Chapter Nineteen
Dean
I’m more nervous about speaking at Career Day than I usually am about appearing in court. For starters, Kimberly and Nia are in the audience, so I’m mindful that I should still be in recruitment mode. And, of course, I’m talking to a bunch of teenagers, none of whom are white and all of whom have different life experiences than mine as a result. I’d like to add value to their education, not detract from it. Most of all, I don’t want to let Solange down. She’s put a lot of thought into her work here, and I’d hate to bomb the assignment.
The good news is, Solange refused to invite Peter—“I’m not subjecting these sweethearts to that prick,” she explained—and I’m taking some small comfort in his absence, particularly because he’s been extra annoying of late. Earlier in the week, when Henderson asked about the party, I told him the group canceled its plans, so Peter probably thinks he’s in the clear and will be insufferable at dinner later. Chin up, Dean. You’re almost done. But first, you need to speak to these kids.
So I tell the class about college and law school and my path to becoming a litigator. My entire spiel doesn’t take long, and the picture I paint of my life isn’t all that interesting or appealing; it comes across as uninspired. Damn, when did I become this sterile? Not surprisingly, several students are spacing out; a few don’t even try to mask the boredom in their expressions.
Solange strides to the front of the room—to save me, probably. “Thank you, Mr. Chapman. I think this would be a great time to open the floor for questions. Remember what we talked about, everyone: nothing too personal.”
“Where’d you grow up?” a kid in the back asks.
“My mom and I moved around a lot,” I say. “Spent the longest time in Delaware, though.”
“Delaware?” another student asks as if I just announced that I lived on Mars.
I glance at Solange, who has returned to the back corner of the room and is smiling behind her hand. “Yeah, it’s an actual, honest-to-God state. The president and the First Lady live there when they’re not at the White House.”
“The first state to ratify the U.S. Constitution,” Layla says. “Right, Ms. Pereira?”
Solange winks at her, then nods proudly. “Right, Layla.”
Man, the teacher’s pet in me can easily spot another teacher’s pet. Layla is Solange’s.
“Ever had anything funny happen to you in court?” This from a kid who was nodding off just a few minutes ago.
I think about it for a moment, then chuckle. “Yeah. A couple of years ago, my best friend, Max, he tells me he wants to see me in action and shows up for my first trial ever. It was a small case. No jury, just the judge. And the plaintiff in the case was representing himself. Max sits right up front, in the second or third row, maybe. He looks like a proud father, all eager to hear me try this case. Later, I’m cross-examining a witness, and the sound of loud snoring fills the courtroom. Like, loud-loud.”
“No way,” a student says, collapsing onto his desk and shaking his head. “Max fell asleep, right?”
“Right. But what’s worse is that the judge stopped the trial to scold him. Said something like, ‘Spectators are advised that they should be paying attention to the proceedings, or the court will have to remove them.’ So, yeah, Max is banned from seeing any more of my trials.”
A kid who’s as tall as me and whose name tag reads “Héctor” jumps in next. “What would you do if you couldn’t be a lawyer?”
“Great question, Héctor,” Solange says.
“If you’d asked me that ten years ago, I would have said ‘be a professional swimmer and compete in the Olympics,’ but I think it’s too late for that. I can cook, though. Been doing it since I was a kid. So maybe I’d study to be a chef.”
A few students nod. This isn’t so bad. They seem interested. Engaged, even. They’re not cackling like they were during Nia’s presentation, but I’m holding my own.
“What’s your favorite part of your job?” Layla asks.
“My pro bono work, no question,” I respond.
“What’s that?” the student behind Layla asks.
“Pro bono comes from the Latin phrase pro bono publico, which means ‘for the public good.’ Basically, it’s the part of my job that lets me represent people for free when they need my help but can’t pay my fees. I make sure people can stay in their homes. I’m telling you, there’s no better feeling than winning a case for a client facing eviction or dealing with a shady landlord.”
Kimberly, who’s leaning against a desk on the right side of the room, clears her throat, then raises her hand.
I sit up straight. “Yes, Ms. Bailey?”
“Can you tell us something you don’t like about your job?” she asks. “Like, what’s the thing that sticks in your craw?”
“Your craw?” one student asks, looking confused.
“The thing that’s hard to swallow,” Kimberly clarifies.
Hmm. This is a tough one. I could say something trite—the long hours are at the top of my con column and don’t necessarily reflect poorly on the firm—but I promised to be honest about my experiences, and I’m not changing course now. If Kimberly’s going to be my colleague, I’d want her to have a full understanding of what she’s getting into, and it occurs to me that I’ve been giving her a skewed version of the firm simply because I’ve been sidestepping anything unpleasant. So I tell her—and them—the truth. “Being an associate is a challenge. We’re always proving ourselves. And the partners dangle the promise of partnership in front of our eyes to keep us in line. I wish they cared about us. As people. But I don’t think they really do. In the end, it’s just business.” I raise a finger in the air. “But it does pay well. And for a kid who had to put himself through college and law school, that counts for a lot.”
Is it enough, though? I’m not so sure anymore. I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other for so long, it never dawned on me to consider whether I’m heading down the right path. Or maybe I’ve purposefully avoided considering it. Because for better or worse, this job is an anchor, and without it, I’d just be bobbing around. Adrift and aimless.
I look up and meet Solange’s gaze. She tips her head and smiles, the warmth in her expression going straight to my heart. I’d like to think Solange is saying she’s proud of me. Because if that were the case, I’d consider this day a success no matter what else happens.
Solange
Once Career Day’s over, we meet Peter and Molly at Jaleo, a Spanish restaurant in Penn Quarter. Our group is on time for the reservation, but our table isn’t ready.
“We’re so sorry for the wait, folks,” the harried host says. “It’s been a hectic night. We’ll do our best to get you seated as soon as we can. In the meantime, you’re welcome to sit in the lounge.”
Peter huffs and appears ready to fuss and complain, but Molly places a hand on his arm and subtly shakes her head. Surprisingly, he relents. Peter’s mellowing the longer I’m in his presence, or maybe I’m just getting used to him; the latter’s a scary thought.
Taking the host’s suggestion, we drift to the lounge and find a circular seating arrangement large enough to accommodate our group.
Dean and I choose to sit on a high-backed padded bench, and I cozy up next to him, hoping to convey the natural ease between us. He picks up on my cue and settles a hand on my lap. It’s an act, a simple arrangement of our bodies meant to convey our familiarity with each other. But to me, it’s infinitely more complicated than that, because in that moment, with Dean’s finger gently circling the top of my thigh, I imagine what it would be like to be his true partner, to absorb tiny intimate touches like this one as if they were commonplace.
My brain’s got a lot of explaining to do.
Peter lifts a menu off the table and skims it for a few seconds. “Solange, any advice on what to order?”
Bless you, Peter. Just the kind of question to get me out of my head. But also: Go to hell, Peter. It’s a Spanish restaurant. Why would I be an expert on the menu? “Not really. I’ve never been, so I can’t really recommend anything.”
“Oh,” Peter says, frowning. “I just thought since some of the food descriptions seem to be in Spanish that you’d have some insight.”
“Brazilians speak Portuguese,” I say matter-of-factly. “Different colonizer.”
Someone snorts, but I refuse to look anyone else in the eye. If Peter’s expression were captured in a photograph, it would be captioned “Damn you to hell.”
“Have you ever been to Brazil, Solange?” Kimberly asks.
I nod, grateful for the redirect. “Several times. We usually travel to Rio as a family and plan one big reunion when we get there.”
“Nia and I vacationed there after college graduation,” she says. “It was the best gift we’ve ever given ourselves.”
“Where’d you go?” I ask.
“A week in Rio, a few days in São Paulo, and a week in Salvador da Bahia. It was a whirlwind, but we had a blast. The people were so lovely. I’d read about Bahia, about the heavy African influence there, but seeing it firsthand was a different thing entirely.”
Nia nods enthusiastically. “And can we talk about the food? Amazing!” She turns to Kimberly. “Remember that little place in Rio? The one just a few minutes from our hotel? It had the most amazing bread and these little snacks I couldn’t get enough of.”
Oof. She’s making me hungry just talking about them. “You’re probably thinking of salgadinhos. Fried dough stuffed with vegetables or meat or cheese? Sometimes all three?”
“Yes!” Nia says, pointing her finger in agreement. “That’s it! I could eat those all day every day.”
“Solange knows where you can get them close to here,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows. “Her mother and aunts own a Brazilian grocery store and café in Wheaton, and let me tell you, the tias know how to cook.”
Dean’s a mess. He’s met my mother and aunts once; now he’s calling them “the tias”? Oh, wait. I see what he’s doing. Catch up, Solange. You’re fake dating him, remember?
“I’ve never been to Brazil,” Molly says on a wistful sigh. “But I hear so much about the food. I’d love to try it sometime.”
Peter snaps his fingers. “I have a great idea. Seeing as this place still doesn’t have a table for us, how about we ditch it and head over to . . . What’s it called, Solange?”
I gulp before answering. “Rio de Wheaton.”
“Right,” Peter says, his smile slick and slimy. “Rio de Wheaton. I’m sure the tias would love to see you and Dean, and then we can get some of those salgaritas—”
Eek. He’s an oaf. “Salgadinhos, you mean.”
“Sure, sure,” he says. “What do you think?”
Nia bounces in her seat and claps her hands. “Can we? That would be an excellent way to top off this trip.”
Oh my Lord, this is the stuff of nightmares. We’re this close to successfully ending the charade; a visit to Rio de Wheaton, though, risks so many potential land mines, we’re likely to be swallowed whole by the resulting crater.
I glance at Dean, trying to gauge whether he’s aware of the danger. Goodness, is that sweat on his forehead?
He removes his hand from my lap and sits up. “I don’t know. The traffic might not be great out that way.”
Molly, who typically doesn’t contribute all that much to our conversations, suddenly pipes up. “I go out to UMD for research every Wednesday, and I can get us there in no time. I’ll just tell our driver to take Sixteenth Street and head out on 97.” Now she’s an expert in DMV traffic patterns?
Think, Solange. Think. “Well, it’s late in the day, so I’m not sure they’ll have a good selection. But we could try a place in—”
With his phone at his ear and his eyes boring into mine, Peter speaks to someone, probably Tia Mariana, on the line. “Yes? Hello? Is this Rio de Wheaton? Yeah, I’m wondering if you have salgaritas—”
“Salgadinhos,” Molly snaps, her nose flaring before she adopts a serene “so help me” expression.
Peter smiles hard. “Yeah, salgadinhos. You do? Fresh from the oven too? Excellent, excellent. Thank you!” He shoves his phone in his pants pocket and rubs his hands. “So we’re doing this?”
I glance at Dean. He’s eyeing the exits as if he’s seriously considering a quick escape.
“Dean, what do you say?” Peter asks.
“Sure, if it’s okay with everyone else, it’s okay by me.”
Peter throws up his hands in vindictive glee. “Yes! I’ll arrange for a seven-passenger. We’re going on an adventure!”
Indeed, we are. Problem is, I don’t think it’s going to be fun at all.
* * *
I grab my phone as soon as we’re in the Lyft.
Me: shit this is NOT GOOD
Dean: I know but what choice did we have.
Me: Peter wants to catch us so bad
Dean: Probably going to get his wish too.
Me: fuck that. i’ll text Lina and get her to prep the tias
Dean: It’s worth a shot.
“Everything okay, you two?” Peter asks from the front passenger seat.
“Totally fine,” I say cheerfully. “Just checking some old messages.”
And planning your long-overdue demise, you little shit. But first, Lina.
Me: MAYDAY. MAYDAY. headed to Rio. got cornered into taking the group there. Tias need to pretend Dean’s my boyfriend. can you give them the heads-up?
The three dots appear immediately, then nothing. Not now, Lina. I need you.
Lina: Had to get Jaslene to cover a client meeting. On my way. But I can’t stay. You’re on your own after I’m gone.
Done. As simple as that. People sometimes ask me what it’s like to be an only child, and I tell them I wouldn’t know. My cousins are my siblings, and they’d ride-or-die with me any day.
As I envision the countless ways this evening still could go wrong, Molly and Kimberly chat about the pros and cons of living just outside DC. Airports nearby. Proximity to Baltimore. More space. Unfortunately, I can’t summon enough focus to take part in the conversation; it’s all background noise to me.
Minutes from our destination, Dean slips his hand in mine and threads our fingers together. He gives me a sweetly encouraging smile, and the churning in my belly settles. His touch is a reminder that I’m not doing this alone. A reminder, too, that he’s probably more nervous than I am—although he’s doing a much better job of masking it. I send up a silent prayer that this excursion isn’t a catastrophe in the making.
The Lyft stops in front of Rio de Wheaton, and everyone climbs out.
Kimberly and Nia are thrumming with excitement. I hope the experience doesn’t disappoint. If nothing else, I want them to have a good time.
“This is going to be so great,” Nia says to me. “I can’t wait to meet your family.”
“Me neither,” Peter says. He looks up at the door. “They even have a little shop bell.”
Tia Viviane says she bought it because it reminded her of the bell above the bookshop in You’ve Got Mail. If Peter says anything snide about it in Tia Viviane’s presence, we may need to carry him out of here on a stretcher.
Mentally making the sign of the cross, I usher everyone into the store.
My mother, Tia Viviane, and Tia Mariana are standing side by side behind the counter, three wide-eyed owls wearing overly bright smiles.
“Solange and Dean,” Tia Mariana says grandly. “Wow. We never expected to see you two here. How may we help you?”
Oh dear. The cringe factor is strong with this one. We’re never going to pull this off.
I turn to our guests. “Why don’t you take a spin through the aisles.” To Kimberly and Nia, I say, “Maybe you’ll recognize a few products on the shelves?”
They nod with enthusiasm and wander off as if they’re skipping through their own personal playground.
“We’ll find a place to sit,” Molly says.
Considering the café consists of three tables and maybe twice as many chairs, the search won’t take very long. Still, I’m grateful for the reprieve because I need to speak to my mother and aunts.
Dean and I rush over to them.
“Relax,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You’re one to talk,” Tia Viviane says. “What’s wrong with your mouth?”
“Nothing. Try to act natural, okay? Right now, you all look constipated.”
“Constipation is natural,” my mother says. “Just the other day—”
I put out a hand to cut off whatever she’s planning on saying next. “Mãe, no. Please.”
“I’m sorry to draw you into this mess,” Dean tells them, his tone conveying a mixture of amusement and nervousness. “Hopefully we won’t be too much of a bother. We’ll try a few things and be out of here in no time.”
“Filho, don’t worry about it,” my mother says, her eyes soft and kind. “You’ve been through so much. We’re here for you too.”
Yes, yes. So tragic. But we don’t have time for this. I flap my hands, unsure what else to do. “Maybe you should make yourselves look busy. That way, Peter won’t be able to ask any questions.”
Lina’s mother agrees. “One of us should bring a bunch of salgadinhos to the table. That’ll occupy them for a little while.”
“Don’t ask me to do it,” my mother says. “I’m a terrible liar.”
“Viviane should do it,” Tia Mariana suggests. “She doesn’t know how to make small talk anyway.”
Tia Viviane frowns at her. “Shut up, Mariana. See? There’s your small talk.”
Tia Mariana punches her fist into her elbow joint and raises her other fist in front of her face, a move she normally reserves for heated political discussions. “Take that, Viviane.”
My mother shushes them. “Stop it. We’re supposed to be helping, remember?”
Tia Mariana, apparently fed up with the lack of progress on our part, takes it upon herself to begin placing various salgadinhos in a baking dish, then places the dish in the oven. “Someone should offer them drinks.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “We should minimize your exposure to them anyway. All of you stay here. Dean, you ready?”
He nods, his eyes darting everywhere as though he’s searching the store for any and all exit points. “Ready.”
Dean and I stride over to the table, then I pretend to be holding a pad and paper in my hands. “Welcome to Rio de Wheaton, friends. Can I start you off with a beverage?”
Everyone agrees to a round of Guaraná Brazilia, and Dean and I grab the soft drink cans from the fridge. Minutes later, our group is huddled around a tiny table, a warm batch of salgadinhos in the center, thanks to Tia Mariana, who skedaddled away to the back as if she were Remy from Ratatouille and a health inspector had just walked in.
Nia bites into one of the coxinhas and slaps her hand on the table. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Goodness, Nia,” Kimberly says, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “You’re giving us Meg Ryan fake-orgasm-in-the-diner vibes.”
“I’m not faking it, though!” Nia says, dabbing the sides of her mouth with a napkin. “But I do love that movie.”
Dean chuckles. “I know that scene. Everyone does. But I’ve never seen the entire movie.”
Nia’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “You haven’t? Oh, you need to fix that, stat. When Harry Met Sally is a classic for a reason.”
“I’ll put it on the list for our next movie night,” he says.
For a few seconds, I actually believe Dean’s going to do just that. As if movie night isn’t a mythical event that exists only in the context of our phony relationship. Snap the hell out of it, Solange. After today, you’re going to steer clear of this man.
Molly hums her approval. “Nia’s right. I’m in heaven.”
I steal a glance at Peter, who’s watching the tias behind the counter. As long as I keep him away from them, we should be okay. Satisfied that Dean and I are off the hook for now, I grab an empadinha de camarão and take a bite. The buttery flakes of the mini pot pie crumble in my mouth, and I moan my appreciation.
“Someone’s giving Sally a run for her money,” Nia says, winking at me.
Gaining confidence that we’ll survive this fiasco with each passing minute, I offer Dean a taste. “Want to try?”
His eyes flickering with interest, he opens his mouth—just as the bell above the door chimes and my cousin Rey’s voice fills the store. “What’s up, meu povo! No one told me about the party!”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. I grab Dean’s thigh under the table. Unless Lina’s a magician, which isn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, Rey has no clue what’s going on.
Dammit, Rey, don’t come this way. Don’t come this way.
A line etched between his brows, Rey scans the table, tilts his head, then walks over to us. “This is a surprise. Solange, I thought—”
Before Rey can finish, Tia Mariana reappears, tackles her son, and stuffs a coxinha in his mouth, almost toppling the only empty chair in the café. As she drags Rey away, she smiles at our group. “He’s been harassing me about using this new recipe. I wanted him to try the results as soon as he got here. Hope you’re enjoying the food!”
Peter grins. “Everything’s great. Thank you!”
Maybe Peter’s finally given up. Maybe he can be a decent person when he wants to be. Maybe Mercury’s no longer in retrograde. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.
But then the bell chimes again, and two middle-aged people walk into the store. The woman isn’t a stranger, but I’m having trouble placing her.
“Cláudia!” my mother exclaims from behind the counter, her voice high and tight. “What are you doing here?”
Oh shit. I think I may have tinkled in my underwear. Can this really be happening? Of course it can. It’s my life after all. Cursed. Every damn cell in my body is cursed.
“Oi, família!” our cousin Cláudia says. “I know I said to expect us on Friday, but Rodrigo and I decided to surprise you!”
The doorbell chimes yet again, and a man and a woman laughing and jostling each other stumble inside.
“And here’s my daughter and her husband!” Cláudia says proudly.
I lean over to Dean, throw my arm over the back of his chair, and press my mouth against his ear. “Remember that IOU?”
He swallows audibly, the gulp in his throat sounding like a boulder hitting the surface of a lake. “Yeah.”
“I’m calling in my debt right now.”