The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  I shut my eyes again. Strand sings about things I wouldn’t expect from him. Love. Yearning. Awakening. Right when I think I can predict where the melody will go, it takes me by surprise by veering somewhere else, bending lazily to create a dreamy, sensual effect. With the music lingering in my ear, my other senses grow overwhelmed. I smell the vanilla on Strand, feel the heat radiating from his body. Even though I stay still, the energy coursing through me is wildly intense.

  Strand’s voice swims in and out of my ears. Usually when I listen to music, I do it to escape. To be transported to an alternate life, where I’m much cooler than I actually am and do exciting things. But now, lying next to Strand, listening to his voice, I am fully here. I don’t think about how I would perform this, or what a music video to the song should look like. I just listen.

  I’m vaguely aware that Strand’s hand has slid off his stomach and now lies next to mine. I don’t need to open my eyes to sense this. We’re still not touching, but it almost feels sinful, the way my body responds to what we’re not doing.

  I must miss Levi.

  Strand gets to the chorus, and I’m not prepared for the longing that rips through his voice . . . it’s so beautiful that a tear leaks from my eye, and if I weren’t so filled up with the music, I would have room for some embarrassment. The never-ending buildup was worth it, for this song.

  Before I know it, Strand’s hand is touching mine. I don’t remember moving mine closer to his, or him moving his closer to mine, but they’re touching, and the edge of my pinky where my skin meets his is on fire. We leave our hands there, resting against each other’s. I should move mine away, but I stay still. We’re not really doing anything wrong, I guess. It’s accidental hand grazing. Still, I feel as though something’s verging on inappropriate.

  I must really miss Levi.

  When his voice fades, it’s like waking up. None of that was real. The feelings I had—they were a product of the song.

  Strand’s eyes flutter open. The expression on his face is slightly dazed. He starts to speak, but then Mom calls for us.

  “Are you and Strand ready to go?” she yells from the kitchen.

  “Yes!” I reply quickly and loudly, too loudly. I jump out of the bed and smooth out my hair, keeping my eyes on anything but Strand. The air feels thick and heavy in here. I feel Strand watching me, even though I have my back to him. I’m suddenly too aware of what my hands are doing. I wring them together, then reach up to my hair again.

  “Did you like it?” he asks, finally. When I turn to look at him, he quickly clarifies. “The song?”

  I stare at him for a moment. Was Strand in the same strange state that I was in? For once, there’s no trace of a smile on his face. Or maybe I’m projecting my own weirdness onto him. He looks at me, his eyes silently pleading. I decide it’s my imagination working overtime again.

  “The song was . . . amazing, actually. You’re amazing.” I hate to say it, but I mean it. Strand is a natural-born songwriter.

  “Oh, really?” He folds his hands behind his head and stretches back against my pillows.

  Ugh. It was a mistake to compliment him. Now he has to get all annoying about it. He gives me his dimpled grin, the one Krina has termed “the panty-dropper.”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “I won’t.” The panty-dropper grin grows wider. He’s such a liar.

  Chapter Thirty

  “FROM EDEN”

  —HOZIER

  A small part of me is okay with not having Levi around, and I think that might make me a terrible girlfriend. It’s not that I don’t miss him. He’s my boyfriend. I have to miss him. It’s obligatory. The thing is, I don’t feel as incomplete as I thought I would with him gone. It’s a relief to stop dreading him leaving. I prepared myself for the worst, and what I got instead is okay.

  It’s nice not to have to worry about what we’ll do when we’re alone together. Wondering how far we’ll go or how to fill the pockets of silence in our conversations. No need to shave in case he touches my legs, or choose the clothes and makeup that I think will make me more attractive to him. I can wake up in the morning and stay in my pajamas all day. I can lip-synch to pop songs without judgment.

  I haven’t seen Strand since he sang to me. It’s not like anything happened. There’s nothing to feel awkward about, but the awkwardness is there anyway. My stomach is off, like I ate some of Shira’s veal before practice. It doesn’t help that I can’t get his song out of my head. I hear it while I’m lathering my hair up in the shower. I hear it while Dad lectures me on dairy during dinner. I hear it before I fall asleep at night.

  Sometimes I’ll try to sing it, but I don’t know all the words. I’ll lie on my bed and try to recreate the experience of hearing it. I can almost smell the vanilla. But it’s not the same.

  When Strand comes over for the next rehearsal, he looks like he always does—T-shirt, dimple, perpetual bed-head.

  “Hey, you,” he says, and my skin prickles at the sound of his voice.

  “Hi.” He’s early again.

  Today he asks to hear one of my playlists, and I pull one up called Sipping Hot Chocolate in Front of a Fire, since it’s twenty-seven degrees outside and drizzling cold, wet snow.

  “We should do it,” Strand says. “Do you have any chocolate syrup?”

  “I think so.” I duck out to check the kitchen and return to my room a couple minutes later with two steaming microwaved mugs.

  “It’s soy milk,” I warn him as I hand him the personalized VICTORIA mug my parents got me at the Jersey shore. “My dad’s lactose intolerant.”

  “That’ll do,” he says.

  My apartment lacks a fireplace, so we sit in front of my chipped, rusty radiator. I keep a safe distance from him. There’s no touching when we listen this time. I make sure to keep my eyes wide open.

  My belly is still warm when Mom drops us off at Jessica’s house. It’s not just because of the hot chocolate. I would never admit this to my parents, but I find myself looking forward to quince rehearsals. I can be the girl in the rock band, swishing her hair around onstage, but then this—happy, hip swaying, salsa Victoria—is another part of me too. It’s a part of me I neglect, so much so that I forget it exists sometimes. Levi has never even seen this Victoria.

  Today, Eduardo arranges all the partners in a circle. We’re rotating partners in this dance, launching into our basic salsa steps with each new pairing.

  “¡Vuelta!”

  At Eduardo’s command, the girls are spun, like tops, into the arms of the next waiting guy in the circle. When Strand lets go of me, I’m caught by a boy named Chris. He has sprinkles of acne across his forehead and is well-meaning but stiff, and he apologizes profusely every time his knobby knees bash into mine.

  “It’s okay,” I assure him for the fifteenth time.

  “I still can’t get the steps . . .”

  It doesn’t matter, because twenty seconds later, “¡Vuelta!”

  And I’m spun into the next boy. So it goes, again and again. Gangly boys, short boys, boys with clammy hands, boys with rhythm, boys who can’t count in time with the music.

  Fourteen turns and I’m back to Strand. His hands, rough and calloused from playing guitar, clasp mine firmly. Strand moves forward as I step back. We’re not exactly great performers. I stare down at my feet to make sure I don’t step on him, and he swings his hips in a wildly exaggerated fashion to make me laugh.

  “You’re so frowny,” he comments. “I can practically hear you counting in your head.”

  “I’m not,” I say, even though I’m doing exactly that. “You’re too loose.”

  “Um, I am not loose.”

  “Your steps are gigantic.”

  “I have long legs.”

  “Excuses, excuses.”

  Strand’s eyes glint with mischief and he asks me, “Want to do a trick?”

  My eyes dart over to Eduardo, who is running his fingers across his pa
shmina and staring the group of us down.

  “He’s watching,” I warn.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I was confusing you for someone else. I know this badass who got detention for talking back to a teacher.”

  “Fine,” I relent, allowing Strand to pull me into the center of the circle. It’s only a rehearsal, after all. The other couples slow down their salsa dancing to watch us. No one is supposed to escape the circle.

  Strand loosens his wrist, then spins me around, over and over again, around ten times. Jessica’s living room whirls by until I lose my spotting and collapse into him.

  “Sorry,” he says, steadying me by the waist. “Too much?”

  “A little ambitious,” I say breathlessly.

  I wish he would stop staring at me with those stupid blue eyes, and I wish I would stop having these ridiculous thoughts about how their hue perfectly matches the sky today.

  The couples around us break into loud applause.

  Eduardo lowers the music and bellows at us in Spanish to stick to the choreography.

  Strand asks me how to say sorry in Spanish, and when I tell him he calls back to Eduardo, “¡Lo siento, lo siento!”

  Eduardo glares back at him. I think he’s the only person I’ve come across who is immune to Strand’s charms, and it makes me like him more.

  After the song ends, I sweep my hair off my neck and fan myself. It’s ridiculous. Former cross-country runner loses breath after three minutes of salsa dancing. There’s no reason for me to be this winded.

  Jessica rushes over to us, her eyes shining. “You guys looked great! Tyler and I are going to have to step our game up.”

  Tyler, her freckled white boyfriend, looks less than thrilled at the prospect. He stares down at his sneakers.

  “Victoria . . . are you okay?” Jessica asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I reply, melting onto the couch pushed against the wall. “I didn’t have breakfast today, so I’m a little lightheaded.”

  “Do you want me to get you something?” Strand offers.

  “No, no. It’s really all right.”

  The reason I feel sick is not because I skipped breakfast today. The reality sets in. An epiphany of sorts.

  Ever since Strand’s song, I’ve been a little queasy. I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened with us, lying together on my bed. Did Strand feel something too? If I gave into what I was feeling, how would he have responded? Would he have kissed me? The thought of his lips on mine sends my stomach into my throat.

  Finding Strand attractive physically sickens me.

  I’m stronger than this. Yes, Strand has charisma. And confidence. And lots and lots of sex appeal. So what? He could never meet my emotional needs. I’m not an idiot. I know Strand has a cornucopia of available women at his disposal, and I would never choose to be one of them. He would never choose me to be one of them. Besides, I’m lucky to have Levi. My responsible, patient boyfriend. And Strand’s best friend.

  “You’re looking a little pale,” Jessica says. “We have Fig Newtons in the kitchen if you want . . .”

  “Relax, guys.” I force myself up and almost jump when Strand reaches out to help me. “Let’s go dance.”

  It’s only when the music starts that my brain shuts up.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “A MULHER DO FIM DO MUNDO”

  —ELZA SOARES

  My parents have used this time off to plan an excursion to the exotic land of Cambridge, Massachusetts. They’re bouncing-off-the-walls excited to finally see Harvard in person. This is their big plan to get me back on track. If I see Harvard, I’ll remember that this is the reason for all of our hard work. The late nights spent studying, the tears over ten-page essays, all of the bullshit will disappear because . . . HARVARD. I looked into their big smiley faces when they announced the trip—it was the happiest I’d ever seen them—and I realized that saying no was not an option. I’m not sure it ever will be. Getting out of NYC might be good, though. It’ll give me some much-needed distance from Strand.

  So, four Cubans pack themselves into a car, and Mom and Dad argue about directions during the entirety of the three-and-a-half-hour drive.

  “I have the map on my phone,” I try to shout over them. They don’t care, because for some ridiculous reason they don’t trust technology. Mom got written directions from her friend Jeannie, whose son went to Harvard. Apparently, Jeannie is way more reliable than Google.

  “You have to take Putnam Avenue!” Mom shrieks.

  “There is no Putnam Avenue!” Dad hollers back.

  Matty and I roll our eyes at each other.

  “Stay on River Street,” I say, zooming in on the phone map.

  Mom shakes her head and peers at her pencil scrawls. “Jeannie didn’t say anything about River Street.”

  “Can I have my 3DS?” Matty asks.

  “No!” Dad replies. “No phones, no 3DS. We are going to talk like a goddamn family, coño!”

  And so it goes. We finally make it to Cambridge, twenty minutes later than we would have if we’d followed Google’s directions, and I jump out of the car as soon as Dad parks.

  I bend over to stretch my hamstrings while Matty tries to grab his 3DS from Dad’s pocket. Dad smacks his hand away.

  “So,” I ask. “What specifically are we going to do? Wander around?”

  “What do you mean?” Mom asks. She squeezes my shoulders and plants a giant kiss on my cheek. “We’re going to see everything!”

  “Yeah, but like . . . for how long?”

  “All day, baby,” Dad says. “We’re doing this all day.”

  Matty rests his head against the car, closing his eyes. He suddenly looks ten times his age.

  * * *

  They decide we should explore Cambridge first. The town of Cambridge is utopia to the Cruz family. We walk through narrow streets of bookstores and restaurants (all things we have in New York, but you wouldn’t think so, listening to my parents).

  Everything is charming, or, as it sounds in my parents’ heavy Cuban accents, “sharmeen.” The trees are sharmeen, the drugstore is sharmeen, the garbage cans are sharmeen. They have morphed into living heart-eyed emojis.

  “¡Mira, Ria!” Dad says, stopping abruptly in front of Algiers Coffee House. “Look at this! Look how—”

  “Charming?” I cut in. He skips over my sarcasm.

  “Coño,” he breathes, scanning the menu posted on the window. “They have soy milk lattes.”

  “So does Starbucks,” I say dully.

  “Look at all the Harvard kids in there! Want to go get coffee and check it out?”

  “I don’t like coffee.”

  “You’ll like it when you’re in college. You’ll be in there, drinking coffee and reading a book for class. Right, Glo?”

  And Mom does the same thing. “Look, Ria, they have all these vegetarian options! You and your Harvard friends could come here for lunch!”

  They drag Matty and me inside. The shop is nice, I hate to admit. It’s two stories, decorated in a Middle Eastern style, and has a terrace overlooking the sharmeen Brattle Street. My parents order soy lattes for themselves and mint hot chocolates for me and Matty.

  Mom and Dad sit on one side of the table, sipping their lattes and poring over Jeannie’s recommendations. According to Jeannie, we have to rub a statue’s foot, visit the art collection at Sackler Museum, and walk along the Charles River. They’re so loud about everything that people in the café start to stare at us over their laptops.

  “Can you guys lower your voices?” I whisper. “You don’t need to tell the entire café our plans.”

  “We’re not being loud,” Dad says in his booming voice, and it practically thunders through the floorboards. I sink down in my seat. This is what sucks. Some days I’m the lead singer of a rock band, and some days I’m a little girl embarrassed by her excessively loud family. Cuban volume is roughly the same decibel level as a jet engine.

  “Nobody cares what we’re talking a
bout, Victoria,” Mom adds. “They have important Harvard things to worry about.”

  “How’s your hot chocolate, Matty?” Dad asks.

  Matty gives a giant grin. “This is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”

  Matty has become one of them. I feel betrayed.

  We set off for Harvard at the slowest pace imaginable. I grumble about why we couldn’t do this in the summer when it’s warmer out, and Mom and Dad ignore me. I hate everything about this. I hate that Cambridge is, in fact, a cute town. It would be much easier if it were ugly. Even the winter weather isn’t as awful as I’m making it seem. The sun is peeking out from behind fluffy white clouds, like it’s determined to make me look petty.

  We stop when we get to a pair of respectable brick pillars at an entrance to Harvard Yard. My parents ooh and aah, but it’s underwhelming to me. It looks like a bigger, more intense version of Evanston. All I think can think is, I might be walking between these pillars every day for four years.

  “Let’s get a picture of you, Victoria!” Mom says. “Give Dad your phone.”

  “Do we have to?”

  She practically shoves me into the pillars and I stand there, smiling stiffly while Dad jabs at my phone, muttering to himself.

  “Just press the camera icon,” I say through my teeth.

  “¿Donde?”

  “On the home screen.”

  “I think I did something wrong.”

  My smile falters. “Give the phone to Matty.”

  Matty takes the phone and Mom reminds him to get the pillars in the picture, and throughout the process I feel my life slowly winding to its end.

  Mom makes Matty take pictures of everything. Statues and crimson flags and the Harvard seal. Dad stands in front of the seal, giving the camera a dorky thumbs-up. He puts his arm around me and gazes around the campus wistfully.