Evan tossed a pillow off the bed, glancing at the red marks on his wrists.
Pruning roses was harder than it looked.
He sighed and stood up. His feet shuffled along the carpeted floor, where at least six more pillows were heaped. They were covered in shimmering fabrics that his mom insisted were “complementary on the color wheel.” As if he cared. He brushed his teeth, pulled on a pair of soccer shorts, and headed toward the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time.
His mom leaned against the breakfast bar in her workout clothes.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” he asked.
“Well, my goodness, you are!” she chirped with exaggerated shock pulling through her Southern drawl.
“Yeah, couldn’t sleep. What is that?” he asked, nodding toward a half-filled glass.
“A Hoodia Cactus Smoothie—great for burning fat. Want to try some?”
“I’ll pass,” he said. The last thing Evan needed was to lose weight.
Evan glanced at his mother’s toned arm—skin sagging slightly, age spots beginning to appear. She was already impossibly thin.
“Evan, pumpkin, while I’ve got you here—”
“Mom, please stop calling me pumpkin,” Evan said. By some miracle, his hair wasn’t orange anymore, and he’d prefer to forget that it ever was.
“Well, all right, sugar. I’ll do my best,” she said. “Now, I need to ask you about the menu for the party. Should I order Caesar salads from the club?”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom,” Evan said absently. “Anything’s fine.”
“Oh, Evan,” his mom said, letting out a long sigh, “sometimes you can be just like your father.”
Evan sank onto a stool. Not this again. She shot him the look that, without a single word, convinced him to do stupid things like stop at a flower shop and pick up centerpieces for a luncheon—things that seventeen-year-olds didn’t do for their mothers. Except for Evan, apparently.
If he had to blame this ridiculous behavior on something, it would be a dinner conversation at the end of his sophomore year. His parents were about to host a charity ball, and Evan’s mom was stressing about who should sit where.
His dad looked up from an empty plate. “BeBe,” he announced, “I couldn’t care less where people sit. When is this party, anyway?”
“Honey, it’s next Saturday. You know this.”
Evan’s dad pulled out his phone and punched some buttons.
“Looks like you’ll have an extra seat,” he said. “I’ll be at a conference.”
Evan still remembered the way his mom’s entire body had stiffened. Her face took on a strange, forced smile.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she had said, all sweetness, “you’ll just have to miss the conference.”
Evan’s dad stood up from the table.
“For fifteen years, I have endured your charity events,” he said.
He actually used the word “endured.”
“But someone in this family needs to work,” he announced. “How else will you write those thousand-dollar-a-seat checks?”
They all knew that Evan’s mom had inherited plenty of money. No one needed his dad’s paycheck.
Evan had wanted to pummel his dad. Instead, he took a tip from his mom’s playbook.
He turned calmly to his mother and put a big happy grin on his face. “Hey, Mom. If you need a date, I’m free. What’s it for?”
“The local Boys and Girls Club,” she replied, a few tears running down her face, forming subtle streaks through pressed powder. “They’re raising money for a youth scholarship program for underprivileged students.”
“Count me in,” he said.
“I’ll have the most charming and handsome date at the party,” she replied, standing to clear plates from the table.
That was sort of the beginning of the end.
After that night, Evan’s dad quietly boycotted the charity network, and Evan started his new routine: dressing up in his tuxedo, enduring hours of soft jazz music, and helping his mom bid in live auctions for ugly art and random trips they always forgot to take.
At least he got to flirt with the cute waitresses. Sometimes they even snuck him drinks to numb the pain.
Evan was nothing like his father. And he would do just about anything to prove it, no matter how boring or painful.
“Definitely order a Caesar salad from the club,” Evan said. “Those salads are good.”
“That sounds just perfect, pumpkin, and don’t forget brunch with your uncle Sexton next Sunday. He wants to talk to you about college.”
Evan filled a glass with cold water and chugged it, pretending not to notice she’d called him pumpkin, pretending not to care that his uncle always stood in for his absent dad.
* * *
Alma should have said “No.” A simple “No, thanks,” and she would have avoided the agony of the past several days.
“¡Hija!” her tía Pera whispered sharply in her ear.
Alma bowed her head, trying to look reverent, as she joined her aunts in praying the rosary.
“Dios te salve María, llena eres de gracia…”
Why had she done it? Why had she let Evan come back to help her in the garden?
Tía Pera grabbed Alma’s hand and held it firmly.
Alma squeezed her eyes shut. “El Señor es contigo.”
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evan, with his deep-green eyes intensely focused and his smooth chin thrust slightly forward, struggling to pronounce her name.
“Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres…”
She saw him take a long chug of cold water and then throw his head back. That was how she had taught him. She had him say “ahhh,” after quenching his thirst with water, and then told him to follow it with the simple sounds of “ll-ma.” It worked beautifully.
“Y bendito es el fruto en tu vientre, Jésus.”
She was supposed to be praying for the repose of her mother’s soul, but she couldn’t even hear the words tumbling from her mouth. All she heard was Evan repeating her name while his hands gripped the rosebushes, their thorns tearing red lines into the soft flesh of his wrists. She told him to wear gloves, but he said he didn’t have any. He refused the extra pair she offered from her dad’s toolbox.
“Santa María, Madre de Dios…”
She smiled, remembering how clueless he had been, trying to chop the roses off just below the bud. He leaned into her as she explained how to follow the stem to new growth and cut carefully at an angle, just above it. And then she watched, warmth spreading through her, as he ran his fingers gently down the stem.
“Ruega por nosotros pecadores…”
Ay, Dios, she thought. Alma didn’t think her mother really needed help getting out of purgatory, and even if she did, Alma’s stiff prayers couldn’t possibly offer much.
“Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”
Tía Dolores opened her eyes and shot a withering glance toward Alma.
“Amen.”
Tía Pera and Tía Dolores continued mumbling unintelligible prayers. Alma squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to see so clearly the way that droplets of water had clung to Evan’s slightly parted lips, and trying not to imagine tasting them. Was this a venial sin? God, she hoped not. Alma hated going to confession.
The three of them were kneeling on the hard wood floor of their living room. They all faced the little home altar that was set up in the corner. It had dozens of prayer cards and statues, but the centerpiece was Our Lady of La Leche—a statue of the Virgin Mary breastfeeding the baby Jesus. Every family had a favorite, but for most Mexicans it was Guadalupe (the queen of Mexico and empress of the Americas), or La Virgen de San Juan de los Lagos if they were from the north. Not Alma’s tías. They had a special thing for La Leche, this obscure Virgencita from St. Augustine, Florida, that no one else had ever heard of.
Alma prayed to her sometimes, too—just kind of spontaneously, when things got bad. After all, the Virgin’s name was Spanglish, and she was sort of a Spanish immigrant to Florida. According to legend, she came over with the first Spanish settlers. She hung out in her little chapel while the city around her went from being Spanish to British to Spanish to American. Alma figured, with a history like that, Our Lady of La Leche probably knew what it felt like to not really have a country. She should be given some special title like the Patroness of the Immigrant’s Daughter, or the Queen of the Kids Stuck in Between.
But Alma didn’t get the point of these stiff, old-fashioned prayers. It had been fourteen years since her mom left this world, and every year, near the anniversary of her death, Alma’s aunts guilted her into praying the entire rosary together for nine straight days. They wanted to be sure her mom would make it to heaven. Alma barely remembered her mom, but everyone described her as a saint, so she was pretty sure her mom should be comfortably ensconced in heaven by now. Even so, Alma always went along with the prayers. She probably just did it because she was afraid of Tía Dolores. Or maybe it was because Tía Pera knew exactly how to entice her out of bed: with the smell of freshly brewing coffee.
* * *
Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Evan glanced down at his stopwatch.
1:32:15
He had been running for an hour and a half, and the summer sun was high in the hazy sky. He willed his body to turn onto another dead-end road and pumped his arms as he sprinted up a hill. When he reached the top, his eyes scanned the pavement. Neither of the two landscaping trucks parked on this road was Mr. García’s.
About thirty minutes into his run, Evan began to realize—with more than a little amusement—that he was casing his own neighborhood. Surrounding his house were hilly dead-end streets, each wandering onto a finger of land that jutted into Lake Lanier. Typically, he stuck to the main road, which hugged the edge of the golf course. It seemed pointless to wander down a bunch of dead-end streets and then have to turn around and go back. This morning, though, he turned onto every road he passed, searching for the red Ford truck.
As he watched steam rise off of the asphalt soaked by a broken sprinkler, Evan wished he had started this run at six thirty instead of ten thirty.
He jogged toward the broken sprinkler and paused underneath, letting the cool streams of water run over his head and seep into his sweat-soaked shirt. Revived, Evan shook the excess water out of his hair and turned to go home. Then he saw it. The red Ford pickup was headed straight for him.
* * *
Alma squinted and stared ahead. Was that Evan Roland stepping away from the sprinkler her dad had been called to repair? He turned around and her stomach lurched. Yes, it was Evan. And yes, he was sopping wet, with his shirt plastered to his chest and shaggy hair falling across his forehead, sending streams of water down his flushed face.
She gathered herself and called out, “Hey, Evan. There’s not a shower in that big fancy house of yours?”
Laughing, Evan walked toward her window. “Good morning, Mr. García,” he said. “Good morning, Aaaahhhlllma.”
“Ya es tarde,” grumbled Alma’s father.
Alma glanced toward the clock on the dashboard. Her dad was right. It was almost twelve fifteen.
“Man, it’s hot today, huh, Mr. García?”
Evan was trying to make small talk with her dad—a lost cause.
“Yes, it is,” her dad replied curtly, stepping out of the truck.
“Get that boy some cold Gatorade from the back of the truck, Alma,” her dad said in Spanish. “He looks like he’s about to pass out.”
Evan looked pretty amazing as far as Alma was concerned. She went around to the truck bed and dug in the cooler as her dad grabbed a toolbox and made his way to the backyard.
“Do you want a Gatorade?” she asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” Evan replied absently.
When she came back, Evan was holding one of her books. She always brought books to work. Reading was an easy way to pass the time as they drove across town, from one client to another.
He turned the book toward her and pointed at the cover. There was a charcoal drawing of a young woman with downcast eyes and a white flower in her hair.
“I like the picture. She looks like you,” Evan said, glancing up at her.
“That’s sort of offensive, Evan,” she replied, scowling. “That girl’s from the South Pacific. I’m from southern Mexico.”
“Didn’t mean to offend, Miss García,” Evan replied, throwing his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.
“‘Coming of Age in Samoa,’” he read from the cover. “So Samoa is in the South Pacific?”
“Yeah.”
“And why, exactly, are you reading about Samoa?”
“One of my teachers from North Atlanta High let me borrow it,” she said. “It’s written by a famous anthropologist.”
“A famous what?” Evan asked.
Since he was grinning in a way that made butterflies rush through her gut, Alma wasn’t so focused on his intelligence at this particular moment. Trying to hold herself together, she took the book and opened it to a dog-eared page.
“Read this part,” she commanded.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, really. I mean, unless you want to stay ignorant.”
“Ouch,” he replied.
He grabbed the book and leaned against the door of the truck. He read slowly, “‘In our own civilization the individual is beset with difficulties which we are likely to ascribe to fundamental human traits. When we speak about the difficulties of childhood and adolescence, we are thinking of them as unavoidable periods of adjustment through which everyone has to pass.’”
Thankfully, Alma had read the lines several times before, since she was completely distracted by the way his hands grasped the book. She imagined touching the thick veins that ran along his forearm.
He looked up at her, squinting.
“OK, so why are you reading this?” he asked.
It was a legitimate question. The book wasn’t exactly Gossip Girl.
“It’s interesting,” Alma replied, shrugging. “Just keep reading.”
“‘We feel, therefore, grateful to Miss Mead’ … blah, blah, blah.” His finger skimmed along the page and then he picked up reading again. “‘The results of her painstaking investigation confirm that much of what we ascribe to human nature is no more than a reaction to the restraints put upon us by our civilization. Franz Boas, 1928.’”
He looked up from the book.
“That’s anthropology,” Alma said, “studying different cultures to see how they vary. Margaret Mead thought learning about other cultures helps us better understand our own.”
“Just to be clear, Alma,” he said, grinning a perfect grin, “is this book saying there’s no such thing as adolescence?” He ran his hand slowly through his hair and stepped toward her. “That would have been great to know three years ago, when I had pimples and all the girls were a foot taller than me.”
Alma felt herself blushing as he came closer. She didn’t believe Evan’s skin had ever been pimply.
“No,” replied Alma, stepping back to lean against the truck. “It exists, but it changes in different times and places.” Evan moved toward her again, which made her heart start thumping fast.
“I mean, look at us,” she said, hoping that her voice wasn’t shaking. “We’re standing here talking without a chaperone, which wouldn’t have happened a couple of generations ago.”
They both looked at her dad, who was now crouched in front of the sprinkler but watching them like a hawk about to swoop in for the kill.
“Well, in my case, not exactly,” Alma said, shrugging. “But I’m sure you can hang out with girls without a chaperone.”
She felt a heaviness in her gut as she saw her dad stand up from the sprinkler. “Ahorita vámonos, hija,” he called out, heading through a gate and toward the back of the house.
“Dad fixed the sprinkler. We’ve gotta go.”
Her chest pulled tight.
“Alma,” he said, looking directly into her eyes.
She had to look away.
“I’m having a ski party tomorrow. Or I guess I should say my mom is having a party for me. But she won’t be hanging around. She just likes planning parties for other people. Can you come?”
She knew what she had to say, but her mouth would not form the words.
Evan filled the awkward silence. “I can pick you up.”
“I have to work,” she said.
“It’s the last weekend of summer, Alma. Can’t you get an afternoon off?”
“Not really,” she replied, shrugging. “I need the money.”
“So, come after work,” he said.
Alma had to find a way to explain.
“The truth is, Evan, there’s no way my dad will give me permission to come to a party at your house. Ever.”
“Seriously?” he asked.
Alma nodded once.
“Could I maybe call you,” he said, grinning, “or is that not allowed either?”
Alma’s eyes darted toward the backyard. No sign of her dad yet.
“Do you have your phone?” she asked.
Evan shrugged, stretched out his arms, and looked down at his still damp body.
Alma didn’t dare follow his gaze. She already felt her cheeks turning red.
“Dumb question,” she said, turning to rummage in the truck’s glove compartment. She found a pencil and an old Walmart receipt. She looked once more toward the backyard and then scribbled her number on the back.
“Text before you call.”
Evan looked down at the phone number written neatly on the paper.
“You have a cell phone?” he asked.
“Of course, idiot. Everyone has a cell phone.”
Evan shrugged and bit his lip.
“But unlike you,” she said, “I have to pay for mine.”
“How do you know I don’t pay for my phone?” he asked.
Alma shot him a withering look.
“Yeah, OK,” he said.
Alma stepped sideways, her back still against the truck. She was afraid of the way her body might react if she let him any closer.
“Do me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?” He leaned in toward her and rested his hand against the truck. His nearness produced another strange sinking sensation in her gut. She sucked in a deep breath, grabbed the wheel hub, and replied.
“You can text me whenever you want to, but don’t butcher the English language by doing annoying things like using the number two for ‘to,’ got it?”
Evan chuckled. “Right. Complete sentences, I promise.”
Alma heard the back gate swing open.
“Put it somewhere, Evan.”
His eyebrows arched as he shot her a puzzled look.
“The phone number. Now.”
Evan nodded once and tucked the scrap of paper into his waistband.