when he went to school in the States, we go over to say good-bye. Wimpy and Mr. Washburn are there, too. Papi joins them out on the patio. Little snatches of their conversation drift in: “tennis shoes,” “outrage at the Butterflies,” “CIA intervention . . .” Before I can puzzle out what they’re saying, Mrs. Farland calls me away from the door. “Anita, sweetie, come over here and let Joey tell you about the inauguration for our new president.”
I know all about how the Americans run their country because we have to study it at school. Every four years, they have a contest, and whoever wins gets to be the
jefe
. But he can’t just keep being the
jefe
. He can only win the contest twice, and then he has to give somebody else a chance.
We have elections, too, but there’s only one person in the contest, Trujillo, and he has already been our
jefe
for thirty-one years. I once asked Mrs. Brown why nobody ran against him, and she hesitated and said that perhaps it would be better if I asked my parents that question. When I asked Mami, she said, “Ask your father,” and when I asked Papi, he told me to go ask Mami. After a while, I got tired of asking.
I can tell both Mami and Papi are really glad that Mr. Kennedy is going to be the American president. Mami thinks he is
muy
guapo,
so handsome, with his hair in his eyes and
only
(?!) forty-three years old. He’s also a Catholic, which is kind of like being related to us since we are in the same religious family. And most importantly, Papi says, Mr. Kennedy has declared himself a champion of democracy around the world.
At the next canasta gathering, Mami’s friends all count off the families they know that have left the country. Mrs. Washburn confesses that Mr. Washburn has talked of sending his family away. She always calls her husband Mr. Washburn, as if no one will know whom she’s talking about if she calls him plain Henry.
“I told Mr. Washburn, over my dead body,” she announces to the table. “We leave when he leaves! We’ve got diplomatic immunity. That S.O.B.’s a dead duck if he dares lay a hand on us!”
None of the Dominican women say a word. They sip their
cafecitos
quietly and look at each other. Mami, whose English has improved tremendously since the arrival of the Washburns next door, says, “Doris, put the lid on the sugar bowl,
por favor
. There are so many flies.”
I look around for flies, but there are none I can see. Lorena has just come out from the kitchen with a tray to collect the empty coffee cups. Perhaps she scared them away.
Then, just like that, it dawns on me: My mother is speaking to Mrs. Washburn in code. She’s saying:
We are being overheard; be
quiet
. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a room I’m not supposed to be in— but now that I’m inside, the door has disappeared. I feel the same way as when Lucinda told me how one day I, too, would get my period. “What if I don’t want to?” I asked, disgusted at the thought of bleeding between my legs. “You don’t have a choice,” she shot back.
Later, I write in my diary about the Washburn family maybe moving back to the United States. Just thinking about losing Sammy, I start to cry. Wiping my tears from the page, I smudge the writing so badly, I won’t have to erase a thing tonight.
According to Mami, I’m developing the same case of bathroomitis as Lucinda.
I roll my eyes when she says so. Can’t I at least have my own diseases?! I’m told I have my mother’s
café con leche
skin color, my father’s curly black hair, my grandmother’s slightly turned-up nose, the dimples from some great-aunt who spent her whole life smiling at everyone. I feel like just a hand-me-down human being!
Mami is right, of course. I
am
spending a lot more time in the bathroom. But I’m not about to tell her that it has nothing to do with my copying Lucinda and a lot to do with my liking Sam.
Liking a guy sure makes a girl think about whether she’s pretty enough. I