He winces. “Shit, O. I totally forgot. Linds and I are seeing that new horror movie tomorrow. You know, the one about the lady who murders all her daughter’s boyfriends to protect her from heartbreak?” He pauses. “You can come if you want…”
“I’ve got too much work to do. Besides, you know I can’t handle horror.” I shudder dramatically to hide my hurt. “You guys have fun though.” I muster up what I hope is a convincing smile as we split off toward our individual houses.
“I’m home!” I shout as I slam the front door behind me. I dump my backpack on the end table in the foyer and pointlessly shuffle through the stack of mail. College acceptances have been out for weeks, and most of them came by email. Plus, Sammie and I already committed to North Coast State a few weeks ago, a state school only an hour drive from home. Botany for me and general history for him until he decides on a specific focus. Lindsay is off to Chicago, Ags to LA, and Wesley to San Francisco. Still, I’ve yet to kick the daily habit of checking for a new cheesy postcard promising me an enriching future for the low cost of never-ending student debt.
“Hola, mija,” Dad says, sitting on a stool as I enter the kitchen. The island is crowded with half a dozen cookbooks and glass spice bottles, the smell of them a little overwhelming.
Mom frantically stirs a pot on the stove, brown sauce dotting her pale face. “I thought we agreed yelling wasn’t the most effective way to announce your arrival,” she says as I kiss her cheek, avoiding the sauce below her eye.
“Careful with your word choice, Professor,” I reply. I sit beside Dad and kiss his cheek too. “Its effectiveness was never called into question.”
“Claro que it was the annoyance being debated,” Dad contributes.
“Y tú, Miguel?” she says, wielding her dripping spoon. “Siding with your daughter over the love of your life?”
“She’s got my hair and last name, but that attitude of hers is all you, my love.” He leans over to scrunch my nose.
He’s joking, but he’s not wrong. Dad gave me his brown eyes; dark, wavy hair; and unquenchable love of papas rellenas. My sarcasm, only somewhat ironic love of Shakespeare, and the light smattering of freckles across my cheeks and nose are all Mom.
Mom purses her lips but doesn’t argue. “Why didn’t you invite Sammie in for dinner? We’re going to have plenty of leftovers.” She tosses a bowl of peeled and chopped potatoes into the pot before snatching a spice bottle from Dad to shake generously into the mix.
“Friendly reminder that if you actually want Sammie over for dinner, you might want to buy halal,” I reply as I break off a piece of the hard bread set out to go with dinner. “Like I’ve told you a million times.”
“Make sure to chew that,” she says, ignoring my reminder. Dad rolls his eyes and grabs a piece too.
“?Y cómo está tu novio?” Dad asks, looking knowingly at Mom in the least parentally discreet way possible. Parents with the delusion their daughter’s boy best friend is their future son-in-law really shouldn’t give an extra house key to said boy, even if it’s just for emergencies.
“Cálmate,” I scold. “He’s ditching me to hang out with Lindsay tomorrow.”
“Are he and Wesley still fighting over that girl à la Cold War style?” Mom asks.
“Bringing up the Cold War at dinner with two Cubans is a bold choice,” I joke. She rolls her eyes, and Dad claps his hands twice as he chuckles. “But yes, of course they still are.” I tell them about the bet.
“Warms my heart to see my daughter treating her friends’ romantic lives with the utmost sensitivity,” Mom says.
“Speaking of tomorrow, you’ve got your graduation photos in the afternoon.” Dad nods toward the rose calendar hanging above the sink.
“No te preocupes, I haven’t forgotten,” I reply, but Mom scrambles over to the calendar with a scowl. “What’s wrong?” I ask her, trying to keep a straight face as Dad vigorously seasons the food behind her back.
“I have to look over my students’ final papers this weekend if I’m going to get their grades in the system by the end of the week.” She sighs, running her hands through her straight, light brown hair. She’s an English professor at the liberal arts college just outside town, specializing in Shakespearean texts. It’s not hard to imagine who chose my name, even without knowing Dad is a paralegal. At least they didn’t name me Malfeasance. “I don’t have time to take you, honey. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I can just ask Agatha to take pictures of me in the backyard next weekend. You know, like I wanted to in the first place.” Mom and Dad share a look over my head. “Parentals? I can still see you.”
“You know I think Agatha is incredibly gifted and the sweetest soul to walk the Earth. But the last time you two did a photo shoot in the backyard, you were wearing orange eye shadow and a sparkly green tutu.”
I groan loudly. “Mom, that was an editorial shoot for her designs. She knows how to take boring pictures of me.”
“Mija, your mom already made the appointment,” Dad says. “Though I’m golfing con Alberto ma?ana, entonces no te puedo dar un paseo tampoco.”
“Well, Ags has her cousin’s wedding, so I guess Uber or Lyft it is.”
“You are not getting in the car of a stranger from the internet,” Dad says swiftly. I’m beginning to regret taking a study period instead of driver’s ed last year. “Especially not after that news clip my prima shared on Facebook—didn’t I send it to you?”
I really should put parental controls on the computer. “I’ll figure something else out then.” I visibly cheer myself up for their sakes. Bright smile, voice pitched higher. “I swear, it’s not a big deal. I’ll get another friend to take me.”
I leave the room and head upstairs before they can say what we’re all thinking: I don’t have any other friends.
* * *
I spend the next half hour scrolling aimlessly through Instagram while toying with my new rose-printed duvet, the bright pink flowers complementing my lavender bedroom walls. I see so many promposal pics that I actually start to miss college commitment posts. Until I see Jeffry Adebayo got into Harvard, and then I just miss classic selfies and faux candids.
I toss my phone aside and get up to splash water on my face, the anxiety of encroaching prom, graduation, and college making me feverish. I tuck my hair behind my ears, the length almost reaching my shoulders now, and hold back my bangs before wetting my face. Pushing aside long-term thoughts, I refocus my attention on how I’m going to get to my grad pics tomorrow.
When I reopen my phone, I see Wesley shared a post from Zaq, advertising his photography services for senior portraits and prom pics. I scroll through the post, all gorgeously framed shots of our classmates, then click on Zaq’s profile. I freeze on the most recent photo.