuts out
circles of tissue paper, I grab a handful of confetti and carefully pour it into the shell. Then I hand it to Ms. Cantu, so
she can glue tissue over the hole.

“So what are you watching?” Vanessa asks.

“A show on Lifetime,
Heart of Sacrifice.
”

“What’s it about?”

“This woman falls in love with a man, and he loves her too, and everything’s perfect until she finds out he’s married. So
now he’s trying to sweet-talk her into being his woman on the side. Can you believe it? And that
tonta
’s falling for it.”

“Didn’t you see that movie last week?” Vanessa asks.

“No.”

“Yes, you did. On the Spanish station.”

“No, no, that was
Dos Amores, Una Vida.
”

“Two loves, one life?” I ask.

“Yes. And it was a completely different story. In that one, the man loved two women, really loved them, and he couldn’t pick
between them, so one of the women takes matters into her own hands and murders the competition.”

“And he marries the murderer?” Vanessa guesses.

“
¿Quién sabe?
It’s not over yet. It’s got two weeks to go. But my guess is that he’s going to fall for her sister. That’s how it is with
men. They think forever means three weeks. Just look at your father.”

Ms. Cantu always puts down her ex-husband. Vanessa’s shoulders slump, so I decide to change the subject.

“Did you decorate that shirt?” I ask, pointing to Ms. Cantu’s big T-shirt with buttons in the center of appliquéd flowers.
All her shirts are crafty. That’s her style. She wears old-fashioned stirrup pants with tennis shoes or sandals and oversized
T-shirts decorated with iron-on transfers, fabric paint, sequins, buttons, lace, and bows.

“You like it?” she says, straightening her shirt to give us a better look.

“Yeah. Where did you get those buttons?”

“These?” She points to them. “I plucked them off my ex-husband’s coat.”

“The black one?” Vanessa says.

“Yup.”

“Dad
loves
that coat. He’s been looking for it.”

“He should have looked before leaving me.”

“But that’s cruel, Mom. How could you destroy his favorite coat?”

“I didn’t destroy it. I just found a better use for it.” Ms. Cantu turns to me. “The buttons are made of wood, see? Very easy
to paint. That’s how I got these bright colors.”

“If you ask me,” Vanessa says, “it’s an ugly shirt. And I’m not talking about the decorations, even if it’s
just plain wrong
to steal buttons. I’m talking about the shape. Why are your shirts extra large when you’re small enough for a medium? You
could wear real cute clothes if you wanted.”

“I need big T-shirts,” Ms. Cantu says, “so I can have room for my iron-ons.”

“But you have a nice figure. Why hide it? How’s a sweet guy going to notice you? Especially when you wear socks with your
sandals.”

“Socks are cool,” I say.

“With sandals, Lina?”

As much as I hate to dis socks, I have to agree. There
is
a high tacky index for wearing them with sandals.

“I’m just saying you’re a babe, Mom. You should show off your babehood.”

“What for?” Ms. Cantu says, grabbing a purple Sharpie and scribbling on the eggs. “Here’s my answer next time some man asks
me on a date.” She writes “as if” on the first egg. “You wish,” on the second. Then, “when pigs fly,” “talk to the hand,”
and “I’d rather eat worms.” The marker ink smears until the eggs get a blotched look.

“You’re ruining them,” Vanessa complains.

We don’t say anything for a while. The woman on
Heart of Sacrifice
is packing her bags and leaving her boyfriend. Good for her. She wants to be
more
than the woman on the side. She wants to be the main character in her man’s life—the protagonist, my dad would say. And why
shouldn’t she be? I wouldn’t mind ousting the hero of my dad’s favorite book and taking his place.

“Okay, let’s talk about some good news,” Vanessa says. “We’re having a school carnival for Halloween and girls’ athletics
is in charge of a booth.”

Ms. Cantu is quick to respond. “Oh, no! I’m not volunteering my face so people can throw pies at it.”

“I wasn’t asking you to.”

“And I’m not sitting in the dunking booth, either.”

“Let me finish, Mom.”

Ms. Cantu eyes her suspiciously, then nods an okay.

“We’re going to sell your
cascarones,
” Vanessa announces.

I thought Ms. Cantu would holler and scream and punch the sky, but the exact opposite happens. She gets very quiet and looks
off with a dreamy twinkle in her eye.

“That’s genius!” she suddenly blurts. “We can use the carnival to test the market. Who says
cascarones
should be limited to Easter? We should make them a year-round commodity!”

“No, Mom,” Vanessa says. “We’re getting rid of them once and for all. It’s embarrassing to live in a house that looks like
a confetti-egg factory.”

“Factory, yes. Another great idea.” Ms. Cantu forgets us and starts talking to herself. “And I can use different themes. Orange
and black dyes for Halloween. Red and green for Christmas. And for Thanksgiving… I can glue little beaks… or turkey feathers!”

Ms. Cantu heads for the kitchen, still brainstorming aloud.

“And I can have specialty confetti too,” she says to herself. “Rice instead of paper for… for… yes…
wedding cascarones
!”

“Mom. Mom!”

Ms. Cantu doesn’t hear her.

“I can’t stand this!” Vanessa says. “I was trying to solve a problem, but instead I created a new one.”

Una acción buena enseña más que mil palabras –
Actions speak louder than words

M
om always had after-school projects waiting for me. “Can you help decorate cookies?” she’d say. Or, “Go outside and pick some
flowers.” Or, “Fix my nails, please.” She loved to paint them, but since she wasn’t coordinated with her left hand, her right-hand
nails looked like a preschooler’s coloring page.

I guess these projects were chores, but they were fun, too. Now when I come home, I’ve got to sweep, fold towels, or scrub
the bathroom sink. Dad helps, but sometimes he makes a big mess.

Like today. He’s got flour, potato skins, and crumpled napkins on the counter. The pot boils over with brown scum. And I don’t
want to talk to him because I’m still mad about the volleyball game, but I have to know what he’s up to.

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Making dinner. Thought I’d give you a break.”

Except for game nights, dinner’s my responsibility. I cook while Dad cleans—that’s our rule. And even though I don’t cook
as well as Mom did, Dad never complains.

“What are you trying to make?” I ask.

“
Carne guisada
and
papas fritas.
”

“You need a recipe for that?”

“Are you kidding? I need a recipe for peanut butter sandwiches.”

How mad can a girl be at a man who makes fun of himself and wears a green frog apron that says
KISS THE COOK
and tube socks over his hands for potholders?

We clear space on the table. Dinner’s served. The beef’s tough and the
papas
are mushy, but who cares? I pretend it’s delicious because my dad lets me blabber about the Halloween carnival. He laughs
out loud when I describe Vanessa’s potato baby and Ms. Cantu’s creative
cascarones,
so I don’t complain when I notice he served ranch-style beans straight from the can instead of heating them up first.

Everything’s great until he asks about my English class.

“Any new vocabulary words?” he wants to know.

“I guess. Maybe. Super… super… super something. Can’t remember.”

“Was it
supersede
?” he asks. “
Supercilious
?
Superfluous
?”

“I don’t remember, Dad. It could have been
super-duper
or
super-loop
for all I care.”

He gets sarcasm from his students all the time so he’s good at ignoring it.

“Remember that
super
is a prefix that means ‘above and beyond,’” he says. “So no matter what the word is, you can get its meaning if you take
it apart.”

“Okay, Dad. I get it. So did I tell you we’re having a book sale for our next fundraiser?”

“What else are you doing in English?” he asks. “Reading any novels?”

I sigh, bored, but he doesn’t get the hint. He just waits for my answer. “Yes,” I finally say. “I don’t remember the title,
but it’s got a rabbit on the cover.”

“Is it
Watership Down
? It’s got to be
Watership Down.
”

“Yes, that’s it. But I left it in my locker. I guess I can’t do my homework.”

“Nonsense. I’ve got a copy somewhere. Let me look.”

He leaves the table to scan the bookshelves, and all of the sudden, I
care
about the tough beef, the mushy potatoes, and the cold beans. Why should I eat when my own father has abandoned his food?
Nothing’s more important than his books and vocabulary words. He might
say
I matter, but when he goes on a scavenger hunt for a book, I realize that I really don’t.

I take my plate to the kitchen, grab my half-finished soda, and head to my room. When I walk past him, he’s kneeling to search
the lower shelves. He’s got a paper towel and wipes it lovingly over the titles as if polishing a sports car. He doesn’t hear
my angry, stomping footsteps. I catch the last part of his sentence.

“… a classic epic journey,” he says as if he were in class with a bunch of students. I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand
it. I’d rather have Vanessa’s crazy mom.

Later, just as I write
I love Luís
for the three-hundredth time, my dad peeks through my bedroom door.

“Found my copy of
Watership Down,
” he says, handing me a paperback whose spine’s been taped a dozen times. “How far do you have to read tonight?”

“The first four chapters,” I say.

“That’s a lot. You better get busy.”

“Sure, Dad. I’ll start reading right away.”

But I don’t. As soon as he leaves, I put the book on my nightstand and use it as a coaster. The condensation from my soda
makes a big, wet circle on the cover.

The next morning, Vanessa knocks on my door. She holds out her potato baby.

“Did Duchess lose weight?” I ask.

“Is it
that
obvious?”

I nod. “What happened?”

“
Dinner
happened. Guess what I ate last night?”

“Eggs?”

“That’s a given. What
kind
of eggs?”

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “You ate
papas con huevos
!”

“That’s right. Remember how I left Duchess on the kitchen table? Well, part of her got peeled, diced, and fried. I didn’t
realize I was eating my own daughter till halfway through my second
taquito
!”

“You’re a cannibal,” I tease.

“It’s all my mom’s fault. Just like everything else in my life.”

“Don’t blame your mom when you left the potatoes on the table. Of course she used them.”

“I guess you’re right,” Vanessa says. “So, can I borrow some potatoes to fatten her up?”

“Sure,” I tell her. “No problem.” But it
is
a problem because I look in the fridge and see that Dad used all our potatoes last night.

“What do I do now?” Vanessa cries. “I can’t let Carlos know that I put Duchess in danger. We’ll get an F and he’ll never talk
to me again.”

Usually, she looks at the ceiling and touches her chin for the answer. But not today. I’ve never seen her so stressed. I’ve
got to calm her down before she pulls out a clump of hair and goes bald. I make her sit and serve her a glass of water. Then
I go to the backyard and search for potato-size rocks, finding four near the fence. With a little reshuffling, we manage to
hide them in the potato bag. Duchess is as good as new.

“You’re a genius,” Vanessa says. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I take a bow. “Best friend, at your service.”