CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Had I stepped into Noah’s Ark, I do not think I could have been more utterly astonished.

—LOUISA ADAMS

Every two minutes, it seems, from the time we pull out of Nana’s driveway until we turn into the parking lot at the airport, Mom warns Maribel, “Don’t take your eyes off your sister!” Then she turns to me. “Don’t wander away from your sister!”

“Mom,” Maribel moans, throwing open the trunk to pull out our bags. “Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to Geez.”

Nana hooks her arm through mine and walks with me to the terminal. “That girl doesn’t stop,” she whispers. “Make sure she feeds you.”

“Nana. We’ll be fine.”

Maribel and I check our suitcases and wave to Mom and Nana as an escalator carries us toward our boarding gate. Mom cups her hands around her mouth. “You two take care of each other!”

Once we’re on the plane with our seat belts pulled across our laps, I can almost forget that we aren’t just taking off on a family vacation, with Mom and Dad sitting a row behind.

I reach down to get my headphones from my backpack. But when I see Maribel studying her Expo itinerary, I take mine out, too.

Opening ceremonies are tonight.

“We should try to go if we get to the hotel in time,” Maribel says, tapping a pen against her teeth.

The Soul of Beauty Brunch is on Saturday morning, and there are all kinds of workshops on the schedule for later that afternoon. We can go to any we want. Maribel draws circles around two of them: “From Pastime to Full-Time: Your Career Is in Your Hands!” and “Hidden Beauty: Finding New Customers Where You’d Least Expect.”

I fall asleep to the soft rustle of Maribel flipping through her papers, then jolt awake hours later when the plane wheels hit the landing strip in Washington, DC.

Foggy-headed, I stretch in the aisle and follow Maribel off the plane. She’s tied a purple scarf to her black makeup satchel, and I train my eyes on it as she winds her way through the concourse, down to the baggage claim area, and outside to the hotel shuttle stop. We pass a food court along the way, and I yell ahead at her to stop for a snack. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even slow down.

“Geez. Come on,” she calls back. “We don’t want to be late.”

Nana tried to warn me, I think as I scamper to catch up.

Our room is on the ninth floor of the redbrick hotel. Maribel lets me have the bed nearest the window so I can look out onto the street below. Even though it’s cold, and even though the sunlight is beginning to fade, crowds of people—carrying newspapers, carrying cameras, carrying briefcases—stream over the sidewalk. Maribel tosses me one of the bean-and-potato burritos Nana packed us this morning and locks herself in the bathroom to change and freshen her makeup for the Alma Expo.

On the itinerary, the opening ceremonies are marked Casual! We know you’ve been traveling! so I stay dressed in the wooly green sweater and blue jeans I wore on the plane. I splash some water on my face, though, and rebraid my hair.

Swallowing the last bite of smooshed burrito as Maribel comes out of the bathroom, I start to realize I haven’t done enough. Maribel is wearing a lilac blouse and a suit I recognize from Mom’s closet. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek, low ponytail, and she’s pinning one of Nana’s old brooches onto her lapel.

“Let’s go.”

I look down at my sweater and jeans. “Should I change?”

“No time,” Maribel says briskly. Maribel is never late.

Before we can get to the hotel ballroom, where the opening ceremonies are about to start, we have to wait in a long, looping line that coils like a snake with a million violet scales. I might be the only person on the whole floor—maybe in the whole hotel—who isn’t wearing some shade of purple.

Maribel fits right in. When I first saw her in Mom’s old suit, she seemed smaller to me somehow. Like she was playing dress-up. But now, with her candy-apple smile back on, she just looks like one more flower in this purple bouquet.

Finally, we make it to the front of the line.

“Zaragoza and Zaragoza,” Maribel tells a woman sitting behind the registration table.

The lady’s fingers fly over a file full of yellow folders. She pulls two of them out.

“Ah, two of our Fresh New Face finalists! Congratulations. These are your registration packets. You’ll find your name badges inside. I just know you’ll find this an inspiring weekend. Best of luck tomorrow!”

She waves over the next woman in line before Maribel and I can thank her.

We find some space away from the crowd to open the envelopes and take out our badges. I slip a lanyard over my head. GRISELDA ZARAGOZA, JUNIOR ASSOCIATE. I’m sort of surprised it doesn’t say GEEZ.

The lights inside the ballroom are dimmed, except for onstage, where a spotlight casts a lonely, lavender glow. Maribel leads us to two empty seats.

Just as we’re sitting down, the spotlight goes dark. The audience gasps. I grab Maribel’s hand. She squeezes mine back.

When the light switches on again, a woman wearing an evening gown covered in a dazzle of purple sequins stands onstage. I catch only a glimpse of her because, in a moment, everyone on the floor jumps to their feet and starts cheering.

The woman’s voice, rich and velvety, pours out of the overhead speakers.

“You!” she sings. “Are the soul of beauty!” Silvery streamers and purple balloons rain down from the ceiling. The applause swells to a roar.

My stomach growls. The burrito hadn’t been enough.

I look around for food and spot a long table at the back of the room with a lemonade fountain and piles of cookies.

I pull on Maribel’s sleeve to get her attention. I point to the table and point to my stomach. She leans over to say something. I can barely hear her, even though she’s yelling right in my ear. “Come straight back! Mom’ll never forgive me if I lose you on the first day.”

I weave through the cheering crowd, stepping on toes and tripping over handbags. But no one seems to notice as the speech continues. When I get to the refreshments table, I resist the urge to take more than two cookies.

I would have gone right back to our seats, but the floral centerpieces on the table distract me, even in the low light. A bowlful of peonies with petals like ballet skirts fluttering in midleap. Creamy orchids with amethyst centers bursting above the edges of a crystal vase.

Partly because of the flowers, but also because I’m so tired, my mind drifts.

I yelp when Maribel taps on my shoulder. “Geez! Where were you? You said you’d come right back.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, I found you, anyway. Let’s go.”

Outside the violet chaos of the ballroom, the hotel seems eerily still and quiet. “You didn’t want to stay until the end?”

Maribel pulls a streamer from her hair. “I could do with less glitter. Let’s go find some real food.”

It’s still early—and even earlier back home—when we finish dinner, but Maribel wants to go back up to our room to lay out her clothes and practice her speech.

I had assumed it would be about Tía Carla. Besides Dad, she’s the only businessperson we know. And she’s super successful.

Instead, Maribel recites, “She might not be a businesswoman, but if you ask me, there’s no one who better embodies the spirit of success than my nana. That’s because success begins with recognizing potential, and Nana sees potential almost everywhere she looks.”

She rehearses in front of the mirror and twice in front of me before we both collapse on our beds.

“You’re sure you don’t want to practice?” Maribel mumbles into her pillow. “Just once?”

“No, I just want to get it over with.”

“Then do me a favor and toss me my phone so I can set an alarm?”

“We don’t need an alarm.” I yawn. “I always wake up early on days when something important is supposed to happen.”