52 Reasons to Hate My Father (19 page)

I lightly finger my Alicia hairdo and then, after a few seconds, pull it off completely, revealing the messy bun underneath.

Rolando doesn’t look surprised. He simply nods, confirming his suspicions.

“You didn’t … uh … tell anyone, did you?” I ask, suddenly feeling very anxious and a bit queasy at the thought of a grainy camera phone photograph of me showing up on
Access Hollywood
tonight. “Like your girlfriend? Or anyone at Don Juan’s?”

“Nah,” he says breezily. “I figured if you wanted people to know who you were, you would have said something.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“So,” he continues, “what
is
Lexington Larrabee doing working at a Don Juan’s Tacos?”

“Well,” I begin with a laugh, “how long have you got?”

“My mom is making enchiladas tonight,” he tells me. “She makes the best enchiladas outside of Mexico. Why don’t you come over for dinner?”

I glance down at my phone. Still no word from Luke on when he’ll actually be here. Plus, an opportunity to put off seeing him for another few hours? That’s pretty hard to resist.

I smile to myself when I think about him showing up here to find me gone. And then totally flipping out.

Well, well. Look who has the upper hand now.

I switch off my phone and place it back in my bag. “Sure,” I reply with a shrug. “Why not?”

“Cool,” he says, and cocks his thumb toward the bus stop on the corner. “Come on, you can ride home with me.”

I glance anxiously in the direction his finger is pointing. “On the bus?”

He lets out a hearty laugh. “Oh yeah, I bet you’ve never even ridden public transportation before.”

“Now that’s not true,” I correct him. “I rode the subway in Paris once when I was thirteen.” I pause and then quickly amend. “Although it was to celebrate the new expansion of a subway line and the train was empty except for me, my father, and a bunch of French press.”

Rolando starts to pull his sweatshirt back over his head. “Doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

He hands me the hoodie. “Here put this on.” Then he flashes me a wink. “For a little extra camouflage.”

I take it and slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s tattered but smells like fabric softener. It feels incredibly smooth against my skin. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. For some reason it reminds me of my mother. Or the little that I remember of her.

I guess this is what happens to clothes when you keep them longer than one season.

“C’mon, girl,” Rolando says with a tug at my borrowed sleeve. “I’ll show you
my
chauffeured transportation.”

I laugh and place my wig back on my head and the hood of the sweatshirt over it. Rolando yanks down on the cords on either side, drawing the material tight against my head.

“Perfect,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’ll blend right in.”

HOW THE OTHER HALF LAUGHS

The bus is packed. And like us, everyone appears to have recently come off an eight-hour shift. Which doesn’t exactly help in the odor department but I do my best to mask my displeasure. I don’t want to offend Rolando, who clearly does this every day—based on the fluidity of his movements as he deposits bus fare for both of us and smoothly makes his way to the back, transferring his grip from handrail to handrail like a little kid on the monkey bars of a playground.

I attempt to emulate his technique but am decidedly less adept and end up knocking into about a dozen people as the bus lurches its way through the evening traffic.

Rolando finds two seats together in the back and we sit down. He chatters animatedly as the bus makes its way down the wide boulevard. There’s something so innocently intriguing about Rolando. Like watching somebody jump on a bed. You can’t help but want to laugh, toss off your shoes, and join in.

He has this infectious optimism about everything. Nothing seems to bother him. He tells me stories about growing up in the “armpit of Los Angeles,” as he calls it, and starting community college but having to quit after only one semester to get the job at Don Juan’s to help support his family because his dad had a heart attack and had to take time off from work. But when Rolando tells the story, instead of getting dark and whiny about his family’s misfortune, he remains cheerful and carefree, as though he’s simply recapping a dramatic episode of his favorite TV show.

It’s amazing how he’s able to do that.

Rolando is so easy to talk to. His energy relaxes me and somehow manages to quell the near constant flame that is always threatening to ignite in my chest. I find it effortless to open up to him. So when the conversation finally makes its way back to my weeklong cameo at Don Juan’s, I have no reservations about telling him everything. It all kind of spills out.

Rolando is a great listener. And the best part about it is, he’s not being
paid
to do it. He doesn’t work for my father. He’s not on the official Larrabee family payroll. He simply wants to hear what I have to say. And when I talk, it actually seems like he genuinely
cares
.

“So these jobs,” he says pensively, once I’ve finished talking, “do they have any meaning or are they just random?”

His question takes me by surprise. After all the griping and complaining I’ve done over the past few months, after all the ways I’ve tried to get out of them, I never even thought to ask that.

“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “I guess they’re random. I mean, no one’s told me any different.”

“Hmm,” Rolando murmurs, clearly unconvinced. “Does your dad usually do random things?”

Before the question is even out of his mouth, my head is shaking. “No way. Never.”

“Then there’s probably some kind of meaning to them. I doubt he just picked them out of a hat.”

I shrug. “Not that it really matters to me. I’m still screwed for another thirty-seven weeks.”

“You have to look on the bright side,” he says playfully.

“And what would that be exactly?”

He flashes that adorable boyish grin of his that makes him look like he’s five years old. “You got to meet me. Obviously!”

I laugh. “Oh right. How could I forget?”

*   *   *

Rolando lives with his parents in an apartment complex in Inglewood, which is about thirty minutes from the restaurant. We get off the bus a few blocks from his house and walk. The neighborhood is unsettling and the building he lives in is very old and run-down. Some of the windows have cracks in them that have been temporarily repaired with duct tape and the entire front wall is covered in graffiti. For a moment, I seriously think that this is some kind of joke. That he’s messing with me because he knows I live in Bel Air and he wants to see my reaction to something like this. Because honestly, I can’t imagine
anyone
living here. Except maybe the crackheads and murder suspects you see on those television crime shows.

Rolando, as if reading my mind, turns to me and says, “We used to share a two-bedroom house with four other families, so this is a huge improvement.”

This is an improvement!?

I stare at him in utter disbelief but he just laughs and unlocks the front door of the building.

As he leads me through a neglected courtyard with landscaping that hasn’t been attended to in decades and an empty pool caked with dried mud, I study his face carefully. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for but whatever it is, it’s not there. I guess I’m searching for some small traces of humiliation … or maybe even shame. You can’t bring someone home to this and not feel the slightest tinge of embarrassment. Or at least scramble to make up some kind of excuse. Something like,
We’re remodeling our mansion uptown and this is only temporary.

The world I inhabit is full of cover-ups like that. Elaborate lies that shroud the ugly truth in fabricated beauty. Ornate disguises designed to elicit approval and acceptance.

But not here. Not Rolando. He looks like he could care less what I think of his family’s humble dwelling.

“¡Mama! Papa!”
he calls as he pushes open the door of his apartment with a shove of his shoulder and beckons me in behind him.
“¡Estoy a la casa!”

I push back the hood of Rolando’s sweatshirt and glance around the cramped apartment, taking note of the grungy brown shag carpeting, the peeling paint on the walls, and what looks like third- or maybe even fourth-hand furniture. But despite the evident lack of extravagance, there’s something here that doesn’t exist in my family’s house. In
any
of our houses. Something dense and warm in the air—almost palpable. And it only takes me a few seconds to realize exactly what it is.

This place feels lived-in. And not only in the sense that people sleep in the beds and keep things in the dressers.

A tall and skinny middle-aged man rises from the couch and walks over to us. He looks exactly how I imagine Rolando will look in twenty-five years. The same round face and bulging cheeks, the same but slightly larger nose, and dark almond-shaped eyes. They even have the same short haircut.

“¡Hola!”
the man says in a husky but welcoming voice.
“¡Bienvenido a nuestra casa!”

“Papa,”
Rolando scolds, giving me an apologetic glance. “She doesn’t speak Spanish.”

But I step past Rolando and offer my hand to his father.
“Gracias, Señor Castaño. Estoy muy contento de estar aquí.”

Rolando gives me a where-on-earth-did-that-come-from look while his father beams ecstatically in my direction and pulls me into a giant bear hug.

“Hola, mi cariño,”
comes another voice as a short, heavyset woman scurries out of the kitchen with a spatula in her hand. Rolando kisses her forehead and introduces her as his mother.

“¡Vengan!”
She beckons toward the dining table behind us. “Dinner is ready.”

“I thought you spoke French,” Rolando whispers as he holds a chair out for me.

“I was raised by a Mexican maid and an Argentinean butler,” I explain, taking a seat.

He pushes in my chair. “Oh, right.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” Roland’s mom says as she buries the spatula deep into a giant platter of cheesy enchiladas. She carves out a humongous piece, sets it down on a plate, and hands it to me with a smile.

I laugh nervously and take the large helping, wondering how I’m ever supposed to finish it. Good thing I’m still wearing my uniform with the elastic waistband.

After everyone has been served, I pick up my fork and take a cautious bite. I’m immediately bombarded by the most amazing burst of flavor—tangy spices mixed with rich, creamy cheese. It’s by far one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I chew slowly, savoring the taste, almost reluctant to swallow.

When I look up, I realize that no one else has started eating yet. They’re all staring at me, waiting to see my reaction.

I blush and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Rolando was right, Mrs. Castaño. These are the best enchiladas ever!”

The three of them break into matching grins and I can’t help but notice how adorable they look with their wide eyes and contagious smiles. Everyone starts in on their own plates and I take another delectable bite.

The conversation flows easily as the Castaños share stories about their day and the people they encountered. Rolando raves about my top-notch score in Drive-Thru Guess Who and everyone cracks up at his animated retelling of my passionate encounter with the guillotine, complete with dramatic reenactment.

As I observe the interactions between Rolando and his family—the easy dialogue, the affectionate banter, the knowing glances that are exchanged between decade-long inside jokes—I realize how strange and unfamiliar it all is to me. Like I’m a zoologist observing some rare animal species in its natural habitat.

So
this
is what real families do.

They talk. Make each other laugh. Dole out warm smiles and tender looks as freely as the sun doles out light.

They sit together in one place. At one table. Sharing one meal. Without a photographer there to document it for the next issue of
Time
magazine.

And then, like a cold arctic wind, the reality of the situation hits me with an icy sting.

They’re not the strange and unfamiliar ones.
I
am. I’m the one who doesn’t fit in. I’m the one who no one can quite figure out.

My
family is the rare animal species that everyone wants to observe in its natural habitat. That everyone wants to study and photograph and speculate about—its origins and the way its members interact with one another.

Well,
almost
everyone.

If Rolando forewarned his parents about who I am or who my father is, you wouldn’t know it. They don’t treat me like everyone else treats me. They don’t ask about what kind of cars I drive or what it’s like to be the daughter of one of the richest men in the world. Most new people I meet don’t want to know about
me
. They want to know what I can do for
them
. Can I get their demo CD to the president of Capitol Records? Can I introduce them to the hottest new movie director in town? Or my personal favorite: Can I pass their résumé on to my father?

I find that one especially hilarious because it’s not like my father would ever hire someone based on a referral that came from
me.

Rolando’s parents, on the other hand, behave as though I’m just another friend of the family. A welcome guest at their dinner table. And I’ve never felt more grateful to blend in.

I’ve never felt more normal.

“So”—Mr. Castaño turns the spotlight on me as his wife walks around the table pouring coffee into four mismatched cups—“How do you like working at Don Juan’s?”

I sigh. “Well, let’s just say I probably would have died if it weren’t for your son, here. He has a knack for making prison feel like Disneyland.”

Mrs. Castaño places the pot down on the table and rubs her son’s head affectionately before returning to her seat and sipping her coffee. “Rolando was always a happy child,” she boasts. “No matter what he was doing or where he was, he could keep himself entertained. When he was six—”