But I also don’t trust her.
“Fat chance,” I say. I adjust my baseball cap, take a few steps backward. “Just stay away from us.”
I turn away before she can answer.
* * *
? ? ?
“Yummy!” Vivi says, her eyes wide as the waiter sets a steaming plate of cheese enchiladas in front of her.
“Yummy indeed. Now be careful, mija, it’s hot.” Dad leans over to tuck a napkin into the front of Vivi’s shirt. “Let it sit for a minute.”
We’re at my sister’s favorite restaurant, El Rancho, to celebrate her sixth birthday. The faux-hacienda is packed, as always, the air thrumming with conversation and music. Every now and then a loud groan erupts from the crowd watching soccer at the bar. I keep catching my dad’s eyes flitting over to the TV. Mexico’s playing tonight, so if the margaritas keep coming we might be in for some truly foul Spanish swear words. Dad’s lived in the States his entire life, but his own father used to play for the Liga MX, the top-tier soccer league in Mexico, before he and my grandma moved to L.A., so it’s safe to say he’s a total fanatic.
I take my phone out of my pocket, glancing down to see if there are any messages I’ve missed. It’s become a nervous tic. There’s nothing, though—nothing on my Snapchat, and, disappointingly, nothing new on my Sekrit. I haven’t heard from Catherine since yesterday afternoon. I quickly reread our old conversation.
daredevil_atx: Hey, no randos have been texting you, have they?
dollorous00: Besides you, you mean?
daredevil_atx: :P
dollorous00: No, no one’s been texting me. Why?
daredevil_atx: No reason. I just want to make sure I’m your only rando. Rando Calrissian. William Rando Hearst. Rando Baggins.
dolorous00: Don’t worry. You’ve definitely managed to be the BIGGEST rando, in any case.
So at least Sasha hasn’t been hounding Catherine directly. I wonder if I should warn her—if I should give her a heads-up that I may have accidentally brought the wrath of the drill team down upon her. But there’s no need to freak her out if Sasha isn’t actively messing with her. And Sasha claims she’s done. The question is whether I can believe her or not.
My little sister’s wearing a plastic rhinestone tiara, and a cluster of bright balloons is tied to the back of her chair, fanning out like a throne. She looks like a tiny princess in Crayola colors.
“Happy birthday me!” she says, kicking her feet out.
“Happy birthday you,” I agree. “Did your class like the treats, Vivi?” Last night I baked and frosted three dozen chocolate-and-banana cupcakes, each with a Little Mermaid paper cutout stuck into the top with a toothpick. I’m a pretty good baker, but it took me forever to finish them. When she came downstairs this morning and saw them, though, the look on her face made the whole thing worth it.
“Yup,” she says.
“Except one little girl demanded a Frozen cupcake instead,” Mom says. “There were tears when I told her we were an Ariel household. Tears, and judgment.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.” I pick up a tortilla, bouncing it from hand to hand to keep from burning my fingers.
And then, almost like an apparition, I see Catherine float past the bar, and nothing else even registers.
Just behind her is a tall, bearded man in a plaid button-down. His stride is heavy, authoritative. He pulls out her chair for her. She sits automatically, like a wind-up doll.
A waitress brings a basket of chips to their table, and Catherine dips one in the salsa. The man watches her, his brow furrowed in what looks like disapproval. Or disappointment? Either way, he leans in to talk to her, but she doesn’t look up from the menu.
“’Scuse me,” I mutter. “I need to run to the bathroom.” I push myself back from the table and drop my napkin onto my empty plate. My parents don’t even look up; Dad’s taking pictures, and Mom’s trying to get a glob of enchilada sauce out of Vivi’s hair.
I walk around the wide edge of the room. Catherine’s back is to me now, but I can see the man’s face. His eyes are hidden behind his glasses, light glinting off the lenses. As I approach, I can just make out what he’s saying.
“Can you please just relax and try to have a nice evening?” He trails off as he sees me. I take a deep breath and put on my best parent-charming smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck with an aw-shucks grin. “I just saw Catherine and thought I’d say hi.”
I glance down at her, and something jerks in my chest. The expression on her face isn’t just shy, or nervous.
She’s staring at me in wide-eyed horror.
“Well, hello.” The man’s voice is softer than I expected, almost gentle. “Do you two know each other from school?”
My eyes dart to Catherine. Now, mired in a mistake I don’t understand, I don’t know what to say. She gives a tight little nod.
“Yes, sir. I’m Gabe Jiménez.” I gesture back to my own table, where my sister is playing with the tiny plastic animals that always fill her pockets, galloping a blue elephant across her plate. “We’re out for my little sister’s birthday.”
Catherine’s staring back down at the table, but the man watches me steadily.
“That’s nice. How’s the food here? I’ve heard the queso is great.”
“Oh yeah, best in town,” I say. I turn an open, friendly face toward him, but inside my pockets my fingers clench. Why won’t she look at me?
It’s that moment when the mariachi band approaches my family’s table, buckles and tassels bright against their dark jackets. The vihuela strums a few opening chords, and the band erupts into “Las Ma?anitas.” A small flan appears from the kitchen, a single candle flickering from the center. Vivi claps her hands, off-rhythm with the music.
Catherine’s father gives a tight smile.
“Looks like you’d better get back to your family, Gabe. It was nice to meet you. I hope your sister has a happy birthday.”
There’s no way to argue with that. I give them both an awkward wave, and head back to my table. I feel the man’s eyes follow me all the way.
I barely hear the music, barely notice my little sister’s delighted squeal. Dad takes pictures of Vivi with the mariachi while Mom sings along. The candlelight lights up Vivi’s face. Her arms pump up and down in spontaneous, uncontrolled joy.
“Make a wish!” Dad says, as the music comes to its robust finale. Vivi leans forward and blows her candle out in one sputtering breath. I absentmindedly join in the applause. I sneak another glance at Catherine and her father. They’re talking now, both leaning in over the salsa dish. His lips move quickly, angrily. She shakes her head no. He grimaces, slapping his palm lightly on the table.
“Gabe, yummy!” Vivi’s holding up a huge quivering spoonful of flan to my lips. Most of it ends up on my chin, but I make a big show of wiping it off with my finger and then popping it in my mouth.
“So yummy!” I say. “Boy, they’re sugaring you right up before bedtime, aren’t they? Maybe we should just leave her here. I’m sure the mariachi will look after her.”
She laughs and bounces in her seat.
I don’t risk another glance at Catherine’s table until we’re on our way out. She and her dad have their entrées, and they sit, unspeaking, picking at their food. I will her to look up at me, but her eyes remain resolutely downcast.
As I pass, her dad’s eyes narrow in my direction. I feel it like a jab to the ribs, sharp and hostile.
He doesn’t look away until I’m out the door.
FOURTEEN
Elyse
“That was great, Elyse,” says Mr. Hunter. “Can we try it again?”
It’s Monday—the first time I’ve seen Mr. Hunter since the matinee. Since those few brief moments of contact. I’ve been counting down the seconds to get here. Desperate to be in a room with him, to be near him. To see if anything has changed.