“What do you mean?” There’s an edge to her voice, and she straightens, leaning less on the wall.
“Oh, nothing.” I laugh nervously. “Just checking that you don’t have a crush on Sammie or anything. You two were talking up a storm,” I say awkwardly, internally cringing.
“A storm about … mathematicians overlooked by Eurocentric history?”
“That’s basically foreplay for Sammie.” Kill me.
“Oh—uh, no.” She laughs stiffly.
I will my mouth to apologize for the awkward comment, but come up silent.
“Anyway, here’s the bathroom,” she says before I can fix this conversational mess, mechanically motioning to the room we’ve already been standing beside for several minutes. “I’ll, uh, see you back out there.”
She walks off quickly. I wait until I hear the front door shut before stepping into the bathroom. The tiny, sanitized space feels more costly than my entire house. I sniff the lavender soap, instantly calmed by the scent, and pull my hair back with the tie I always keep on my wrist. I meet my reflection’s eyes in the mirror and sigh.
“Ophelia, you’re a clown.”
* * *
Hours later, after Lindsay’s arms are sore from posing and Zaq’s are sore from holding the camera, Sammie and I ride home, windows down, cricket songs filling our silence.
“Agatha is going to run her own modeling empire one day. The way she got Lindsay to pose and work those crowns today? I don’t think Lindsay has ever ‘smized’ before,” Sammie finally says, squinting and pursing his lips to impersonate Linds.
I laugh, swatting him until he relaxes his face again. “But do you think it’s, I don’t know, weird that Ags has been pushing so hard for Lindsay to run and win instead of running herself?”
“Prom queen doesn’t really seem like Agatha’s thing. Plus, elephant in the car: Lindsay is way more popular,” he says. I shoot him a look that he barely catches, given that he’s driving. “Come on, Linds just knows more people. You know I wouldn’t have a shot as king, any more than you or Ags would have as queen.”
Even though I agree, and have never even wanted to win prom queen, it stings a little. “Thanks.”
Sammie scoffs. “Sorry. Why are you talking to me about this though? You and Ags are the queens of gossip—just ask her.”
“I don’t want to make it seem like I’m judging her or think she has some kind of ulterior motive though.”
“She’s your best friend—just ask her.”
“You know, out of context I could shoot that sentence right back at you regarding Lindsay and your feelings.”
“Haven’t you done enough meddling for the week? Do you have a quota or something?” he asks, taking a sharp turn. My shoulder knocks into the car door.
“Ow,” I say, rubbing my arm. “And if you’re referring to merging the Wesley groups two months before graduation, I think it’s some of my finest work yet.”
“All right, Rojas, I’m going to drop you off on the sidewalk if you start going around saying we’re one of Wesley’s groups. If anything, our friend group is totally mine.”
“How, exactly? If anything, I’m the one who brought us all together.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I’m clearly the glue.”
“Samuel, please enlighten me.” I cross my arms and lean against the window so I can get a good look at his face. The setting sun and dim streetlights glow in the spaces between his curls like soft embers beneath burning wood.
“Gladly.” He nods. “You and I are obviously good friends.”
“Oh, obviously.”
“Agatha and I are tight enough that she turns to me for help with bra shopping when you’re too busy talking to your plants in your backyard,” he continues, and if he weren’t driving, I’d throw one of his encyclopedias at him. “And then, of course, Lindsay and I have our tragically slow-burn, but still budding, romance.” He gives me a quick, satisfied smile. “Get it? Budding?” He leans over a little, eyes still on the road, and lowers his voice. “Because you like flowers.”
I push him back toward his seat. “I got it. But I’ve identified a few problems with your theory.”
“All good theories are controversial.” He beckons for me to proceed.
“Well, for starters, you went bra shopping with Ags one time when I had pneumonia and you two were already at the mall.”
“A minor discrepancy.”
“Secondly, I would not precisely call your ‘budding romance’ with Lindsay something that is unifying the group because, my third point, where does Wesley come in?”
“Easy,” he says as we stop at a red light. I try not to let the color remind me of Talia’s nails. “Wesley is my counteropposite in the group.”
“Please explain what the hell a ‘counteropposite’ is?”
“Wesley is quiet and likes to drive a fancy car and doodle with his beefy arms. I am loud and use my spindly legs to dance and drive my admittedly cheaper, but ultimately cooler and more hipster-esque, car,” he finishes as we turn down our street.
“You’ve been talking a lot about Wesley’s beefiness lately.”
“Attacking me personally won’t invalidate my theory, Ophelia.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that foolproof logic.”
“Thank you.” He smiles as he parks between our houses and kills the engine. “Don’t hold this against me, but I actually think Talia and Zaq are pretty cool. Even though I’m pretty sure Zaq wants to kick my ass half the time.”
“Don’t worry, that’s just a requirement for being in the group.” He hugs me goodbye, then flips me off, and I laugh my way out of the car and up my front yard.
“Mom? Dad?” I call out as I step inside the house, wary of the unlocked front door combined with all the turned-off lights.
“Up here!” Mom replies from upstairs. I lock the door behind me and fumble my way through the dark.
“Front door was unlocked,” I say as I give them both a kiss on their cheeks. They’re sitting up in bed, watching a monotone British documentary on Fidel Castro. Mom’s glued to the television, but Dad is scrolling through recipes on his phone. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely uninterested because of the documentary’s seemingly impersonal framing and narration, or feigning it because of his own complicated diasporic feelings about Cuban history.
“I wasn’t sure if you took your keys to school,” Mom says before pausing the documentary. “How did the photo shoot go?”
“It was fun.” I smile and Mom reciprocates. “Lindsay looked … nice.”
“Is she any closer to picking her date?”
“Still could be anyone’s game.”
“Chismosas,” Dad mutters, still on his phone.
“And what about you?” Mom asks cautiously. “Still no one you’re interested in?”
“Mo-om,” I whine. Dad looks up, clearly fearing an argument brewing.