17

EARLY DECEMBER

Beth takes tiny bites of her turkey sandwich, edging around the crust. “Gabi, as your best friend in the universe, I’m compelled to share my concern.”

I’m scanning the campus for Miguel. We’re officially “together” but we haven’t transitioned to eating lunch together at school. Mostly because when I picture Beth’s reaction to Miguel, my stomach sinks to my toes. I won’t be able to keep our lives separate for too much longer, because this weekend I’m supposed to go to a family party with him.

“Seriously,” Beth goes on. “I’m no doctor of course, but I’m diagnosing you with a raging case of senioritis.”

“This is possible.” And perhaps a complete personality change, because even though I’ve considered Beth a “best friend” all through high school, we suddenly don’t feel that close.

“You’ve lost your focus. Forgotten your mantra. Remember ‘keep your eye on the prize’?” She pauses appropriately, but I’m still looking for Miguel. “Bruce and I are worried about you. We’re considering an intervention. Right, Bruce?”

He nods.

I interrupt. “Bruce, speaking of which, what’s the name of that cute girl by the snack bar? The one who keeps looking at you?”

Bruce glances up from his lunch. “Katie Smith.”

“Let’s invite her to sit with us, Bruce. I think we need to expand our horizons. Stop being so separatist,” I say. “Whaddaya think?”

“O-kay.” He’s easy to please.

Beth sets down her sandwich. The crusts have been nibbled away. “Gabi, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for weeks, and you’re not even taking me seriously.”

“As your best friend in the universe, I have the right to ignore your advice.”

“Maybe. But what if you get a B? You’ll never forgive yourself.”

“Beth, what if we go through our entire high school existence and we never feel like we lived? Think of the opportunities lost. What if we graduate this year and Bruce never gets to know Katie? They could be soul mates.”

Beth crosses her arms. “They say people change, but I never thought you would. It’s your senior year, Gabi. I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”

“My point exactly,” I tell her, and then dump my quinoa salad in the trash on the way to introduce myself to Katie Smith.

I stand in line at the taco cart, the beat of salsa music thumping in my ears. I’m wearing my white strappy sandals, because thanks to Southern California weather, it’s in the high seventies—and I move my toes in time with the beat. I’ve somehow lost Miguel in the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. I’m happy not to know anyone, because it means I don’t have to fake any kind of small talk. I just get to listen to the sizzle of the tortillas on the outdoor stove, to the lyrical words in a language I don’t understand, and to the music I can almost see when I close my eyes.

Arms slip around my waist, and I feel Miguel’s mouth near my ear. “I bet this is the best quinceañera you’ve ever been to.”

I get the tingles again, but we’re in public and I don’t want him to think he can get too comfortable too fast, so I turn far enough to sock him in the arm. “You know this is the only quinceañera I’ve ever been to.”

“Then it’s automatically the best.”

I breathe in the onions, the spicy pico de gallo, the fresh corn tortillas, the melting cheese, and the fresh ground beef. “It definitely smells the best.”

“I’ll help you make a plate.”

“I have eaten Mexican food before. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Going to Baja Fresh doesn’t count.” Miguel grabs a white paper plate, the thick kind that can handle heavy food without disintegrating. He shovels on rice, beans, guacamole, and a funky fruit salad with cucumber, orange, and jicama. “You’ve got to try this salad. It’s got a little kick because it’s made with pico de gallo salt, but it’s the bomb.”

We sit under a large tree with sloping branches. Dried pine-cones have fallen all around, and as we talk, I pick them up and break them into small pieces. Miguel chews slowly. “I hope we see my mom soon so I can introduce you. You nervous?”

“A little.” Meeting his mom seems like a big step. There’s no way I’m ready to introduce him to my parents. I’m pretty sure they’ll flip. I think I’ll wait as long as possible.

“She’ll love you.”

I try a tiny bite of the fruit salad. I cough. “You weren’t kidding. This really does have a kick.” I’ve never had fruit salad that didn’t taste pure sweet. But somehow this wakes up all my taste buds and sends them spinning. “So what’s your mom like?”

Miguel just looks at me for a moment, a long moment, and his face is as proud as if he’d made the salad himself. “Mi madre. She’s awesome. She’s my idol.”

“Really?” I’ve never heard anyone say that about a parent. Mostly we all complain. Too strict. Too mean. Works too much. Drinks too much. Irritating.

“Check this out. She came to this country with twenty dollars in her pocket, and eight months pregnant with me.” Miguel takes a sip of his drink. “She came over twice actually. She got deported when I was in middle school. Took her a couple years to get back over here.” His voice catches. “We’ve been through so much shit together, so I try to do right by her.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet. It’s just right. I can’t disrespect her no more.” Miguel moves his fork around his plate, mixing the foods together.

“What do you mean?” I set down my fork.

“You ever wonder why you didn’t know me before this year?”

“Actually, yeah.” I’d wondered that a hundred times at least.

“It’s because I was sent to a county school for sophomore and junior year. I was here at Central freshman year, but I got kicked out the first semester of sophomore year.”

“No way.” County school? That’s where they send kids who’ve been expelled. I’ve never kissed anyone who’s gone to County. Of course that’s not saying much. If you count Eric, the total number of people I’ve kissed is a whopping two. “For what?”

“I got caught with a knife in my backpack.”

“What?”

“Just a pocketknife, nothing serious. I carried it for protection. We live in a tough neighborhood. My mom cleans houses; she doesn’t make much money, and half of what she does make she sends home to her parents in Mexico.” Miguel looks up at me through his thick, guy eyelashes. “That’s all in the past. All that matters is that I do right by my mom from now on. She’s been working her ass off for seventeen years to give me opportunity. I can’t waste that by getting shot or stabbed or locked up.”

“Shot or stabbed or locked up?” Miguel is sounding more and more complicated. Don’t ask me why, but something about it is sexy.

“All in the past, Gabi. All in the past.” He looks like he’s trying to change the topic. “So did you like the food?”

“Delicioso,” I say, touching his hand. Someone must have cranked the music up, because I can almost feel it vibrating through the ground. I tap his hand in time to the beat.

“You wanna dance?”

“Only if you ask me in Spanish. It sounds way cooler.”

Miguel grins, and this time his smile reaches up into his eyes, giving them a copper-penny shine and making the corners crinkle up. “Quieres bailar?”

“Sí.”

I feel the music pumping through my veins. This kind of dancing is so different from the ballet I took as a kid. My body parts move in opposition instead of in unison. My hips pulse back and forth, my head tilts, my hands and arms move, but in the opposite direction from my feet.

Miguel holds my hand, and I notice right away that even though he’s moving fast and breathing hard, his hands are not sweaty. His movements look easy, natural, as though they’re an extension of his body. He spins me around, in and out, and around again.

Before long I find I’m only looking at his eyes. My body moves without my awareness. Even the nuances of the music blend. Except for the beat and except for his eyes, there is nothing.

I come home from the quinceañera high as a kite. I know that sounds like I smoked weed or something, but I didn’t. I’m high off some combination of salsa music, spicy fruit salad, and being spun in circles by a hot boy who thinks I’m beautiful. There was such a flurry of people that I never got to meet his mom. That’s okay. The lightness in my heart and brain is infectious, and I practically float up the stairs. I’m thankful that the house seems empty, because I don’t want anyone or anything to bring me down.

I’m brushing my hair when Chloe’s voice breaks in through my thoughts. “I hate you!” she screams. She’s so loud that at first I think she’s in my room, yelling at me to stop being so self-obsessed. I whirl around, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings. She’s yelling from next door; it’s just that the bedroom walls are thin. Is she talking on the phone? Or to herself? Is someone over?

I stand, frozen for a moment, my brush caught halfway through a chunk of my hair. I feel like I’m eavesdropping, and maybe I am. I should’ve been louder coming up the stairs so she’d know I was home.

I wait to hear more words, but all I get is muffled sobbing, like she’s crying into a pillow. And then the bang of something being thrown across the room. And more sobbing.

My quinceañera high is sinking. It feels like someone tied a brick to the tail of my kite, and I’m no longer flying high. No longer flying at all.

I step carefully toward her bedroom, my feet silent on the thick carpet. She’s left the door to her room wide open, so she must have thought she was alone in the house.

I peek in, and sure enough, she’s flung herself onto her bed, her face pushed deep into her down pillow. I stand there for a minute, debating about whether to go in or not. I want to.

But Chloe’s crying like this because she thinks she’s alone.

So I carefully pad back down the stairs. I open the front door softly, wait a beat, and then slam it closed.

I pick up and drop a pair of shoes by the door, so she thinks I’m just getting back. And then I purposely pound my way up the stairs. When I get to the top, I step into my room and turn on the music.

And I listen.

Chloe is totally quiet. I wait five minutes and then poke my head into her room.

“Hey, Chloe. I didn’t know you were home. What’s up?”

She looks like she’s napping. Long, deep breaths, her arm flung over her face.

She’s faking.

I sit on the edge of the bed and put my hand on her leg. “Hey, Chloe.” I shake her, pretending I really think she’s asleep. “I’m gonna make popcorn. You want some?”

She fake-stirs. “What?” She acts sleepy.

We should be actresses. We are both so good at this. “Oh, sorry to wake you. I’m gonna make popcorn. You want some?”

“Nah.” She shakes her head and turns away from me.

“Hey, Chloe, are you crying?” Her face is red and puffed up like a freaking balloon, so it’s a perfect opportunity. Her fair skin has always betrayed her that way.

She opens her eyes then. Even her eyelids are puffy. I can see her weighing her options, but she can’t very well lie. It’s obvious she’s been crying. “Yeah. Just some stupid boy drama. I’ll get over it.”

I pet her hair like she’s a puppy or something. I know it’s corny, but I can’t think of anything else. “You wanna talk?”

“Nah.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for asking though.”

And because I don’t know what else to say, I add, “Drama sucks.”

I stay in her room for at least an hour, stroking her hair. I turn on some music. I can’t stop wishing she’d tell me what’s really going on. And I can’t stop wondering how well I really know my own sister.

I know it’s sneaky but I don’t care.

I’m going to snoop.

I wait until the following night when Chloe’s out with friends and my parents are on a date. I search Chloe’s room first. I yank open her closet doors and examine the row of holey jeans and ridiculous T-shirts. I pore through her desk drawers, realizing what a total slob she is. I sift through her panties and bras in her dresser drawer. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly. Weed? Razor blades? Cigarettes? Cloves? Those morbid Sharpie-filled playing cards? I don’t find any of those things.

I scan the walls. There’s not an inch of uncovered space. Chloe uses pushpins to tack up everything and anything she thinks is cool. Whenever she’s got something new to add, she has to take something else down. There are posters from different bands, movie tickets, Pooh Bear and retro early childhood stuff, menus from her favorite restaurants, and random pages from magazines.

As a last-ditch effort, I lift up the side of her mattress. There, wedged underneath, is a diary. A locked diary. I never would have pegged Chloe as a diary kind of girl. As much as I would love to read whatever she’s writing, I know I can’t open the book without breaking the lock. So I wedge it right back under the mattress and creep out of the room.

On to the next snooping area.

I crouch by my dad’s safe and twist the combination. On the top shelf there are two photocopies of cards clipped together. The original plus an additional one. Even on my best, most-perfect-daughter day, there’s no way I could have not looked. I don’t even feel bad about it.

It’s a joker again. This time the Sharpie has been used to draw him an extra arm, holding a lit bomb. The block letter words edged around the outside say, I can obliterate the entire school with the push of one button. Oblit-er-ate. ¿Comprende, amigo?

I feel a rush of panic shoot through every vein in my body. The Spanish scares me. Like, why did he write in Spanish at the end? Miguel’s sweet face pops into my head. But every college-bound kid at Central takes Spanish or French for at least two years. Not to mention about a fifth of the students live in bilingual homes. So it can’t mean anything. But still, this note is pretty scary. What if my dad is wrong? To me, it sounds like this guy will try again no matter what. And Chloe and I and all our friends will be sitting like ducks on a shooting range, waiting to be pegged.