Big Chicas Don't Cry(7)

“Sorry, Tía,” Erica yelled. “But that’s what you get for making everyone think I was pregnant.”

The chatter continued as everyone took their seats along the tamale assembly line. We’d had the same places for as long as I could remember. As the family grew, more tables and fold-up chairs were added. But the process remained the same.

Abuela and Welita were at the head of one folding table mixing salt and lard into the tamale masa. They used their bare hands and seemed to be the only ones who knew when the consistency was just right. My tías, Mom, and Gracie were responsible for spreading the masa onto the corn husks, softened by overnight soaking.

After getting a layer of masa, the husks were then passed on to Erica, who filled them with a mixture of shredded pork and red chile. Later, she would switch to shredded chicken, green chile, and jack cheese. Then we’d make a dozen of cheese only just for me to take home since I didn’t do spicy or chile or salsa. If there was any masa left, Welita would prepare sweet tamales made with raisins, nuts, and pineapple.

My fourteen-year-old sister, Rachel, and two other younger cousins were stationed at another table with me. They wrapped each tamale in a square sheet of white parchment paper, and I arranged them in large silver pots. I also counted the tamales, marking every dozen on a notepad. My abuelo—the only man in the house for the tamale making—then took away the heavy pots to prepare them for steaming on the kitchen stove.

Later that evening, the entire family—tíos, husbands, kids, teenagers—would come back to my grandparents’ home to eat the cooked tamales and open presents.

That was our tradition. As much as I whined about getting up before the sun, I really didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Selena, how’s your job going?” Erica’s mom asked as other conversations took place around us. Tía Marta was married to my tío Luis, the oldest of my abuela’s five children, and liked to know everyone’s business. As the family’s go-to hairdresser, she was used to people spilling their guts while she trimmed and dyed. No wonder Erica ended up becoming a newspaper reporter.

I shrugged. “It’s fine. Can’t complain, I guess.”

Truth was, I had plenty to complain regarding the Umbridge & Umbridge public relations firm, where I’d worked for the past five years. But I didn’t feel like talking about the place on my day off.

“She hates her boss,” Erica offered, even though no one asked her.

When I shot her a dirty look, she frowned and wrinkled her forehead.

“Hate is such a strong word.” My mom, the second oldest, joined in. “My girls don’t hate people. Right, girls?”

I thought about the last email I’d gotten yesterday from Kat, and my mom was right. Hate wasn’t the word that came to mind. Loathe and detest were closer to the truth.

“She’s very demanding,” I explained since everyone was now looking at me. “Sometimes she’s hard to please.”

My mom shrugged. “Maybe you just need to work harder? You don’t always want to be an assistant, no?”

Familiar annoyance tightened my shoulders. “I’m not her assistant, Mom. I’m an assistant account manager. There’s a difference. Maybe if you would listen when I talked about my job more instead of worrying about who I’m dating, you’d know that.”

There was a definite bite to my voice. I hadn’t meant to sound so bitchy. I hadn’t meant to replace the lightness of Christmas Eve morning with our usual debate. Guilt sank my heart as I watched my mom’s lips form a thin line. I knew I’d pushed a button.

“Greg broke up with me last night,” Erica announced.

Gasps broke out across the room, and, just like that, the tension began to dissolve.

I caught my cousin’s eye, and she mouthed that she was sorry. Even though she’d started the conversation, it hadn’t been her fault for the way it had turned. But I was grateful anyway for her basically throwing herself on her sword.

Because, as expected, the mama bears came out swinging.

I never liked him anyway.

You could do so much better, mija.

I know a very nice doctor I could introduce you to.

Even my mom joined in on the chatter. Meanwhile, poor Erica slumped farther into her seat with every well-meaning piece of advice. I made a note to myself to pull her aside later and check in to see how she was doing.

“What about you, Gracie? Any potential novios?” Tía Marta asked after the Greg bashing had finally come to an end.

“Marta, Gracie is very busy with her job. She doesn’t have a lot of time right now to be dating,” my mom answered instead.

“Pues, you never know. She could meet some nice man at her job.”

Erica shuddered. “Yeah, right. I’ve met all of the male teachers at St. Christopher’s. They’re either priests, over sixty-five, or married. Muy gross.”

“Well, she doesn’t have to date another teacher. I’m sure one or two of her first graders have some cute single dads she could—”

“Marta!”

My abuela’s admonishment silenced my tía, and we all tried to stifle our own chuckles. I then noticed Gracie’s red face, and my amusement quickly faded. I’m sure she hated that her nonexistent dating life tended to be a topic of conversation when we all got together. I had tried to help by dragging her with me on double dates or to parties where I knew there’d be lots of single men. Once I even made her a profile on a dating website. She was angry about that and said she was perfectly capable of getting dates on her own but just hadn’t found anyone worth dating.