Marcos nods and sticks out a hand to shake on the deal, then disappears downstairs to his playroom. I take another step into the kitchen and look around—the house is abnormally quiet for a Friday night.
I’m disappointed Mr. Santos isn’t around. We typically talk baseball until Carly’s tugging on his sleeve and whining, “Papai, we need to go.” Or until his wife intercedes. But the only one here is Carly’s grandmother, Avó. She’s sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine devoted to her soap operas. It must be a high-drama article, because she doesn’t get up to hug me and fuss. She raises her eyebrows over the glossy cover and then turns a page. I lean down and peck her cheek and scan the headlines.
“Do we want Dr. Drake to come back from the dead? Or is it better for Cordelia if he stays gone?”
“She’s better off without him; he’s a cheating scoundrel.” Avó lowers the magazine and adds a string of rapid-fire Portuguese that reminds me, yet again, what I’m being taught in school is not at all helpful in the real world. At least not in my real world. It’s probably useful for my classmates who spend their spring breaks on Ibiza. And those who pat themselves on the back for being so cosmopolitan when they use their textbook Spanish to give condescending instructions to their Hispanic housekeepers. Cross Pointe High offers six languages—I could study Latin, which isn’t even spoken anywhere but stuffy universities—but I can’t learn the language my girlfriend’s family uses when they’re pissed off.
Avó turns another page before looking up and adding, “Carla’s in her room.”
I walk to the bottom of the stairs. “Hello?”
No response. Normally Carly’s little sister, Ana, is my shadow—fluctuating between a curious kid who peppers me with questions and an awkward preteen who’s trying to figure out how to flirt. It drives Carly crazy—which could be why they were fighting. Though they’re always in these huge fights—followed by dramatic apologies and what seems like instant forgiveness. Having spent my first seventeen years as an only child, I can’t imagine Sophia and I will ever have that type of volcanic relationship.
“Carly?” It’s a well-established rule that I’m not allowed on the second floor, but it’s uncomfortable to stand here and bellow, so I go up a few steps and try again. “Carly? Are you almost ready?”
Her door opens. She dyed her hair a few weeks ago, and I’m still not used to it being cinnamon colored. She’s wearing jean shorts and a black T-shirt that slides off one shoulder so I can see a hot-pink strap underneath. It’s either a tank top or a new bra—I’m hoping for the second.
“Hey. You ready to go?”
She nods and calls back over her shoulder, “Papai, I’m leaving. I won’t be late.”
It’s her mother who meets us at the door, giving her daughter a long look and a hug. I get a quick nod as she holds the door open.
Either Carly has been in a brutal mood or something’s up.
“Where do you want to eat?” I reach for her hand, but she’s holding her cell phone.
“I already ate,” she says. “Why are you so late?”
It’s barely five. I’m tempted to make a joke about her catching the early-bird dinner with Avó, but she huffs out a breath, so I answer her question. “I got stuck on Sophia duty.”
She rolls her eyes.
I pull her into a hug beside the hood of my car. “I missed you this week.”
She puts a hand on my chest and leans back to look me in the face. “Can we skip Jeff’s party? Let’s go to the state park and talk.”
She means the always-empty parking lot that borders the state park. We must be fine. I kiss her greedily and don’t argue. Carly pulls away to climb into the car. It’s a shorter kiss than her usual greeting—especially since we haven’t seen each other in five days, but like me, she’s got to be impatient to get to the park. I pull out of her driveway and try not to speed for the ten-minute drive.
Talk? Yeah, sure.
I want Carly’s hair between my fingers. I want her voice in my ear. I want to erase the doubts she’s planted in my head lately and forget everything but how she feels.
She bites her lip as I park the car—glances at me out of the corner of her eye with a look that makes me want to stop and thank the inventors of zippers. I know what comes next: she’ll climb over the console into the backseat, squealing “Jo-nah!” when I tickle her on her way by.
But she doesn’t. Instead she fiddles with her seat belt.
I lean across the console to kiss her, but she leans away to apply another coat of her inescapable cherry lip gloss. Then she pauses, the cap in one hand, tube in the other. Both hands fall to her lap. She sucks on the left side of her bottom lip and pulls a knee up to create a barrier between us.
“Okay, Carly, what’s going on?”
She brings the gloss back up to her mouth, touching up the spot she’d been sucking and rolling her lips together. “Where were you really tonight before my house?”