"Confession"

Only one time in my life have I wanted to be like someone so badly that I took pieces of them to try to do so.

The Garcia family lived five houses down from me. They were mom Carmen, dad Martin, son Richie, and daughter Brooke. Richie was about two years older than I was, and I was about two years older than his little sister.

Carmen was a dark haired beauty, slim and stylish. She wore Bongo jeans. She was idolized by the girls at school—they wanted to touch her hair, her clothes, ask her questions about make-up. I’m not sure if she had a vocation prior to making her family, but as I knew it she was a stay-at-home mom, and our neighborhood Avon Lady.

Martin was a landscaper. He was tall and muscular, with black hair that was slightly long, a little feathered. He hardly ever said a word. As I recall, he seemed to have some kind of speech impediment when he did speak. I’m not sure if this had to do with his silence. In either case, his stature paired with his brooding quiet made him an intimidating figure. When Richie or Brooke misbehaved, and Carmen resorted to, “Wait ‘til your father comes home,” there were tears and pleas for mercy that made even me afraid to anger him.

Richie and Brooke were two skinny kids, with big brown eyes and the same dark hair their parents (of Puerto Rican and Italian descent) had. Brooke was a beautiful girl, with long eyelashes, and straight smooth hair that grew long, all the way down to the small of her back. Richie was funny, always teasing but never mean. I had an enormous crush on him until we moved away.

They were the friendliest family towards us on the block. Charitable and kind, they were avid church-goers. I think it was Carmen’s influence that had to do with my mother enrolling me at the same private Christian school Brooke and Richie attended. When my mother was working late (which was often), Carmen picked me up from school, and I would stay at their house until my own mother came home. We watched television together, or sang songs and danced (Brooke, Richie and their mother often made up dance routines to popular songs, one I remember was Paula Abdul Straight Up Now), or watched as Carmen finished cooking dinner.

This was the complete opposite of my own home life. With a mother and father who couldn’t bear to be in the same room, a near-complete absence of family time was the norm. We didn’t eat together, or play together, if we could help it. I tried to stay out of my mother’s way on days she seemed angry. And, though I can’t say I blame her, she was angry a lot. She was not the domestic goddess that Carmen was; she was the bread-winner. While my father puttered around the house forgetting to do things and making a mess, she was out trying to earn enough money to get all the things she thought would make her happy, would make us all happy. He was of little help when it came to child-rearing, preferring to live in his peaceful world of classical music and foreign films. From the time I was eight years old, they had separate rooms.

Then, spending time at the Garcia home, I could be a part of the family I wanted so badly, unified and loving. I could understand the culture I wanted to fit in with, wholesome and American. Their home was a tastefully decorated refuge, a potpourri-scented sanctuary I could go to when the yelling was too much. Even their lawn was perfect and wonderful—not the thin, broken variety like everyone else on the block, with brown patches that pricked your feet. Their lawn was lush and deep green, with thick blades that felt strong when you ran them between your fingers. I can remember exactly what they were like. The tops were glossy and smooth. The undersides were velvety.

Brooke was constantly being entered into—and winning—beauty pageants. Every so often the neighborhood kids would be playing out in the street and Brooke would step out of her mother’s car holding a new trophy and wearing one of her frilly dresses.

I was so envious of those prizes, of those dresses, of her hair curled into perfect spirals, that I convinced my mother to sign me up for one of those pageants. It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. And a total sham. In exchange for the entry fee, the cost of the dress we had to buy, and all the misery and strife involved getting through the whole bullshit process, I got paraded across the stage in some hall with a few other girls my age, and placed third out of the five. There are pictures of me and Brooke that afternoon, she holding her first place trophy (as always) and me with my pink and gold victory. Despite the fact that my mother essentially paid for it, it was the first thing I’d ever won, and I was very proud of it. Even more important to me was the dress. It had a red velvet bodice with tiny rosettes like buttons down the front. The sleeves were delicate chiffon, puffy and white. The skirt was made of tiered white lace, and fell to the knee. I wore the dress often. It was the souvenir of the day when I’d had my hair done, and make-up carefully applied to my face—the day I’d felt perfect, and I fit in perfectly. When it got too small for me, I grudgingly allowed my younger sister to call the dress her own, as a hand-me-down.

Brooke had a whole closet full of these dresses. And the best Barbie accessories. And a bureau full of Hello Kitty stationery. And Avon products like colognes and lip glosses, and tiny sample lipsticks. I wanted all of these things. So I began to take them.

When Carmen would bring us home from school, I’d ask Brooke to play in her room. I’d tell her to pretend she was a princess in a high scary castle, and that I was coming to rescue her. I’d tell her to close her eyes and wait. Then I would go through the drawers, looking for those things that were small and scented, to put in my bag and take home with me.

I usually only took one or two objects. I’d pore over them on my way home when my mom came in the car to pick me up. It was a piece of that life, a piece of her life.

One time, my mother caught me admiring my newest stolen prize. She asked me where I’d gotten it. I said Brooke had given it to me. Well, I guess that Carmen had realized things were going missing, and had discussed this with my mother. I also guess that my mother had been returning the things I was taking. Shows how much either of us valued the possessions, that we didn’t even notice them gone. When my mother got me home there was a long talk during which I tearfully insisted that Brooke had traded me for all those things, but I could not support my answer by saying exactly what I had traded for them.

The next time I was at their house, Carmen’s manila envelope of Avon samples was sitting on the table in the front room. I asked what was in the envelope. She showed me the small grey tubes of lipstick. When everyone was in the TV room, I snuck back to the front room and poured the whole envelope into my backpack. There must have been close to thirty samples. Then I returned to the game the kids were playing while waiting for dinner.

A few moments later, Carmen came into the room.

“Has anyone seen my samples?” she asked.

No, we all answered.

“Are you all sure, because they were just in the living room, in the yellow envelope, and now they’re gone.”

Still no.

“I really need them for my job, because I can’t sell any of the lipstick if I can’t give people samples.”

She asked Brooke and me to come with her to the front room. She kneeled before us with the envelope. She asked again, if either of us had taken what was in it. Brooke was clearly oblivious. Carmen focused on me. She had a sad look as she explained to me that If I had taken the samples, all I had to do was give them back. She wouldn’t be angry, and I wouldn’t be in trouble.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I swore that I didn’t take anything. She said, “Then I won’t find anything if I look in your bag.”

My heart stopped. The tears came flowing out, and I sobbed as Carmen took my backpack from the corner and unzipped it. She pulled out handfuls of the samples. Very quietly she explained that she needed these for her job, and that I didn’t have to take things. If I wanted something, I could just ask. She gave me three of the samples, “See?” It was one of the most shameful moments of my life.

After that, I stopped taking things from them. But it was more because I was afraid that Carmen would look in my bag, than because it was wrong.