Page 7 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

E ver since my parents died, I’d get into these moods that the nuns referred to as “the devil brewing inside of me.” It would start like temperate water over a flame, with tiny bubbles slowly forming along the edge.

The bubbles would grow and fill the surface, and before you knew it, the scalding water would transform into magma ready to explode and destroy everything on its path.

With time, I learned to control my rotten temper , as they called it, and being that this was Graciela’s room and my uncle’s house, I knew I couldn’t toss all the books on the floor or destroy the ornamental chair, much less crash the oval mirror in the vanity table, as satisfying as the clashing noise might be.

So, I settled for nervously pacing back and forth in the small space between the two beds.

I had never considered the possibility that Mrs. Montero, my mother’s so-called best friend, would deny me the opportunity to work at the newspaper.

And in such a spiteful way, at that. Who did she think she was?

On top of all, Matías had avoided me as if had leprosy.

I’d never imagined he would become so arrogant with age.

The door clicked open, and I stopped my pacing.

Graciela entered the room in a coral dress. “Where were you?”

I thought nobody in the kitchen had noticed me sneaking back into the room. “I went to Crónicas to talk to Mrs. Montero.”

Graciela sat on the bed, bewildered. “Why would you do that?”

“I told you. I want to work there.”

She sighed.

“She was so rude, prima . I don’t even know why. She told me to never set foot there again.”

Graciela scratched her forehead, folded one leg on top of the other. “I should’ve warned you.”

I sat in front of her. “Of what?”

“I knew this would happen.”

“Tell me!”

“After that night , there was a big fight between my dad and the Monteros. I think it had to do with the broadcast of that awful novel. They blamed our family for the tragedy. The newspaper’s owner died and so did a few employees who had nothing to do with the broadcast. They also lost their printing press and had to print their newspaper at El Día until their machine was repaired. ”

“But whatever happened is not my fault,” I said.

“Yes, but ever since, our families haven’t spoken or had any relation whatsoever. In fact, Crónicas doesn’t advertise our shows, not that my dad tries anymore.”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t understand why my father did something so stupid.”

Graciela shrugged.

“Who knows? My dad doesn’t like to talk about that night, so I recommend you don’t ask him, either.”