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So, welcome to my frilly yellow bedroom. Girly, immature. Teddy bears. And not just that, but Care Bears. I know.
How sad is it to be twenty-four years old and still living at home with your mom and dad and grandparents? How sad is it that I'm still here, in this white-brick home in Coral Gables, near Blue Road and Alhambra Circle, on my once-canopied twin bed, silly ducky slippers hanging off my pudgy feet, a pink terry-cloth robe cinched around my waist, my greasy flat nothing brownish hair pulled up in two slightly sad, droopy-bunny ponytails?
Yeah, well, thanks. That's my sister Ladues speaking, as she stands in my doorway with an amused, superior look on her face. Geneva holds her Yorkie, Belle, under her arm like a football. The dog pants, making the red bow between her ears bob up and down like the comb on a nervous rooster. I am not what you'd call a dog person.
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There's nothing worse than the hot, rotten smell of dog mouth, and I can smell it from here. Yorkie mouth from here. I detest the dog, and I detest Geneva. You know, Geneva. My tall, thin, financially successful thirty-year-old sister? The one who is five-eight and got an MBA from Harvard--compared to the five-four University of Miami coral that is me? The one who has a group of female friends just as perfect as she is and no shortage of men she likes to call "sex toys"? The one whose feline body and long legs turn jeans into an art form?
The one who has stolen exactly three boyfriends from me in the past ten years, during which time I only had four boyfriends, even though she claims it wasn't her fault that they left me for her? She said it was my fault, for not putting more effort into my appearance, my clothes, my studies, my job, my life. She then tried to act like she'd done me a favor by offering fashion tips and career advice. Geneva has just walked into my room without knocking, lady her "work" clothes--a spaghetti-strap black silk tunic that would make any other woman look six months pregnant but which, combined with skinny jeans, a sparkly tan, and strappy black sandals, makes Geneva look like a haughty, leggy Spanish princess.
Her long black hair is twisted back in a tight knot, exposing the small yet scary dragon tattoo on her left shoulder blade, and she's got a black and white scarf wrapped around her head. Anyone else with a scarf twisted around like that would look like Aunt Jemima's nanny. I do not make eye contact. You know, it's not advisable, with her being the devil and so on.
I try to seem distracted and unconcerned. I type on the VAIO laptop between my extremely pale legs on the bed. The "n" key is worn off from all my loser online activities; these include commenting on people's blogs, gable chats, and posting fake profiles of myself on personals sites, just to see what kinds of responses I get in different cities. I pretend like I don't know that with that one little word, "sad," Geneva is talking about the loser that is me, the state of my hair, my chat, my clothes, my bed, my room.
I feel her frowning at my robe. I remember it from when I left for Harvard. She's a name-dropper. She picks up my phone from my dresser.
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I ignore her, focus on the computer. She puts Belle from Hell on the floor, and sits next to me on the bed and peeks at the screen. I turn it away from her. I hear Belle doing the scratch-and-sniff under my bed. What has she found there? I can smell Geneva's perfume, something musky and dark. Something expensive and very grown-up. I am aware that after a full day working in Overtown as a laxative publicist for my uncle's "pharmaceutical" company don't askI smell like a goat.
But it's been so long since I smelled a goat I can't be sure. The last time was at a petting zoo in Kendall when I was ten. I tried to mask today's goatness with Sunflowers perfume I got on discount at Ross earlier because I clral too lazy to take a shower. For the record, my sister would not be caught dead in a Ross, or any other store with the slogan "dress ccoral less.
To make it seem like Geneva's criticisms mean nothing to me. To seem like I'm happy here, in this room, in this house, cht my life. I set it up, but I let my dad think he did it. Our parents think I am cpral dutiful, passive Cuban daughter to have remained living at home, where I do things like wipe my grandmother's bottom she's too stiff with arthritis and fold my dad's undershirts his Y chromosome makes housework impossible for him.
To our Cuban-exile parents and tens of thousands just like them all over South Florida, gables like me--chubby, unmarried, overlooked--stay home until we're best-case scenario married or worst-case lady hauled away to the convent. Geneva and I know the truth about me, however. I'm not dutiful or traditional. I'm not even a virgin but don't tell my parents, please. Rather, I'm a purebred American slacker. I'll have a life one of these days, when I get around to it.
Other things you need to know about me: I would be pretty by normal standards, but because I coral in Miami, a city where pretty must be nipped, tucked, and liposuctioned into uniformity and submission gabled qualify, I am plain by association. I have a pleasant round and very white face, with freckles. People stop to ask me laries directions.
I have been told I look "nice," but I am selfish and wild in my head. Geneva chats a foot and rotates the strappy sandal, cracking her ankle. It sounds like grasshoppers in a blender. I hate that sound. She used to dance ballet, and developed corall disgusting habit of cracking everything all the time, especially her ankles, with no regard for those hables her.
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She has double-ted arms, but doesn't show off about it anymore, thank God. Or is it mockery? With her, I can never tell. It could be derision. She says it as if Las Ricky Chickies, an Internet forum in honor of chqt male pop star Ricky Biscayne, were the dumbest thing in the world. To her, it probably is. After all, she throws parties for the rich and famous, and gets paid very well for it, so well that she makes hundreds of thousands of dollars a year and gets to name-drop at the same time--like anyone really cares that Fat Joe ordered massive amounts of caviar or something for a tacky rap-star party.
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She recently bought herself a new BMW, in white. I myself drive a fabulous puke-green Neon. She has no need, as do we mere mortals, to connect with our idols in other, more pedestrian ways. I love him.
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I have loved him since he began as a salsa singer, and I have loved him as he recorded Grammy-winning albums in the Latin-pop genre. I love him now, as he prepares to cross over to the mainstream English-language pop realm. You might say I'm a er. That's the big difference between me and Geneva. She carves her own way and expects everyone to follow.
The sucky part vhat, they usually do. Geneva flops backward on the bed and picks up one of my Care Bears to throw it into the air, only to punch it violently on the descent. Then, as if trying to tell me something, she tosses the bear at the poster of Ricky Biscayne taped to gwbles closet door. I look at the pink Hello Kitty clock on my nightstand, then at the TV on the sagging metal stand in the corner.
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It has cable. It doesn't look like it, but it does. My dad, who owns a shipping and export business and whose expensive ties are always crooked, jerry-rigged it somehow. Cuban ingenuity, I suppose. We never throw anything away, even though we're far from poor. My dad just tries to fix everything, or make a new invention out of it. This house is full of junk. Junk and birds.
We have four birdcages scattered around the house, and among my many unsavory chores is that of cleaning them.
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She rolls onto her belly and tries again to look at the screen. I don't see how an American audience could deal. I stop myself from correcting her misuse yables the term "American" to mean only English-speaking U. I'm an American.