21

When I get home from clinic the next night, Mom is grating squash for some kind of casserole. I can tell she’s pissed by the rate of her grating. I know this because I stood outside the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to get the guts to walk in. The grating was slow, tired. Grate … grate … grate. Like that. But now I’m in the kitchen, avoiding eye contact, opening the fridge to study its contents. And she’s grating faster, probably because she knows I’m there and she has a zillion things she’d like to say, but she won’t break down and say them. Grate-grate-grate-grate-grate.

I grab something so she doesn’t bark at me for standing there with the fridge door open, wasting energy. We all have to do our part to be green, don’t we, Gabi? she’ll say. I shut the door and sit at our distressed kitchen table, feeling more than a little distressed myself. I open the blueberry container and eat one at a time, wishing I’d picked something else. They’ve been in the fridge for a few days and the skin is soft, so when they burst in my mouth it’s a slow, leaky kind of thing instead of a strong, big burst like it’s supposed to be. I chew slowly. I think antioxidants.

Mom’s back is turned, hunched a little, although she’s always after us to stand up straight.

“I really am sorry about last night, Mom,” I say. “I messed up.”

Now the grating is supercharged. GrateGrateGrateGrateGrate.

“People are allowed to make mistakes, Mom. That’s part of growing up, isn’t it?”

When she spins toward me, I automatically shrink back, like she’s gonna throw the grater at me or something, although she’s never done such a thing and I doubt she ever would. What I see etched in her face surprises me. It is not anger and disappointment, like I’d thought it would be. It’s something else. Sadness maybe. Regret?

“Someday, when you’re a parent, you’ll understand,” she says. She sets the grater on the kitchen table too hard, and little flakes of grated squash rain down. Her tone hardens. “You’re just like any other teenager, Gabi. You’ll think you’re invincible until you find out you’re not.”

“God, Mom. You act like I’m going to run out and do something irreversible or something. I’m a pretty good kid. Nothing I do is going to be irreversible.”

“Nobody ever thinks it will be. That’s the whole untouchable fallacy of youth.”

Whatever. “Look. I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll be more careful, okay?”

Suddenly her hand is gripping my wrist. Hard. “You are the only Gabi I have. I’ve centered my whole life around you two. Given up the things I wanted for me.”

No one asked you to, I want to whisper. We’re big now—you can go back to school. Or back to work. But I don’t say a word.

“You better be careful. The world is full of invisible booby traps.”

I want to laugh at the word “booby.” It sounds so foreign coming from her mouth. I don’t though. Not even a giggle.

I get seventy-three texts today. All with the words, I’m sorry. I don’t answer a single one.

“He hasn’t said anything about the bra.” Janae whispers to me the next day at lunch. “Not a word. Maybe they just found it in the wash and thought it was his sister’s.”

“Possibly,” I tell her, focusing on peeling my orange and specifically trying not to look toward where I know Miguel is sitting. The lunchroom feels like a battlefield with land mines everywhere. I don’t want to accidentally make eye contact with bruised-up Eric either. Although I rarely see him in the cafeteria. He’s probably one of those guys who eats lunch in the debate room. Maybe Beth’s eating there too. She’s clearly avoiding me. Except for in class, when she keeps her nose in a book, I haven’t seen her at all. Life is getting complicated.

“But what a waste!” Janae complains. “That had the potential to be one of the best pranks I’ve ever pulled.” She grabs my hands, orange and all, and turns me toward her. “Plus that was an expensive bra!”

I nod blankly.

“Oh, come on, Gabi! Snap out of it.” She waves her hand in front of my eyes. “Just go talk to Miguel.”

I shake my head.

“You’re being a total bitch. No offense.” She takes the orange out of my hands and sets it on the table. “So he screwed up. Aren’t you the one who told me that we’re all screwed up?”

I nod again, but she’s not convincing me.

“So Miguel’s got a temper. So he’s a fighter. You got to be if you grow up in the barrio. But he was defending you, right? What did you want him to do, let some guy attack you and just stand there like a lump? I’m telling you this as a friend, so hear it. Get over yourself, or you’re gonna miss out.”

“I think we might be too different,” I tell Janae. “We come from totally different worlds.”

“Opposites attract.” Janae picks the orange back up and breaks it into pieces for me. “Besides, look at him. He’s pining over you.” I glance up and see him, all puppy-dogish, and then I look back down. “You’ve got to share a shift with him anyway. Have you thought of that?”

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” I ask.

“I’m probably enabling, but what the hell. Yes, I’ll go with you.” She sighs, like I’m impossible. “Here, eat this orange. You’ve got to keep up your strength.”

We dump our stuff in the trash and head out of the cafeteria, only to come face-to-face with our school mascot, the statue of a bare-chested warrior, wearing a lacy white bra. Janae’s bra.

Janae squeals and hugs me. Despite my mood, I can’t help but laugh.