by Elise Bryant
That makes Rhys and Grayson laugh, which honestly, just kind of makes me mad . . . and embarrassed. What am I doing here with these people looking for this stupid and offensive legend?
I guess it’s not the big reaction that the man expected from his audience, because he looks irritated now too.
“Go see it for yourselves or not. I don’t care.” He rolls up his window then and peels off. One of the porch lights in the gated community next to us flicks on, and we all scurry over closer to the golf course and the darkness.
“That was awesome!” Rhys declares in a whisper-yell, and Nico high-fives him.
I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . he’s probably just a resident messing with us or something. That story sounded . . . far-fetched.”
“That guy doesn’t live here!” Grayson laughs.
“And why not?” I ask, my voice sharp.
He shrugs. “You can just tell.”
I know exactly what he’s getting at, and I’m ready to give him a lecture and call someone an asshole again. But I know that won’t go over well, yelling at Nico’s best friend. And it makes me feel sick, letting his ignorant comment slide, but I clench my fists and force myself to stay quiet again. I don’t like who I’m starting to be with this group, swallowing down his microagressions. And it’s made even worse by the fact that I’m standing here in Ravenclaw robes. They feel overwhelmingly itchy all of a sudden. I don’t want to think about what it means that I have to be a dialed-down version of myself around them.
We debate it a bit, but it’s clear that it’s four against one. And before I know it, we’re following the guy’s directions down the almost pitch-black road. We reach the turnoff he described in about ten minutes, and just like he said, there’s a second gate there, made of layered rocks.
“Who’s going to go first?” Grayson whispers as we creep around to the side that’s lined with tall oak trees. But Rhys is already scrambling up the wall, one arm dangerously outstretched with a phone, so he can get his footage.
“Well, okay then,” Grayson says, following after him.
This is one of those moments when I’m very much aware that I’m surrounded by white people. Like when we spend Thanksgiving with my mom’s family and there’s orange juice in the yams and crushed saltine crackers on top of the mac and cheese. Or anytime “Sweet Caroline” is played.
Because they all see absolutely nothing wrong with jumping over this fence in the middle of the night. They completely ignore the no trespassing and security system signs. They don’t worry about what could happen if we’re caught, if someone sees a figure and gets nervous in the dark, if that someone has a gun.
“You guys . . . I’m not sure—”
“Let me guess: you think we should all go home and sit in a circle and talk about some social justice warrior shit.” Poppy cuts me off, scowling. “Well, go ahead. No one’s begging you to stay, Miss Goody Two-shoes.”
“Hey, Poppy . . . ,” Nico says with his hand up.
“Hey nothing,” she snaps back at him. “You better wake up, Nico, and remember who the fuck you’re really with.”
My mouth falls open as those words hit me in the gut, and that makes Poppy’s face twist into a grin, satisfied. With that, she starts climbing up the rocks after the other two with surprising speed.
Nico turns to me, eyes wide and mouth twitching like he’s about to say something, but then he just looks at the ground and shakes his head.
“I think I’m just gonna go home.”
His head pops up. “No. Please don’t do that,” he says, taking a step toward me. “I want you to—”
I don’t get to hear the end of that beautiful sentence, because it’s interrupted by a blaring alarm that pierces through the quiet night.
“Fuck!” Nico shouts, and I can hear the sound of leaves rustling as he sprints away, but my legs are cemented to the ground. I can’t run. I can’t do anything. Because this is exactly what I was worried about, and my heart is making my whole body shake as I race through the possibilities of what could happen next.
“Tessa, over here,” Nico whispers, making me jump. He pulls me by the waist back behind a dark hedge, and I whip around fast, startled. And then we’re facing each other, so tight that our hipbones are pressed together. His are definitely bonier than mine, but I don’t even care—like, I forget to be embarrassed. Because I’m close enough to count every last one of his eyelashes and his arm is on mine and it’s sensory overload. My heart continues to pound in my chest, but it’s a different feeling now—no longer fear. I feel like fireworks are going off in my stomach and exploding all around my body. He’s looking right into my eyes and his lips pull into a small smile.
And then it starts raining. Seriously! Raining! For real water falling down from the sky, and this must be a miracle or something, because it never rains here. This is just for us. This is the universe reading my list and granting me a wish. Number six.
“Tessa . . . ,” he murmurs, filling the small space between us. I’ve never heard my name sound so perfect. I want to record it, so I can play it for others and say, “There, that is my name.” “Your hair . . . it looks like there’s, uh, diamonds in it. With the raindrops? It’s . . . you’re so beautiful.”
If there were fireworks before, there’s freaking space shuttles being launched now.
But I can’t help but ask. “What about Poppy?”
He shakes his head, keeping his dark brown eyes on mine. “Poppy and I . . . we haven’t been great lately. Like I said, we aren’t, um, exclusive . . . you know?”
What does that mean? my head screams. Because yeah—I’ve formulated this whole plan in disregard of Poppy. Girls like Poppy already have their own love stories. Is it really the end of the world if I get this, just this one time? I felt like it was okay. But . . . I don’t know. It was really a lot easier to rationalize this happening when it wasn’t actually happening.
And then his hand reaches up to my cheek and his head begins to lower down to mine. And all of those thoughts are gone, because now my head is full with shouts of It’s happening! It’s really happening!
Before our lips touch, though, bright red lights flash across our faces, followed by the whoop whoop of a siren. We both jump apart when a portly man in a white-and-black uniform appears next to the bushes.
“You two are gonna have to come with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was a security guard, not a cop. And the same company patrols Nico’s neighborhood too, so his dad is able to make a quick phone call, and all of a sudden their stern talks with references to laws broken turn into a kids will be kids, just don’t do it again warning.
No arrests, no permanent records, no real consequences even. Just a silly youthful indiscretion. The kind rich white kids get to have.
But I can tell when I see my parents’ faces at the door that they don’t see it that way.
All the lamps in the house are on, but Dad’s steely gaze sucks all the light out of the kitchen, where we go to talk. Mom is already pacing.
“Listen, I didn’t actually jump the fence,” I say, trying to get ahead of the conversation. But when Dad’s face hardens even more, I can see it’s the wrong choice.
“Can you imagine what that was like for us, seeing a cop car drive up here? Can you imagine what was going through our heads?” His voice cracks on the last word, and it makes my stomach fall down to the ground. It makes me feel like the lowest of all people. I want to do anything, say anything, to make these feelings—his and mine—go away.
“They weren’t actually cops . . . ,” I start, but again I got it wrong, because now Dad is shaking his head and looking at me like he doesn’t even know who I am.
“I’m just so disappointed,” he says, his voice quiet but piercing, and I sink even lower.
“I don’t understand,” Mom takes over, ramping up. “Who are these people? Why were you with them?”
“They’re my friends from school. . . .”
�
�Friends from school?” She’s stopped pacing, and her face is red now, matching the nightgown she’s wearing. “As far as I know, your friends from school were having a nice wholesome night across the street, which they were kind enough to invite your brother to. Seems to me like those are the friends from school you should be hanging out with.”
I stare down at my ballet flats, muddy from the rain, because she’s right and I don’t know what to say to that. How can I explain that I did it for love—the possible romantic kind, but more importantly, the all-encompassing, life-affirming kind I have, had, for my writing. That I’m trying to get myself back by not acting like myself anymore.
I can’t say that, though, because it would make them even more worried.
“Are you acting out for attention?” Mom asks, her voice creeping up to a shrill volume. “I think we need to take you to see a therapist. You know we’ve talked about this before. . . .”
“No!” I shout, making her jump back, and one of Dad’s eyebrows goes down real low. All of a sudden my shame disappears and I’m mad, something bitter and hot bubbling up from my chest into my throat. Because of course she’s going to try and diagnose me and make this into something bigger than it needs to be. And I was feeling so good just an hour ago, things with Nico finally going the way they were supposed to. I just reached such a high after so many lows, and I want to enjoy it. I want to bask in it. But now the memories of tonight are all getting written over, tarnished.
Why do they have to take this away from me? Why can’t they understand that this night was everything I wanted?
“I’m just doing what normal teenagers do.” The words feel ugly coming out of my mouth, and I immediately regret them. I’m so glad Miles is asleep in his room and can’t hear what a shitty person his sister is.
I look at Mom’s cold face and Dad’s lowered head, and I know the damage is done.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“You’re grounded!” Mom yells, and it feels like the walls shake.
“Go to your room. I can’t even look at you,” Dad whispers, and somehow that shakes me even more.
I run down the hallway and quietly shut my door. I want to cry—I should cry—but nothing comes out. Instead, my throat burns and my chest feels hollow, like someone came and scraped it out with an ice cream scoop. I can hear the faint edges of their voices in the kitchen, as they continue to talk about me, how much I screwed up. I wish there was some way to rewind, to go back and do that conversation over and be honest with them instead of defensive and spiteful. Instead of lashing out and saying something terrible I didn’t mean, I could tell them how I’m not writing, and how it’s the scariest thing ever because it’s always been the hugest part of my identity and now what do I have? I could tell them how good it feels to have a boy who looks like he walked out of my stories pay attention to me this one time—to be of interest, to be wanted.
But somehow I know they wouldn’t understand.
My phone pings, cutting through my thoughts. That shows how inexperienced my parents are at grounding me—this isn’t a skill I’ve given them a chance to develop. They didn’t even take away my phone.
The text is from Sam.
Are you okay? I saw a police car outside??
It wasn’t a police car, I think, feeling irritated again. But it’s sweet of him to care. Everything Sam does is sweet . . . thoughtful. I have the strongest urge to call him right now and find out everything that happened tonight with Miles. I’m sure Miles will be talking about it all morning and for the foreseeable future.
Before I can even respond, though, another text comes in. A picture. From Nico.
I click on it quickly, and his face fills my screen. He’s lying on his bed, his hair still damp and tousled from the rain, making a frowny face and holding a finger up to his eye to mimic a tear drop.
Sorry for that fail of a night!
Normally I would agonize over what to respond, rallying input from Caroline on multiple drafts. But I can still feel his hips pressed against mine, and the warmth of his pinkie finger brushing against my own in the back seat of the security guard’s car. It makes me bold.
It’s okay, I type out quickly. It wasn’t all bad
Can you hang out tomorrow? So we can talk about . . . everything. In person.
God, I want nothing more, but . . .
I can’t. Grounded.
He sends
Can we talk at school on Monday? I send.
The three dots appear, showing me he’s typing a response, but then they’re gone. I wait five minutes, twenty, an hour . . . and nothing. I finally drift off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Tess!” Caroline yells, running through the gates of the tiny Long Beach airport.
I was worried we were going to have to cancel the reunion we planned for the long weekend in November, but I get time off for good behavior: coming straight home after school, helping with Miles, sitting quietly in my room. Which, you know, is what I do anyway. But whatever.
My parents and I talked about everything that happened . . . well, kinda. As much as we usually do, skirting around any big issues. I apologized for what I said, and they both said they forgave me. But Mom and Dad still keep looking at me like I’m some troubled teen straight out of an episode of Dr. Phil. I hope that goes away soon.
“Come here, you perfect, gorgeous ray of sunshine!” She drops her bag and jumps on me, and we twirl around like a couple reuniting after a long war.
I half expected her to walk out with Brandon attached to her. Because, like, all the pictures I’ve seen of her lately have had him pressed against her, cheek to cheek, their smiles basically conjoined.
But it’s the same Caroline. My Caroline. With silky black hair that goes down past her armpits and always smells like coconut. Skinny wrists jingling with gold bracelets, including one she’s had since her baptism that has her full name inscribed on it—Caroline Frances Fermin Tibayan. And that half-moon scar on her knee from when she was chasing Jonathan Solomon after school in third grade and fell on the asphalt. I remember that Lola made us turon when we got home that day and let us watch her shows with her on TFC all afternoon.
“Your hair is so long!” she says, ruffling her hands through my curls. She’s the only person I’d let do that.
“Does it look okay like this?” I say, touching it self-consciously. I tried doing a twist-out again after watching a YouTube video last night.
“You look like freakin’ Yara Shahidi.”
I blush, because my hair looks good but not that good. “Okay now, let’s at least be realistic with the compliments.”
“I am, you crazy!” She squeezes me again. “I missed you so much. I didn’t realize how much until now.”
“Same.” And it’s true. We’ve talked on the phone constantly since I moved, but it doesn’t make up for this, being here in the same place at the same time. I feel like my shoulders fall down a little lower, like I’ve been unknowingly hunching them, tense, all this time. And now that we’re together I can finally relax.
We walk out to the curb, where Sam’s Honda Civic is idling. As soon as he sees us, he pops the trunk and jumps out of the car, grabbing Caroline’s suitcase.
“Hi, Caroline,” he says, sounding nervous. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sam! My man!” she says, clapping him on the back. “I feel like I know you already!”
“There are cheesecakes in the back seat for you. I made them this morning, so hopefully they’ve cooled enough by now.”
She looks at me like, Is this guy for real? And I laugh. “This is just what he does.”
“Well, thank you, Sam. For the cheesecakes and the ride,” she says, climbing into the car. “But maybe I should advise you to pump the brakes on being all nice and stuff, or Tessa is going to change her best friend allegiances. Not going to lie, I never baked her anything.”
“I’m pretty sure your spot is secure.”
I slide into the back
with Caroline, where she’s inspecting one of the tiny circular cheesecakes. They’re bright purple with a buttery crumble on the top, and their sweet smell fills the whole car.
“Are these what I think they are?” she asks.
“Ube cheesecakes,” Sam says, looking proud in the rearview mirror. “I was trying a new recipe. I hope they’re okay. Let me know if I got the texture right, because it’s kinda tricky.”
Caroline gets a mischievous look on her face, but her tone is all cool. “Oh, you made me these because I’m Filipina. Do you think all Filipinos like ube?”
“No . . . I . . . it’s just . . .” Sam rubs the side of his face, which is rapidly turning pink. “Tessa, uh—”
“Ha!” she says, waving him away. “Just playing. I was being a jerk. Ube is literally my favorite thing in the world.”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, recovering. “Tessa told me.”
“Girl, be nice,” I say, swatting her hand.
She shrugs me off, shoving almost an entire cheesecake into her mouth, and I can see the exact moment when the taste hits her tongue and then shoots a signal up to her brain. Pure bliss.
“Oh my god. OH MY GOD!” she says, falling back into her seat. “Sam, I can see why she likes you.”
“It’s not the only reason.” I smile at him, making eye contact in the mirror. “But it’s a pretty decent perk.”
We end up going to Sam’s house first, because I can see both my parents’ cars in the driveway. And although I know they’ll be excited to see Caroline too, I’m not quite ready to deal with them right now. I got my get-out-of-jail-free card, and I’m going to use it.
“Whoa, so you basically live on a TV set,” Caroline says as we walk into Sam’s huge and perfectly decorated kitchen. I’m worried he’s going to be bothered by that or something, but he just laughs.
“Actually, the set of Mom’s show is modeled after this kitchen. She insisted on it.”
Caroline looks impressed, and I can see her hands itching to whip out her phone and take a picture for IG. Thank god she doesn’t. Sam talks about his mom so . . . normally that I forget sometimes that there’s anything remarkable about her. Because he’s just Sam, and she’s just Sam’s mom.