Dalila
The good thing about listening to my favorite música loudly is that you can drown out everything else around you. The bad thing about it is people can sneak into your room unnoticed, like my little sisters. They have this annoying habit of thinking I need to be surrounded by family at all hours of the day.
“You’re wearing that?” my sister Margarita yells above the gravelly voice of Atticus Patton, the lead singer of my favorite American hardcore punk band Shadows of Darkness. My parents don’t understand my fascination with American music and would rather have me listen to Mexican bands and Spanish music, but my brother Lucas and I used to sneak out of the house and blast it in my dad’s car.
I look down at my jeans and black tank. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Margarita twirls around, her pale blue skirt flying around her like a windmill. “Papá said we should look nice because Don and Doña Cruz are coming over with their son Rico tonight. You’re dressed like you’re about to go hunting with Tío Manuel.”
“And you’re dressed like you’re about to go to a quinceañera,” I tell her as I walk over to my dresser and pick up the tiara with sparkly crystals I wore at my own quinceañera more than two years ago. “Here, you can wear this.”
Placing the tiara on her head, Margarita struts over to my mirror as if she’s royalty. “Does that mean I look like a princesa?”
“Sí. All the hombres in Panche will be lining up to dance with you one day.” If Papá allows it. Mexican dads aren’t known as the most lenient parents and Papá is no exception. He’s super strict when it comes to who his daughters can dance with, talk to, or date.
I should know. I’m the oldest daughter of Oscar Sandoval, one of the most sought-after lawyers in Mexico, famous for representing powerful businessmen and politicians. His clients pay him generously to get them out of trouble. Needless to say, he’s brilliant at his job.
Margarita stands in front of my mirror twirling her long, curly hair as if it’s not already perfect. “Don Cruz’s son is nineteen now, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Our families get together every year. When we were younger Rico and I would play games and get into trouble. Our parents joked that we’d be a perfect match for each other, but for the past few years Rico has been distracted and distant. Last year he was more interested in texting other girls than talking to me, so I’m not really looking forward to tonight.
“He’s a papacito, Dalila! You should date him.”
“I’m not looking for a papacito,” I tell her.
“What if you’re alone the rest of your life? Yuck.” She laughs, a giddy sound that often echoes through the halls at La Joya de Sandoval, the estate where I was born and which I will always consider home.
Lola, our housekeeper since I was five, comes bursting into my room. Her cheery smile always brightens my day, especially when she sings songs while she works. I swear she makes them up. Sometimes they’re in Spanish and sometimes in English. She knows both languages because she was born in the tourist town of Puerto Vallarta. Papá went to a university in New York on a scholarship when he was younger. He insists we speak English as much as possible in case we need to be bilingual for any job we might have in the future. He even sent me to a private school in Texas for middle school.
“¡Hola, niñas! Su mamá quiere que bajen en cinco minutos. La familia Cruz estará aquí para la cena,” Lola announces.
“They’ll be here in five minutes? ¡Dios mío! I’ve got to get ready.” Margarita practically skips out of my room, those curls of hers bouncing with each step.
“She’s got enough energy for five people,” Lola says as she pulls off my dirty bedsheets and grimaces as another song blasts from my speaker. “Turn that música down before your mamá starts complaining. You know she doesn’t like that crazy yelling disguised as a song.”
“That’s because she doesn’t listen to the words.”
Lola cocks a brow. “Words? Is that what they’re calling it these days? Sounds more like nonsense to me.”
“You’re old fashioned,” I tell her. “You still expect men to pay for everything and open doors for females and—”
“There’s nothing wrong with a man showing respect for a señorita, Dalila,” she replies with utter conviction. “One day you’ll understand.”
Sure, it’s nice when a guy opens a door for me, but I’m not about to park myself in front of a door and wait until a man opens it when I can easily do it on my own.
“Lola, does it look like I’m about to go hunting?” I ask as I check my reflection in the mirror. My hair is secured in a long ponytail so it won’t fall into my face the entire night. I’ve put a little eyeliner and mascara on, but it’s so hot outside I don’t dare put on more for fear it will start melting and make me look like a clown.
Lola shifts her head to the side, contemplating my question. “You’re the daughter of one of the most important men in Mexico,” she says, abandoning her task as she walks across my room and stands in front of my closet. “Jeans and a tank top aren’t appropriate for greeting guests.”
“I don’t want to show off.”
“It’s not showing off, Dalila. It’s representing yourself with dignity.” She pulls out a short yellow dress that Mamá bought for me when she traveled to Italy last year. “¿Que tal esté?”
It still has the tag on it. “That’s for special occasions, Lola.”
“Reuniting with Don Cruz’s son might be a special occasion.”
With a hefty sigh, I take the dress from her and rip off the tag. “Why do I get the feeling like everyone in mi familia wants to parade me around like some kind of attraction?”
Lola bundles my bedsheets in her arms and starts walking out of my room. “They want to see you happy.”
“I can be happy without a boy in my life,” I call after her.
“Of course, señorita. But being in love softens a woman.”
Softens me? ¡Que asco! Yuck!
I don’t need to be soft. And I don’t need a boy to make me happy. I have mi familia and my studies . . . and La Joya de Sandoval. My entire life is planned out and it doesn’t include time for a serious boyfriend. At least not until I’m almost done with medical school in nine years.
I gaze out the window at the colorful gardens below. Mi mamá works hard to make sure they’re well maintained to show off the vibrant colors of the flowers native to Mexico. I think it reminds her of her abuela, who used to sell flowers in the markets in Sonora to put food on their table. She’s especially proud of her cempasúchil, the colorful orange marigolds that we use in traditional celebrations and holidays.
Mamá makes all of us aware that we live a privileged life now, one that many people in my country only dream about having.
After slipping into the dress Lola picked out for me, I walk down our winding stone staircase with colorful pieces of ceramic artwork cemented into each step. Every detail of La Joya de Sandoval was designed by my parents to create a sanctuary for our family.
As I pass my father’s study, I hear him in a heated discussion with Don Cruz.
“I already took him on as a client,” I hear Papá telling Don Cruz in a brisk tone. “I won’t betray him.”
“You need to give us the information we need, Oscar,” Don Cruz replies as I peek into the room through the slightly open door. “Show your loyalty to an old friend.”
“We’re not discussing this,” Papá states sternly as he crosses his arms on his chest. “You’re like a brother to me, Francisco. Don’t force my hand ever again.”
His stern expression softens quickly when he sees me in the hallway watching their interaction. “Ah, you finally made it, cariño,” Papá calls as he walks out of his office and leads me to the courtyard with Don Cruz in tow.
“What were you and Don Cruz talking about?” I ask.
“Nada, Dalila,” he says. “Just boring business stuff.”
I want to pry, but we’re joined by everyone else when we reach the courtyard.
“Every year you grow even more beautiful than the last, young lady,” Doña Cruz declares.
All three of our guests sit in cushioned chairs around our open courtyard while Mamá serves them some kind of amber-colored brandy. Don Cruz has his signature full mustache and is wearing a gray suit with a red handkerchief that screams of wealth peeking out of his front pocket. Doña Cruz looks like she’s been at the salon all day just to attend this small dinner party. Her hair is in an intricate updo and her dress has sequins sewn in it that sparkle in our courtyard lights.
Their son, Rico, definitely changed this past year. He’s obviously been working out and taking care of his body. Instead of wearing casual clothes like most nineteen-year-old boys I know, he’s wearing a tailored suit designed for his slim physique. He’s got short hair that makes him look confident and tough. It’s a dangerous combination.
Rico acknowledges me with an appreciative nod. “Remember when we knocked over one of your mother’s flowerpots playing hide-and-seek when we were kids?” he asks. “You were so into those flowers, but I guess your interests have changed. My father tells me you’re going to the university next year to study medicine.”
“Yes. I’m going to be a heart surgeon,” I tell them.
“Wow,” Doña Cruz says, clearly impressed. “Ambitious.”
Mamá pastes a warm smile on her face. “We’re proud of Dalila.”
I know she’s thinking of my older brother, Lucas. If it weren’t for his heart murmur he would still be alive today. Even though he’s been gone three years, I think of him every day and wish he were here. I know she does, too.
Don Cruz turns to Papá. “It’s a good thing I don’t have daughters. I wouldn’t let them go to university or even out of the house without a bodyguard.”
“My sisters and I are more than capable of taking care of ourselves,” I retort back.
“I’m sure it’s easy to take care of yourselves when you live in Panche,” Rico chimes in with a cocky grin. “But Panche isn’t the real world.”
I raise a brow. “Are you saying my life is fake, señor?”
“I’m saying there’s an entire world out there that you don’t know exists.”
I’m about to challenge him when Mamá puts a hand on my knee signaling me to keep quiet.
Lola appears and announces that dinner is ready and I breathe a sigh of relief. Hopefully the topic of conversation will change as soon as we start eating. Before I can follow everyone else to the dining room, Rico steps into my path. “I didn’t mean to insult you, señorita.”
“You didn’t insult me,” I tell him. “I just don’t like being seen as weak.”
Rico holds his arm out for me to take. Obviously he hasn’t gotten the hint that I’m not looking for special treatment. “My father tells me to treat women like delicate flowers.”
I try to hold back the chuckle that escapes from my mouth, but I’m painfully unsuccessful. “En serio. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m not a flower and I’m not sheltered. I’m a tough chica who can kick butt if I need to.”
“Really?” He gives me a once-over. “You think you’re tough?”
I nod. “Por supuesto que sí.”
He crosses his arms on his chest. “Okay, Doña Sandoval. Why don’t you show me how you can defend yourself from a guy like me.”
“Here?”
“Sure.”
“Not here,” I tell him. I’m all for proving myself, but not when it will embarrass my parents.
“I belong to a boxing gym down in Sevilla,” Rico says. “How about I take you there and you can show me that you’re not a flower. I can even give you boxing pointers. Do you like boxing?”
“Boxing is like a religion in my house.” I was brought up watching fights with Papá and Lucas.
Rico holds his head high and puffs out his chest. “I’m a semipro about to move up in the ranks.”
Now it’s time for me to give him the once-over. “You, a semipro? Aren’t you the boy who cried when he got a paper cut making a paper airplane?”
“That doesn’t count. I was five.”
“Even so, you could never convince my papá to allow me to go to a boxing gym.” I’d love to get out, even if it’s with Rico, a guy who stupidly thinks women are delicate flowers. I’ll show him I’m not as weak as he thinks I am.
“No hay problema,” Rico says assuredly. “By the end of this dinner your papá will agree to let you go. He thinks of my father as family. Trust me.”
During dinner, Rico talks to Papá about taking me to the gym.
With a raised brow, Papá eyes me curiously. “You want to box, Dalila?”
“Sí,” I tell him. “I want to show Rico that I’m not some delicate flower.”
I’m a tough chica who can hold my own.