“Seriously.” Jeremiah nods in agreement.
“That’s me,” I admit, already regretting the recognition I craved just minutes before. The last thing I want to be is the professor’s little kid, especially in front of a cute boy. I wonder if I could bring up Northanger Abbey now. I’ll even recite some Blake if that’s what it takes to move on.
“You know, I actually get the name thing now,” Jeremiah says before I can speak.
“The name thing? Oh yeah, well, you know my mom’s super into Shakespeare, and she always loved Ophelia—”
“No, not your name. Your mom’s last name. I mean, she’s white as hell,” he says in a way that feels like he’s ignoring that he’s also white as hell. “It makes more sense looking at you.”
“Jeremiah,” Coleen huffs, rolling her pale eyes.
“What?” He furrows his brows at her. “What, do you want me to pretend not to see color or some shit?”
“It’s okay,” I lie, voice weak. I don’t have the energy to play the whole Yes, My Mom And I Have Different Skin And Hair Colors, What A Concept game today. Not to mention explaining the vast array of Latine skin tones and hair types in the world. “I look a bit more like my dad.”
Jeremiah nods, looking satisfied. I grab some punch, which I hope is virgin, and follow them to some seats off to the side. The living room is crowded with mismatched tables and sofas, and most of the attendees are clustered in little groups, snacking and chatting. It’s been so long since I’ve come to one of these, I guess I played up the age difference in my head. Swap out the classical music David is playing for some rap or EDM and it might as well be one of Linds’s kickbacks.
“You’re older than I thought you’d be,” Jeremiah says as we sit, and I’m painfully aware of the way my dress is riding up my thighs. He seems to be too. “The way your mom talks about you, I thought you were, like, twelve.”
I laugh nervously. “I’m graduating high school in a few months.” I hoped I’d sound mature, but it comes out defensive. “I didn’t know she talked about me that much.”
“Oh yeah, she bragged about you and your rose gardening all the time,” Coleen chimes in. “Every time we read anything with floral imagery, she had to remind us.” Her words sound a little catty, but her smile says otherwise. I watch her eyes flicker between me and Jeremiah. “Sounds like you’ve got an impressive green thumb.”
“She also talked about your ‘little crushes,’” Jeremiah adds. My bite of watermelon lodges itself in my throat, and it takes several seconds of coughing before it plops wetly out of my mouth and onto my plate. I don’t even have time to be embarrassed about it.
“What?”
“Oh, leave her alone,” Coleen says, but it’s not very convincing. “She never said anything bad, just mentioned you being a big romantic—and not in the literary sense.” She laughs at her joke, and I’m reminded why I’m staying away from this field of study.
“So, are you coming here next year?” Jeremiah asks.
“No, I’m going to North Coast for botany,” I reply, grateful for the change of subject.
“That’s a major?” he asks, astonished. I nod. “That’s so sick.”
“But a shame,” Coleen says. “We could seriously use another Rojas around here next quarter. The entire English department is teaming up with the drama department to host a series of Shakespearean adaptations. We’re actually working on Hamlet, funnily enough.”
Jeremiah rolls his eyes and makes an angry, throaty noise. “That sounds cool,” I say. “Are you doing anything special with it?”
“Oh, just wait until you hear this,” Jeremiah says. I look at Coleen, confused.
She ignores him. “My team wants to cast Hamlet as a girl. You know, make him and Ophelia lesbians.” She makes a weird, shaking motion with her hands when she says “lesbians.”
My heartbeat picks up. “Oh?”
“Yeah, it was our director’s idea. She’s the head of our school’s gay club, or whatever, and wanted to play up all the homoerotic potential. I’m cool with it, you know, ’cause it’ll make us stand out and probably attract publicity around campus.”
“Oh come on,” Jeremiah groans. “The only reason your team agreed was because you guys know more people will show up if they get to see some girl-on-girl action onstage. Plus, if anyone criticizes the production, your director can just blame it on homophobia instead of her shit directing.” He downs the rest of his drink.
“You’re just mad that your proposal to make the play take place after World War II wasn’t selected by the committee,” Coleen teases while I try to calm my breathing. Suddenly, the chatter in the room sounds like buzzing.
“Whatever,” he scoffs. “I’m just pissed that the committee is pandering to a bunch of queers instead of focusing on actual creative ideas. Seriously, it’s just a bunch of PC bullshit. Besides getting to watch two chicks rub up against each other onstage in tight corsets, what’s the point of making the characters a couple of dy—”
I’m not sure what happens. One second, I’m sitting beside Jeremiah and Coleen, feeling his leg press against my bare skin as he speaks. The next, I’m standing and he’s cursing me out, soaked in punch.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Jesus Christ.” He flicks his hands, and red splatters against the floor. The scent is sweet and fruity, floating off his white shirt.
“Hamlet would be a great lesbian,” I say before running out of the room and out the front door. I feel eyes on me as I leave, only realizing how quiet the room was when I hear Coleen call after me. In anger or concern, I’m not sure.
My forehead is pressed against Mom’s car window, and I finally let go of my now-empty cup. I don’t hear anyone come outside, but I still don’t jump when I feel a familiar hand on my shoulder.
“?Qué pasó con ese gringo?” Dad asks evenly. “Did that boy do something?”
I ignore his questions. “Is Mom mad?” I ask, and my voice comes out so high, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. He pulls lightly on my shoulder, forcing me to face him.
“Mija, what happened?” He takes a shaky breath. “Did he touch—”
“No! No. I’m fine,” I lie. “I just, I really don’t want to—can we go home?”
He doesn’t look satisfied, but when the first tear spills over, he softens his expression and nods. Promising to be right back, he runs inside. I count the seconds until he returns with his jacket and a frown.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask as he unlocks the car. I hesitantly get in the passenger seat.
“David offered to give her a ride home,” he says as he starts the car. The hum of the engine fills the car’s silence, and I pick at a drop of dried punch on the hem of my dress. I wonder if Agatha knows how to remove stains.