Page 16 of Marisol Acts the Part
Traffic thins the farther uptown we go. The bustling crowds and towering skyscrapers I’ve come to expect from New York City are replaced by worn brick buildings and kids perched on stoops, trading bags of chips and candy. There’s even actual greenery, much to my surprise. Large trees cast shadows across the block my dad pulls onto, all of them perfectly spaced apart. At the tree in front of his building, stones painted with names like Manny and Zhaniya are gathered along the trunk next to a sign readingDON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT LETTING YOUR DOG SHIT HERE.Fire trucks whiz past us as we park in front of a gray prewar building. Even through the piercing screech of ambulance sirens, I can hear more commotion coming from the city—the rumble of the subway, two men arguing on the corner about who owes the other a round of drinks, a delivery driver shouting into his phone that an order was packed incorrectly. “It saidnobeef, notextrabeef!”
It’s chaotic, and messy, and absolutely beautiful.
“Home sweet home,” my dad announces as he parallel-parks so smoothly it should be shown in driver’s ed classes.
I don’t know what to say as I take in the street I’ll be living on for the next three months. Should I ask if the pierogis at the Ukrainian place across the street are any good, or if the fire hydrant outside of it is supposed to be spewing water like that, or where that incredible smell of fried meat, spices, and something I can’t quite place is coming from? My stomach answers for me, rumbling so loud it could probably be heard back in LA.
My dad lets out a quiet laugh, nodding his head toward the building. “Head in. Jerome made lunch.”
“Don’t you need help?” I cast a wary glance at the trunk.
He shakes his head, tossing me a ring of keys. “I’ve got it. Go get settled. We’re in five-E.”
While he heads for the trunk, stopping to make small talk with the women playing dominos across the street, I carefully pull Bruiser’s carrier out and head for the building—the biggest on the block. It’s not one of the picturesque brownstones I’d been picturing when Mom told me he lived in upper Manhattan. There’s no plant-covered stoop, or bay windows facing Central Park. But it’s close to public transportation, doesn’t cost four figures a night, and accepts Bruiser, so it has everything I need.
Over my shoulder, notes of my dad’s conversation trickle over to me on a breeze. Their Spanish is too rapid for me to follow, some words clipped short and others spread out, the meaning behind it muffled like a song playing in the next room. I’m able to catch a couple of familiar words as I fumble with the keys to find one that fits into the lock. Hija. Visitando. Un ratito. It’s not a secret that they’re talking about me, but it feels odd not to be able to put together the pieces. Not for the first time, I bristle and try to shake off that nagging, uncomfortable feeling that I’m not a part of something I should be.
My worries go straight to the back burner once I throw the door open. A mix of intoxicating smells hits me like a tidal wave as I step into the entryway. Smoked meats, fresh bread, and the sharp tang of garlic. My nose pulls me in a dozen different directions, but I ignore my senses and stay on course, scanning the hallway for an elevator.
Except there isn’t one.
Okay. No problem. I should’ve seen that coming. New York is notorious for its walk-ups. LA may have spoiled me when it comes to in-unit laundry and elevators, but a couple flights of stairs won’t kill me. Plus, it’s free cardio. Five fewer minutes on the elliptical every day.
I head up to the second floor, scanning the hallway for any sign of 5E. Nothing. Not on the third floor either. It’s not until I get to the fourth floor that I realize why I haven’t found their apartment yet.
It’s on the fifth floor.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath as I start the trek up to the next floor, my calves burning and shoulder aching from having to carry Bruiser too. She wriggles in her carrier, as upset about the climb as I am. Stars dot my vision as I heave for breath on the fifth-floor landing, my tank top soaked in sweat, the baby hairs at my temples curled tight as springs. So much for that keratin treatment.
The door to 5E bursts open before I spot it, Jerome stepping into the hallway followed by a deep-fried scented cloud.
“Welcome, bebesita!” he announces, a spatula in one hand and an oven mitt in the other. His tight coils are hidden beneath a plain black ball cap, and his dark brown skin glistens with sweat and a few subtle traces of glitter. I set down Bruiser’scarrier and launch straight into his embrace, letting him pull me slightly off the ground and twirl me in a circle. I’d linger on the irony that I had a more heartfelt reunion with my dad’s partner than with myactualdad, but I’m too excited about seeing Jerome again to care.
Across the seven years since I first met him, Jerome and I have interacted way more than my dad and I ever have. Maybe it’s because he’s eight years younger than my dad—something they tease each other about constantly—or that he actually knows how to DM someone without sending the same message five times. Or maybe it’s that Jerome is cool as hell. A production manager at a fashion magazine by day and a drag queen with a weekly show in the West Village by night, Jerome is the type of person I instantly knew I’d get along with. He’s the only person in our strange little family who understands my hatred for kitten heels and knows the difference between a blow dryer and a diffuser.
“How did you—”
“Heard you huffing and puffing up the steps,” he answers before I can finish, nodding his head toward the stairwell. “It gets easier, promise.”
It’d better. I don’t think my body can take that kind of physical anguish multiple times a day. Not to mention that I’ll have to carry Bruiser back and forth whenever I take her out. She can barely handle a thirty-minute walk—tackling these stairs would be her Mount Everest.
Once I’ve picked up the carrier, Jerome sweeps me into the apartment with a dramatic wave of his arm and a trill of “Welcome to Chateau Rodriguez-Morales-Avila!”
I’m too distracted by the spread of food laid out on thekitchen table to question why they have three last names between two people. Or why there’s a framed photo of J.Lo photoshopped as Jesus hanging on the door.
“Eat, eat,” Jerome urges, thrusting a plate into my hand and nudging me toward the elaborate spread. “As your abuela would say, eres muy flaquita,” he says, pinching my “too-thin” waist for emphasis.
I don’t linger on the fact that he’s doing an impression of my own grandma, and I have no idea if it’s accurate. The last time I saw my abuela in person was probably when my parents were still living together. We’ve FaceTimed a few times when my dad was over at her place during the holidays. All I really know about her is that she hates Judge Judy, and I’m named after her mother—Marisol Emilia de la Cruz Burgos, “the most headstrong woman I’ve ever met,” according to my dad.
Well, at least that’s one thing I inherited from my dad’s side of the family. I’m nothing if not stubborn as hell.
I listen to Jerome and my growling stomach and reach for the closest item to me—a bowl of thinly sliced fried plantains. The first bite is so hot it burns the roof my mouth, the simmering oil clinging to my fingertips.
“Rookie mistake,” Jerome chides as I drop the plantain back onto the plate and fan my mouth and let out short spurts of cooling breath. He ladles a spoonful of what looks (and smells) like a combo of ketchup and mayo onto my half-eaten plantain. “Tostonesneedsauce,” he explains like it’s common sense.
Which, to be fair, it probably is to anyone who has a basic understanding of their cultures’ cuisines. Mom tried to incorporate Puerto Rican dishes into our dinner rotation growingup, but she can barely handle microwaving a Lean Cuisine without risking third-degree burns. Hamburger Helper was as fancy as it ever got untilAvalon Grovecame along and I finally made enough money to splurge on twenty-dollar salads every other night.
Jerome is right: the sauce blend brings the plantain—tostone—to new heights. The mayo-ketchup blend soothes my burnt tongue, letting me appreciate the salty, deep-fried goodness. Perfectly crunchy on the outside, with a fluffy potato-like center.
