I first met Andrea when I was eleven, back when Dad was still alive and we first got rich. Dad and I were Nicaraguan, with curly black hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. Andrea, on the other hand, was pure WASP. She was clearly a natural brunette who\u2019d dyed her straight, bobbed hair a dirty blonde. She owned a \u201cLive, Laugh, Love\u201d pillow. Had a book club that read mostly romcoms. Watched Oprah and Ellen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course, Andrea wasn\u2019t an ordinary Midwestern WASP who lived in a blue McMansion in Ohio and owned a Subaru. She shopped at Whole Foods and had a favorite brand of wine. She went summering in the Hamptons. Went to Yale for Philosophy. Owned a beach house. She was also a decade Dad\u2019s junior and they only really got together for the money and the sex.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHer name is Andrea too. Isn\u2019t that fun?\u201d Dad said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But a WASP named Andrea was different than a Nicaraguan named Andrea. For WASPs, Andrea signaled wealth. Class. It was an old-fashioned name, an East Coast, old money name. When a Nicaraguan was named Andrea, her name was plain. Ugly. Hard to pronounce. We didn\u2019t share the same name, even if we seemed to on the surface. Andrea understood this far better than my father. She smiled and her nose curled. She called me a pretty girl, gifted me a Chanel handbag, then went out golfing in a country club with my father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Andrea likely hoped that I\u2019d be dumped with my mother after she and Dad got married, but unfortunately for her, Mom died from cancer. It was the reason she and Dad were divorced in the first place. Two years later, Dad died in a jetski accident after downing two Jack Daniels and a Molly. And we were suddenly alone with each other. Andrea never wanted children, but she wasn\u2019t actively cruel. She wasn\u2019t that kind of evil stepmother. We didn\u2019t know what to do with each other. We didn\u2019t like each other, but we didn\u2019t know each other well enough to hate each other either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the funeral, Andrea wore a black wide-rimmed hat and a black sundress. I dressed simply in a black hoodie and black slats. We were the only ones at the funeral. My mother\u2019s family hadn\u2019t forgiven Dad for leaving her. My father\u2019s family hadn\u2019t forgiven him for not sharing his lottery money. An FBI agent attended the funeral, mostly because they were investigating Andrea, assuming she did it. It offended her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve done a lot of horrid shit in my life\u2014bribery, tax fraud,\u201d she said as Dad\u2019s casket was lowered into the ground. \u201cBut I didn\u2019t kill him. I\u2019m not going to say I loved him. I didn\u2019t. But I didn\u2019t murder him for money either. I wasn\u2019t even there. How could I have done it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt could have been a hit job,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A week later, Andrea\u2019s stepbrother got arrested. Apparently, they had been having an affair before Andrea got with my father. Very Cruel Intentions<\/em>. Andrea was pissed. Her and her family\u2019s face was plastered all over CNN. SNL made a skit about the affair. Andrea hardly went out for half a year. Her stepbrother was acquitted on all charges except one for money laundering. I\u2019m not sure if it was corruption or if he was actually innocent. After all, Dad was really hammered during the accident. But at the same time, it wasn\u2019t not<\/em> suspicious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I asked Andrea about it and she admitted I\u2019d never know for sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019re so privileged\u2014my family and I\u2014that we can\u2019t even comprehend just how privileged we are. I\u2019m not sure if my stepbrother even knows if he\u2019s innocent or not. We\u2019re innocent because we\u2019re filthy rich. We\u2019re also guilty because we\u2019re filthy rich.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo I have that same superpower by association?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea shook her head. \u201cIf you have to ask, it means you don\u2019t have it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I got paler as I got older. My hair grew oily and wavy. My eyes were still dark, but I still looked white. Or at least, I looked whiter<\/em>. I was White Hispanic because I was rich. And spoke Spanish with an American accent. And knew all the lyrics to Sweet Caroline. In Latino culture, such simple aesthetics were all that was needed for Whiteness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But, of course, even though I was White, it was a different sort of White from Andrea, an off-white. I was a white girl ordered off of Wish\u2014a cheap imitation. A tacky knock-off Gucci handbag. I was still White, but somehow not White enough, not for America at least. I was White in the sense that I put down White in the census. White in the sense I could smile at resource officers while walking through my high school hallways. White in the sense I was considered the prettiest of all my cousins all because I was the palest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I was not White in the sense that I got lumped under \u201cperson of color\u201d just because I was Hispanic. I wasn\u2019t White in the sense that someone read my surname and assumed I\u2019d be browner. I wasn\u2019t White in the sense that I had to explain my identity to people\u2014my heritage, my first language, my skin color. Andrea never had to explain herself. People took one look at her and already knew what she was, and her name only confirmed it. Andrea got to be just White, while I was White with an asterisk attached.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With Andrea\u2019s help, I was able to get into Yale. I listed myself as a legacy thanks to her and one of my extracurriculars was working at a company founded by one of her wine club friends. It was pure privilege. But I didn\u2019t feel bad about it. I didn\u2019t feel good either though. I didn\u2019t feel<\/em>. When I announced my acceptance on Instagram, a white kid from my high school claimed it was just affirmative action that got me in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea and I celebrated with dinner at Olive Garden, just because I liked the breadsticks. She donned a polo shirt and a short tweed skirt, meanwhile I just wore sweatpants and loafers. The waiter thought we were girlfriends rather than mother and daughter. We didn\u2019t correct him because it was Valetine\u2019s Day and there was a special on pasta. I pointed out that we didn\u2019t need the special to afford the food, that there wasn\u2019t a point in pinching pennies. Andrea said it wasn\u2019t about the money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea ordered a glass of Merlot. I got a coke can. Andrea took a few sips of her drink then smiled toothily. \u201cY\u2019know, your dad never told me he had a kid when we married.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took a bite of a breadstick. \u201cHe thought you\u2019d just deal with it, like my mother would have. Like my aunts would have. Like all Latina women, really.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI almost divorced him when I found out. He knew I didn\u2019t want kids.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYet you stayed,\u201c I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea shrugged. \u201cIt would have looked bad if I\u2019d gotten divorced,\u201d she explained. \u201cWe just\u2014we don\u2019t do that lightly, not after so few years of marriage. No, we poison our husband\u2019s dinner instead, play the role of grieving widow, then move on quietly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood thing for you he died so quickly then.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea looked at her plate. \u201cI\u2019m\u2026 I\u2019m sorry he died so suddenly on you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I shrugged. \u201cMy mother always told me that men\u2014fathers especially\u2014were optional. A nice bonus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat about your mom, then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother had been a dentist, with a pretty Spanish-revival villa in Coral Gables. She attended protests for Nicaraguan democracy. Read books on Aristotelian philosophy and feminist thought by Simone De Beauvoir. Owned a Volvo. Married a moron. She untangled my hair each morning, pulling out knots like they were weeds. Though she understood English, she only ever spoke Spanish with me. She never had carbs in her home, not even bread, because they\u2019d rot my teeth. She wanted me to know basic life skills, but never had the patience to show me how to use the washing machine or crack an egg without shrieking. Her red acrylic nails pinched my ears when I fucked something up. Her lipstick stayed smeared on my brow when she kissed me goodnight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat about her?\u201d I asked. \u201cShe\u2019s dead. Not much to say there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother had bottle blonde hair\u2014like Andrea. Fell asleep crying while watching the Keira Knightley version of Pride & Prejudice<\/em>\u2014like Andrea. Wore corny wine mom blouses\u2014like Andrea. Had milky white skin and soft beach curls\u2014like Andrea. But Andrea and my mother were worlds apart, and not just because the latter grew up doing homework on a tin can roof in Matagalpa, Nicaragua. They could have been twins in every form, but Andrea still would have had more. Andrea would always be the woman my mother was left for. Because America decided that Andrea mattered and my mother didn\u2019t. And what America decided, the world decided. Because Andrea was a WASP. And I still didn\u2019t understand what that meant even as I understood completely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, don\u2019t you miss her?\u201d Andrea asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2026\u201d I blinked. Andrea looked so serene then. Calm though inquisitive. I\u2019d never seen my mother look so calm, even on quiet days spent simply sitting by my side, listening to me babble on about everything and nothing in broken Spanish. No Latina I\u2019d ever met, white or not, looked as calm as Andrea did then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wish my mother could have lived like you,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah,\u201d Andrea said. \u201cI get that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The server came then with a slice of chocolate cheese cake decorated with strawberry slices. Part of the Valentine\u2019s Day special. \u201cBy the way, you both make a really cute couple,\u201d he said. \u201cCan I take your picture?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea smiled. \u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea scooted closer to me, forced my head to rest against her shoulder, then placed a hand at my waist. I almost rolled my eyes, but strained a smile. Andrea tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then did the same to me. She picked up her glass of wine and smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSay cheese,\u201d the waiter said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The server snapped several pictures, then handed back Andrea\u2019s phone. When he was gone, she cackled at the photos taken. \u201cYou like I took you hostage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I groaned. \u201cDon\u2019t do that again. That was so weird.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea scoffed. \u201cOh lighten up. Take a bite of cake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She took a spoon, scooped out a bite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOpen up, daughter dearest. Here comes the airplane.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Reluctantly, I took the bite. Andrea laughed even harder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow you look like my bitchy teenage daughter,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sighing, I planted my elbows on the table, shoveling another bite of cake into my mouth. \u201cWhy\u2019d you let me stick around, anyway?\u201d I asked. \u201cYou said yourself you didn\u2019t want kids.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrea went silent, planted her palms on her knees. Her eyes went everywhere around the table. Everywhere except at me. Eventually, she simply shrugged while staring up at the ceiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, uh, you didn\u2019t exactly have anywhere else to go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked nothing like my mother with her jittery expressions and tweed blazers. Looked nothing like me with her piercing blue eyes and perfect pearly white teeth. When the bill came, her signature looked like more like calligraphy than handwriting. Not a wrinkle dotted her face, not one scar that revealed her true age, whatever it actually was. We went home that evening and watched Pride & Prejudice<\/em> at Andrea\u2019s insistence. She fell asleep on my shoulder\u2014like a schoolgirl. A sister. A stranger. A pretty white girl hardly older than I was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A stepmother.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I first met Andrea when I was eleven, back when Dad was still alive and we first got rich. Dad and I were Nicaraguan, with curly black hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. Andrea, on the other hand, was pure WASP. She was clearly a natural brunette who\u2019d dyed her straight, bobbed hair a dirty […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":39,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_editorskit_title_hidden":false,"_editorskit_reading_time":0,"_editorskit_is_block_options_detached":false,"_editorskit_block_options_position":"{}","_themeisle_gutenberg_block_has_review":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"art_contributors":[],"literary_contributors":[392],"class_list":["post-5471","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","literary_contributors-lorenzo-bryana"],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5471","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/39"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5471"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5471\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5769,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5471\/revisions\/5769"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5471"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5471"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5471"},{"taxonomy":"art_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/art_contributors?post=5471"},{"taxonomy":"literary_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/literary_contributors?post=5471"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}