The Dream Weaver

Zoey stared at the rows and rows of makeup in front of her. Glittery lip glosses to her left. At least a dozen different kinds of mascara to her right all promising lush, full lashes. Above, rows of foundation compacts for a wide range of skin tones. And beneath, rainbows of shimmering eye shadow and bright nail polish, just begging to be browsed. But Zoey’s hands stayed in the front pockets of her jeans. She’d watched so many tutorials online, and yet she always chickened out when it came to actually buying the stuff. It didn’t help that Dad would say it was a waste of money, either. She knew Mami would probably say the same thing if she were here. From what Zoey could remember, Mami had rarely worn more than a touch of blush, a dab of lipstick.
But of course, her mami had been beautiful—she didn’t need anything extra. Still, Zoey couldn’t help craving a dramatic transformation for herself. And it was more than just makeup she wanted-all the other girls at school magically knew what patterned tops and colored bottoms paired well, and how to coordinate outfits with fun shoes and costume jewelry. Zoey looked down at her own T-shirt, denim shorts, and beat-up, faded flip-flops. She wouldn’t even know where to start-and not knowing was embarrassing.
It reminded her of when she was little and Poppy had expected her to answer his questions in Spanish about school or the new toys he and Abuela had bought her. A language she should have spoken better-Mami had spoken almost exclusively to Zoey in Spanish before she’d started preschool years ago but that left her feeling like a phony in her own skin.
She wished her mother were still alive so she could talk to her. But even if Mami were here, Zoey wasn’t sure she could find the right words to describe this uneasy mess of feelings that sank along with all her other problems into the pit of her stomach.
“Zoey! Where are you?” A deep, urgent voice cut through Zoey’s thoughts.
“Aisle nine!” Zoey called back.
A head of curly, dark hair poked around the aisle. “Stop wandering off,” José scolded, deftly maneuvering a cart between a baby stroller and a delicate display of perfumes.
“I’m twelve,” Zoey said. “I don’t need to hold your hand like a little kid.”
“No, you need to help me find all the stuff on my list,” José said. He glanced at the endless tubes of concealer and foundation. “I don’t need anything from here. Vamos. Come on.”