Certain Dark Things(21)
“No,” Marisol said. “You’re up late. You were supposed to cook dinner.”
“I’ll make dinner now.”
Ana extended her arm to open the refrigerator, but Marisol shook her head. Her mouth was doing that thing where she wasn’t quite smirking but it was damn close.
“There’s no vegetables. There’s nothing. You haven’t gone to the supermarket.”
“No, we went.”
Ana opened the refrigerator and stared at a solitary avocado, a bit of parsley, the wedge of cheese with a dab of mold on it.
“Told you,” Marisol said. A full smirk now.
Ana grabbed a can of diet soda and did not bother pouring it in a glass. It would only mean one more glass to clean. There was already a pile of dishes waiting in the sink. “I need to buy a new school uniform,” Marisol said as she flipped her egg with the plastic spatula.
“What’s wrong with your current uniform?” Ana asked.
“It’s not the official uniform.”
Ana sipped her soda, shaking her head. “It’s got green and blue squares on the skirt and a blue sweater. How is that not official?”
“You know very well the nuns want me to wear the one they sell at the school shop. Not a cheap copy,” Marisol said, sounding like Ana had sent her to school dressed in a paper bag instead of real clothes.
Ana put the soda can down on the kitchen counter. “Well, the nuns can go piss themselves, Marisol, the school manual doesn’t say it’s mandatory that we buy it there.”
“The other kids can tell it’s a knockoff.”
Once again Ana regretted having enrolled Marisol in a private Catholic school. The school fees were outrageous. But public school was no good, with the teachers always on strike and the lousy facilities. Marisol needed a private school so she could have the best teachers, a chance to learn a second language, to make something of herself. Employers advertised jobs in Mexico by specifying the age and even goddamn school a kid had to have graduated from. No students from the UNAM, no one over thirty-four, no married people, no kids, send a photograph, and indicate religion. Under those f*cking circumstances you had to try to give your child an edge or they were going to be trampled upon by the richer kids from the Tec or the Anahuac; kids who had lighter skin, heavier wallets, and the right last names. No, Marisol needed this high school. If only Ana could afford it. Money was tight.
“I bet you’re not going to let me go on the class trip to Acapulco, either,” Marisol said as she tossed the egg on a plate and handed it to Ana. Then the girl cracked another egg and began frying it.
Ana leaned against the refrigerator and held the plate in one hand. “I don’t have the money.”
“You could ask Dad.”
As if that would help. Ana was supposed to receive alimony, but any cash from her ex-husband was sporadic and unpredictable. He had remarried and he had a new family; he didn’t trouble himself with the old one. Ana was grateful for this, since it meant he had stopped nagging her about moving back to Zacatecas so he could see his daughter. If she started complaining about the alimony he might start talking about that again, a topic Ana felt no desire to revisit.
“Your father won’t be able to help. This is not a field trip. It’s a glorified party, and I’m not paying so you can go get drunk on a beach. Plus, it’s the state with the highest concentration of vampire cartels. There are half a dozen different families disputing territory there. No damn way you are headed into that Necros nest.”
“Really, Mother? It’s the same everywhere.”
“No.” Ana shook her head again. “It’s not the same everywhere. There’s no vampire cartels chilling in Mexico City.”
“You yourself have told me that the gangs—”
“The human gangs are not going to leave you in an alley with your throat torn out,” she replied, slamming her plate against the kitchen counter.
Marisol looked at her. Ana recognized the same defiant stare she saw each morning in the mirror, the same hooded eyes and thin mouth. Marisol was a younger version of Ana, and this troubled her. She didn’t want her daughter to be like her, to make the same stupid mistakes.
“Look, Marisol, we just can’t afford it. All right?”
Marisol nodded. She had finished cooking her egg and turned off the stove. “Eat up. It’s getting cold,” her daughter muttered.
CHAPTER
9
The house was in the Colonia Roma, where Domingo seldom ventured. The Roma had been a fine area since the time when people rode carriages and ladies wore corsets. It was no longer aristocratic—the super wealthy lived in walled-off complexes or the newer Polanco and Lomas neighborhoods; yet it retained plenty of its grandeur and tradition, showcasing its history in its wide avenues, its parks, its boulevards, and a number of elegant old houses, very European. It was, nowadays, morphing into a hipster haven. The grungy elements of the area paired well with the bookstores, antique shops, art galleries, cafés, and restaurants with far too pricey items on the menu. A latte always went down better when you could pat yourself on the back and declare yourself très chic because you were having a snack at a butcher shop turned trendy eatery, right smack in front of a street where prostitutes lined up in the evenings to engage in their daily trade.