But what I hate the most is that the Consul refers to me as if I am an inanimate object. This has been going on since November. “Consuelo, you’ll soon have to chase the boys away
from your little angel,”—things like that. And then he teases me about my eyes: “Let’s take a look at your eyes, little angel,” and then chucks my chin. All of this
ridiculous attention I hate since I’m no longer a child. But last Saturday, he overstepped himself. This is what he said at the dining table, in front of everybody: “Look at how
grownup Angelica is becoming; she actually has a bosom.” I was so stunned I sat there frozen with the fork half way to my mouth.
As a dozen pairs of eyes turned to me—towards my bosom to be precise—I dropped the fork and pulled my panuelo across my chest. I wanted to melt i
