Just another typical summer day in San Francisco. Inuits would get chilled by the fog rolling in from the ocean and the gale-strength winds that blew it in. But my anger keeps me nice and toasty, thank you very much. A cable car filled with gawking tourists trundles by and Papi waves at them like they're long-lost relatives. Dad leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek, and suddenly cameras flash like crazy trying to capture the gay guys kissing on the street.
No doubt the pics will be flying all over social media in about thirty seconds. I just roll my eyes. It doesn't matter if they're straight or gay, parents delight in tormenting their kids. All my life, I've striven for order. At fifteen, I helped my dads develop their accounting system. That experience taught me that numbers aren't for me, but I adored organizing events at the store.
And now I'm on the verge of landing my dream job and this asshole rocker is going to blow it for me. I shake the hair tucked behind my ear back in my face, curls bouncing in the most annoying way. I keep threatening to chop it all off but Papi has a conniption any time I mention it. No my rizos , my curls!
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I did concede to him on my wardrobe for today though. Normally, I'm quite happy living in my boring, every day outfit of black stretch pants and a neutral oversized button-down that covers my big ol' butt. But Papi wasn't having it.
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Besides, this was my first real promotion gig and I wanted to look as nice as possible, so I let him dress me however he liked. His gorgeous black eyes lit up for a moment before I told him I still retained ultimate veto power. Then he just looked confused. He pouted at this but then got to work. And I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised. When I looked in the mirror before coming downstairs to get ready for the signing, I barely recognized myself.
I still looked like me, but a better version. Instead of stretch pants and my comfy Clarks shoes, he put me in nude thigh-high stockings, a pair of black riding boots, and a blue form-fitting dress with a gorgeous black baroque-style design all over it. Instead of making me look even bigger than I already am, it hugged all the right curves and minimized the other ones. I swear, this dress is magical. He added a touch more makeup than I normally wear -- which consists of concealer, if I have a zit, and powder -- and used some kind of torture device on my hair to make my curls turn into soft wavelets.
Of course he's my father so he has to say that, but this time, looking in the wall of mirrors in their bedroom, I agreed. No matter what Dad says about me looking like my egg donor, I take after him.
Stocky, dense, big-boned -- whatever descriptor you want to use, I'm no runway model. But somehow Papi turned me into one. But as pretty as I felt this morning, fear and anxiety are making me feel gross right now. I have this bad habit of chewing my fingernails when I'm nervous, and apparently I'm doing it right now because Papi slaps at my hand lightly. I'm sorta freaking out here. This was my big break and now Harry's going to fire me. That's rich.
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Papi, the draggiest of drag queens, is telling me, the straight-A student who's never so much as gotten drunk, to stop being dramatic. I'm either going to laugh or cry. Probably both. You know what? Screw this. Drax can kiss my big ol' fat ass if he thinks I'm going just going to stand around outside my fathers's record store waiting for him like a chump.
I'm about to trudge inside when I hear the rumbling of a motorcycle coming up the street.
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All the fandorks crane their necks, trying to see if it's Drax. I know from last night's cram session on the Internet that he loads a chopper in his tour bus so he can ride around whatever town he's in. I pray this is him. If it's not, we might have a riot on our hands. And a murdered rocker when he finally shows up. By the way the fans are grunting and smirking -- not really smiling, you understand, because they're way too cool for that -- I'm guessing it's him.
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