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Mandy shrugs. “I don’t know. I think I pick people. I find someone who I think, ‘this person is worth my time,’ and it’s not always the obvious choice, but I always have my reasons.”
My cheeks raise a few degrees when she mentions picking me to be in her life. It seems like an intimate statement I’m not used to having in friendships. “What was your reason for picking me?” I ask.
Mandy thinks for a moment, then says softly, “You’re like the calm in the eye of the storm. You’ll learn this about me, but I’m a fucking mess. It’s all chaos when it comes to Amanda Gomez. I’m guessing opposites attracted when it came to you. I was impressed at how you have kept your shit together through the clinical trial process. Usually, it’s a lot of crying and emotion. I’m not saying you are emotionless; I know inside shit is going on in your head, but you keep your cool. I’m guessing it’s the fighter in you.”
“Huh,” I take in her assessment and examine it in my mind. “I think, for the most part, people think I’m hard to get to know, that I don’t let anyone in, and maybe that’s partially true, but I’d like to change that.”
Mandy smiles at me with encouragement, and I get the feeling this woman is going to be an important part of my life—because she has already declared me a part of hers.
A young womanwho has to be much younger than Mandy or me opens the door. Mandy introduces her as Izel. She takes me by surprise with a hug and steps aside to let us in. Izel’s face is round, and she has short, light-brown hair with curtain bangs. She is wearing yoga pants and a slouchy sweater that falls off one shoulder. Her body is on the plumper side, but those curves could kill.
“Wine?” Izel offers.
“Sure,” Mandy and I both say.
“Take a seat,estás en tu casa,” she yells from the kitchen as she gets our drinks. When she comes back, Izel is clumsily clutching three wine glasses much too full with red wine. “How was that?” she asks, looking at Mandy.
“Perfect pronunciation,” Mandy says, and we both take a glass each.
“You don’t speak Spanish?” I ask Izel.
“No. My mom is super Chicana, and so is her sister, so they gave their daughters the most Mexican names they could think of. I kind of rebelled when I was younger and rejected everything about our language and culture. I regret it now, but at the time, my own personal revolt against my parents was the most important thing.”
“When you were young?” I say pointedly. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
Mandy is so close to me on the couch, her laughter startles me. “Izel is older than you,” she says. “She just has a baby face,” Mandy says with a baby voice and pinches Izel’s cheek. Izel swats her hand away, annoyed. “Where’s Tlali?” Mandy asks her.
“She was just taking a shower. She had to stay overtime today and got home not that long ago.”
“Tlali?” I ask, thinking. “Izel and Tlali, those are Nahuatl names, right?”
Izel blinks at me. “Man, my mom, and Tlali’s mom would love you. I bet you speak like proper Spanish, huh?”
I don’t have a chance to answer before Mandy does. “Yeah. The real shit. This girl here comes from old Spanish money,” Mandy says and grins at me.
Geesh. I’m annoyed she continues to find it a novelty that my family has money. “To be clear,” I say. “My family has money, not me.”
We hear someone clamoring down the stairs excitedly. “Did I hear the door?”
A woman joins us in the living room and pulls Mandy into a hug. She is tall and slender, with beautiful tanned skin much darker than Izel’s, so it’s hard to believe they are related. Her hair is wet, but I can see the thick mass of curls that hit just below her shoulders. “Nice to meet you,” she says and kisses my cheek. “I’m Tlali.”
“Hi. Nice to meet you too.”
The four of us claim our wine glasses and relax into the evening. I’m surprised at how quickly I become comfortable with this small group of women, but it’s natural, like so many things have been in Kansas City.
“I can’t believe you two are related,” I say, looking between Tlali and Izel. “You don’t look anything alike.”
“Well,” Tlali explains, “our moms are half-sisters, and my dad is Afro-Mexican.”
“And my mom,” Mandy interjects, “is not related to their moms by blood, but they consider her a sister as well, so we are basically cousins.”
“So you have all been in Kansas City for several generations?”
They all nod.
“Wow,” I say. “I didn’t know there were so many Latinx here.”
“Oh yeah,” Tlali says. “There’s even a small town several hours away that is a meat-packing town, and it is a minority-majority town.”
