Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 3) by Diana Dempsey Page B
Authors: Diana Dempsey
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Mariela declares, “which I am, then I have to make it a point not to freak out about death and stuff.”
“You should freak out about it!” Rachel cries. “Because unlike stuff on TV, this is real! Of course you don’t know the first thing about reality.”
“ I don’t know anything about reality? You don’t know anything! You’re such a dweeb you don’t even know how to put makeup on!”
“That’s because I don’t wear makeup!” my daughter spits. “I have more serious things on my mind! Like how I’m going overseas to teach underprivileged kids to read!”
I’m thinking I should intercede when Mariela’s voice rises to a shriek. “As if anybody sane would want to do that! The only place I wanna go is L.A.! So I can be a celebrity!”
“Can you imagine for one second thinking about somebody besides yourself?” Rachel screeches when I hear furious pounding on the front door. I catch a glimpse of Mariela tearing down the hall. I go into the foyer to see her fling open the front door. And soon I behold before me the gorgeous and statuesque mother of Mario’s child.
Consuela Machado is dressed all in white—she’s wearing a trousers suit in a luxurious crepe that puts my piddling outfit to shame—but her expression is dark. Her long wavy hair is salon perfect and her makeup application even I have to admire. I’d like it more, though, if her expression weren’t enraged.
She stomps in my direction and points her finger at me. “What is this screaming I am hearing even from outside the house? I cannot believe you’re letting your daughter speak to my Mariela like that! What’s wrong with you?”
“She was insulting me!” Mariela yells, pointing at Rachel. “In Dad’s house!”
Rachel follows that assertion with a noisy snort and a cry of “I was not!”
I raise my voice. “Both of you girls put a sock in it!” Then to Consuela, “Everything is fine here.”
“How can it be fine?” Her red fingernail waggles in my face. “Didn’t you hear what your daughter said to my Mariela?”
“You didn’t hear what she said to me!” Rachel cries.
“I didn’t say anything to you!” Mariela yelps.
“Both of you girls were in the wrong,” I say. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of either one of you.”
“Mariela would never be rude,” Consuela asserts. She goes to stand next to her daughter in a show of solidarity. “I raised her to have manners, unlike some mothers.”
Mariela’s face assumes a smug expression. Rachel looks as stormy as a thunderhead. Trixie is stunned into silence. And I wish I weren’t too well raised to tell Consuela Machado a thing or two.
Then, from right outside, I hear the unmistakable guttural roar of a motorcycle engine. It putters to a stop.
“Grandpa!” Rachel cries and makes for the front door.
Oh, no. Pop’s legendary bad timing, once again on display.
Consuela throws her hands in the air. “Who can this be?”
“Can you believe it?” Mariela says to her mother. “It’s gonna be a circus around here.” She pushes past me. “Or should I say a freak show,” she mutters.
A beaming Rachel reappears with my dad, who cleans up nicely but who now has the dust of the road on him. I’m happy to see Girlfriend Maggie is not in his shadow. He’s wearing jeans, his padded motorcycle jacket, and seriously scuffed boots. His skin is red and his wispy white hair is going off in every direction. He doesn’t smell that great, either. He looks as out of place as a grizzly bear at a ballet.
He approaches with a tentative step. I know he’s never been in a house like this before and it cows him. Something about his expression takes me back to when I was a girl and won some pageant or other and as a result got to meet Cleveland’s mayor. My parents were invited to come along with me. My mom was bold as ever while we were chatting with His Mayor-ship but Pop pretty much froze. I don’t know if he strung more than three words together.
“You should freak out about it!” Rachel cries. “Because unlike stuff on TV, this is real! Of course you don’t know the first thing about reality.”
“ I don’t know anything about reality? You don’t know anything! You’re such a dweeb you don’t even know how to put makeup on!”
“That’s because I don’t wear makeup!” my daughter spits. “I have more serious things on my mind! Like how I’m going overseas to teach underprivileged kids to read!”
I’m thinking I should intercede when Mariela’s voice rises to a shriek. “As if anybody sane would want to do that! The only place I wanna go is L.A.! So I can be a celebrity!”
“Can you imagine for one second thinking about somebody besides yourself?” Rachel screeches when I hear furious pounding on the front door. I catch a glimpse of Mariela tearing down the hall. I go into the foyer to see her fling open the front door. And soon I behold before me the gorgeous and statuesque mother of Mario’s child.
Consuela Machado is dressed all in white—she’s wearing a trousers suit in a luxurious crepe that puts my piddling outfit to shame—but her expression is dark. Her long wavy hair is salon perfect and her makeup application even I have to admire. I’d like it more, though, if her expression weren’t enraged.
She stomps in my direction and points her finger at me. “What is this screaming I am hearing even from outside the house? I cannot believe you’re letting your daughter speak to my Mariela like that! What’s wrong with you?”
“She was insulting me!” Mariela yells, pointing at Rachel. “In Dad’s house!”
Rachel follows that assertion with a noisy snort and a cry of “I was not!”
I raise my voice. “Both of you girls put a sock in it!” Then to Consuela, “Everything is fine here.”
“How can it be fine?” Her red fingernail waggles in my face. “Didn’t you hear what your daughter said to my Mariela?”
“You didn’t hear what she said to me!” Rachel cries.
“I didn’t say anything to you!” Mariela yelps.
“Both of you girls were in the wrong,” I say. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of either one of you.”
“Mariela would never be rude,” Consuela asserts. She goes to stand next to her daughter in a show of solidarity. “I raised her to have manners, unlike some mothers.”
Mariela’s face assumes a smug expression. Rachel looks as stormy as a thunderhead. Trixie is stunned into silence. And I wish I weren’t too well raised to tell Consuela Machado a thing or two.
Then, from right outside, I hear the unmistakable guttural roar of a motorcycle engine. It putters to a stop.
“Grandpa!” Rachel cries and makes for the front door.
Oh, no. Pop’s legendary bad timing, once again on display.
Consuela throws her hands in the air. “Who can this be?”
“Can you believe it?” Mariela says to her mother. “It’s gonna be a circus around here.” She pushes past me. “Or should I say a freak show,” she mutters.
A beaming Rachel reappears with my dad, who cleans up nicely but who now has the dust of the road on him. I’m happy to see Girlfriend Maggie is not in his shadow. He’s wearing jeans, his padded motorcycle jacket, and seriously scuffed boots. His skin is red and his wispy white hair is going off in every direction. He doesn’t smell that great, either. He looks as out of place as a grizzly bear at a ballet.
He approaches with a tentative step. I know he’s never been in a house like this before and it cows him. Something about his expression takes me back to when I was a girl and won some pageant or other and as a result got to meet Cleveland’s mayor. My parents were invited to come along with me. My mom was bold as ever while we were chatting with His Mayor-ship but Pop pretty much froze. I don’t know if he strung more than three words together.
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