Page 23 of Marisol Acts the Part

The confusing layers of her ensemble, along with the bits and pieces of Spanish I’m struggling to string together, make my temples pulse with the first signs of a migraine. With a huff, Dad finally gives up on sneaking a piece of meat before it’s ready and turns his attention to me instead.

“Munchkin, you remember your abuela, right?”

Annoyance that Dad totally ignored my request to stop calling me munchkin aside—I’m a whole legal adult now—I definitely don’t remember my abuela whatsoever.

Most of my memories of my time living with Dad in the city are fuzzy at best. The few times he came out to visit me in LA, she never tagged along, thanks to her intense fear of flying that she must’ve passed down to me.

We’ve spoken a handful of times whenever Dad handed the phone off to her during our occasional check-ins, but the language barrier has always been a bit of a problem.

Her English is solid enough to hold a short conversation, but she usually defaults back to Spanish.

I put on a smile anyway and nod. “Cómo estás?” I ask her after she pulls me in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek that leaves some red lipstick behind.

I’ve got enough rudimentary Spanish in me to get through the basics, but anything past “how are you,” “I’m hungry,” and “where is the bathroom” is out of my depth.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t know that, and immediately launches into an answer in Spanish so fast I can’t even grab on to a single word that I recognize.

Dad must catch the panic on my face and interrupts his mom midsentence with a nervous laugh. “Ma, I don’t think Marisol’s had much practice speaking Spanish.”

That’s an understatement. The last time I got to practice my Spanish was when Miles and I got really into Duolingo for two months. Unlike me, he actually mastered Mandarin by practicing with his own grandma. I never made it past the vocabulary lesson on school supplies.

“Ah!” My abuela balks, as if she’s offended. “What you mean? Of course she speaks Spanish! She’s Puerto Rican!”

In this moment I’ve never felt less Puerto Rican.

Dad sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Mari didn’t grow up speaking Spanish at home.”

Abuela wrinkles her nose, seemingly unconvinced, but drops the argument anyway. Then she bustles back to the stove.

“I make you dinner,” she proclaims while reaching for a bowl in the overhead cabinet. “Your father”—she gestures to Dad with her wooden spoon—“not know how to cook.”

Dad holds up a hand to his wounded heart, an over-the-top hurt expression on his face. Guess that’s where I got my dramatics from. “I do know how to cook.”

Abuela whips around to shoot him a glare.

“I just don’t know how to cook well, ” he amends.

Satisfied with that answer, she turns back around and starts ladling stewed meat and rice into a bowl. “Too skinny,” she says over her shoulder. I’m assuming to me. That’s answered when she pushes the bowl into my hand with an “Eat” and a gesture to sit at the dining table.

“Oh, I, uh, can’t eat meat,” I stammer out as I see what she’s served me. While the shredded meat smells fantastic, my stomach would hate me for indulging in meat this rich and savory after so long without it. Her brow furrows for a moment. “I’m a vegetarian,” I add, to be safe.

Abuela nods in understanding, taking the bowl back and handing it to Dad instead before serving me another one, meat-free this time, and nudges me to sit down.

Over the past week, the kitchen table has become crowded with debris.

Reams of fabric for the dress Dad is working on for Jerome.

The makeup bag I didn’t have enough space to store in the bathroom.

New toys for Bruiser since I forgot to pack hers.

There’s barely enough room to sit at the table when it isn’t cluttered, and now it’s impossible.

Dad makes quick work of clearing it off as best he can, tossing the fabric into a nearby closet—that’s full to the point of bursting—and moving the rest to his bedroom.

Abuela takes the seat opposite me, waiting expectantly for me to try her food.

Nerves prickle my skin as I give her a nervous smile and spoon some of the rice, sauce, and a chunk of glossy avocado onto my spoon.

I’ve never felt so…watched before. And that’s saying something—my face was literally on millions of people’s TVs every week for four years.

The pressure weighs on my shoulders like an overstuffed backpack as she doesn’t take her eyes off me for even a second while I take my first bite.

I was already close to starving by the time I got here.

All I had for breakfast was a protein bar.

My stomach rumbled the entire subway ride home, and if I hadn’t been so traumatized by my rat sighting, I probably would’ve picked something up from one of the shops sending intoxicating scents of fried, seared, and marinated food wafting down the block.

Still, my first bite of Abuela’s food is nothing short of mind-blowing.

Fried plantains coated in a light layer of sauce that I can only describe as the garlicky goodness of the gods. Light and fluffy rice to soak up the Garlic Gods Sauce, perfectly complemented by the creamy chunks of avocado.

In short: Ten out of ten. Perfection. Possibly the best meal I’ve had in my life. Including the Michelin-starred restaurants Miles and I visited back when we were dating.

“Good, ah?” Abuela says with a coy smile.

“Amazing,” I reply before I take an eager second bite, moaning around my fork as the flavor combo sends shivers down my spine.

“Don’t tell Jerome,” Dad says with a wink and a nudge to his mom’s shoulder. And here I thought nothing could beat the dinners Jerome has been cooking this week.

The cliché says there’s no food like a grandparent’s cooking—something I never really understood.

My grandparents on my mom’s side both passed away when I was too young to remember them, and Mom’s cooking is definitely not something to write home about.

She regularly burns rice with the rice maker I bought her.

But now I definitely get it. A part of me aches as I demolish my food like I haven’t eaten in weeks, Abuela smiling proudly and encouraging me to have seconds, and even thirds, if I want.

Dad sneaking bits of meat to Bruiser under the table.

Salsa music playing from the radio on top of the fridge—the song unfamiliar, but the beat making me want to shimmy in my seat.

This moment feels fun in a way I didn’t think would be possible for me and Dad when I first got here. It feels…right.

I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal before I got here.

Or ate one around a real kitchen table. For the past four years, my life has been running from set to interviews to shoots before crashing on the couch because I was too exhausted to make it to bed.

And I loved that life. The rush of a packed promo day.

The bone-deep exhaustion when I finally got home from an all-day shoot.

But I’d forgotten how much I loved this side of life too.

Spending time with Mom, the only family I had back then, curled up in the living room, eating frozen pizza.

Not worrying about call times or memorizing lines or rehearsing answers for interviews.

And, maybe, I miss mundanity. A little bit.

“Your nails!” Abuela exclaims as I polish off my bowl. She takes my hand in hers and runs her fingers along my jagged, broken nails.

“I know, it’s horrifying,” I mumble. I’ll have to do a deep dive tonight to find a new go-to salon while I’m here.

“Kevin can fix,” Abuela reassures me with a nod, patting my hand before nudging Dad in the ribs. “You text him.”

“Kevin?” I ask.

“Your cousin,” Dad explains before pulling out his phone. “He can do all that stuff. Nails. Hair. Makeup.”

“Not makeup,” Abuela quickly corrects him, shooting me a vaguely horrified expression. “His makeup not good. Notyet.”

I stifle a laugh around my next bite of food. I can handle myself when it comes to makeup, but having a manicurist (and hairstylist, apparently) in the family is definitely convenient.

Once he’s shot off a text to Cousin Kevin, Dad excuses himself and Abuela from the table.

“I’m going to drop your abuela off, then swing by the club to help out with costumes for Jerome’s show,” Dad explains as he grabs his keys. “We probably won’t be back ’til late. Don’t wait up, but don’t try sneaking out. We’ll know,” he warns with narrowed eyes.

“Could I come to the show?” I ask eagerly, mouth full of rice. I’ve been dying to see Jerome live ever since he started posting clips of his performances on his socials three years ago. If he’s that captivating in a thirty-second clip, I can only imagine how great he must be in person.

Dad sternly shakes his head, making an uh-uh sound. “Noway.”

“But it’s an eighteen-and-up club,” I protest, having already done my research.

“And I still don’t want my kid at a club that late at night,” he insists, more sternly than I thought he could be, considering he’s never felt like much of an authority figure in my life.

“I won’t be able to keep an eye on you from backstage.

And you’re a public persona. I’m not gonna let people start waltzing up to you and bothering you all night when I’m not around. ”

He has a point—I’ve never been able to exist in public spaces the way regular people can. Still, that shouldn’t stop me from being able to support my family at a drag show. I pout, but don’t argue, and slump back in my chair.

Abuela wipes the pout off my face as she presses a wet goodbye kiss to my cheek.

“See you soon, mama,” she says before giving me one last kiss on the forehead and leaving the apartment with an armful of tote bags.