The Tori Trilogy (11 page)

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Joey tells him. “You're running the risk of infection by Gory Tori germs.”

I roll my eyes. Sometimes the things Joey says are just too stupid to dignify with a reaction.

“Tori,” Mom asks, “are you all right? You're very quiet, and you've hardly had a bite to eat.”

“I'm fine,” I lie. “Just not super-hungry.”

“Not even for spaghetti and meatballs?” She stares at me as though I just walked off an alien spaceship.

“Not really,” I reply.

“This is practically your favorite dinner,
princesa
,” Dad chimes in. “What's bothering you?”

Is it that obvious? I stare at my hands. Finally, I say, “My stomach kinda hurts. Would you mind if I went upstairs to lie down for a while?” This is, of course, another lie, but it's better than telling my family what's really bothering me.

“You're sick again?” cries Joey.

“You were just sick over Halloween,” Ben adds, as though I've forgotten .

Mom ignores them. “Do you think you have a fever, sweetheart? I could take your temperature. Does anything else hurt?”

“No!” I say quickly. “I'm not
sick
sick, Mom. I'm sure I'll feel much better after I take a little rest.”

“Okay,” she says uncertainly. “Let us know if you need anything. We'll check in on you in a bit.”

With that, I hurry out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room. I shut the door behind me and collapse across my bed. After several seconds, I roll onto my back, just as Ebony comes slinking out from her cozy little space between my pillow and the headboard of my bed. She meows loudly, and I reach for her in surprise. “Hi, Ebs. I didn't know you were back there.”

Ebony licks my fingers, her tiny pink tongue flicking out of her mouth at lightning speed and just as quickly back in. Then she rubs her silky-soft head against my cheek and curls up into a ball between my head and shoulders. This is not her typical behavior. Ebony isn't what you would call a super-cuddly cat. She's more bratty than anything else, but there are times when I need a friend and she knows it. That's part of what I love about her.

I turn my face into her fur and think. Everything that's happened between Anastasia and Gina and me, what I can imagine has happened between Anastasia and Elissa, the things Reid told me about how she treated him, our talks about racism, the glossy pink party invitations...all of this and more spins through my head like a cyclone.

Someone is racist against me, I think.
Someone is racist against me.
I wasn't invited to a party, just because I'm different from the others. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, startling me. I didn't expect to cry. But I am. A lot. Silent tears roll down my cheeks, wetting Ebony's fur. She flinches and moves away, settling on top of my stomach instead.

“Sorry, Ebony,” I whisper. I pick up Starfire, who was sitting in her usual spot on my pillow and hold her tightly. At least stuffed dragons aren't scared off by a few tears.

Just then, there's a knock at my door. I wipe my face on my sleeve and say, “Who's there?,” forcing my voice to sound normal.

“It's Dad. Can I come in?”

I sit up quickly, upsetting Ebony, who jumps to the floor and runs under the bed. “Okay,” I say.

Dad opens the door, steps into my room, and closes it behind him. He walks slowly toward me, his face thoughtful, his eyes studying my tear-stained cheeks. “Tori,” he says, “what's the matter with my
princesa?
I may not be a genius, but this doesn't look like any ordinary stomachache.”

When I don't answer, Dad sits down carefully at the edge of my bed. He scoops me onto his lap and wraps me in his arms. I suddenly feel safe and warm. I like being daddy's little girl.

And that's all it takes to get me talking. I tell Dad everything, about Anastasia, about Reid, about the party invitations--absolutely everything, from start to finish. I don't take a breath until I'm done, and then I realize that I'm crying again.

Dad hands me a tissue from the box on my bedside table. I blow my nose and scrub at my tears. “I never thought anyone would be racist against me,” I admit. I look up at Dad, waiting for him to say something.

There is a long pause, and finally he asks, “Tori, can I tell you a story?”

That is not what I was expecting him to say, but after a moment, I nod, wondering what this has to do with all that I just told him.

Dad takes a deep breath. “Before your mom and I met,” he begins, “she had a very close friend named Caroline. They grew up together, did almost everything together. In fact, I think you could say they were best friends.”

“Like me and Gina?” I sniff.

Dad smiles sadly. “Not quite like that, Tori. You see, after Mom and I had been dating for awhile, she decided it would be nice to go out to dinner with Caroline and her boyfriend. I was excited to meet your mom's friend, since I had heard so much about her. But when we did meet, Caroline was nothing like the way Mom had described. She was unfriendly and distant and never quite made eye contact with me. A couple of times she made jokes that I didn't understand and then laughed about them, as if she had a secret.”

My stomach ties up in knots. “That's-that's just how Anastasia acts around Gina and Reid and me!” I stammer out.

Dad goes on. “Your mom was horrified by the way Caroline acted on the date, and she apologized to me all the way home in the car. She had no idea why Caroline was so unfriendly, but I had an uncomfortable feeling that maybe I did.

“A few days later, Mom confronted her and asked her why she'd treated me like that. Caroline told her it was because I was Latino and that she couldn't support your mom's decision to be with me. She begged Mom to break up with me, but instead, Mom ended her friendship with Caroline. She was very disappointed in her friend and very sad that it had to end that way, but she did the only decent thing there was to do. She stuck by me, Tori, and I'm so happy she did.”

My eyes are wide. “I can't believe I never knew that before,” I breathe. “I never even heard about Caroline.”

Dad shrugs. “It's all in the past now. Why make a big deal out of it? But you understand, Tori, as sad as it is, as mean and unfair and low-down as it is, racism can happen to anybody.”

I think back to my conversation with Reid that afternoon. He told me the exact same thing. No one anywhere, I realize, is really and truly free from racism. I swallow over a lump in my throat. “Did that make you feel bad, Daddy?”

“Bad, how?” he asks. “Guilty that I broke up a friendship? I did struggle with that for a little while. But Mom assured me that it was all Caroline's problem. And I came to see that she was right.”

I shake my head no. “Not that kind of bad. I mean, did you feel...
dirty?”
I whisper the word, and more tears slip down my face.

Dad hugs me. “I guess I did, Tori. And it wasn't the first time, either. Most people out there are kind and accepting, but there are always the others. And I ran into them. Kids who made fun of your aunts and Uncle Javi and me just because we looked different or because our parents spoke with an accent. A college professor who came down hard on anyone who didn't have a European background. And the occasional stranger who would stare or snicker.

“But you know what?” Dad holds me back so he can look me in the eye.

“What?” I ask.

“At some point in time, I realized that nobody could
make
me feel like less of a person if I didn't let them. They might insult me or downright exclude me, but it is
my
decision how I feel about myself. As Mom pointed out during that whole mess, Caroline was the one with the problem, not me. And in your case, it's Anastasia who's got the problem, not you or Gina or anyone else.

“Usually people who are racist, or prejudiced, don't have a very high self-esteem. They don't feel good about themselves, so in order to make themselves feel better, they put other people down.”

I stop halfway through blowing my nose again. “No way,” I say. “Anastasia's not like that at all. She has
tons
of self-esteem. Her family is super-rich, and she has all these expensive clothes, and all the girls in my class besides me and Gina and Elissa and Shannon think she's really cool. She's even going to have a formal party. With horse derves...or however you say that...and Shirley Temples and the
hairstylist
from Goldilocks Salon. Her parents actually hired her for an entire evening!”

Dad shakes his head at me, a strange smile on his face. “First of all, Tori, it's
hors d'oeuvres
. And second...how do you know how Anastasia feels about herself? Having a lot of fancy things doesn't make a person happy, after all. I can almost guarantee you that those other girls in your class are more impressed by Anastasia's clothes and her formal party invitation than they are by Anastasia herself. Pretty soon, they'll grow tired of her or see her for who she is, and move on.

“If you want to have friends, you've got to have a heart for them. And it doesn't sound to me like Anastasia has much of a heart for anyone besides herself. Her parents obviously placed too much importance on money and material things and the color of people's skin instead of on what really matters. Because of that, Anastasia doesn't know how to truly make and keep a friend, so she tries to ‘buy' friends by impressing them and inviting them to over-the-top parties. But that kind of friend doesn't last long. Before you know it, Anastasia will be a lonely girl again. Now, that doesn't sound like someone who's very happy with herself, does it?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. I guess I never thought of it that way. But now that you said that...I feel almost
sorry
for Anastasia.”

Dad hugs me close again. “That's because you, my
princesa
, have a very big heart. I love you, Victoria.”

His words send a shiver of happiness through me. I hug him back tightly and say, “I love you, Daddy.”

“I know you do. And I know something else you love, too.”

I sit back a little. “What's that?”

Dad rumples my hair. “You love...” he pauses dramatically, then topples me off his lap onto the mattress and begins to tickle me wildly like he did when I was younger “...you
love
being half-Peruvian!”

I shriek and scream and giggle, reaching out my arms to push the tickles away. At last, Dad stops, and I sit up, out of breath, and think about what he just said. I think about Abuelita and Abuelito and their soft musical accents and Abuelita's delicious Peruvian cooking and the old photo albums with pictures from Lima and how proud I am of myself for learning Spanish.

“You're right,” I tell Dad. “I do love being half-Peruvian. And no one's going to make me feel bad about it, either. Especially not Anastasia Adams!”

Dad stands up and pulls me to my feet. “That's my
princesa
,” he says.

Epilogue

Outside, it's cold and windy, with an on-again, off-again gray drizzle falling from the sky, and the trees are bare and black, and the grass is dried-up and dead-looking, and all the fall leaves have been raked up and bagged. But inside, it is warm and cheerful, with wonderful smells floating out of the kitchen and throughout the whole house.

One of my favorite things about living in a modernized farmhouse is that there is plenty of room for parties and family gatherings. All of the relatives are here from Dad's side, except for Uncle Javi's family, who live in California.

Abuelita is in the kitchen with Mom and Dad and Auntie Luz, putting the finishing touches on our Thanksgiving dinner. Uncle Gabe is chasing little Sofie around the living room. Abuelito is deep in conversation with Auntie Crista and her husband, Uncle Kevin, who are visiting from Ohio. My oldest brother Andrew and his very-pregnant wife Stephanie are chatting with Ben in the front entryway. Nate and Joey are watching a football game on TV with Auntie Crista's seventeen-year-old twins, Michael and Jeff. And Gina and I are in the dining room, filling the glasses at everyone's places with apple cider.

The dining-room table is spread with a burgundy tablecloth and accented by pale-yellow candles in Mom's crystal candlesticks and matching pale-yellow napkins origami-folded to look like Thanksgiving turkeys (guess who did that?). There is a relish tray on the table, loaded with olives and pickles and carrot sticks, and a fresh pat of butter in the butter dish. Soon the rest of our feast will fill in the empty spaces--turkey and sweet potatoes and Hawaiian rolls and
papas a la huancaina
and more! My stomach growls at the thought.

“Done!” I say after filling the last glass. I screw the lid onto the almost-empty cider jug and carry it back to the kitchen, Gina right behind me.

“I am so hungry!” she cries, holding the refrigerator door open for me.

“Me, too.” I set the cider jug on a shelf inside, then swing the door closed and lean back against it.

“Hang in there,” says Dad from the kitchen table where he's carving the turkey. “It's almost time to eat.”

Abuelita winks at Gina and me. “Would you girls like a
papa a la huancaina?”
she asks with a twinkle in her eye. “Just one. It will be our little secret.” Of course, it isn't a secret at all, with Mom and Dad and Auntie Luz right there, and Abuelita knows it, but we play along, each scooping a slice of boiled potato and cheese sauce out of the pan and onto a plate.

“Thanks, Abuelita!” we cry at the same time. I pull open the silverware drawer and grab two forks. Gina and I dig in.

At last, it is time to eat, and the whole family gathers in the big dining room. Auntie Luz puts Sofie in her highchair, and then we all join hands around the table while Abuelito asks the Thanksgiving blessing.

When he is finished, we begin passing the food, both American and Peruvian dishes, and I think about how fortunate I am and how much I really have to be thankful for. A great family (even the brothers, I guess),
two
amazing cultures, wonderful friends....My thoughts drift back a couple of weeks to the day Anastasia Adams handed out those party invitations.