by Jaime Reed
My chest felt full and empty at the same time. This had been a gift, not a transaction. But I was dealing with a shrewd businesswoman here, so I had to think on her level. Though the price might be too high for her, I gave her my fee anyway. “Start by being a good person. No rewards, no guilt trips, no trendsetting. Yes, it’s true that every good deed might have a motive; I guess just make sure that motive is a good one.”
“So I pass it on somehow, like a chain letter.” She nibbled her bottom lip and considered her payment plan. “Do I get to choose the theme?”
What was this? Prom? But I’d learned early in my relationship with Alyssa to pick my battles. She had the right to pick hers. Pop-Pop said that each fight was different for everyone. The thought wrapped me in a cozy warmth that had been missing for so long. “Just go with whatever heats your seat.”
When I returned to my room, I knew a non-staff person had been there. The air carried an oaky-sweet smell of sandalwood, and a brief message was written on a hospital notepad.
Sorry I missed you. I couldn’t stay long. M.
Oh crap! Mateo was here and I missed him! And I’d left my phone here in the room so he couldn’t call me. I wanted to cry and flood his inbox with texts or race him to his car. None of these were doable options with fresh stitches and a phone battery at 3 percent.
Then my eyes fell on the envelope propped on the meal tray. The color of the stationery gave me déjà vu and caused the hairs on my arms to stand straight. Purple-and-pink construction paper in the shape of a heart. Unease turned to curiosity when I unfolded the paper and found a handwritten letter boxed in with scratch-and-sniff stickers.
I read the letter over and over, trying to find hidden messages between the sentences, tiny scraps of information that could answer my questions. Why hadn’t Mateo come to look for me? He’d left a note, so did that mean he wasn’t coming back? And where was the rest of the candy?
A half-eaten pack of Starbursts hid behind the letter on the meal tray, the wrapper twisted closed at both ends. He must’ve bought it from the vending machine. I unraveled the foil and found four pieces and balled-up wrappers inside. All of the wrapped candy was red and all of the paper balls were yellow. The orange and pink Starbursts were still at large—their whereabouts remained unknown.
I got into bed and admired the smooth penmanship, elegant and unrushed, as if he’d planned the letter for weeks. For a guy, Mateo had nice handwriting, and it blew me away that he would use those skills for lil ol’ me.
Janelle,
This would be my fourth attempt to write this letter. Every time I try, I either lose my nerve or lose my voice. Words can’t express how proud I am of you, and your courage is a quality I admire beyond words. I wanted to thank you for sharing your home with me and my mother. You and your grandmother have expressed kindness that I’ve never experienced. You’ve given me hope and a new outlook on life. But that’s not the reason I’m writing this letter. I want to pose another question to you. If a simple love letter can stand strong against four years and a storm, what are the odds of the real thing?
I’ll expect an answer when I see you tomorrow. I cooked something special for you.
Siempre,
Mateo
I tucked the candy under my pillow and curled under the covers. My eyes grew heavy reading the note once more. I pondered the question he’d posed to me. There was no guarantee of anything, but the outcome looked good.
Rocking camo-print short-shorts, an army fatigue halter top, and a matching ball cap, Alyssa stood at attention and saluted the camera.
“Hey there, cadets! This is Alyssa of Active Beauty, reporting for civic duty. The daily forecast is balmy: tank top and sandal weather. So wear your sunscreen, guys. Anyway, I’m here with my very good friend …” She paused and nudged my elbow.
“What? Oh! We’re filming now?” The mic and camera in my face made me jump into action. With an awkward salute, I slapped on my biggest and most manic smile. “Okay—hi. Hello, internet. I’m Janelle Pruitt. Um, I’m a senior at—”
“Okay—stop. You’re giving us crazy eyes.” Alyssa took back the mic. “We’re here at the fabulous White Chapel High School to raise money and help loosen the stranglehold that threatens these hallowed halls. Thanks to that stupid hurricane, the city is low on funds, so they’re threatening to cut crucial programs next year. The arts and after-school activities are essential to academia. They allow the youth to explore their creativity and social interests. And as seniors, it is our duty, our civic duty, to ensure that these programs are available for future generations.” She paused for dramatic effect, tugging at the hearts of her viewers.
Balancing the camera on his shoulder, Joel Metcalf followed her toward the ballooned and bannered entrance of the student parking lot. I had to admit that his camera work was top-notch and his editing skills alone made Active Beauty stand out from other vlogs online. With half a million subscribers, he and the Borg could make this a full-time gig. Alyssa insisted that the ad cents go into the school’s funding. But not even their growing viewer count could bankroll our recent crusade. That’s where my fund-raising plan and the day’s festivities came into play.
I moved with Alyssa through the maze of yellow-and-white tents, concession stands, and inflatable attractions. Banners flapped in the warm breeze. Posters hung at every station:
SAVE THE ARTS!
WE NEED OUR SCHOOL PROGRAMS!
Beyond the lot, caution tape and sawhorses blocked vehicles from the rear of the school. The parking area in front had reached full capacity about an hour ago, so the police redirected traffic to the stadium parking lot across the street. The turnout was ridiculous and it all had to do with the bubbly ginger by my side. Joel moved in stride with her smooth gait until she stopped in front of an inflatable boxing ring.
“As you can see, we have a number of activities happening this weekend. There are games and raffle tickets and goodies galore! Over here, we have fake sumo wrestling, where you can vote on your favorite fighter. My money’s on Ryon Kimura. Those familiar with Active Beauty know him as ‘The Bae.’ ” Alyssa waved to the ring. “Get ’em, Ryon! You can do it! Woo-hoo!”
Stuffed inside a fat suit, Ryon hopped in circles around his similarly suited opponent. At the sound of his name, he turned to Alyssa and waved back. “Hey, babe!”
“You can do it, Sugar Booger! Love you!”
“Love you too—ahhh!” was all he got out once the other fighter rammed him to the air-padded floor.
The crowd surrounding the ring winced at the brutal takedown and erupted with a loud, “Oooh!”
Ryon rolled and teetered along the floor, then gained enough momentum to waddle to his feet. “I’m okay! I’m okay!”
At the same time, Tabatha Morehouse grabbed hold of Alyssa’s microphone. Sporting purple hair and a flower painted on her cheek, she ranted into the camera. “Not only is this racial appropriation, it’s also a barbaric form of fat-shaming. In this social climate, it is highly problematic—”
Alyssa nudged Tabatha out of the shot and kept going. “And over here, we have a gallery of student artwork for sale and a portrait stand run by our very own Mr. Russo. I took his art class freshman year, and he’s amazing …”
I watched, amused at Alyssa’s peppy hair-tossing on camera. She was doing the most with the bouncy cheerleader routine, and it was nice to see her in good spirits. Since all contact sports were permanently off the table, she had to get her cardio somehow.
She was now at 55 percent kidney function and no longer needed dialysis. She had to take medication every day to keep everything up and running, and to prevent her body from rejecting the new kidney. Aside from that, it would take an elephant tranquilizer to slow her down.
We wandered over to the concession area, where every baked good you could think of was on display. The air was warm and thick with the scent of buttered popcorn, homemade pies, and honey-roasted everything. My mouth watered for a sample, but I had to pace my
self. I hadn’t been put on a strict diet, but I also had to hold off on rigorous exercise for a while.
I’d been sluggish and sore for the first two months after the surgery, as was to be expected. Aside from monthly checkups and the ugly scars on my stomach and back, though, I felt normal. Alyssa and I had identical scars, but she was more inclined to show them off than I was.
That morning, Grandma Trina had caught me examining my incision marks in the bathroom mirror.
“Girl, put some shea butter and ointment on that and call it a day. You’ll be fine,” my grandma had told me as she’d walked past.
She’d been clocking me nonstop since I came home from the hospital, asking about my feelings and peeking inside my room at night. At first, I thought she was afraid I’d die in my sleep. Turned out she’d been advised by Dr. Brighton to watch for signs of depression. He’d warned us that that was a common side effect after donation, but all I felt was relief. Alyssa and I had survived the school year. That was a celebration in itself. To be honest, I was more depressed that Dr. Brighton wouldn’t share his hair regimen with me.
While Alyssa interviewed a stuffed animal vendor, I wandered over to the booth with the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Cookies, brownies, and tarts formed neat little pyramids inside glass cake stands. Mateo stood behind the counter, ringing up treats for customers.
After starring in a cooking segment on Active Beauty, word of Mateo’s culinary skills had gained traction. Now a line for his famous cinnamon cookies ran ten heads deep and wrapped around the tent.
I moved behind the counter. “Sold out yet?”
Mateo grinned at me. “Almost. Ran out of white caramel brownies an hour ago and I’m getting low on frozen cookie dough. They seem to be the big sellers.”
“I told you so. People are all about the cookie dough. There’s more in the back. I’ll get it.” I scooted farther into the tent to the freezer chest. As I attempted to lift the twenty-four-pack of bottled water sitting on top, I felt a tug on my arm. I looked up and found Mateo standing beside me, wearing a serious expression.
“Oh, no you don’t! No heavy lifting, remember? Doctor’s orders,” Mateo admonished.
“It was just for six weeks. It’s been six months. I’m good,” I told him for the hundredth time.
And for the hundredth time, he ignored me and took the burden from my hands. His warm fingers slipped over mine, slow and deliberate, as he hefted the case of water and placed it on the ground. He was kind of overdoing it with the kid gloves and we both knew it. That hadn’t stopped him from driving me to school and carrying my books everywhere. It was a complete role reversal to be catching rides from him, but it gave me the freedom to ogle him without fear of wrecking the car.
I bent over the opened freezer and pulled out four frozen pints of homemade cookie dough. “At some point, I’ll have to do things on my own. You baby me too much.”
I felt a pair of hands squeezing my hips, a solid chest pressing against my back, and warm breath tickling my neck as he said, “Maybe so, but isn’t it a term of endearment to call you ‘baby’?”
I considered it for a moment. All was good in my world, just as long as he didn’t call me Sugar Booger. That alone was grounds for divorce. “Meh. I like the other words you use.”
He eased me around, sandwiching me between him and the edge of the freezer. “Words like, say … querida?”
The sound gave me the tingles. I shimmied my shoulders. “Ooh. That’s a good one.”
His head dipped lower, then he whispered, “Bomboncita.”
My focus stayed on his advancing lips until I went cross-eyed and my lids grew heavy. Of all the tasty treats he allowed me to try, his lips were my favorite. “That one, too.”
Sharing a breath, his lips moved against my own. “Mi corazón—”
“Would you two hurry up? We ain’t got all day!” a customer griped.
We glanced up, startled by the sight of half a dozen people, including Alyssa and Joel, gawking at us at the counter. I buried my face into Mateo’s neck.
Chuckling, he pecked my forehead and whispered, “We better get back to work.”
A sudden commotion parted the crowd. Devon Shapiro approached the snack stand, looking sweaty and out of breath. “Janelle, come quick! You’ve gotta get your girl!”
I knew who he was referring to, and I smiled. “She’s your girl,” I told him.
“Yeah, but only you know how to handle her. She’s out of control, man. She’s eliminating contestants at random. They’re not getting a chance to finish the song.”
Alyssa rolled her eyes. “And people say I create drama.”
“Because you do.” I scooted out of the tent. Devon hurried alongside me to the center of the lot. We reached the messiest competition I’d ever seen. The sudden-death round at this morning’s pie-eating contest had nothing on this.
I glanced up at the makeshift stage set on a six-foot-tall platform. The trapdoor in the center of a stage reminded me of the gallows in old Western movies. There’d be no hanging here, and the only crime was bad vocals. The punished would fall through the trapdoor and tunnel through a series of tubes beneath the stage, similar to a water park ride. Then they’d shoot out to ground level onto a slip-and-slide tarp. It was like a talent show and a carnival water dunk tank had a baby.
To my absolute horror, Sera had been left in charge, with a microphone and an amp at her disposal. Thank God the sound equipment was waterproof.
“Do you think you’ve got the voice? You think you’ve got what it takes to be the next American pop sensation? Well, step on up and take a chance with the SUPER STAR SOAK karaoke challenge. The louder the applause, the longer you stay dry! The winner will win a prize of two hundred dollars!” Sera yelled into the microphone, effectively scaring the crowd. “We’re looking for the best of the best. You’ve got a voice of a dying cat? You can’t hit a high note on helium? Then stay right where you are.”
“Give me that.” I snatched the microphone from her. Its feedback shrilled in my ear. “You can’t insult people before they get onstage, Sera! Let the crowd decide.”
Hands on hips, she rounded on me to make her case. “Hey, this game is not for the faint of heart. They need to know that going in.”
I groaned. Now that Sera and I were back on good footing, our battle had returned to the usual issues of volume control and being extra. Despite it all, we still made a good team. My heart swelled at the thought of what we could accomplish by joining together for a common goal. No need for rivalry and pettiness; that vital organ could expand to accommodate everyone.
Scanning the crowd, I spotted Alyssa standing by the food tent. Knowing smiles passed between us. We hadn’t shared that look in ages.
I remembered how I’d told Sera that Alyssa and I were friends. But the truth was, we were more like sisters, bearing the same scars, both seen and unseen. It didn’t matter if we never spoke again after graduation or if we fought every time we did. Our bond would keep us in two places at once. That was the weird twinsie connection we shared, molded and tried by fire. The threat of losing that connection was hot enough to heat my seat and fight to keep what was left between us alive.
If that didn’t make for a good cause, I don’t know what did.
Don’t miss Jaime Reed’s heartwrenching novel Keep Me in Mind!
Turn the page for a sneak peek.
UNTITLED | Page …
At that hour, the beach was deserted save the fishermen manning their posts on each of the twin piers. The sun hid just behind the mountains in the east, and a purple sky hovered over the Spanish rooftops beyond the dunes. To the west lay darkness, rolling waves and a half moon, but no view could compare to the one jogging by my side. She was a living, breathing celestial event and the closest star I would ever reach.
The she in question was none other than the Ellia Renée Dawson, a girl so gorgeous, so gloriously epic that it bordered on the absurd. Some celebrities went by one name, like Oprah or
Madonna or Bono—they were just that iconic. But Ellia had achieved a level of awesome where she could be identified by a simple pronoun. To this day, legends of her reign echoed the halls of León High School and inspired a number of copycats, but Ellia was a force with no equal. One seriously had to wonder what she saw in a lanky bookworm like me.
That question had crossed my mind hundreds of times and it surfaced as I looked over my shoulder to see her struggling to keep up with me. Her rich brown skin shimmered with sweat and a thick puff of black curls bobbed at the top of her head. She wore running tights and a cut-off sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. The words I’M NOT LAZY, I’M A STAY-AT-HOME CHILD were printed across the front and summed up her workout ethic perfectly.
Though she exploited the many miracles of spandex, the poor girl couldn’t run to save her life. Horrible posture, flailing arms, and her refusal to control her breathing made our fitness routine a work of comedic genius. It also showed she wasn’t the flawless deity her reputation had led everyone to believe. At the end of the day, she was just a girl. My girl. And she loved me enough to sneak out of the house to keep me company.
Her participation dragged my regimen out an extra hour and did zilch to improve my sprint time for track season, but who cared? It was a small price to pay for a few more minutes alone with her before the sunrise forced us to part ways.
“I won’t make it! Go on, save yourself!” Ellia gasped and clutched her chest, then collapsed on the sand and pretended to be dying.
“I’m not leaving without you!” I called back in my best action-star voice. “We’re in this together!”
“Don’t be a hero, you fool! You’ve got too much to live for! It’s too late for me, but you still have a chance!” She fell back down and began twitching.
Laughing, I trotted to her side and towered over her sprawled form as she began to make snow angels in the sand. “Your acting skills are terrible, babe. Don’t quit your day job.”