¡Hablamos!

the first time emi and frida traveled to the United States, it was to appear as paid participants on a Jerry Springer–style, Spanish-language talk show filmed in Miami. ¡Hablamos!, Univision called it. Emi hadn’t known anything about it until one day when Frida came screaming into their shared bedroom.

“¡Ganamos!” she yelled. We won!

“¿Ganamos qué?” Emi replied.

On a lark, Frida had entered them both into a contest, the grand prize being an all-expenses-paid, three-day trip to film an episode of ¡Hablamos!

“¿Qué? Pero—okay,” Emi said. “Si lo dices.”

That summer, Americans listened like classic gringos to “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” and Emi and Frida, her best friend, sang it aloud on the flight from Mexico City. They mimed dancing girls from the video as Frida belted out the silly words, SHE WILL WEAR YOU OUT! The panzón beside them pretended not to be bothered. Emi wasn’t surprised to notice how Frida’s perfect freaking figure undercut his annoyance.

An airport shuttle picked them up and ushered them along the Dolphin Expressway, past downtown and over MacArthur Causeway to South Beach. As it eased along a main drag, skyscraper glass angled the sun down at them with a fierceness the smog of Mexico City never allowed. Gaps between buildings provided snippets of ocean views where tanned men on jet skis carved out sea foam from the green Atlantic. Lines of yachts floated in perfect rows behind them. A boardwalk teemed with half-naked white people desperate to be brown.

They mocked this excess casually, much as they’d always mocked Americans from afar. As kids growing up in Frida’s house after Emi’s dad left and her mother died, they’d seen Miami Vice reruns and wondered how anyone could possibly say those sorts of things, act those crazy ways. Did Miami cops really take a full five minutes to watch a girl in a bikini oil herself up? Was a saxophone always playing in the background while it happened? Well, no, it turned out, but almost.

The show had bought their plane tickets and reserved them a suite at the Grand Marriott. They offered to comp room service too, and the first thing—the first thing!—they did on arrival, was order a single hot dog. Frida’s idea, of course. Just for the fun of it. A bellhop brought it to the room on a silver platter, yellow mustard pretentiously dolloped onto a porcelain saucer. Already down to bare feet and boy shorts, Frida thanked the bellhop with a Marilyn Monroe knee-bend and blown kiss, which turned the boy red. Emi slipped him a bill and nodded in sincere thanks to make sure he didn’t get the wrong idea.

Frida squealed when the door shut, clapping at the sight of the hot dog. She grabbed it and jumped onto the bed laughing. Emi followed suit. Crumbs fell as Frida tossed the sheets in the air. Outside, the sun scattered diamonds into the ocean. Emi reached for the hot dog, but Frida gobbled down the whole thing. Emi yielded to the playfulness of the moment. “¡Puta!” she yelled.

“Who, meeee?” Frida said, going into her character for ¡Hablamos!

According to a treatment sent to them by Hugh, an assistant producer for the show, Emi and Frida were to be disgruntled sisters vying for the attention of their father, a copy shop employee of modest means named Rodrigo. This was ironic, given Frida’s family’s wealth. Hugh included a photo of the man cast to play the father. He could’ve played a part in Angel Rebelde, the telenovela on Univision. Emi’s estranged father had worked a similar job as a copy shop clerk long ago, but this man bore no resemblance to Manuel.

In the role of disaffected daughter Conchita, Emi was to be sleeved with gang tattoos and wear a studded vest to show them off. Meanwhile, Frida—or rather, Maria—would wear a pink cardigan with a white collared blouse and designer jeans, so as...