Rosaura was in her first show at the Sol del Mar Art Gallery.
Weeks before, Marieta had approached the director who had conceived the show spotlighting new artists in the San Antonio area, “Treasure Hunt: Discovering the City’s Hidden Talent.” She had shown Mr. Richardson Rosaura’s slides. She had talked and talked, not waiting for a pause, not letting him say “no,” only stopping when he laughed. She had stared, her eyes hardening to small black coals. He said he’d allowed the panel of jurors to consider the slides and, after he did, the panel accepted them. After Marieta notified the press of the gallery’s choices and the announcements had been sent, the opening arrived on a typically hot Texas day.
Mr. Richardson trailed after Marieta into the hallway and touched her shoulder. His light brown hair was streaked blonde after his vacation at his wife’s summer home in Aspen. He was taller than Marieta, his body sculpted from daily workouts at the Gold’s Gym. Usually dressed in a sports coat and open collar shirt, today he wore a dark power suit for the gallery’s opening.
Marieta had overheard Mr. Richardson tell a co-worker that he liked what he saw in her, a small frame decorated in dark brown skin. Her hair moved with just a touch of bounce, the same bounce, he had chuckled, that matched the movement under her skirt as she walked away. Mr. Richardson and the co-worker had laughed together.
Now, Mr. Richardson stepped near and ran his knuckles along her hair, his fingers skimming her cheek as she pulled away. “Tell me. Do Rosaura’s eyes blaze as full of passion and fire as yours?”
Marieta sighed. Another gringo pigeonholing her into their stereotype of hot Latinas. She walked down the hall, the pressure of his gaze like hot breath on her skin. She would not let his behavior stop her from being proud of her body.
She reached for the phone at her desk while checking down the hall. Mr. Richardson waved his fingers and gave her a chop-licking smile. She wrapped her fingers around the receiver, leaving the middle finger straight up for him to see, and dialed the phone. He chuckled as he slipped back into his office.
Three hours later, Marieta stood in the gallery. The two fans that hung from the high ceiling rotated slowly to give the illusion of Southern antiquity when air-conditioning took care of temperature and humidity. The lighting was soft and recessed, except for the strip lighting focused on the individual paintings. As footsteps clicked across polished, hardwood floors, the gallery achieved a cathedral-like quality. A variety of paintings lined the walls on either side of the room. Rising from the middle of the room toward the back, facing the entrance, was a panel almost ceiling-high. Rosaura’s paintings were on the backside of this panel.
Marieta walked along the wall, stopping once or twice. She felt the swirls and the strokes as if she had done them herself. She would hold her hand close to each canvas and believe she could feel what the artist had felt: the tension, the passion, the joy of each stroke, of each color, colors swimming in union. Take one color, then another, spread the paint one way, then another, think about the overlay of texture, the contrast of color and slowly, with patience, the illusion emerges. The artist’s vision.
Several years back, she had asked Rosaura for painting lessons for her birthday. She had cried. She had quit after five classes. Marieta appreciated the labor it took to create good art, but now she worked at displaying other people’s art, always aching to paint one of her own pieces. But always there was a moment before each show in which she allowed herself to dream, her and the artwork alone.
Rosaura stepped into the gallery. “I still find it so hard to believe that my work is hanging in a gallery.”
Marieta dragged her consciousness back to reality. “And no one else better deserves it than you.” She smiled.
Rosaura tugged at her suit. “Do I look all right?”
Marieta skimmed over her best friend, the envy of most with her warm, molasses-brown skin, brown-gold eyes, and blue-black, thick, short hair. Marieta gritted her teeth every time she remembered that Rosaura’s hair had been waist length. The dumbest thing Rosaura had ever done as far as she was concerned. “Chula, you’re perfect. Órale, the tea will be in the courtyard, but first let’s see how your art looks.”
Marieta took Rosaura’s arm in hers. They’d been best friends since grade school, through their first bleeding, their high school softball championship game, their late night huddles, their receiving THE first kiss. Marieta Ortíz has always been una amiga to hang low and dirty through the fun times and the clinches. Rosaura had learned how to fistfight because Marieta never backed off from an argument. In the classroom, the teachers had situated them as far apart as possible.
The gallery filled with couples, women dressed in suits nipped and tucked in high fashion. The most daring wore a pale yellow suit; the rest wore a smear of vanilla. Rosaura tugged at her red blazer. In a light rose suit, Marieta jerked Rosaura’s hand away and shook her head. The two women were like rain forest flowers floating across a sea of milk.
Five women stood in a semicircle in front of Rosaura’s work. Marieta pitched forward to be heard above the conversations around them. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Rosaura Ríos. This is her work.” Marieta made a sweeping gesture towards the painting on the wall. “One day you can say you saw her here first.” Marieta smiled.
Rosaura nodded at the five women. “I’m so happy to be here. This is a beautiful gallery.”
The blonde woman with the Galveston-tan next to Rosaura extended a hand. Rosaura felt relief from the warm response on the woman’s face as she shook her hand.
Rosaura stepped forward to allow a couple to walk by, then turned to the woman on her left as Suzan Richardson asked, “How many years have you been painting, dear?”
Marieta knew Mrs. Richardson’s silver-colored suit was new for this opening; she had never seen that woman in the same outfit twice. Marieta wished she owned Richardson’s closet.
“All my life, I guess. With children, it’s a little harder to get the time, but I’m sure y’all understand that.” Rosaura smiled.
There was a twitter of laughter from the women. Mrs. Richardson said, “I just have the Mexican girl take the children out.”
Two of the women nodded to each other, wide-brimmed hats touching, then leaned forward to hear above the din of the group next to them.
“Rosaura Ríos?” Glancing at the name on the painting then at the woman, the minister’s wife, Mrs. Thatcher asked, “Didn’t your daughter win the spelling bee last week?”
A group of women maneuvered between them to view the picture. So only Mrs. Whitting heard Mrs. Thatcher say, “She’ll be representing the South San District in a week or so, won’t she?”
Rosaura beamed. “Yes. I’m so proud of her.”
Mrs. Thatcher glanced over at a woman standing at another painting. “Excuse me. I have to go speak with Mrs. Williams. She’s the principal’s wife and is expecting a report from me.” She trotted off, cutting through clusters of people, dropping smiles on them like coins in a collection basket.
Marieta turned her attention to the rest of the women. “Appears the whole family is in the spotlight this week.”
Harriet Whitting studied the oil painting of a Latino Christmas event. Three young women sat at a kitchen table, spreading masa on corn husks to make tamales, and two older women stood at the stove, stirring a huge metal pot. To Rosaura she said, with a nod to her companions, “Your basic palette is extremely brash. Have you ever experienced the subtle pastels of Monet?” A burst of laughter erupted from the other side of the room.
Rosaura’s smile faded.
Marieta grabbed Rosaura’s hand and held it tightly.
The other women grouped tighter as three others joined them and angled forward to inspect the painting.
Mrs. Whitting nodded as, with one finger tapping her chin, she studied the piece. “Folk art with a lack of subtlety of value change. Characteristic of art from our neighbors south of the border. When did your family immigrate to America?”
“We have to move on. I have other people that want to meet Rosaura.” Marieta tugged at Rosaura, who was already engaged in a staring battle with Mrs. Whitting.
“My family became Americans when Texas was annexed just after my great-great-grandmother’s birthday. We had already been living on this land for several decades before the white people, your people, stole this country from us.”
The woman with the wide-brimmed hat glanced at her neighbor. They touched brims again and rolled their eyes. The new arrival to the group sensed the tension and moved on, calling out to a friend.
Rosaura said, “I’m fifth-generation American. What generation are you?”
Mrs. Whitting put her gloved hand to her breast. “I was merely trying to make conversation. I didn’t realize you would be so sensitive.”
Rosaura turned to leave with Marieta when the woman who had shaken her hand said, “Your art is masterful. Alive. Pulsing with energy. If this gallery was smart they’d keep you in their stable of artists. I’m eager to see more of your work exhibited throughout the city.” The woman slipped her a business card. “Call me. I can make that happen.”
Rosaura bowed her head quickly at the woman, then let Marieta lead her to the courtyard.
Outside, the Texas sun did its best against a cloth of blue sky to sizzle everything underneath. From above, high windows and iron filigree balconies with flowering vines climbing up the walls, looked down on the courtyard. A splashing fountain, adorned in blue and white tiles, squatted in the middle of the courtyard; water drops played their song softly. A faint rainbow arched across the top of the fountain.
Standing in the courtyard, with paper-thin slices of cheese on wafers that crumbled when bitten, the women sipped from blue-flowered china cups. Caterers rushed back and forth, filling platters and silver urns. Waiters roamed, on the lookout for empty cups or plates to fill with bite-sized delectables. People mingled, snaking from one group to another. Conversations were soft-toned in one group, boisterous in another. Plastic smiles nodded to boring conversationalists, while artists networked. With one arm behind her back, Rosaura shook her jacket to let some air cool her sweaty back. But in spite of the heat, all the other women appeared non-plussed.
Rosaura whispered to Marieta, “These ladies don’t sweat?”
Marieta handed Rosaura a glass of wine. “They don’t sweat, Chula. They perspire.” Marieta exaggerated the word. “But I’ve seen them with armpits as dark as you and me.”
Rosaura turned away to keep from barking out a laugh and bumped into Mrs. Mendoza. “Elena, thank God. I was feeling like the only one here.”
Helen Mendoza stiffened at her remark. “Helen,” she corrected. “Of course, you would as the token artist here.” Her smile was as soft as those carved on the marble statues around them. “But I wouldn’t despair. Everyone understands.” She gave a nod of recognition to Marieta.
Marieta noticed that Helen needed to get her behind to a beauty shop soon, as her brown roots were showing against her lightened hair. Helen’s suit of bleached white with a white, pleated handkerchief coming from her breast pocket screamed respectability all the way down to her white high heels. She held her five-feet-four-inches so straight and stiff, Marieta thought the girl looked constipated. Marieta grinned at Helen.
“Let’s all sit at the same table. Keep us homegirls together. For protection,” suggested Rosaura.
Marieta added, “For whose protection? Theirs or ours?” Rosaura and Marieta slapped palms in midair.
Helen stepped back, head low, scanning the immediate area, surveying whether any of the ladies standing close by had heard the reference to homegirls. “I’m needed at the Board of Directors table. Excuse me.” She slipped by them in a rush.
Rosaura stared after her. “Did I say something wrong?”
Marieta put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You know Elena. Oh, excuse me, Helen. She’s got a thing about being so light-skinned.”
“She’s still on that kick about being a descendant from Spaniards?”
“As we speak, she’s having her family crest bronzed on some shield she’s found.”
“Hijo. I’m going to ask my Justina if Sally Jane is the same way.”
“Helen’s daughter? I doubt it. She has more important things to worry about.”
Marieta and Rosaura butted shoulders and said together, “Boys, boys, and more boys.”
They were laughing so hard that a couple of ladies, deep in conversation with Helen, squinted over their shoulders to examine the situation. Helen never looked around.
A hand seized Rosaura’s shoulder. “Oh, so here she is.” Mr. Richardson took Rosaura’s hand in his and patted it with the other. He looked at Marieta and said, “The same eyes as yours.” He winked. “I approve wholeheartedly.” He took her hand and looped it through his arm. “Let me escort you up front. All the artists are gathering for the introductions.”
As he led her away, Rosaura shot a quick glance at her homegirl.
Marieta shooed her on with a hand. “Go on. I have work to do. I’ll meet you later.”
The afternoon was climbing to a comfortable, Texas ninety-two degrees. After the introductions, the polite clapping from the ladies present, and a loud “órale” from Marieta when Rosaura was awarded the $150 Panel Award, the photographers took over. The snapping and flashing went on for over an hour as patrons skillfully contrived to have their pictures taken with their protégés. People oohed and ahhed as each group took their turn in front of the photographers. Everybody rushed to congratulate the artist who had been awarded the “Best of the Show,” wanting to be the first to make an impression.
After Rosaura had her picture taken with her award, she joined Marieta on the sidelines, sitting on a wrought-iron bench.
Mr. Richardson rushed over, took one in each hand and drew them into the fawning crowd. He wrapped an arm around each of their waists and told the photographer to snap him with the dark-horse entry. The two friends smiled their with-white-people-polite smiles as bulbs flashed, until Mrs. Suzan Richardson crooked her finger and Mr. Richardson quickly padded over to her.
As the guests were edging their way out en route to other important social gatherings, Marieta guided her friend through the crowd to the ladies room. Dozens of limp kisses floated on the air as patrons signaled good-bye to each other.
Inside the bathroom after checking all the stalls, they burst out laughing. Rosaura held her side. “I’m going to have black and blue marks from where he was pinching me.”
“Me, too. How do I explain them to my husband?”
Rosaura grinned. “Don’t.”
They were still laughing as Rosaura entered a stall. Marieta pulled out her make-up bag.
After they had both dabbed their noses, freshened their lips, and recombed their hair, Marieta grabbed Rosaura by the arms. “Andale, let’s see your pieces before you leave. I want you to get that this is really for real.” She dragged her best friend back into the empty gallery.
The two girlfriends stood with their arms entwined before the prize-winning painting. Marieta squeezed Rosaura’s hand and pronounced in an official tone, “The quality of the brush-strokes, the contrast of scale, and the daring choice of color lends to a typical scene of home life in the barrio, a pulsating and other-world regal ambience not often displayed in such an excellent format.”
Rosaura looked at her.
“Spiel, girlfriend. What I tell the patrons.”
“Oh.”
“But between you and me, this stuff is good.”
Rosaura smiled. “Stuff, huh?”
“Some hot shit stuff, girlfriend.”
From behind them came the words, “My sentiment exactly, but not necessarily the words I would write in the brochure.”
The Galveston-tanned woman, who had shaken hands with Rosaura earlier, approached them. “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Phyllis Crenshaw.” She shook hands with both women. “I like your work. I’m with the Bankman Gallery on San Pedro.” Blue-eyed and tall, her blonde hair was cut to soften the angles of her face. Her wide smile brought life into her eyes.
Marieta and Rosaura gripped hands and smiled. Mrs. Crenshaw owned the biggest art gallery in San Antonio.
“I don’t want to leave today without confirming a time when you can stop by to see me. I’d like to look over your portfolio.” She stopped and Marieta took a breath to squeeze out the shock.
“I’d like to discuss the possibility of continued representation at my gallery.”
When Marieta looked at her silent girlfriend, she nudged Rosaura into taking a breath. When Rosaura didn’t say anything, Marieta jumped in. “Would you like to go to my desk so we can schedule an appointment? Rosaura’s schedule is very busy.” As Marieta stepped around the panel, towing a speechless friend by the arm, Mrs. Crenshaw said, “Not necessary. I have my book here. Just tell me if ten Thursday morning would be convenient for you, and I’ll write it in.”
Before either woman could speak they were surrounded by Mrs. Emily Thatcher, Mrs. Suzan Richardson, and Mrs. Harriet Whitting. Marieta hid her chuckle as she considered the three women—the lion who had wanted courage, the tin man who had wanted a heart, and the straw man who had wanted a brain.
Mrs. Whitting with her hay-colored hair led the group. “Marieta.”
Marieta faced the women. “Harriet,” she dragged the name out and bowed her head slightly. First-name basis worked both ways, she thought.
Mrs. Whitting smiled as if it had been painted on. Her pale yellow suit hung loosely over her stooped shoulders. “We’re very upset.”
Mrs. Richardson, her silver hair lacquered into a shiny helmet, swung her clutch bag up and down like an ax. “We just heard something that you may be unaware of.”
Marieta looked from woman to woman in confusion.
Mrs. Thatcher licked her lips and nodded in agreement. “We just spoke to the principal’s wife,” she said.
“I knew there was a reason why your name sounded so familiar to me,” said Mrs. Whitting.
“Someone reported her daughter.” Mrs. Richardson pointed with her bag at Rosaura. “They say she stole the list of words used at the contest.”
Marieta stared at the women, in awe of their blustery self-importance.
Mrs. Whitting puffed up like a broom in a windstorm as Rosaura stepped before her, controlled and aglow. “Why are you making accusations you can’t prove?”
The only time Marieta had ever seen her girlfriend this angry was when the both of them had whipped Dolores Fuentes and two of her girlfriends after Dolores accused Rosaura of stealing her boyfriend. Marieta feared that these three uptight ladies didn’t stand a tornado’s chance in Kansas.
Mrs. Thatcher eased herself behind the two other women. Mrs. Richardson moved beside Mrs. Whitting as she maintained, “Accusations based on facts. Someone came forward with the truth.”
Mrs. Whitting pushed her words on Rosaura. “One of your own.”
Marieta moved quickly alongside her girlfriend. “One of our what? Human beings? Women? Exactly what is one of our own?”
Mrs. Thatcher pawed the air. “Ladies, this can be resolved in a civilized way.”
Mrs. Richardson said, “Don’t expect to keep your Panel Award.”
Mrs. Crenshaw stepped in front of the two girlfriends. “Excuse me. What does this have to do with her artwork?”
Mrs. Richardson softened her approach in the face of one of her husband’s competitors. “We suspect foul play.”
“Her daughter is a thief,” Mrs. Whitting stated. “How do we know if she didn’t do something with this one?” She shot a finger in Marieta’s direction. “Maybe they got together and fixed the awards somehow.”
Mrs. Crenshaw felt the forward momentum of the two women behind her and blocked their progress. “Suzan, these are severe accusations your friend is making. I would think twice before presuming that your husband’s position would absolve you from the consequences of preposterous allegations.” She took Suzan Richardson’s arm in hers, pulled her away from Mrs. Whitting. As she led her out of the gallery, she said, “Why, I would dread to think of the complaints that could come from such false accusations.” She smiled over Mrs. Richardson’s shoulder and said to Marieta, “I’ll meet you in your office in a few minutes to firm up the time,” then continued out of the gallery.
Mrs. Whitting stalked after them, but stopped at the door and looked back over her shoulder. “Don’t think you’re going to get away with humiliating my daughter.”
Helen Mendoza tiptoed around the exiting Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. Richardson. “Ladies, is there any trouble?” She took in Marieta and Rosaura, ready to pounce, and encircled Mrs. Whitting with an arm. “Please come with me. Let me get you something to drink.”
Mrs. Whitting allowed herself to be ushered out. Mrs. Thatcher looked back, raised her purse, opened her mouth, then changed her mind. She said, “God will light the just path.” Then she marched out.
At the door, Helen backed up and blazed a look of disgust at the two women. “You two just couldn’t behave yourselves. Some of us have a future to think about for ourselves and for our children.” She paraded out.
Marieta grimaced, thinking that her old girlfriend was holding her head at a painful right angle to her heart.
As the women disappeared behind the closing door, Rosaura gripped her friend’s hands. “Luz would never cheat. Who could be saying that she did?”
Marieta knew her girlfriend was too angry to cry. That would come later. “Ease up, girlfriend. You know these women will say anything to keep us from moving on.”
Rosaura faced Marieta with hope in her eyes. “You think that’s it?”
“Of course. Anyone who knows Luz knows that she wouldn’t cheat. We’ll straighten all this out. For now, we have to meet Mrs. Crenshaw in my office.”
“Ay, Chula, I can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Marieta.
“I have to go find Luz. I’m sure she’ll be upset.”
“But what about your art? What about Mrs. Crenshaw’s offer?”
“It’ll just have to wait. My child comes first.”
“Feeling scared about making it?”
Rosaura stopped on her way to the door and turned around. “What’re you getting at?”
“You have a chance of a lifetime and you’re letting it go by.”
“My child’s in trouble. I’m a mother first and…”
“No. You’re a woman first. An artist second and then a mother.”
Rosaura shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Marieta continued, “Your mother is at home when the kids arrive after school, ¿que no?”
Rosaura nodded.
“Your husband arrives home from work in another hour, ¿que no?”
Rosaura kept her head stiff.
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re the only parent that can care for the children?”
Rosaura didn’t nod, the stiffness spilled from the seams. “It’s not that. It’s…”
“It’s caca. You’re getting a big break and you’re running. You’re using your kids as an excuse to keep from going out into the real world and being visible. They’re hard on us. Harder than what’s called for. You’re afraid of being visible because that makes you a target.”
“Mira, you don’t understand…”
“No, it’s you that doesn’t understand.” Marieta lowered her voice as she stepped in front of Rosaura’s painting. “You have a talent, a gift from God, and you’re just letting it slip away. Don’t you see?”
“I have my kids and they’re my responsibility, too.”
Marieta shook her head. “And your kids are well-taken care of and know in their heart, without a doubt, that their mother is there for them whenever they need her. Who is there for you? Who is there for your art?”
Rosaura sighed. “It’s not important…”
“Listen, mujer. I saw you drawing on the back of used pieces of notebook paper when we were kids. I watched the art teacher in high school shine on you. I took your slides and fought for the jurors to look at them.”
“You know I appreciate what you did for me.”
“No you don’t. Not if you walk out and don’t talk with Mrs. Crenshaw.” Marieta walked away.
Rosaura looked from her painting to the door.
“Rosaura.”
The changed tone of Marieta’s voice caught Rosaura’s attention.
“I’ve never told you. I’ve never told no one.” Marieta paused as she stopped at the door and looked back into the gallery. “I’ve always envied you. I would give anything if I could paint like you do.”
“But you’re the one that quit the lessons. I told you that you were improving.”
“Improving to what? First-grade refrigerator drawings.” Marieta shook her head. “No. I want to paint like you. I want to be able to put my soul out on the canvas like you can. Like no one else can do it quite like you. You tell a story about our lives. You give people a glimpse of what and who we really are—not the stereotypes, but us as real people.” She wet her lips. “You have a gift. You owe it to yourself to run with it. You deserve the praise and the glory. You deserve it all.” Marieta sighed. “And I’d like to kill you because you’re so good and I’m so jealous.”
Rosaura stared at her girlfriend. “I didn’t know. You never said…”
“What? Rosaura, I hate you because you can do something I love better than me?”
“No, but…”
“I’m not important right now. You are.” Marieta pointed down the hallway. “You have to meet with Mrs. Crenshaw. It’ll only take a few minutes. You owe it to yourself, to your artwork. And if you want to get on a soapbox, you owe it to all the other Chicana artists to be the best you can be.”
“Híjo.” Rosaura whispered at the serious expression on her best friend’s face. “I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
Marieta crossed her arms and tapped one foot. Dropping her head and with eyes rolled up, she stared at Rosaura. “It means so much to me that if you don’t go in there and make that appointment, you can forget me in your life.”
Rosaura’s mouth fell open slowly. “You mean…” She shook her head. “You’re not serious…” She pointed at her friend. “You wouldn’t really…” She looked away and squared her shoulders. “I might as well go.” Rosaura turned away.
“I mean it, girlfriend.” Marieta spoke in a low, hard voice. “If you walk away from this opportunity, you can kiss our friendship good-bye.”
Rosaura stopped at the door. “I know you’re thinking of what’s good for me. I know you don’t mean it.” Memorable escapades littered across her mind as one episode after another reminded her of what they had gone through together.
“Know how much I mean this. If you walk out, you’ll never see me again.”
Rosaura frowned. “¿Por qué? Just because of this?” She waved a hand at the gallery.
Marieta explained, “This is where you have been heading all your life. Your artwork needs to be out in the world. I truly believe this. You have a gift. You throw away this gift, you throw away our friendship.”
“What does one have to do with another?”
Marieta swung her hands in front of her. “I don’t know. I do know that you have been waiting for this opportunity all your life. There is no way you’re going to walk away from this just because you’re scared.”
Rosaura threw her spine straight, her hands on her hips. “You saying I’m scared?”
“Right.” Marieta’s chin rose perpendicular to the floor.
Rosaura waved a fist in the air. “I ain’t afraid of nothing.”
Marieta’s chin rose higher. “Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you.” Rosaura pressed forward.
“Prove it to yourself.” Marieta crowded her.
Rosaura thumped her chest. “I know what I know.”
“You’ve never known anything.”
“I was always smarter than you in school.” Rosaura sliced the air with her finger.
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was.”
“No, you weren’t.”
They looked at each other and burst out laughing. They leaned on each other as they slipped from laughing to giggles back to laughing heartily.
Taking short breaths of air, Rosaura asked, “You’re not serious?”
Marieta nodded, attempting to control her giggles.
Rosaura gasped for air then asked, “Why?”
“Because I love you.” Marieta straightened and gazed at her friend.
Rosaura explored her friend’s brown eyes.
“Well, what you going to do?”
Rosaura grinned. “You know, Helen would absolutely freak if she saw me making it.”
Marieta laughed. “You know it, girlfriend.” They slapped palms in mid-air.
Rosaura turned serious. “Chula, are you going to get into trouble here because of me?”
Marieta laughed, put her left hand on her hip, and pointed with one finger downward. “And since when have I needed you to get into trouble? Girlfriend, no one is going to dis one of my own and get away with it.”
Rosaura couldn’t keep from smiling. “Where did you pick up that word? Dis?”
“The kids were using it in the backyard the other day.” Marieta headed for the door of her office.
Rosaura grabbed her by the elbow. “Do you even know what it means?”
Marieta shook her head. “But don’t it sound good?”
“Bad.”
Marieta looked puzzled. “Why is it bad?”
“No. The kids nowadays call anything good, bad.”
“Good. I’ll remind you of that when we read what the critics have to say about your art.”