I wrinkle my nose. “I hate moles.”
He nods. “I know.” He pulls on a gray wig and a pair of glasses. They’re not cute dark frames like mine. His are wire frames like an old man’s. I drag my own hair into a bun and pull on the dark wig. He hands me bright-red lipstick. I flip the visor down and open the mirror so I can see when I smear the lipstick on. The reflection makes me pause, realizing how chic I look. “I should dye my hair this color.”
“You look good as a medium brown. This is very dark, almost black. It really makes you pale.”
I scowl. “Wow, tell me what you really think.”
He nods. “I did.” Clearly he doesn’t get the joke. He pulls a sweater out and hands it to me. I slip it over my pale tank top and button it up. It’s cold here, so the sweater won’t be too hot. He hands me a pair of heels. I pull my feet from my sneakers and rip my socks off. He shrugs on a hideous old-man sweater to go with his black pants. I didn’t even notice he was wearing them. He nods. “Now, when we get inside I want you to go to the front desk and ask the lady the questions. Try to stay Spanish for as long as you can. The secretary at the front desk of the electric company is an idiot. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but she lied on her résumé. The only way to work for the government in DC is to speak a second language, at minimum.”
I sigh, already embarrassed at the idiot I’m going to make of myself. He hands me my visitor pass and gets out of the car. He grabs a cane from the back and starts his very slow progression down the alley. I get out, clicking my high heels along the concrete. I pass him, ignoring his existence completely.
When I get to the large building, I walk through the front doors, feeling the memories attempting to come back in. I block it out. I don’t need to stand like a moron in the middle of the floor as my head fills with all sorts of memories that don’t matter right now.
I scan my card and walk to the escalator. The ride up is so familiar I feel nauseated. At the top of the shiny white area, I turn right. The girl at the front desk with the huge doors behind her smiles at me when she sees me. She’s friendlier than a front-desk girl should be. In Spanish I ask her if the weather has been good in DC, as I have only just arrived.
She immediately stops smiling, bites her lip, and nods.
I ask her if she is a flying monkey.
She nods again.
I roll my eyes, hiding the fact I’m starting to feel bitchy for doing this to her. She smiles weakly. I point at the door behind me and ask her if there is a Mabel who works there. She is my grandmother, and I need her recipe for lemon loaf.
She shakes her head.
Finally, acting as if I am completely annoyed, I ask her if she speaks Spanish. I’m stunned I can.
She nods. I slap a hand down on the counter and call her a lying pig.
“Ma’am, please don’t get upset. We will work with you to correct this. Clearly you’ve been told to come to the wrong place.” Her accent is similar to Pat’s.
I slap my hand down again, asking God why he has cursed us with stupid Americans.
She stands up. “Did you just call me a stupid Americano?”
I lunge forward, acting like I might come at her, using the thickest Spanish accent I can. “You stupid Americano!”
She grabs my hands, slapping them down on the desk. “You will not talk to me like that. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re lucky us Americanos let you Mexicans into the US. Damned foreigners. You have to come to America and speak American, not Mexican.”
I feign shock. “I no Mexican!” I’m not sure I’m doing the Spaniards of the world any favors talking like an idiot.
A security guard comes through the door. “Is there a problem here?”
The girl’s face is flushed. “No, no, sir. We’re just having us a little disagreement. She’s at the wrong counter, and I tried telling her that.”
He gives me a look. “This is a secure area. We don’t allow visitors in here.”
In Spanish I tell him she’s a savage who called me a Mexican and said I speak Mexican. I add that she called me a foreigner and refused to greet me in Spanish, even though the sign right there says Spanish is an acceptable language at this counter. I say that she doesn’t speak a word of Spanish and his company is racist.
His cheeks become the color of hers. He understands every word I speak. He turns, pointing at the doors behind him. “Mallory, go inside and tell Mr. Kip that you might not have told the whole truth on your application.”
She swallows hard. “What is she accusing me of? I did nothing!”
I lean across the desk. “If you speak Spanish you know what I accuse you of.”