Chapter 3: Mi Casa is My Castle

Oceano, California

May 10, 2004

Juanita Ramirez was very nervous as she made the walk to Nicholas Elementary School eight blocks from the shabby apartment complex where she and her husband Jose lived with their two children. The twenty-eight year old Mexican national was employed as a part time maid at one of the local hotels (one of the nicer ones, right on the beach, where the guests often tipped quite well). Her schedule was arranged so she worked every weekend and one rotating weekday. She was the one in the household who walked the kids to school and then walked back home with them at the end of the day. She walked them rain or shine because the family only owned one vehicle (a 1989 Toyota Corolla with almost two hundred thousand miles on it) and Jose, her husband and the father of their two children, needed it to get to his job as a supervising groundskeeper at Pismo Beach Golf Course. Her nervousness was not from the walk as it was a bright, beautiful, sunshiny day on the central coast. It stemmed from the houseguest she would be bringing home with Carlos and Emilia on this day.

Their son Carlos, who was five years old and approaching six, was best friends with Caydee Kingsley, the daughter of Jake and Laura Kingsley (who were long since divorced but still living together by all accounts). Caydee’s parents were infamous musicians that the townspeople accused of all manner of disgusting things. It was said that the Kingsleys worshipped Satan, that Jake Kingsley regularly abused his wife (who was not Laura Kingsley but Celia Valdez, the famous Venezuelan pop star) and that was why they were now getting divorced. Unlike most citizens of SLO County, she took these stories with a grain of salt. As a first generation Mexican immigrant she understood how the American people liked to shame and vilify certain people. Her own culture was blamed for nearly every ill that America suffered, yet their very economy would collapse without their people. She was reasonably sure that most of what they said about the Kingsley family was untrue.

But at the same time, the Kingsleys were millionaires. They lived in a mansion up atop a high cliff on the ocean (she had heard that the house was basically a modern medieval castle, complete with battlements and a moat—and this rumor she had no trouble believing), they had their own airplane they flew in (she had heard it go over many times), and they were white! (well, Celia Valdez was from Venezuela, but that was almost white). Why would a rich white princess want to visit their humble apartment? Why was this girl even friends with Carlos in the first place. Boys and girls did not play together in kindergarten! That was like a law of physics. And rich white girls did not play with poor migrant children. Yet, somehow that was what was happening here. And now the little white princess was coming to their house for a play date! God damn Jose for inviting them over! He had not thought that the Kingsleys would even call him, let alone actually accept the invite. And now they were stuck. She would have to find a way to entertain the little rich white girl until someone picked her up around 4:30.

The school was its usual chaotic self at pickup time. A line of cars stretched all the way down the street in two directions. Many had arrived there before she had even left her house on foot. Many others would still be in that line by the time she got home. Why did rich white people subject themselves to that? She did not understand why they would drive a short distance instead of walking. Yes, there were some kids who lived in the surrounding area that was too far to walk, but most of those kids rode the school bus.

She entered the school grounds and walked up to the pickup area. A few other mothers were there—some had walked like her, others had parked nearby and hiked in—but none of them spoke to her. There weren’t many Mexican children at this school, which meant there weren’t many Mexican mothers in the pickup line. Oceano had a large Mexican workforce, filling jobs in the hotels, restaurants, and hospitality industry, but very few actually lived there. Most commuted from San Luis Obispo or further inland, where housing was more affordable and communities were stronger.

She and Jose had chosen this location out of necessity, not preference. Their car was unreliable, and this shabby apartment complex, while far from ideal, was within walking distance of her job and close enough for Jose to bike to work if the need ever arose. It was perfect in terms of location, but isolating in every other way. Most of their neighbors were poor whites and struggling Filipino families, all just trying to scrape by like the Ramirez family. But the Ramirez clan were the only Mexicans in the entire complex.

She stood by herself, alone, and pretended not to hear the inane conversations of the other mothers around her. Their primary concerns seemed to be hair appointments, mani-pedis, what their husbands did for a living, and how brilliant their respective children were. Finally, the bell rang. The noise of approaching children full of end-of-the-day excitement reached her before the first child appeared. It was only the kindergartners being let out—the rest of the school would get out in fifteen more minutes—but the noise was still up there with jet engines in decibel level. The kids swarmed around the corner, closely followed by the teachers. The rule was well drilled into everyone. No one left without their pickup person making eye contact with the child’s teacher and being recognized.

She spotted Ms. Kenerson trailing just behind her class. She spotted Carlos easily. Walking with him was a tall-for-a-kindergartener white girl with amazingly red hair. It was the color of copper, the color of fire. She had seen pictures of Caydee’s mother several times and knew the mother had copper colored hair, but Juanita has always assumed that her hair had been professionally dyed. That was what rich white women did, wasn’t it? Now she was forced to change her opinion on that. There was no way that Caydee’s red hair came out of a bottle.

The kids gathered around their respective teachers and waited to be cleared to depart. Ms. Kenerson made eye contact with several people in the cars and kids peeled off and headed that way. She then made eye contact with two of the mothers in the group she was standing with. Two more kids peeled off and headed toward them. Next, she made eye contact with Juanita and gave her a nod. Carlos and Caydee started forward but they didn’t get far. Ms. Kenerson stopped them. A conversation occurred between Caydee, Carlos, and Ms. Kenerson. Ms. Kenerson then looked up and her eyes met Juanita’s again. She waved her over.

Juanita nervously stepped forward, already suspecting what this was about. The teacher (and she was a very good teacher that Juanita respected) was questioning whether or not Caydee really had permission to leave with Carlos. On the one hand she was impressed because the school was taking safety seriously. On the other hand, however, she was wondering if Ms. Kenerson would have acted the same if she and Carlos were white.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ramirez,” Ms. Kenerson said to her, “but Caydee and Carlos are saying that Caydee has permission to go home with you. I just need to verify that.”

“That is correct,” Juanita said. “Mr. Kingsley and my husband spoke on the phone last night. Caydee will be coming home with us and someone will pick her up later this afternoon.”

“I told ya,” Caydee said to Ms. Kenerson.

Juanita took a closer look at the tall redheaded white girl before her. She did not look like a princess, just an ordinary kid. She was not wearing a custom tailored dress with a professional hair style and diamond earrings. Instead, she was wearing denim shorts and a green t-shirt. Her knees had scabs on them. Her shoes were generic tennis shoes that looked like they might have come from Walmart (they had actually come from Costco. Caydee outgrew her shoes long before she wore them out so there was no point in buying her Nikes or something like that). Her hair was loosely tied in a ponytail that looked like the girl had done it herself. She had no earrings at all, did not even have pierced ears. She looked actually more normal of a kid and more down to earth than most of the other girls in her class.

“I guess it’s okay then,” Ms. Kenerson said, though she still seemed a bit unsure.

“Are we okay to go now?” Juanita asked the teacher.

“Yes, absolutely,” Ms. Kenerson said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Juanita and the two children stepped away from the pickup line and made their way further down the parking lot, where the larger pickup area for the rest of the school was located. They sat on the edge a large planter so they could wait for the big kids to get out. Emelia, who was in second grade, would be among them.

“It’s nice to meet you, Caydee,” Juanita told her son’s friend. “I hope you have fun at our home.”

“I’m sure I will, Mrs. Ramirez,” the girl told her. She did not seem to be condescending about it. She seemed genuinely enthused for the experience. “I like hanging out with Carlos.”

“I’ll show you the tree we climb out near the back of the complex,” Carlos promised her.

“Mijo, I think maybe Caydee doesn’t like to climb trees like you and Emmy do,” Juanita told her son in Spanish.

To her surprise, Caydee answered back in perfectly discernable Spanish. “Me encanta trepar árboles,” she said. ”Tenemos algunos muy buenos en nuestra propiedad.” “I love to climb trees,” she said. “We have some really good ones on our property.”

Juanita looked at her, taken aback. True, she had not said anything really embarrassing, but still... “Uh ... you speak Spanish?” she asked the girl.

“Si,” Caydee replied, still speaking Spanish. Her words were a bit slow and clumsy but her accent was spot on, sounding more like Venezuelan Spanish than anything else. “See-Ya and Mama and Papa Valdez have all been teaching me.”

That made perfect sense. Caydee lived with Celia Valdez (her mind was still having a hard time processing that). Celia Valdez, everyone knew, had been born and raised in Venezuela, in a small town near Caracas (Barquisimeto was not a small town and it was not really near Caracas, but Juanita and those who spread the rumors did not know that). “You speak it very well,” she told the little girl, feeling her first measure of respect for her.

Caydee just shrugged and continued to speak in Spanish. “Carlos helps me a lot too. It’s good to practice as much as you can, See-Ya says. Do you mind if we speak Spanish while I visit? It’s fun.”

“Uh ... yes, of course,” Juanita said. “We normally speak English at home during the day and Spanish after the sun goes down. We can make an exception while you visit though.”

“Thank you,” Caydee said, happy.

What an interesting child, Juanita could not help but think. Not at all what I was expecting. “What happened to your knees, Caydee?” she asked, pointing at the scabs.

Caydee simply shrugged. “I was playing outside on the cliff the other day and tripped while I was jumping over rocks. Skinned my knees. You know how it is?”

“Si,” Juanita said, and she did. Carlos and even Emilia had nearly permanent scabs on their knees as well. They liked to wrestle with each other and play soccer and often skinned their knees. “Your mama and papa let you play on a cliff?” Again, she was picturing a sheer, unforgiving cliff that sat a thousand feet or so above the ocean.

“They have since I was a kid,” Caydee said. “I know not to go anywhere near the edge. Cap and Kira aren’t allowed to go out there by themselves yet, but I can. I’m trustworthy, my mom and dad always say.”

“Caydee says they have a swimming pool,” Carlos said, speaking Spanish along with the rest of them. “Isn’t that cool, mama?”

“Very cool,” Juanita agreed, wondering if the pool was separate from the moat around their castle or self-contained. Either way, it would be an elaborate one, probably the rival of those in Las Vegas hotels that she had seen pictures of here and there.

Emilia appeared shortly after the bell rang. The older kids did not have to have a teacher eyeball the parent so they were able to leave right away (apparently the school board thought that once they went from kindergarten to first grade, no one was going to try to kidnap them). Carlos introduced his sister to Caydee, speaking in Spanish. He told her they were going to speak Spanish during the day while she was visiting.

“You understand Spanish?” Emilia asked, a cynical look on her face.

“Sí,” Caydee said. She then smiled. “Pregúntame lo que quieras.”

“¿De verdad vives en un castillo en la cima de un acantilado como dicen mamá y papá?” Emilia asked.

“¡Emilia!” Juanita barked at her. ”¡No hacemos esas preguntas a los invitados!”

Caydee was unfazed, however. “No es un castillo,” she told him. “Solo una casa. Pero puedo escuchar el océano por la noche desde mi habitación.”

“You have your own room?” asked Emilia, switching to English. She actually preferred to speak English. It made her feel like she belonged. It was odd to her that someone other than her parents or Carlos was speaking it. Especially this white girl with the fire orange hair.

“Yes,” Caydee said, genuinely confused. “Don’t you?”

“Emmy and I share a room,” Carlos said. He did not seem upset by this. It was just the way things were.

“For now, you do,” Juanita said. She knew they were going to have to come up with another arrangement in a few years when Emilia started approaching puberty. Maybe they would have a bigger place by then. “Come on. Let’s start walking.”

They started walking. On the way, Caydee and Carlos continued to chatter to each other in Spanish. Emily occasionally replied or added her own thoughts, but she spoke English when she did so. Juanita knew her daughter disliked Spanish time after sunset but she went along with it. It seemed she was declaring that she was not going to speak it while the sun was still up even if they did have a special guest. Juanita considered ordering Emilia to conform but decided against it. There was no sense in making her daughter resentful toward her brother’s friend.

Soon they were entering the grounds of the shabby apartment complex. It had been built in the late 1960s and it showed. Three and a half decades of salt air had made the gray paint look dreary and depressing. The cars in the parking lot were all old and battered, their bodies rusting from the sea air. Juanita saw the place differently than she normally did. She saw it through what she imagined Caydee’s eyes were seeing. She lived in the lap of luxury and she was being led into a battered rental community full of manual laborers. But when she looked at the redheaded girl she saw no judgment in her eyes, just keen interest in her surroundings. Her eyes locked onto something and she smiled. It was a crow perching on the chain link fence that surrounded the complex.