by Amber Hart
She’s probably right, but I have to try.
“I can’t break things off with him.”
“Who said anything about breaking things off?” Melissa asks, exasperated. “Like those are your only options? Meet in secret or break up? I have half a mind to call your dad myself and let it out.”
The look I give my best friend is scathing.
“Chill. You know I’d never do it.” She rolls her eyes. “But someone should.”
She’s daring me.
I can’t.
She finishes my toes. I walk like a duck, trying not to ruin them. We head outside. I stretch out in a lounge chair on her back porch. We’re both wearing bathing suits. Melissa’s is solid red. Mine is pink-and-silver polka dots. Melissa had the idea to sunbathe after school in hopes that I would catch a tan for my date with Diego tonight. The day is relentlessly hot. Within five minutes, I’ve perspired enough to fill an ocean.
Next to me, Melissa lights a cigarette. I have no idea how she can smoke when the air alone is hot enough to singe my lungs.
“Enjoy that,” I say, adjusting my shades. Even with glasses on, the sun is blinding. “ ’Cause as soon as I win Prediction, you’ll have to quit.”
Melissa laughs. “Not a chance.”
“I’m gonna win, Melissa.”
“Please. You and Jason are over. You’ve replaced him with a hot boy. Just as I predicted. And you bought new clothes. That’s two out of three,” she replies.
I swat the air with my hand, brushing her smoke away from my face.
“Well, you never did stop bugging me about Jason. Plus you have a C in senior calculus. So, ha.”
“Fine,” she says. “We’re tied. But I’ll win eventually.”
“We’ll see.”
An hour later, I say good-bye to Melissa and head home. A few days ago, I agreed to let Melissa take me to the mall for new clothes. She persuaded me to pick what I would wear if I could choose freely, like what I’d pick out if I were heading off to college tomorrow.
I take a quick shower. Throw on a new outfit. I don’t know what to expect from Dad when he sees my clothes.
I walk like the ground is covered in broken glass, each step careful, wary, scared that I might tumble into the wrath of Dad, cut up my insides worse than they already are. I hate lying to him, but I have to make something up about hanging out with Melissa tonight. No way he’ll let me out of the house if I admit my real plans. I almost choke on the bulk of the lie.
“I’m hanging out with friends,” I say. “I’ll be home by ten.”
His mouth doesn’t say anything, but his look does.
“Okay,” he says, eyeing my clothes.
“Thanks, Dad.” I kiss him on the cheek and head out the door.
Misleading him is easier than I thought. Experimenting with drugs made me a natural deceiver. It’s how I got away with lying before Melissa’s intervention. I’m not proud of it. But like everything else that’s too hard to chew, I swallow it whole.
Even outside Diego’s apartment, the aroma of food hangs in the air, savory and mouthwatering. I knock on the front door. Nothing. I try again. Nothing. I turn the knob. Diego and his father are already cooking. Paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware decorate the table. Music plays in the background.
Diego spots me immediately. He sets down a large mixing spoon and wraps his arms around my waist.
His dad smiles and waves. It feels strange to show affection in front of Mr. Alvarez, but Diego assures me that his father is happy for us.
Mr. Alvarez excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Diego and I take over the kitchen. I pick up tongs. Shuffle food around in a skillet.
“Mami, you look amazing,” Diego says.
His eyes rake my outfit: shorts and a black top held up by one shoulder strap, leaving the other shoulder bare.
I try not to blush and fail miserably.
“You, too,” I say.
Jeans and a button-down, checkered blue-and-black. I’ve never seen him wear anything but plain shirts.
Diego presses me up against the counter and tucks his hands in my back pockets. He kisses me softly, sweetly.
A buzzer goes off. Diego takes something out of the oven.
We cook, cramped all together, but it feels nice. Like I imagine home should feel. We fill the table with pollo asado en salsa (roasted chicken with sauce), frijoles y arroz (black beans and rice), and homemade tortillas.
When we dig in, Mr. Alvarez tells me about himself, pausing to ask questions about my life. He insists that I call him by his first name, Adolfo. His mannerisms, his features, are Diego twenty years from now.
As we talk, a warm feeling spreads through me, and it’s a lot like love. This little pocket of an apartment is rich because of the people in it. Somehow Diego’s place feels more like home than my own. I talk and smile and listen and eat and simply enjoy the little things. Diego makes me laugh harder than I have in a long time. Hard enough to decimate my problems like an F5 tornado. Nothing left.
Time to rebuild.
38
diego
When Faith says she’s going to the car for something, I don’t expect her to come back holding two giant beanbags.
“What are you doing?” I ask, amused.
“Getting our new chairs.” She smiles.
Yes, chairs are definitely good. Faith plus my bed equals trouble for me. Still, did she have to pick a purple one with pink flowers?
“You’re not bringin’ that into my room,” I say.
“Aw, come on. Yours is blue,” she says, trying to justify the flowery stuff.
“No way,” I say.
Truthfully, I’ll probably let her get away with it.
“What’s wrong with regular chairs?” I ask. We even bought a new one for Faith.
“These are more comfy since we’ll be watching a movie,” she explains.
“We will?” I don’t know how she expects that to happen with no television.
Faith pulls out a miniature DVD player.
“Want to?”
I can’t help thinking how different this is from my cartel days. It’s a good thought.
“Only you could get away with this,” I mumble.
She laughs at the look on my face. Throws her arms around me. “You know you love me.”
She meant it as a joke, but I tense anyway. All of my muscles violently collide with each other.
“Oh no. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like, um, just forget I said—” Faith breaks off nervously.
It is not that she said something wrong; it’s that she’s right. I’m falling for her. I don’t know what to do with that yet. It’s scary. Big. Enough to make me consider staying distant. Because if the cartel finds me alive, Faith will suffer.
I walk to my room. Pretend she never said anything. Faith starts the movie with shaky fingers. I should comfort her, but I focus on the film instead.
If I try hard enough, my past weakens to a dim pinpoint. Like a dying star in the vast universe of my mind. There, but fading.
I search the auditorium for Faith, replaying our movie night in my mind. Replaying the beach. All of it. Anything to picture her face. The book fair is in full swing. Everywhere I look, books, books, books. Some new. Some old. Some filled with messages from people long gone, who speak to us still. Letters on papers so powerful that those in the grave can rest, knowing their voices are forever heard.
The walls are covered in posters. This is our work, mine and Faith’s. We put this together.
I spot Lori and make my way toward her. “What’s up?”
“Hi, Diego. Everything looks great! Couldn’t have pulled this off without you. You worked so hard. Did I get a chance to thank you yet?” Lori talks fast, excited. It’s hard to keep up.
“I think you just did,” I reply.
She gives me a hug. “Anyhow, you’re the best. Got to run. Catch you later, okay?”
Lori is gone before she finishes the sentence. I never got to ask if she’s seen F
aith. I make my way through the crowd. My eyes snag on something. Jason in a corner, folded between two walls like the edge of a blanket. I catch a flash of the person in front of him.
No words. No words. No words.
I push my way through people to get to them. Apparently I push someone too hard because they shove me back and say something. I don’t hear them over the roar in my ears.
Jason’s hands are on Faith. One hand touches her arm. The other strokes her cheek.
Closer. Closer. Not close enough. Too many people.
“Can’t, Jason. I’m done,” Faith says.
I pause. Try to hold it together. Any second now she’ll walk away from him.
“But we had years together, Faith. I miss you. I love you,” Jason replies.
The last thing I need is a school suspension. The last thing I care about is repercussions.
“I know,” Faith says. “But I’m done. I can’t turn back.”
Faith doesn’t see me. I wish she would look my way. I remember our conversation: Faith warning me about the rumors, the gossip, about Jason wanting her back. I also remember her not defending me, her laughing as her fake girlfriends talked shit and called me names.
“Come on. Don’t throw this away. We’re good together.”
Faith doesn’t reply. But she doesn’t walk away, either.
“I waited a long time for you, Faith, while you were studying around the world.” A flash of pain cuts across Faith’s face like lightning in the black of night. She covers it up. “And then, I don’t know, I just lost it. I’m sorry.”
Faith tries unsuccessfully to wiggle away, to slip the knot of memories Jason is hanging her from.
“I forgive you,” she responds. “Can’t we just be friends?”
Friends? Why would she want to be friends with him?
Jason runs a hand through his hair, looking miserable. “I guess. I just, God, how are we supposed to do that? I want to kiss you all the time. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My fists ball.
“Don’t you miss me?” he asks.
Faith looks down. Her voice is soft. “Yes. Sometimes.”
Faith’s words are a sucker punch to my diaphragm.
“Is it Diego?” her ex asks.
Faith’s answer comes without hesitation. “No. Like I’d have anything to do with him.”
It shouldn’t bother me. But it does. I knew she’d deny it, but did she have to sound so repulsed?
A group of students walks in front of me. I lose sight of Faith. When they clear away, Jason is kissing her. She tries to push him away, but he has her backed against a wall.
My hands are on Jason’s shoulders, ripping him away like torn paper. Effortlessly.
“¿Qué crees que estás haciendo?”
“Back off, man,” Jason says.
He tries to shove me. I’m stronger. I slam him against a table. People stare.
Too many eyes.
“Don’t you ever touch her again,” I growl.
Faith wipes her lips and shakes her hand as though she can dislodge the kiss from her skin.
“Diego, stop,” she says.
A crowd has gathered, half-circled around us like a horseshoe.
“No means no, dickhead,” I continue. “If I ever see you anywhere near her—”
“I’m serious, Diego,” Faith says. “Stop. Now.”
I turn to the sound of her voice. Her eyes are volcanoes, ready to erupt.
“How could you let him—”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” Faith says, voice full of poison. “As you probably saw, I didn’t initiate anything. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“None of my business?” I hiss.
Secrecy isn’t working. If it’s not Jason, it’ll be another guy. They’ll step on each other to get to her now that she’s single.
“That’s right,” Faith says. “None of your business. And I’ve had enough of this, so if you’re done—” Her words linger. Their meaning is clear.
Faith dismisses me as though I’m not worth her time. My anger bubbles over. Burning everything. Everything. I release Jason.
She isn’t the only one who’s had enough.
39
faith
Night bleeds into day, and day into night, until neither is distinguishable. I’m a clot of deadly emotions. Fear. Hesitation. Eagerness. Guilt. Love.
Diego hasn’t talked to me in five days. With dance competition less than an hour away, I shouldn’t be thinking of him. Everything we worked for, every shared moment, broken by one wrong move. I’m left alone, buried in an avalanche of jagged pieces.
I wish I could’ve stood up to Jason. The pain on Diego’s face was serrated, sawing through me.
He won’t return my calls. He missed two days of school. I don’t know how to fix anything. I’m nothing more than a busted heart.
I ease into a split, my legs scissoring on the mat. Backstage, girls stretch around me. My dance team is present, preparing like everyone else. Competition starts soon. We’re one of the last to go.
Forty minutes to get Diego out of my mind. I reach for my toes. They’re a thousand miles away. Everything is tense. I rise up. Lay myself flat on my stomach and arch back, grabbing my ankles.
“Smile, babe,” Melissa says, stretching next to me.
“Can’t,” I grumble.
Only Melissa knows how much pain I’m in.
“I feel horrible. I lost one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, didn’t I?”
I blink back tears. One slips away. I wipe it quickly.
Melissa doesn’t reply. Her silence confirms my worst fears.
“Oh, Lissa. He’s going to break up with me, isn’t he? What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think he’s pretty crazy about you, and you treated him like he meant nothing. It’s hard to come back from that.”
We have to come back from it.
I can’t lose him.
“Don’t think about it now. Concentrate,” Melissa says. “Come on. We’ll work on flips.”
I stand. Stretch my arms. Roll my neck. Tell my muscles to relax. I approach the mat. People practice tumbling. I wait in line for my turn. Tracy Ram is in front of me. You’d think that after years on the same team, she’d get over whatever it is that makes her hate me. Guess not. She sneers and whips her head around. Her blond hair whacks me in the face. An undeserved lashing. The team knows that she despises me. We try to work around it, ignore the tension hanging heavy like an impenetrable fog.
Melissa says Tracy is jealous of me, that Tracy wants everybody’s attention. But with such a foul attitude, she pushes people away. The smell of her envy is putrid.
Tracy’s up. She’s confidence and hunger, eating yards of mat with each landing. My turn. I blink. Try to remove the embedded image of Diego.
Don’t think about him.
My first run is good. Three backhand springs followed by a twisted pike. I nail it. Melissa doesn’t tumble. She cheers. I tell her to practice the routine, but she refuses to leave me.
Tears threaten.
“Stay strong,” Melissa says in my ear. She notices the tears, of course.
My turn again. Seven backhand springs in a row. The final landing is wobbly, like a fawn on unsteady legs, but I pull it off. Competitors gasp. I’m a good tumbler. Better than most.
I wait for my turn again. My mind disobeys me, reaches for Diego. Remembers so much so much so much. His spicy smell. The way pieces of hair fall into his eyes, determined to stand out from the rest. Much like him. I allow myself a small smile. I picture his plump lips. I want to kiss them.
My turn now. I inhale a shaky breath and take off. I land my last backhand spring on my knees. Pain shoots through my legs. Melissa runs to my side. Emergency workers, too.
“I’m fine,” I tell them.
By regulation they have to momentarily massage my knees and apply a cream. The one in charge gives me the okay to
continue.
Melissa pulls me to the side. “Faith, you’re not going to make it through this if you don’t stop thinking about him.”
She’s right.
“I’ll try,” I say.
When my team finally takes the stage, the crowd goes silent. We almost always win. That’s another thing. Last year during my absence, Tracy was the captain. And our team lost the competition. I think she hates me for that, though it’s not my fault.
We begin our routine. Music echoes through speakers. My heart thuds, adrenaline pumping it faster and faster. I smile, just like my teammates, keeping up with the beat. Everything goes off without a hitch until the end. I think about Diego again.
Raw pain in his eyes. Staring at me as though I’ve broken what we have. I want to say sorry. I want to go to him. I stand my ground instead, watching him leave. Farther and farther.
All my strength is not enough to push Diego out of my mind.
As I land a triple flip, the grand finale, my foot twists the wrong way and I fall hard.
Pain shoots through my leg like a rocket taking off. I can’t catch my breath. Spots take over my vision, a hundred flashing lights. I look down. The spots dim to a pinprick. My foot is the wrong way. My toes reach behind me. I can’t stomach the image.
We’ve lost the competition, I’m sure. No one can fall like that and win.
The pain is too much. I close my eyes and think of Diego. My only relief.
Something beeps in my right ear, waking me from a deep sleep that feels like hibernation.
Where am I?
I blink. Bright lights sting my eyes, making them water. I pull a hand to my face to block the glare. My arm snags on something. Pain lacerates my veins like a hot poker.
Eleven seconds until my eyes adjust. And even then, everything blurs slightly as though I’m looking through a distorted lens. I look down. I’m wearing a hideous yellow gown, the color of mustard. The beeping to my right is a heart monitor and my leg is in a sling of some sort, connected to the ceiling by narrow chains.
What the—
“Faith! Are you okay?” Melissa runs to my side. “I only leave the room for what, five minutes? And you wake up. Go figure.”