Free Tell Me Something True by Leila Cobo

baptism was really a front—language and ethnicity. He had stolen
     her people’s land. But she. She loved him.
    You can imagine. She’d never seen anyone like him. Tall—because even though the Spaniards of the day were tiny, they were
     still taller than the Indians—and bearded and what was most remarkable of all, he had green eyes.
    And she was supposed to be sublime and graceful and, on top of that, a healer, widely respected even by the other tribes.
    It is said that both went against their parents’ wishes, meeting clandestinely at the waterfall that still lies within the
     hacienda’s boundaries. She even cast a spell upon her father, so he wouldn’t realize she went missing for hours on end.
    But, of course, he found out, because people are envious of others’ happiness, and they made sure he knew.
    One evening, as Araceli went to meet her lover, she was intercepted by her father and his men. Would they have killed her
     because of her dishonor?
    It’s hard to say. But Araceli panicked. She ran along the river’s edge, and in looking back, tripped on a rock perched high
     on a cliff and fell to the water and to her death.
    Gerardo planted the willows in her honor, and now, the trees weep for Araceli every time her spirit passes from the waterfall
     down to the river that runs in front of the house.
    They say Gerardo never married, and the Montoya name died with him. The hacienda was transferred to another Spanish noble,
     and through the years its lineage was lost.
    But the story of Araceli and Gerardo has remained in local lore.
    Those who stay overnight at the house swear that some evenings, you can truly hear the willows weep.
    The house is now owned by a friend of mine. A friend from long, long ago, Juan José Solano. His family bought the hacienda
     a century ago.
    They call him Jota Jota, which is JJ in Spanish. Isn’t that funny?
    Actually, it isn’t. People are their names. If they’re not, they become them. Like Araceli.
    Frivolous people invariably have frivolous names.
    But only a few, a very brave few, Gabriella, ever change their names.
    I told you what your name meant, didn’t I? A strong woman, close to God.
    I hope, Gabriella, that you never change your name.
    I hope, Gabriella, that you grow up to become your name.
    I, on the other hand, am an Helena, named after my grandmother and totally unfit for my name. Helenas are gorgeous creatures;
     impassive, elegant, proper, in command.
    I am none of those things. I’m askew, the antithesis of Helena. Surely someone must have seen that from the moment I was born
     with this Medusa hair.
    But Juan José must have been born a Juan José. Dignified, aristocratic, traditional. Chivalrous, even.
    How could they have reduced him to a banal JJ?
    Maybe a real Helena would have looked for a JJ. A yin to her yang.
    But because I wasn’t a real Helena, I always looked for a Juan José. But I never knew he was there, until now.

Gabriella

    S he had rehearsed the meeting that would never take place a million times in her mind. In all the scenarios, she is right and
     he is wrong. In all the scenarios, she is impeccable, she looks like old money, and she has a guy by her side. In all the
     scenarios, he has a girl by his side, too. A girl like him. The kind that wears very tight white jeans, heavy makeup, and
     a Louis Vuitton bag that could be real or could be fake. In all the scenarios, she acknowledges him slightly, like one would
     a servant. She goes on her way, and he looks at her longingly, knowing she was right and he is hopelessly wrong.
    She expected the meeting would never take place, but of course, it does. And in it, she’s wrong and he’s right.
    She’s sweaty and flushed and unappealing, straight out of a five-mile run, in for a quick stop at the supermarket, wearing
     over her spandex shorts loose sweatpants that make her butt look droopy. She sees him enter her aisle at the precise moment
     she’s plucking a box of tampons from the