“I know that,” I say quickly. I feel slightly bruised by the comment. Why did he feel the need to tell me that? Does he think I’m secretly pining for him like every other girl in school?
The warning bell rings overhead, signaling that we have one minute to get to class. All of the onlookers around us have vanished, including the girls. Seb is somewhere else too. He’s drifted off to Chloe-land.
“I’m gonna go in,” I say. I gesture toward the classroom with my coffee cup.
“Okay.” He still won’t look at me. “See you later.” Now that the crowd has diminished, we’re back to being strangers. Slowly he turns and wanders away in the opposite direction.
His sneakers are orange today. They’re stupid, I think, annoyed. Bright and stupid.
I walk into class alone and take my seat in the back corner, keeping my head low and ignoring the whispers that fill my ears.
Analee’s Top Lunch Spots
1. Second-floor library cubicle (note: only when eating a sandwich that can be easily hidden in backpack)
2. Red bench in quad
3. Empty classroom
4. Stairwell C, the third story
5. Backstage in auditorium (note: only during drama off-seasons)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BEFORE HARLOW MOVED IN, WE were strictly a paper plates house, even when Mom was alive. She and Dad hated doing the dishes, so they bought disposable dinnerware sets in bulk from Costco. You would expect two second-generation Cuban immigrants to be more frugal, to understand the value of money, but Mom found throwing entire place settings away to be a satisfying display of American extravagance. She did it with glee every night, stacking the dishes in one hand and squashing them into the garbage can.
“Dishes are done,” she would say, swiping her hands against each other and chuckling to herself. I shook my head, because I had been nagging my family to recycle for years. Mom liked to use the skewed logic that buying paper plates saved us from doing dishes, which saved water. And Dad had a crackpot theory that recycling was actually worse for the planet, based solely on what his friend Manny once said at the office. They were two peas in a pod in their complete disregard for science.
The one thing Mom had in common with Harlow was a love of cooking, and that’s where any similarities between the two end. Mom would fry plantains in a big rusty skillet full of oil. Not the organic, unrefined coconut oil that Harlow orders online but an economy-size vat of hydrogenated, artery-clogging vegetable oil (also purchased from Costco). Mom made hearty, meaty Cuban dishes from her grandmother’s handwritten recipe book. She didn’t care that my favorite dish, picadillo, looked more than a little like dog food and wasn’t nearly Instagram-ready.
But, oh my God, her food tasted so good. Once you took a bite, you didn’t care that it wasn’t pretty, and you didn’t care that it was slowly killing you from the inside. The stuff Dad and I order from La Vibora doesn’t compare.
I guess I could scrounge around for that recipe book and try to make it myself, but for some reason I don’t.
Harlow is not zen when I get home from school. She’s fluttering around the house like a deranged bird, slamming drawers and tearing up and down the stairs. A grim-faced Avery comes out of the kitchen with a broom in hand.
“What’s with your mom?” I ask.
“Your abuelo and abuela are coming over for dinner. We just found out.”
I should have realized. The only things that get Harlow this riled up are trans fats and impromptu visits from my grandparents.
“Analee, you’re home!” Harlow descends the steps two at a time, then lands with a leap at the foot of the stairs. She’s cradling a Buddha statuette in her arms.
“Indeed I am.”
“Can you wipe down the dining room table?”
“Sure.”
“Oh! And take out the bathroom trash?”
“Sure,” I say again. I nod at the statuette. “Does Buddha get a chore?”
“Buddha,” Harlow says with a sigh, “is going into the attic. Last time your grandparents were here, they told your dad I was an idol worshipper.”
This is actually true. They asked Dad if Harlow was an idólatra, but I didn’t think Harlow caught it. I love my grandparents. They’re awesome in a variety of ways. But they are also some hard-core Roman Catholics.
Quickly I run upstairs to let Harris know I won’t be able to talk until late tonight. Then I set to work on my chores. The three of us work in different areas of the house, so, thankfully, I don’t actually have to talk to either of them. In the kitchen I hear the clatter of pots and pans.
“Analee?” Harlow calls. “Can you come here a sec?”
When I walk in, she has a spread of organic products on the counter and . . . mushroom caps.
“I think I’m going to debut the mushroom ropa vieja tonight,” she says. “Want to help? I could use your expertise.”
This is a disaster waiting to happen. My grandparents are traditionalists, in food and in life. They do not want their classic Cuban dishes in vegan form.
“I, um . . . I have to do some homework.” I want no part in butchering the food of my people.
“Oh, of course!” Harlow says. “I should have assumed. Well, that’s okay.” She pushes her bangs off her forehead and starts to slice the mushroom caps.
I almost feel a little sorry for her. Harlow’s used to thousands of fawning followers who praise and worship everything she does. She’s in for a rude awakening tonight.
To make up for it, I clean out the bathroom cabinet, and then I spend my remaining hour scrambling to finish my math homework, before Dad’s car honks outside.
He and my grandparents arrive at the house together, and I can hear them long before I see them, each talking over the other in loud, singsong Spanish. As they’re getting to the front door, I notice that Harlow missed a tiny Buddha on the entryway table. I debate whether I should leave it there, but then I swipe it and stick it into my pocket at the last second.
“Mi niñita!” Abuela is the one to throw open the door. She runs right for me and peppers my cheeks with kisses. Abuelo comes next, opting for one giant kiss on my forehead.
“Hi, Luis. Hi, Graciela,” Harlow says, and my grandparents each give her a kiss as well. Harlow’s body, usually soft-limbed, is rigid with tension. When Dad aims to kiss her lips, she offers him a cheek instead.
Trouble in paradise? I think. The visits from my grandparents have lessened since Harlow moved in. Before, they often came over uninvited, but Harlow has convinced Dad that boundaries are necessary, that even though Abuelo and Abuela are his parents, they should still give us at least a courtesy call.
I wish that for once he would set the boundaries with her. Like telling her to stop force-feeding us her latest health diet. Or saying no to converting our spare room into a stark, barren meditation room that only she uses.
When we get to the table, Harlow has made an arugula salad that my grandparents poke at. Abuela compliments it, then discreetly wrinkles her nose at me. I try not to laugh. Abuelo doesn’t even try to hide his contempt for raw vegetables.
“Harlow,” Abuela says, but through her accent it comes out more like “Hawor-lo.” Understanding Abuela’s English is a skill acquired only through years of intense focus and practice. “Deed jou cohl Padre Medina?”
“I’m sorry?” Harlow says through her stiff smile. She looks to Dad for help, but he’s looking down at his plate, shoveling salad into his mouth to avoid the conversation. I quickly piece together what’s happened. Dad hasn’t told my grandparents that their traditional church wedding is a no-go.
Abuela repeats the question again, and Harlow squints and nods. I imagine the wheels in her mind spinning overtime to make sense of the warbled English.
“I haven’t called Father Medina,” Harlow says. Her smile increasingly grows more and more distorted, almost manic. “Raf? Why is your mother asking if I’ve called Father Medina?”
Dad has finished his salad
. There is nothing to save him now.
“I haven’t told them about Carrie yet,” he says quickly.
“What?”
“Relax! Just play along.”
“I’m not going to play along!” Harlow hisses.
“Cariño, please.”
“I’m not going to lie to your parents, Raf. You need to tell them the truth.”
My grandparents, meanwhile, are watching but not understanding this entire exchange. I stand up, rush around to collect the salad plates.
“I’m going to grab the ropa vieja,” Harlow says. She gives Dad a pointed look before following me into the kitchen.
It’s quieter in here, and Harlow’s smile vanishes completely as she ladles the mushroom stew into bowls, then garnishes each one with fresh parsley.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly to me, bent over the food. I’m not sure why she’s apologizing.
The voices in the dining room grow louder. I can make out some phrases here and there as Dad tries to quiet my grandparents. It’s a different scene from when Harlow’s parents, Larry and Donna, were last here. They both speak perfect English at a normal human volume, and make only pleasant, surface-skimming observations.
“Rafael, what a lovely tie.” “I just adore the new painting you put in the living room, Harlow.” “Larry and I went to the cutest Italian restaurant the other day.” Blah, blah, blah-di-blah-blah.
“They sound angry,” Harlow says now. She drums her knuckles on the countertop, takes a step toward the door, and then steps back into the kitchen. “What are they saying?”
I don’t have to strain to hear any more. Abuela is saying that their wedding will be a disgrace, that it’s a slap in the face to Father Medina. Abuelo is giving Dad some macho bullshit advice about him being the head of the household and making the decisions for Harlow.
“They, um . . . they still think you should go with Father Medina,” I say, which is the gist of it anyway. Harlow doesn’t need to know that my grandparents think she’s a heathen corrupting their impressionable son.
She exhales, nods. “It’s an adjustment, I guess.”
“Right.”
“They just need to accept that this is our wedding, and we’re going to do it our way.”
Ha. They’re never going to accept that. They’re never going to accept Harlow and her tiny Buddha statues and vegan food as a replacement for my mother.
I can’t accept it either. Part of me feels sorry for Harlow, because Cubans are stubborn as hell, and we’re not going to budge. The other part of me, the darkest part, relishes every second of my grandparents’ resistance to this strange woman inserting herself into all of our lives.
Of course I can’t tell Harlow this. It’s going to be something she’ll have to figure out on her own.
I nod and smile at her like I agree. Then I watch as she rolls her shoulders back, cradles a bowl of mushroom stew in each hand, and steps back out into the fray.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Me: HARRIS
Harris: ANALEE
Harris: where have you been?!?!?!?!
Me: Sorry. Things have been kind of crazy.
Harris: i had to team up with larzaron for the quest. we got totally fucked
Me: Larzaron? Really? He’s the worst.
Harris: i was desperate
Harris: why have things been crazy?
Me: I was hanging out with Seb yesterday.
Harris: your douchebag lab partner?
Me: He’s not a douchebag, persay
Me: Is that how you spell it? Persay?
Harris: per se
Harris: and since when is he not a douchebag?
Me: He’s had a rough time since his girlfriend dumped him
Harris: still not a license to be a douche
Me: Whatever. He’s okay.
Harris: . . .
Me: What?
Harris: nothing
Holy crap. Harris is jealous . . . which means the great boyfriend experiment might actually be working. As a friend, I don’t want to hurt him. I’m tempted to come clean and admit that this is all a nonsensical plan to fix my life.
That’s the selfless-friend part of me. As the girl who’s in love with him, I’ll continue to let him think what he wants to think, because making him jealous doesn’t completely suck. I know it’s immature and, okay, somewhat manipulative. An asshole move, actually. But for once it’s nice to feel desired, even if it’s for the wrong reasons.
There are five raps on my door. It’s Dad’s signature knock, which Lily once informed me comes from a tune called “Shave and a Haircut.” I don’t know how or why she knew that, but she did, and those random assorted bits of trivia make me miss her more.
I knock on my desk, twice, in return.
“You busy?” he asks, hovering in the doorway.
“Nope.” I minimize my chat window. Dad shuffles in, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Playing your magic game?”
“It’s not a ‘magic game.’ It’s a multiplayer online role-playing game. And no, I’m not playing it right now,” I say. I wonder if Dad mentions my gaming to Harlow during their conversations about my social ineptitude. “Just talking.”
He sits on the edge of my bed, and it dips under his weight. I still have the same twin bed I’ve had since I was five. There’s a crater-size sag in the middle, and the foam is worn, with a large tear down the side. I just can’t get rid of it. I have too many memories of Mom squeezing in beside me whenever I was sick with fever or when she read me bedtime stories in Spanish—one of her many futile attempts at making me bilingual.
“Talking to your boyfriend?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, because bringing up Harris will lead to a different line of questioning.
“What’s his last name again?”
“Matias.”
“Right. Matias. Like the singer?”
“Um. I don’t know.”
“Juan Matias?” He sings a Spanish melody in his uniquely tone-deaf way. I want to crawl under my desk. What is this? What is he doing? I can’t remember the last time Dad was in my room without a specific purpose. He hasn’t been one to hang out. Not in recent memory, at least.
“About Sebastian,” Dad says. “This whole boyfriend thing . . . I think we should talk. Go over some rules.” He shifts around on the bed, but it only makes him sink lower. “Ay, coño.”
“Oh my God, Dad. Please don’t do what I think you’re about to do.”
I didn’t think the sex talk would ever come from him. Judging from his sweat-dappled forehead, neither did he.
“Sex,” he announces, spreading his arms wide. It’s not the smoothest of transitions. I let my head fall forward onto my desk with a loud thud. It hurts, but the pain distracts me from this conversation.
“Sex can be a beautiful part of life. When you’re married.”
“Please stop,” I say without raising my head. “Please. I’ll do anything.”
“Sebastian is going to try to have sex with you, Analee.”
“No, he’s not, Dad.”
“You need to understand. I’m a man. I know how men think.”
I lift my head. “That’s an overgeneralization.”
“So here are the rules,” Dad goes on. “Rule number one: you two cannot be alone in the house. That goes for his house too.”
“Is there—”
“Rule number two,” he barrels on. “No dates on weeknights. You can see him on weekends with permission. And only when your homework is finished. And I need to know exactly where you’re going and what time you’ll be home.”
“I hate doing things on weeknights,” I say. Weekends, too, for that matter. Spending the day around everyone at school is so exhausting that I go full hermit when I’m home.
“Rule number three,” Dad says. “Don’t take Harlow’s dating advice.”
“Wait, what?” I ask.
“Harlow grew up different from how we did. Her parents were un poco . .
. despistados. They let Harlow date whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted.”
“I’m confused. Are you calling your fiancée a tramp?”
“No!” Dad casts an urgent look at the doorway as if Harlow will magically apparate before us. “She just . . . she wouldn’t understand.”
I’m not sure I understand either. I can’t help but think how much better Mom would have been at this. She would have said all the right things, and maybe it would have been uncomfortable, but it would have also been funny, because Mom was funny. Instead I have Dad, who is currently drowning in my pink comforter. Who is practically slut-shaming my future stepmother and can’t even say the word “sex” without turning fifty shades of purple.
“What’s going to happen when Avery starts dating?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . are you going to give her the same talk? The ‘true love waits’ spiel?”
Dad blanks. “Ehm. That’s up to Harlow.”
“Is it? You’re going to be Avery’s stepfather.”
He blinks a few times, letting this fact fully register.
“Shouldn’t you two have discussed this co-parenting thing before getting engaged?” I ask.
“Analee,” Dad says sternly, in a way that lets me know I’ve struck a nerve. “You’re out of bounds.”
“I just don’t think it’s fair for me and Avery to have different sets of rules.”
“Avery is eight years old.”
“Yeah, but—”
“We’ll deal with Avery when the time comes.” He gets up, squeezing his hands together. “Any questions about the rules?”
His rules are ridiculous. Even though my relationship with Seb is pure fiction, my indignation is real. How dare he? First, he barely talks to me anymore, acts like I’m a blemish on his and Harlow’s happy fairy tale. Then he has the nerve to march into my room and bark orders at me. As if my imaginary sex life is any of his business.
“What about a car?” I ask. “Can I be alone in a car with Seb? The school library? Underneath the bleachers?”
“Not funny, Analee.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. You know, a few rules aren’t going to stop two hormone-fueled teenagers from having sex if they want to have sex.”
Analee, in Real Life Page 9