I wiped my eyes and read the final answer.
Any other relevant preferences: Now that I’m at the end, I am literally dying to know what you’re going to use these answers for. Please, if you have any compassion, divulge your secrets, O Wise One. I don’t have anything else to add, other than I’m a little scared of you now.
I giggled and started typing back a response.
SK,
Sorry if I stumped you. Don’t you need to know your answers to these types of questions for college apps? You should probably get used to this kind of interrogation. Your answers help me figure out what kind of person you are so I can decide what kind of design would best represent you. You actually answered the pizza topping question perfectly. Very helpful.
What’s an All Black?
Carrie is my favorite movie too. Small world.
So, based on your answers, I’m going to make a simple site without a lot of fluff, but that is a little whimsical, and highlights your musical career. Yes?
Tate
P.S.—Can you please send me a detailed résumé?
P.P.S.—Brown???
I pressed send and stretched out on the couch, where I promptly fell asleep. What felt like minutes later, the music on the television—the theme song to some wacky reality show about a little girl wearing way too much makeup—woke me with a jolt. I checked the clock on the cable box and saw it was well past the time Belén would be expecting me home. I groaned loudly, snatched up my bag and laptop, and sped back home.
Belén was waiting for me at the door when I pulled in. “Why are you late, Tatum?” She tapped her toe, still clad in the pumps she’d left the house in that morning, on the hardwood floor of the entryway. Her signature move.
Sometimes I wondered what it was like being inside her head. I imagined it was like a pinball game, with thoughts and opinions zooming around and slamming into her skull, setting off bells and alarms. I had to take a deep breath just thinking about that kind of chaos.
I squared my shoulders, hoping to pull off a please-believe-me stance. “Well, Belén,” I said calmly, “as it turns out, the Schmidts had some car trouble on the way home. They said to apologize for any trouble they’ve caused you.” The lie rolled off my tongue a little too easily.
She raised an eyebrow, and I raised one right back. Before she could say anything to contradict me, I marched forward in a fashion that mimicked what I saw daily from her and went into the house. I might have made a victory face as well, but I definitely did not turn around for her to see.
Tilly, ruled by early dance practices and her mother’s iron-fisted grip, had probably gone to bed long ago. In moments of fleeting compassion for her, I felt bad that she had such a rigid schedule. That was always quickly swatted away, since I knew dancing was a choice she’d made. The soft glow of the television illuminating the basement stairs told me that Blanche was still awake. I practically tripped down the stairs, not interested in spending more time with only myself for company in the silence of my room. Blanche was on the couch, which wasn’t nearly as lovely and smooshy as the one at the Schmidts’ house, her perfectly tiny feet crossed on the coffee table.
I hovered in the doorway, hoping she’d invite me to join her.
Hearing my footsteps, Blanche looked up. Her brown eyes met mine, and she smiled. “Hello, Tatum. How was your evening?”
“Fine. Just did my job. How was yours?” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to talk about my job. At all.
She reached a hand into the pocket of her cropped pants and pulled out a fistful of five-dollar bills. “I won bunco!”
I laughed at the proud, jovial expression on her face. “What’s bunco?”
“A dice game old women play for money.” She smirked. “My friend Carolina is out of town for the summer; I think I mentioned this to you the other day. I’m taking her place in the weekly game while she’s gone.”
“And you won on your first shot?” I raised my eyebrows, impressed. But also, not surprised. It was Blanche, after all.
“It seems that way. A bit of luck, that’s all.” Blanche chuckled and put the bills back in her pocket. She patted the empty space to her left. I knew better than to hesitate.
“Better not let Belén see you with your feet on the table like that. She’ll bust out the Pledge and make you polish it.” I flopped down next to her and promptly put my feet up right beside hers, sandals still on.
“If she has a problem with feet on tables, she can wipe up the nonexistent marks herself.” Blanche’s eyes went back to the television screen. She was watching an episode of The Golden Girls. Anyone who liked funny TV and didn’t need everything in her house to be just so was all right with me.
“Can I move in with you?” Living with Blanche, where I could be relaxed and not on guard twenty-four/seven sounded pretty great right about now.
“I think your father might miss you.”
“No one else would.”
“I don’t know about that.”
I disagreed, but bit my tongue. I’d never felt like I was anything more than an inconvenience for Belén. A fly she needed to keep swatting away. I could just see the sigh of relief she’d let out if I left for my stepgrandmother’s house.
Blanche pointed to the screen. “You know what I love about this show? They argue and bicker, and yet they’re still the best of friends. They’re four totally different people, and somehow they find ways to love each other in spite of those differences.”
I side-eyed her. “Are you trying to tell me something wise? Teach me a life lesson?” I hoped not. I didn’t need one of the very few people who seemed to be in my corner crossing over to the dark side.
“Tatum, you are free to interpret my words any way you like. I was simply expressing what I like about a television show.” She smiled, still watching the screen. “Did you know that this is how I improved my English?”
“Watching Dorothy and Sophia go head to head?”
She nodded. “Exactly. When we came to the United States from Chile over thirty years ago, I knew English, but not as well as I would have liked. One of our friends who had immigrated at the same time told me that watching American television programs would help, so that’s what I did. The Golden Girls was my favorite.”
A thought occurred to me. “Did you name yourself Blanche after that Blanche?” I stifled a giggle at the possibility of this diminutive, sweet-yet-sly woman renaming herself after a geriatric tart.
“Yes. I like her because she knows who she is and doesn’t apologize for it.” She looked over at me pointedly. Suuure, this wasn’t a teachable moment. Blanche had metaphor written all over her face.