Chapter 33
Two days, countless aspirin, four cold showers, a dozen iced milk compresses, a bottle of refrigerated aloe vera, a few ice packs and some vitamin E cream later, I was still red. But the swelling had at least gone down and I hadn’t developed blisters, which I saw as a major positive. Two summers ago, my shoulders bubbled like melted cheese after I spent twelve hours at an outdoor concert, running through a mist tent with nothing but a tank top and one application of SPF 8. It took almost a week for the pain and oozing to subside.You would think I had learned my lesson.
“I have honestly never seen anyone burnt so badly as you are right now,” Lilly commented as she stared at my ruby legs.
“Really? This isn’t that strange to me,” I noted, as I smoothed another cool layer of green gel on my skin. It was sticky, smelly and a pure slice of heaven.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not as bad. It should start peeling soon.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“No, it’s fun. I like to see how big of a piece I can rip in one single peel. And it makes this cool sound as it comes off, kinda like cellophane.” I smirked at her.
“You realize that’s your skin you’re talking about? Eck!” Lilly stuck out her tongue and squeezed her eyes.
“But Lilly, you’re pale.You have freckles. Don’t you burn?”
“I did when I was little. I went to the beach with my parents when I was, like, eight and totally fried. But that was the last bad burn I remember. I guess my skin just got used to it,” she explained as she opened the refrigerator. “Want some leftovers?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
Due to my debilitating burn, I got a reprieve from my hotel duties and Lilly was appointed as my personal babysitter-slash-entertainer. In the past two days we had dissected every minute of her show-stopping Quinceañera, opened all of her birthday presents (mostly cash and gold jewelry), and written nearly fifty thank-you notes (I addressed the envelopes). The house had virtually returned to normal. Her father Juan dismantled the tent, her mom Angelica scrubbed the house, and Uncle Miguel tossed the garbage. Aunt Carmen did nothing but rest; she’d earned it. But we still had a refrigerator full of scraps—everything from ham to rice to the infamous soup.
My brother, however, was stuck at work. Vince checked in guests, carried their bags and stripped the beds. I was so on his bad side at the moment, despite the fact that he still found time to hit the bars with Juan and Alonzo—who were dying to see my now infamous sunburn—every night. At this point, the only person who hadn’t expressed interest in my flaming skin was Alex. I was now convinced I had blown our “attraction” out of proportion. If he liked me, he would have called. That’s what guys do.
“Are you still thinking about Alex?” Lilly huffed as she plopped a sandwich in front of me.
Ham and cheese with mustard served on a paper towel. It was a staple in the Ruíz-Sanchez household, and yesterday I finally broke down and ate it. I also explored some other leftover options, like chick pea soup and yucca (which kind of tasted like potatoes, but not exactly).
“No. I mean, whatever. If I see him, I see him,” I said, staring at my sandwich.
“It’s not like you guys are boyfriend and girlfriend. He probably just feels weird calling you,” she said, as she chomped her food.
“You’re right. It’s no big deal. And I’ll see him again. He’s your friend.”
“Exactly. Plus, I know he’s a good guy. He’s not playing you.”
“I know. It’s just, I guess, I don’t know if he likes me,” I mumbled.
“Oh, well he hasn’t said anything to me. But I’m sure you guys will hook up.”
“Oh, so you think that’s what he wants? A hook-up?”
“Probably. Why, do you want something more? You’re only gonna be here for, like, another five weeks.” Lilly swallowed a bite of her sandwich.
I stared at my water. I had drunk more tap water in Puerto Rico than I had in my entire life in Spring Mills. My family always had bottled water or at least a filtered pitcher in the fridge. I had been taught that tap water was dirty and undrinkable, but here, it was the norm.
“I don’t want a ‘relationship,’ ” I said, wiggling my fingers like the word was taboo. “But I also don’t want to hook up and never see him again.”
Lilly nodded and continued to eat her lunch. I wanted her to open the vault and dish all the details she knew about Alex; that’s what Madison and Emily would have done. But Lilly wasn’t volunteering much.
“So the girls he’s hooked up with before, what were they like?” I asked, casually taking a bite of my sandwich, as if it weren’t a loaded question.
“Well, none of them were American, that’s for sure. We all pretty much date locals . . . or each other,” she explained, not looking me in the eye.
Then it struck me; it was so obvious. All of Lilly’s friends were guys. She had probably hooked up with half of them, if not all of them. She may have hooked up with Alex. I would never, ever, date someone Emily or Madison had dated first. That was just wrong. It went against the cardinal rule of Girl Code.
“Wait, um, have you and Alex . . .” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t actually have to say “made out,” or worse, “had sex.”
“No, no,” Lilly said with a deep, booming tone, shaking her head. “Never. We’ve know each other too long. He’s totally asexual to me.”
“Oh, good.” I sighed. “ ’Cause I would never—”
“No, I know. It’s cool.”
We ate the rest of our lunch in silence. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.