by Earl Sewell
To Lewis and Nate and Abby—thank you for being proud of me and being my life and making all of this worth it. I love you.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
prologue
December
I hated begging. On the list of Top Ten Things Claudia Hates To Do, it probably hovered somewhere between numbers four and seven. And yet, what was I doing?
Begging.
“C’mon, Eddie, please? You have to.”
Whining was pretty high up there on the hate list, as well.
“According to your father, Claudia, the only things I have to do in this life are pay taxes and drop dead.”
“Seriously? All of a sudden he’s like your Cuban Yoda or something? Pay taxes, drop dead, I must, m’ijo?”
Eddie’s sigh was so long, it practically stretched allll the way from Miami to the gently rolling hills of Massachusetts, where I currently sat.
Begging. Groveling, but mere moments away.
“Girl, I hate to break it to you, but you are a massive geek.”
“Age of the geek, baby.”
A totally borrowed television quote, but Eddie would never get it, considering he only watched TV for the Dolphins, the Canes, the Heat and the Marlins. Oh, and the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Good thing he had other positive attributes. Such as being the least annoying boy cousin I possessed and the one on whom I could generally rely to save my ass in such situations.
Call it a date, securing an escort, lining up a buddy—personally, I referred to it as procuring a necessary partner in crime in order to survive massive family trauma.
AKA—New Year’s Eve.
“If it’s the age of the geek, then why can’t you figure out how to score your own date?”
Positive attributes, I reminded myself. He really, truly, honestly had them.
“D’uh, maybe because I’m up here in Massachusetts instead of Miami, where I haven’t lived for more than two years?”
Ever since I’d left the comfort of the family bosom in favor of a transfer to Warrington—a college prep academy with a focus on high-level math and science—just prior to my sophomore year of high school, a move that had engendered massive disbelief and ire. Even now, midway through my senior year, the majority of the extended family still acted like I’d deserted the ranks or something.
I’d only just recovered from last week’s Thanksgiving ordeal. Now the much larger scale of our extended family’s annual New Year’s party loomed on the horizon. An enormous event that put the spotlight squarely on the younger generation and the intelligent—or not—usually not, if our elders were to be believed—choices we were making with our lives.
In other words, a Cuban family’s idea of nirvana. Music, food, booze, dancing and gossip. Lots and lots of gossip.
“So what? I’m the only guy you know down here now?”
“You’re the only guy I know right now who fits the acceptable parameters as established by la familia and who’ll actually go with me.”
“There are plenty of guys you know who fit those acceptable parameters—you are just chicken.”
“Okay, first off, so not a chicken—simply well aware of my inability to snap my fingers and have a guy come running.”
He huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t get it. You can call up the chemical composition of almost any mineral from the gray matter, but you can’t figure out how to ask a guy out on a date.”
“Look, I’ve tried. Last year, I tried asking Javy Martínez and very nearly got the EMTs called on me for having a seizure.” Even though he couldn’t see, I shook my head decisively. “Never again.”
“Okay, then, since you pride yourself on being the family rebel, why don’t you just skip the whole date thing and do something radical like, oh, I don’t know, go by yourself?”
“Right. Because that would work so well.” I shuddered, imagining the horror, starting with the critical stares and progressing to every boy from age twelve to twenty being pushed to ask me to dance by their older female relatives, thus guaranteeing they’d never want to ask me out, ever—not that I’d agree to a date with a twelve-year-old, because, you know, ew.
This time, his sigh had the unmistakable tenor of commiseration. “Okay, yeah, I’ll give you that.”
“So will you?” Even though he couldn’t see me, I put on my best cajoling smile—the one that had worked since we were little kids when I used to badger him to give me some of his merenguitos after I’d scarfed down my share of the cookies we were given as after-school treats.
“Pretty please?”
I could practically feel him hovering on the edge of capitulation, but if I knew him, he wasn’t going down without a fight.
Five...four...three...
“And what makes you think I don’t want to take a date—a real one—of my own?”
My snort caught me midsip, giving me a Diet Coke sinus cleanse. My roommate, Peyton, glanced up from her laptop as I spluttered and tried to catch my breath.
Eddie sighed again. “Nice, Claudia.”
“You should know better.”
“Is it so inconceivable I might have a date?”
“No.” I reached out and pulled a couple of tissues from the box Peyton wordlessly held out. After I blew my nose I added, “It’s not inconceivable you might have a date. It’s inconceivable you’d willingly take a date to the Abreu Family New Year’s Shindig slash Potential-Breeder Inspection.”
Now Peyton choked on her Diet Coke.
“Jesus, Claudia!”
“Oh, please, m’ijo—you know it’s true.”
“Well...okay, yeah.”
“So you’re free, then.” Once more I changed tack. “Come on, Eddie—you know we won’t be able to pull this off for too much longer before they start expecting us—translation, badgering incessantly—to bring dates who aren’t blood relations. Or worse still, set us up with eligible and appropriate young men and ladies who would be a credit to the Abreu family name.”
I intoned the last in a lilting Spanish-accented voice that had Eddie hissing, “Dude, don’t do that. You know Abuelita has ears like a bat.”
“I’m fifteen hundred miles and, like—” I did a quick mental count “—ten states away. Eleven if you count Rhode Island.”
“No one counts Rhode Island,” Peyton interjected in her elegant Boston accent while Eddie groaned.
“Yeah, but she’s just a few blocks away from me. That echolocation shit works.”
“Paid attention in AP Bio,” I teased. “I’m proud of you.”
“You’re not the only brainiac in the family, girl. Just not all of us felt the need to take off for the frozen tundra in order to hit the books.”
“Don’t you start with me.”
“Nah, I get it.” After a pause, he added, “I get all of it.”
Ah...there it was. Acceptance. Grudging, maybe, but I’d take anything I could get at this point. “So you’ll do it?”
“Yeah. A last hurrah, because I swear, inspection fears aside, next year, I’m bringing an honest-to-God date. It’ll be lame being a college freshman and spending another New Year’s as my baby cousin’s date.”
“Baby?” I spluttered. “You’re exactly two months older.”
“Which makes me your elder.”
“Yeah, whatever, Grandpa. You can match your cummerbund and bow tie to your cane.”
“Ah, ah, ah...remember who’s doing you a favor here.”
“Pendejo.”
“Yeah and—?” he prompted, making me feel the merest pang of guilt as I envisioned all the future New Year’s parties to come and what a horror show they were likely to be without Eddie to run interference. But he was right. We both had to grow up. Mostly him, but still—
“And...thanks.”
“You’re welcome. But don’t go thinking you don’t owe me and do not think I won’t collect.”
And with his utter inability to ever say goodbye, he was gone. I glared at the phone and suppressed the urge to call him names that were a whole lot worse than pendejo. Much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I owed him. Big. Making it almost terrifying to imagine what he might come up with as suitable compensation. Hopefully, something that could be paid off in installments.
It was entirely possible, though, that all of this was for moot, given I had to survive a slew of painful exams before we were sprung for the monthlong holiday break. I exchanged my phone for my iPad, prepared to dive back into the murky depths of AP Environmental Science.
Murky—environment—ha. Man, I had to be really tired if I was finding that amusing.
“Breeder Inspection?”
I glanced up from my tablet to find Peyton meditatively winding her long dark red hair into a messy bun and jabbing a pencil through it.
“Come again?”
“Abreu Family New Year’s Shindig slash Potential-Breeder Inspection,” she repeated with the exact precision that startled anyone who didn’t know about her perfect aural recall.
“You know—my family’s annual Cuban hoedown.”
She blinked, probably trying to process the combination of Cuban and hoedown. “Yeah, of course, but I’ve never heard you refer to it as the Potential-Breeder Inspection. What’s that all about?”
I shook my head. “Exactly what it sounds like and ridiculous as hell.”
She grinned. “And here I thought old-money New England families were the only ones still living in the Dark Ages of maintaining the sanctity of the family name.”
“Hardly.” Crumpling up my empty soda can, I tossed it into the recycling bin. Peyton’s can joined mine with a noisy clatter. Because at Warrington, not only were we technologically ahead of the curve with all our textbooks on tablets, we were also environmentally conscious. I unfolded myself enough from my bed to reach into our small fridge for yet another dose of caffeinated salvation, as well as one for Peyton.
“And I don’t know that it’s as much about the ‘sanctity’—” I air-quoted the word “—so much as they feel this inalienable right to be all up in your business and think you don’t have the sense God gave a goat to make the right decisions about your life.” I huffed out an impatient breath. “Or maybe that’s just me, since I’m the baby of the family and the only girl, and clearly, judging by the decisions I have been allowed to make—” my sweeping gesture encompassed not only our dorm room, but the whole of Warrington “—I’m more than a little crazy.”
As I ranted, Peyton’s brows rose higher and higher. While she knew exactly what had brought me to Warrington—my specific career goals and the fact that the school’s reputation was unmatched—we’d never really delved into the other reasons I’d fought so hard to leave Miami. When we first met as sophomores, it’d been easy to not go beyond the surface. She had that whole New England reserve thing going and wasn’t prone to oversharing, and despite my Cuban background—or maybe because of it—I possessed a fair amount of reserve myself.
But you know, if you couldn’t share with your roomie and best friend...
“It’d be different if I was a guy. They might not understand why I’d want to spread my wings, but my desire to forge my own path would at least be looked upon as something to be respected. As a woman, though—” I pressed my hand to my chest in mock drama. “Dios mío, I should be thrilled to have my life laid out for me.”
A stupid mind-set, stuck in social and cultural mores that most of the rest of the Western Hemisphere had long since moved past, but not us. Women could be smart, they could be educated, but at the end of the day were still expected to adhere to a certain model of what a “real woman” should be.
To which I had but two words: Bite. Me.
Peyton’s brows relaxed with her grin. “I’m guessing they’ve completely missed the irony that it was their jewelry business that sparked your interest in mineralogy?”
I snorted. “My dad and brothers totally missed it.” They knew, of course, that as a kid I’d been more fascinated by the loose stones than the finished pieces. But they’d assumed that it was just because they were shiny little baubles. Even when I began expressing interest in the uncut stones, asking our gemologists and cutters about the stones’ origins and makeup, they’d simply assumed it was because I wanted to educate myself in preparation for entering the business.
And yet...they’d been utterly mystified when I expressed my intent to go into the field of mineralogy as an academic.
“Thankfully, my mom and sister-in-law Amanda get it. Amanda, probably because she had to fight her share of battles on the way to becoming a lawyer, and Mami...” I paused, thinking about my mother—first-generation American, but raised with all the trappings of a traditional Cuban upbringing. I had assumed she’d be the first to tell me I was crazy. Turned out, I was wrong.
“I think maybe my mother wishes she’d had a similar opportunity—or at least the guts to create it.”
“So it was the women in your family who made your being here possible?”
“That’s what makes being in my family really fun. The men like to bluster and be loud and make their declarations while it’s the women who really run the show. Steel fists in velvet gloves, as my abuelita likes to say.”
“That’s so not you.”
“No kidding.” I huddled farther into my hoodie, shying away from the mere idea. “I hate game playing. My mother says I make life more difficult for myself—that I should learn how to manipulate things in my favor, but who has the time? Not to mention, the inherent dishonesty is crazymaking. But it’s such a pervasive mind-set. I had to get away before it sucked me under.”
“Huh.” She chewed her lip. “Sounds like big drama.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it was surprising they didn’t end up on the other side of the room. “You have no idea.”
“No, I really don’t.” Her long, aristocratic fingers toyed with the can’s tab before she finally popped it, releasing a sharp, carbonated hiss. “We’re much more low-key. For us, it’s all about the casual-that-really-isn’t. Same schools and same clubs and same events, and before you know it, you’re married to someone you’ve known practically since the cradle and repeating the cycle all over again.”
She wrinkled her nose, highlighting the few freckles that lingered, even in the dead of winter. “It’s all very civilized, homogeneous and boring as all shit. Which is probably why so many of them wind up visiting a certain doctor on Beacon Hill who prescribes whatever soothing remedy is currently en vogue.”
“Ha.” I sank back into my nest of pillows and propped my ankle on my opposite knee. “That’s the one thing I can say for how my family goes about it—it’s never boring. Loud, often embarrassing and even the stuff of bad daytime talk shows, but never boring.” I studied my distorted reflection in the soda can. “I wish I could enjoy the party for what it is rather than feel as if I’m being sized up for auction. And the older I get, the worse the feeling. I half expect them to check my teeth and general conformation at the door this year.”
“Annoying, true, but it’s got to beat rattling around the house, waiting to see if the parental units are going to make it back from Hong Kong in time for Christmas.”
Oh, I know I didn’t hear that right. “They’re in Hong Kong?”
She nodded, outwardly unperturbed. “Yes.”
&
nbsp; “I...” I shook my head, still trying to process what she’d just said. “Your parents are in Hong-freakin’-Kong? And they might not make it back? For Christmas?”
As annoying as my family was, the thought of not being with them for the holidays? Even with all the crazymaking? Completely unthinkable. I couldn’t even begin to fathom what Peyton had so casually tossed out.
She lifted a shoulder, the motion elegant even under her ratty Warrington sweatshirt. “Daddy’s in the midst of some merger—maybe more than one, for all I know. Mom loves Asia, so she tagged along—she’s hit Tokyo and Bali, buying furnishings for the Bermuda house since she’s thinking of taking it neo-Javanese or something. Things may or may not be wrapped up by Christmas—perhaps New Year’s. But the house will be decorated as usual—”
Her voice took on a cool, clipped cadence. “And of course, gifts will be waiting, darling, and we’ve arranged for a lovely little dinner for you. Should you wish for some company, however, Aunt Regina is more than happy to have you. If you go, make certain you bring an appropriate hostess gift. There’s a superb bottle of Château Cheval Blanc Bordeaux in the cellar—she’ll appreciate that.”
“Aunt...R-Regina...” I stuttered, still trying to process. Still failing.
“Not really an aunt. Distant cousin. I think. Smells like Ricola drops to cover up the French brandy that’s really her libation of choice.”
Okay, that I could process. Not the brandy—the distant-cousin-as-aunt bit. God knows, I had plenty of tías and tíos and primos whose family connection I was incredibly vague on—that is, if there even was a family connection. Most of whom would be at the New Year’s party, criticism at the ready.
The whole being-deserted-over-the-holidays, though? Still not processing. And it wasn’t gonna happen.
“Screw Aunt Regina and her fancy-ass brandy—you’re coming home with me.”
“Claudia, I didn’t mean—”
“Shut up.” I slammed my soda can on the large bedside table we shared. “I know you didn’t mean what you think I think you meant.” Sitting up straight, I crossed my arms. “But there is no way I am leaving you to Aunt Regina when you could be coming home with me and viewing firsthand the Abreu Family New Year’s Shindig slash Potential-Breeder Inspection.”