aspect but because I’m ‘working.’ She says it’s undignified. I love them, and I hate them. But that’s family, I guess.” “T don’t know,” I said. “I... don’t have much family. Any, really.” My father and the rest of the relatives I had back in Hell’s Kitchen had not succeeded in contacting me, if they had even tried at all. And I hadn’t lost one night of sleep thinking about them. Celia looked at me. She appeared to neither pity me nor feel uncomfortable for all that she’d had growing up that I didn’t have. “All the more reason for me to admire you the way I do,” she said. “Everything you have you went out and got for yourself.” Celia leaned her glass into mine and clinked. “To you,” she said. “For being absolutely unstoppable.” I laughed and then drank with her. “Come,” I said, leading her out of the kitchen and into the living room. I put my drink down on the hairpinleg coffee table and walked over to the record player. I pulled out Billie Holiday’s Lady in Satin from the bottom of the stack. Don hated Billie Holiday. But Don wasn’t there. “Do you know her real name is Eleanora Fagan?” I said to Celia. “Billie Holiday is just so much prettier.” I sat down on one of our blue tufted sofas. Celia sat on the one opposite me. She folded her legs underneath her, her spare hand on her feet. “What’s yours?” she asked. “Is it really Evelyn Hugo?” I grabbed my wineglass and confessed the truth. “Herrera. Evelyn Herrera.” Celia didn’t react really. She didn’t say, “So you ave Latin.” Or “I knew you were faking it,” as I feared she might be thinking. She didn’t say that it explained why my skin was darker than hers or Don’s. In fact, she said nothing at all until she said, “That’s beautiful.” “And yours?” I asked. I stood up and moved over to the couch where she was sitting, to close the gap between us. “Celia St. James...” “Jamison.” “What?” “Cecelia Jamison. That’s my real name.” “That’s a great name. Why did they change it?”