She's Got Game (12 page)

And then—“Papa, this is my friend Jamie,” Nils had said. But Nils's father had looked right through Jamie in a way that made her feel two clicks past awful. Just like that, her good mood had vanished.

Ambassador Stotter continued to ignore Jamie and spoke only to Nils. “Where is the dean, son? Does she know that I'm here?”

Nils spoke again, firmly this time. “Papa. Please say hello to my friend Jamie.”

His father kept his eyes focused on the wall directly above Jamie's head. “Nils,” Ambassador Stotter said, “I'm only here for one day. Let's prioritize.”

Then he strode away. She had never learned what happened in those few hours between the time Nils turned to follow his father and the next morning, when she saw him at breakfast. But whatever it was, it changed everything.

“Hey, where are you sitting?” Jamie said when he walked in with his mother that morning. “I'll join you.”

Nils shook his head and wouldn't meet her eyes. “I'm having breakfast alone with my mom, if that's okay.”

After Parents' Weekend was over, Nils went back to having lunch with the embassy kids—the sons and daughters of diplomats, who at various points had known one another at the United Nations International School in New York. He never spoke to her again. And she didn't have the strength or courage to confront him and ask him what the hell was up.

Shaking her head, Jamie refocused. Enough of the painful past, she thought. She had to work. She had been doing a Warhol-style portrait of Binky as a birthday present from Amigas Inc. and began to fill in one of the quadrants, then thought better of it. She was too mad to paint, and paint was too expensive to waste.

Her cell phone rang, and she looked at the number. Dash.

“Are you still upset?” he asked when she answered.

“No,” she said, lying.

“Well, I would be if I were you,” he said. “But the secret to dealing with Bev is to not let her manipulate you. If you don't come Saturday, it's like she told you to stay away and you did.”

Jamie was silent. In one short conversation with Bev Mortimer, all her insecurities had come rushing back, and Jamie wasn't sure whom she was madder at—Bev, for being so condescending—or herself, for letting it get to her.

“You there?” Dash asked when the silence had dragged on for several moments.

“I'm here.”

“Please come to dinner,” Dash pleaded. “It would mean a lot to me to have you there.”

Jamie thrust her shoulders back. “I'll be there,” she said.

And she silently added,
in my own fashion
.

EVERYTHING ABOUT
the West Side Country Club was designed to intimidate—at least, that was the way it felt to Jamie. Approaching the main building, she had a flashback to the time when she was eight years old and watched
The Wizard of Oz
on TV for the first time. The perfectly manicured driveway reminded her of the yellow brick road, and the magnificent building that was set high on the hill looked just like the palatial dwelling that Dorothy and Toto visited in the Emerald City.

The Mortimers were already at the club when Jamie arrived. Dash and his father had met for their usual Saturday round of golf. Dash had been beating his father at the game since he was nine years old, but they both cherished the time they spent together, even if the likelihood of any real competition was slim.

While the boys played golf, the women spent the day at the spa. Bev had what was called a medical facial and what Binky referred to as a professional spackle and grout. Binky got a manicure, pedicure, and blow-out. She had invited Jamie to join them, but Jamie had passed. She needed time to prepare. She'd decided to make a statement at dinner, to let Bev Mortimer know exactly what she thought of her stupid club with its stupid dress code and rules.

So she had dressed in an old-school Wild Style T-shirt and a Day-Glo pink spandex miniskirt over supertight skinny jeans. On her feet were a pair of canary yellow Converse high-heeled sneakers. On one arm, she wore a gaggle of studded black-leather bracelets; on the other arm, she'd carefully painted an intricately designed fake tattoo. She knew it was a bit much, but rightly or wrongly, she felt impelled to run the risk of ruining everything to make her point. To that end, she'd gone completely extreme with her makeup—tons of black eyeliner, black mascara, and bold red lipstick.

She topped the whole ensemble with a classic Burberry trench that she'd scored for just ten dollars at her favorite consignment store. The lining and hem had been in tatters, but Carmen had hooked it up with a purple-check trim that made it look not merely as good as new, but positively haute couture.

When Ferris, the Mortimers' driver, showed up at Jamie's house to get her, he'd tried to persuade her to change.

“Miss Sosa, far be it from me to question your sartorial choices,” he said, “but I do believe there's a dress code at the club.”

Jamie feigned ignorance and tugged at her trench coat. “Is Burberry banned, Ferris?” she asked.

“No, ma'am, the trench coat is quite fetching,” he said. “I'm referring to your jeans and sneakers.”

Jamie smiled brightly. “Oh, the jeans and sneakers are quite on purpose,” she said. Then, looking at her watch, she added, “We'd better go, Ferris. I'd hate to be late for dinner.”

Ferris coughed. “I'm sure that I could call ahead to Dash and explain that we'll just be a few more minutes.”

Jamie wouldn't be swayed. “No need! I'm ready to go.”

But now, as she sat in the back of the silver Bentley, Jamie felt her courage waning. Her actions were going to have repercussions, there was no doubt about that. And for the first time, she realized that those actions would have impact not only on her. Binky was a client. Her parents were paying for this outing.

Jamie shuddered. What was done was done. She could only hope that Mr. Mortimer didn't fire her on the spot and that Dash and Binky would understand that she wasn't trying to be disrespectful, she was just trying to teach their stepmother that stereotypes were ridiculous. If Bev Mortimer wanted to treat her like some extreme conception of a girl from the hood, then Jamie was going to show up and represent the hood, to the max.

All too soon, they arrived. Ferris parked the car and escorted her to the opulent dining room. The domed ceiling must've been thirty feet high, and globes made of tiny gold lights hung down like planets in the solar system.

Each table was covered with an ivory tablecloth, and the plates were hand-painted with gold stars and accents. A classical music trio played softly on a raised stage, and Jamie was surprised at how lovely she found the whole scene. Once, during her time at Fitzgibbons Academy, one of her suitemates' parents had taken all the girls in their suite to dinner at Tavern on the Green. Despite how generally miserable she'd been at Fitzgibbons, she'd had a nice time that night. Everything had seemed special and memorable—from the fairy lights twinkling in the trees to the horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park to which the girls had been treated after dinner.

For a moment, Jamie considered turning around, going home to change, and coming back another night, when she and Dash could have a fancy grown-up dinner without his frosty stepmother around. But this wasn't just about her, Jamie reminded herself. It was about standing up for all Latinas—letting Bev Mortimer know that not every Hispanic with brown skin and dark hair was a
chola
from East L.A.

She took off her trench coat and revealed her ensemble. She could feel diners at the nearest tables turn and stare. She stared back, defiantly.

Ferris spoke to the maître d'. “This is Miss Sosa, with the Mortimer party.”

“Miss Sosa,” said the maître d', looking down his ski-slope nose. “I'll be happy to seat you momentarily. But it would seem the Mortimers did not explain that there is a dress code for the dining room. T-shirts are frowned upon. Jeans and sneakers are not permitted under any circumstances.”

Jamie looked around, emboldened by the attention she was receiving. “That's ridiculous!” she said loudly. “As you can see, I'm wearing a skirt over jeans, and the sneakers not only have heels, they're limited editions.”

The maître d' cleared his throat and lowered his voice, as if to neutralize her loud tone. “Miss Sosa, if you would permit me, we keep spare clothes and shoes on hand for occasions such as this. I can assure you that they are perfectly appropriate.”

Jamie shook her head. “And I can assure you that my best friend's father is deputy mayor, and I can have this whole place closed for discriminatory practices.”

The maître d' looked horrified. Jamie smirked. All those hours of watching
Law and Order
were finally coming in handy.

She heard a cough behind her and turned around to find Dash and his father standing there. Dash looked confused. Mr. Mortimer looked bemused. “I hope an exception can be made for our guest,” he said calmly, his silver hair and dark gray suit epitomizing class.

“Of course, sir,” the maître d' said. “May we ask that the young lady keep the trench coat on?”

“I've got no problem with that,” Jamie said with a nod, “as long as I get to keep my sneakers on. You never know when I'll have to dine and dash.” She laughed and pointed to Dash. “Get it? Dine and
Dash
!”

Her boyfriend did not look amused. “What the hell are you up to?” he hissed in her ear, as he guided her firmly into the dining room.

As she followed him, she whispered, “Just keeping it real D., just keeping it real.”

When they arrived at the table, Bev Mortimer was waiting. She still wore her sunglasses and only barely turned to acknowledge Jamie's presence.

Binky got up and, of course, gave Jamie a big hug. “Hey,
amiga
, what's up?”

“Really, Binky,” Bev said, finally deigning to speak. “Must you be so ethnic in your displays of affection?”

All of a sudden, Jamie understood why Binky was such a big hugger. It drove her stepmother batty. It was also clear that Jamie's getup was working Bev Mortimer's last nerve. Behind her glasses, Binky's stepmother vacillated between scanning the room and staring at Jamie. Finally, she spoke to their guest.

“Would you really have us believe that you have no suitable clothes for a dinner out?” she asked. “Even the dress you had on yesterday was an improvement over this ensemble.”

Jamie, who had begun to feel slightly silly, turned indignant again. “Funny, I think that most people would agree that my outfit is much more stylish than yours.”

Mrs. Mortimer was about to respond when the waiter came by with their first course. “To start your meal, we're serving a lobster salad with sunchoke mayonnaise and pickled tomato,” he said.

Jamie picked up a fork.

“The smaller one, dear,” Bev said with a smirk.

And that was when it hit Jamie.

Her plan had backfired. The joke was on her. Jamie
knew
her salad fork from her dinner fork. She and Amigas Inc. had set hundreds of tables for
quinceañera
celebrations, and Jamie had always taken great pleasure in getting every detail perfect.

But Bev Mortimer had made her so mad that she'd not only forgotten her basic table manners, she'd forgotten who she really was. She was proud of her Bronx pedigree, proud to rep the boogie-down as Jamie from the block. But part of that girl's identity was as a girl who'd spent hours at the Cloisters staring at the Unicorn tapestries. A girl who spent hours on eBay looking for gorgeous vintage dresses. A girl who loved beautiful things and beautiful evenings just like this one. Being really mad at Bev Mortimer had made her behave in a way that did nothing to highlight the
belleza
of her Latina spirit. She'd embarrassed herself, her people…and Amigas Inc.

Despite the fact that she was starving and that the one bite of lobster salad she had had was the most delicious thing she'd eaten in a long time, Jamie pushed her plate away. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner. But I should be going.” She stood up.

“I'll come with you,” Dash said, but his voice was stiff.

“No, please. Stay,” she said. “I need some time alone.”

“Fine,” Dash said, exasperated. “Apparently, you're tough enough to take care of yourself.”

Jamie willed herself not to cry as she walked back through the elaborate dining room. She looked straight ahead, shoulders back, head held high—the confident walk her
mami
had taught her when she was just a little girl. But she could feel that everyone's eyes were on her, and this time, it wasn't a good feeling.

As soon as she was safely outside, Jamie texted Gaz to come get her. He was the only person she knew who wouldn't judge her—she hoped. She couldn't stand the idea of telling her
chicas
what she had just done. They wouldn't have believed it—and they'd probably have been pissed. She had put their jobs in jeopardy. For all she knew, they might not even have jobs after her little display.

In less than twenty minutes, Gaz pulled up at the front door of the club, in his beat-up old sedan.

“So,
chica
, I guess you're not planning on becoming a member of the Mortimers' country club any time soon,” Gaz said when she got in on the passenger side. “Was it really as bad as you said in your text?”

Jamie nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Jamie shook her head.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Then I'll leave you alone. I'm here when you're ready.”

Jamie flipped open her phone. She was hoping there'd be a message from Dash, although she had no idea what she expected it to say. Maybe:
Thanks for embarrassing me in front of my parents and my country club friends.
Or maybe it would read:
U R so cute in yr skinny jeans!
Or perhaps Jamie had underestimated her role as a trendsetter, and Dash was texting to say:
Some of the ladies at the club were hoping you'd hook them up with your stylist.

Mostly, she hoped for a text that said:
Wait for me. I'll come with you.

But there was no such text. She'd been staring at her phone so intently that she didn't notice that Gaz hadn't left the country club parking lot.

“Are you ready to go?” Gaz asked.

“I guess so,” she said.

He put the car into gear and drove down the long driveway. “You didn't stay long enough to eat anything, I bet,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

Jamie wanted to hug him. He was not pushing. Not bothering her. He was just letting her be. “Starving like Marvin,” she said quietly.

Gaz nodded. “There's a Pollo Loco on Collins Avenue, before we hit the ninety-five,” he said. “Wanna drive through?”

Jamie smiled genuinely for the first time all evening. “I would
love
that.”

Driving through the Pollo Loco reminded Jamie of all the times she had gone there with Carmen and Alicia. She felt a sudden urge to text the girls immediately. Then she remembered that she'd have had to explain why she wasn't dining on seared arctic char with Dash and his family. And that she might have just blown their biggest job ever. Maybe texting them wasn't a good idea. She sank back against the car's worn leather seats and ate her arroz con pollo in silence.

Jamie didn't sleep very well that night. Her mind was racing. She had talked things over with Gaz, but she still felt a huge weight of guilt despite his assurances that she could fix things—probably.