Page 12 of Marisol Acts the Part
“Welcome, bebesita!” he announces, a spatula in one hand and an oven mitt in the other.
His tight coils are hidden beneath a plain black ball cap, and his dark brown skin glistens with sweat and a few subtle traces of glitter.
I set down Bruiser’s carrier and launch straight into his embrace, letting him pull me slightly off the ground and twirl me in a circle.
I’d linger on the irony that I had a more heartfelt reunion with my dad’s partner than with my actual dad, but I’m too excited about seeing Jerome again to care.
Across the seven years since I first met him, Jerome and I have interacted way more than my dad and I ever have.
Maybe it’s because he’s eight years younger than my dad—something they tease each other about constantly—or that he actually knows how to DM someone without sending the same message five times.
Or maybe it’s that Jerome is cool as hell.
A production manager at a fashion magazine by day and a drag queen with a weekly show in the West Village by night, Jerome is the type of person I instantly knew I’d get along with.
He’s the only person in our strange little family who understands my hatred for kitten heels and knows the difference between a blow dryer and a diffuser.
“How did you—”
“Heard you huffing and puffing up the steps,” he answers before I can finish, nodding his head toward the stairwell. “It gets easier, promise.”
It’d better. I don’t think my body can take that kind of physical anguish multiple times a day. Not to mention that I’ll have to carry Bruiser back and forth whenever I take her out. She can barely handle a thirty-minute walk—tackling these stairs would be her Mount Everest.
Once I’ve picked up the carrier, Jerome sweeps me into the apartment with a dramatic wave of his arm and a trill of “Welcome to Chateau Rodriguez-Morales-Avila!”
I’m too distracted by the spread of food laid out on the kitchen table to question why they have three last names between two people. Or why there’s a framed photo of J.Lo photoshopped as Jesus hanging on the door.
“Eat, eat,” Jerome urges, thrusting a plate into my hand and nudging me toward the elaborate spread. “As your abuela would say, eres muy flaquita,” he says, pinching my “too-thin” waist for emphasis.
I don’t linger on the fact that he’s doing an impression of my own grandma, and I have no idea if it’s accurate.
The last time I saw my abuela in person was probably when my parents were still living together.
We’ve FaceTimed a few times when my dad was over at her place during the holidays.
All I really know about her is that she hates Judge Judy, and I’m named after her mother—Marisol Emilia de la Cruz Burgos, “the most headstrong woman I’ve ever met,” according to my dad.
Well, at least that’s one thing I inherited from my dad’s side of the family. I’m nothing if not stubborn as hell.
I listen to Jerome and my growling stomach and reach for the closest item to me—a bowl of thinly sliced fried plantains. The first bite is so hot it burns the roof my mouth, the simmering oil clinging to my fingertips.
“Rookie mistake,” Jerome chides as I drop the plantain back onto the plate and fan my mouth and let out short spurts of cooling breath.
He ladles a spoonful of what looks (and smells) like a combo of ketchup and mayo onto my half-eaten plantain.
“Tostones need sauce,” he explains like it’s common sense.
Which, to be fair, it probably is to anyone who has a basic understanding of their cultures’ cuisines.
Mom tried to incorporate Puerto Rican dishes into our dinner rotation growing up, but she can barely handle microwaving a Lean Cuisine without risking third-degree burns.
Hamburger Helper was as fancy as it ever got until Avalon Grove came along and I finally made enough money to splurge on twenty-dollar salads every other night.
Jerome is right: the sauce blend brings the plantain— tostone —to new heights. The mayo-ketchup blend soothes my burnt tongue, letting me appreciate the salty, deep-fried goodness. Perfectly crunchy on the outside, with a fluffy potato-like center.
How have I gone eighteen years without these?
“Knew you’d like it,” Jerome says with a grin. The foodgasm must be written all over my face.
I help myself to a second and a third tostone, along with a spoonful of yellow rice and beans and something wrapped in a green leaf after he assures me everything is vegetarian-friendly.
While eating, I subtly take in the apartment.
The room—a combined kitchen, living, and dining area—is definitely cramped, but they’ve made the most of the space.
Family photos, signed Broadway posters, and costume props, like fans and decorative masks, adorn the walls.
Two large flags from their respective cultures hang at the center of it all—Puerto Rico for my dad, Panama for Jerome.
The brown leather couch is clearly well-loved, but well-maintained too, with a multitude of plush throw blankets to cover up the scuffs and tears in the leather.
There’s only room for one person to fit comfortably in the kitchen at a time, but they at least keep their lone counter free of clutter.
Pots, pans, and woks hang from a rack above the stove, with various appliances, from air fryers to blenders, carefully sitting atop the fridge.
“Better, right?” Jerome asks, snapping me back to reality.
I nod as I swipe my last tostone through the sauce. Normally, I don’t allow myself this many carbs in a single meal, but screw it, I deserve it. There’s no way I’m depriving myself of all the food New York City has to offer.
“Much better,” I say around another blissful bite, and nod in agreement.
An exasperated groan pops our little foodie bubble. My dad collapses through the door completely drenched in sweat, crumpling into a heap on the floor surrounded by my hot pink suitcases.
“Jerome makes the best tostones in the city,” he wheezes. His face has gone as red as the fire trucks that zoomed past the block when we arrived. “Just don’t tell your abuela,” he adds in between heaves for breath.
Dad looking like he’s on the brink of a heart attack must be a regular occurrence since Jerome saunters right past him to admire the largest of my bags. “You came prepared,” he praises as he takes in my modest—seriously, I left at least half of my shoe collection at home—army of luggage.
“We’re gonna need a second apartment to store all this,” my dad says with a sigh as he picks himself up and wipes the dust off his hoodie.
Jerome rolls his eyes, brushes him off with a wave, and gestures for me to follow him, pulling two of my bags along for the ride. “Ignore the drama queen.”
If I thought the kitchen/living/dining area was cramped, it’s nothing compared to the hall off it. I can barely squeeze Bruiser’s carrier through without feeling claustrophobic.
Off to the left is a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower all crammed together.
Beside the bathroom is a less horrifyingly small room that must be their bedroom.
They’ve done a lot with the space—squeezing a king-sized bed and a vanity in without making the room feel too cramped—but it still pales in comparison to my place back in LA.
I’m so distracted by the size of the bedroom that I almost walk into Jerome. He opens a door at the end of the hall, revealing a closet with a couple of mounted shelves on one wall and a window overlooking the community garden across the street on the other.
“It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I think we can make it work.”
I perk up as I observe the closet from the hallway.
I didn’t think I’d have the luxury of a walk-in closet in New York when the rooms are already the size of shoeboxes, but I’m pleasantly surprised.
The additional shoe rack is a nice touch, but any moisture that comes in through that open window will be hell on my sensitive fabrics. This’ll do nicely for storage, though.
“I can definitely make this work,” I say before helping Jerome wheel in my remaining two suitcases. Having all three pieces of luggage in here takes up most of the closet, but if we can shove them underneath a bed or something, I should be fine.
“Now, that’s the right attitude,” he says with a snap of his fingers and a pointed look at the kitchen/dining/living room, where my dad is still panting for dear life. When my dad ignores him, Jerome heads toward their room. “I’ll grab the air mattress.”
I freeze after setting Bruiser’s carrier on the ground. “Air mattress?”
“Ugh, I know, I’m sorry.” Jerome stops in the hall to whip around and give me a pout.
“We tried to see if we could get a regular twin mattress to fit but couldn’t get it through the doorway.
This isn’t one of those terrible air mattresses, though!
” To prove his point, he pulls a box out from his bedroom, LIKE SLEEPING ON AIR written in bold along the side.
“Only top of the line for our bebesita.”
My body is still too hungry and rattled from the plane ride to put these pieces together quickly.
In slow motion, it clicks into place. I turn back to the room behind me, the one I can barely stand in without risking stepping on Bruiser’s carrier.
No other doors off the hall. Nowhere else to go from the kitchen/dining/living room either.
This isn’t my closet. This is my room.
“O-oh,” I stammer, unsure what to say without sounding like I’m on the brink of a meltdown.
Which, to be clear, I absolutely am.
I kneel beside Bruiser’s carrier and open the flap so she can stretch her legs. She walks in an aimless circle, as if to say, “Uh, is there anywhere else I can go?” No, babes, there isn’t.