“Your secret is safe with me,” she laughs.
Maybe it’s the way the light streams through the trees and windshield to decorate her skin with flickering golden beams, a gorgeous imitation of Lindsay’s harsh, yellowy basement light, that makes my questions about that night maneuver their way back to the front of my mind. Or maybe it’s just that Talia’s spoken more today than I’ve ever heard before, and I’m worried this could be it. If I don’t ask now, maybe I never will.
I open my mouth to do just that, but it disobeys and instead asks, “What about you and the quadratic formula, then? What’s the story there?” Coward.
“Well, unfortunately I wasn’t named Pythagoras, or Euclid, or Mu?ammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī, but…”
“I don’t know who any of them are, but I feel like I’m being sassed.”
She laughs smoothly. “I guess that formula clicked for me the way gardening did for you. I was always units ahead of my classmates in math, teaching myself the next chapters out of boredom. I was even accused of cheating freshman year because Mr. Smith couldn’t believe the Black and Puerto Rican girl in the back of the class could possibly be earning one hundreds on every test on her own.” Her eyes narrow and lips turn sourly at the memory, and I make a mental note to scratch Mr. Smith out of all my yearbooks. “I almost feel the same contradictory cliché thing you said about roses. But about math, obviously.”
“Elaborate on that, please?”
“Math is just so universal. It’s seen as useless and annoying by a lot of people, but it’s so necessary for everyday life. And people hate taking math classes but love when they do a math problem right. Plus, there’s always one correct answer even if there are multiple ways to get there. I like that complicated simplicity. It’s always been a breeze for me. Just don’t tell Zaq. I’ve been tutoring him for years, and he’s convinced I really am the next Pythagoras.”
I watch her ruffle her curls while she drives one-handed. They bounce softly around her face in symmetrical coils. She looks like an equation done right.
“Your secret is safe with me too.”
FOUR
“I swear I’m going to pay one of my cousins to get a divorce so everyone will stop making jokes about me being next in line to get married,” Agatha groans over the phone, muffled sounds of throwback R&B in the background. I’m grateful for the familiarity of her complaints, distracting me from my buzzing skin. I’ve been fidgety since Talia dropped me off hours ago.
I’m painting my toenails silver, and I adjust my foot atop old geometry homework I had lying around as we talk. “Is it really that bad?” I ask, messily dabbing silver onto my tiniest toenail.
“Yes!” she exclaims, and I’m grateful she’s on speakerphone or that would’ve blown my eardrum. “Seriously, I need to dye my prom dress or get a new one or something because if my great aunt sees me wearing white, I will never, ever, hear the end of what a beautiful bride I’ll be one day.” I make out her talking to someone while a toilet flushes. “Ugh, that was my cousin asking why I’m not out there dancing with the groomsmen. She knows I’m barely eighteen, right?”
“… Are the groomsmen cute?”
“Watch it, Rojas.”
Agatha’s always been opposed to the idea of getting married. Ironically, her parents are just as sickly in love now as they were when they were high school sweethearts, or so I hear, so it’s not like she never had good role models for healthy love. She claims she doesn’t see the appeal past tax benefits, which I suppose is fair enough. Sammie jokes that my abundance of crushes is the universe’s way of balancing out Agatha’s lack thereof.
“Don’t let your mom post any pictures online and you’ll be fine.” I finish up my final coat, then stand to open my window and air out the dizzying polish fumes.
“Oh yeah, like that’ll work,” she scoffs. “You’ve met my mom.”
I toss aside my curtains and push my big windowpanes open, letting the night breeze in. Sammie’s bedroom light is on, and I watch, frozen, as he swiftly kicks his trash can, sending crumpled paper scattering across the carpet. The gap between our houses is close enough that I can see his fist twist in agony. I don’t doubt that if his windows were open, I could hear him swearing up a storm.
“Earth to Ophelia?” Agatha says as I watch Sammie pace his room. When he reaches his bed and spins around, he looks up and sees me staring. I wave stiffly. “Are you still there? Great. First I don’t have enough bars to FaceTime, and now I can’t even hear you. The service in this bathroom sucks.”
“Sorry.” I turn away from the window while Sammie crouches onto his bed, head falling into his hands. I grab my phone off the floor and turn it off speaker. “Sammie just got home, and he’s looking a little rough.”
I open my mouth to say more, but stop. Sammie’s often aloof about what’s going on in that beautiful head of his, but on occasion he lets me in. And though he didn’t exactly have a choice in letting me bear witness to this meltdown, I still can’t bring myself to betray his trust. Besides, Agatha’s only ever seen Goofy, Nothing-Bothers-Me Sammie, despite being friends for years now, so I wouldn’t even know where to start with describing this version.
“Texting Linds for details now.” I hear her acrylics tap against her phone. We’re all best friends, but at the end of the day my loyalties are with Sammie and hers are with Lindsay. We’re only True Neutral with each other. “Does this mean I’m winning the bet?” she adds while I wonder if Sammie’s parents and sisters heard him storming around.
“Let’s see what Lindsay has to say before we start calling winners, all right?” The bet leaves an icky feeling in my chest suddenly. I hear sharp tapping again and think it’s Agatha still typing before realizing the noise is coming from my room. Several small, round objects are gathered on the floor by my window. I flinch at another tap as one ricochets off the side of the house. I look up and barely dodge one hitting me in the face.
“Shit, sorry,” Sammie nearly yells. His voice doesn’t carry as well as whatever he’s throwing.
I kneel down and pick up one of the round things. “Is this a popcorn kernel?”
“What?” Agatha’s voice booms in my ear.
“Yeah,” Sammie replies nonchalantly, reaching toward his desk and revealing a nearly empty movie theater popcorn tub. He tosses a partially popped, burnt kernel into his mouth and makes a pained expression as he chews it.
“Helloooooo?” My phone vibrates in my hand.
“Ags, I think Sammie needs me right now; I’ll talk to you later,” I whisper into the phone.
“Fill me in tomorrow?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I mumble, already knowing I won’t. Loyalties over gossip.
Sammie leans out his window, shaking the popcorn tub before tipping it over and letting the remaining kernels sprinkle onto the concrete below.