“Everything looks so good,” Talia says as she turns away from the food display. “What do you recommend?”
I crack my knuckles. This is an element I’m well versed in. “If you’re in a savory mood, you can never go wrong with a medianoche or Cubano, just depends on the type of bread you’re into—sweet and soft or salty and crunchy. The bistec empanizado is my dad’s favorite, but be prepared because they go really hard on the breading here. Ropa vieja is a staple of Cuban food, but you can get that anywhere, same with arroz con pollo.” I shake my hands out, antsy with excitement. “My personal favorite though, which isn’t technically a meal, according to my mom, are papas rellenas. They’re like little magical breaded balls of mashed potatoes and beef.” The closest you’ll ever get to tasting heaven, Dad used to say. Julio is still a cutie, but papas rellenas are my main reason for coming here now.
“Some people pack them with onions and bell peppers, or, God forbid, raisins.” I shudder. “But here, they keep them sweet and simple. Meat with light veggies.”
“Wow,” Talia says, mouth slightly agape. “And I thought I was passionate about alcapurrias.” She laughs and presses a finger to her lips, considering. I watch the way the muddy pink flesh dips under the pressure of her fingertip, her bright, flashy nails contrasting with her makeup-less face. “I can’t exactly pass up on the papas rellenas after that recommendation.”
I leave to place our order as eloquently as I can manage with Julio, insisting I pay for the food since she drove me to my appointment, and ignore the tingling sensation in my stomach from hearing her talk about my favorite food.
“Can I ask you something?” she says as she chews a bite of her second papa rellena. I dip my third into the creamy pink sauce, half wishing we also had some oniony ají. I nod, mouth full. “I’m just—I don’t want this to sound like an insult or anything—but I’m surprised you asked me to drive you today.”
“My parents and friends were all busy,” I answer honestly, then kick myself for making it sound like we aren’t friends.
“Oh,” she says, eyes focused on the last bite of her papa. She takes a long sip of pineapple soda.
“But also,” I say, quickly going for the recovery. “You and I never hang out outside of school. I thought, I don’t know, it might be kind of nice to do something together.”
She smiles at this, and I hold back a sigh of relief. “I don’t have many girl friends,” she admits, and I nearly choke on my soda, mishearing her for a second. “I mean, I actually don’t have any. I don’t have many friends in general, but I’m especially lacking on the girl front.” She laughs nervously and downs the rest of her soda, avoiding eye contact.
“Well, you’ve got one now,” I say cheesily. She doesn’t cringe the way I feared she might. “Is it lonely hanging out with just guys?”
“No, of course not.” Her reply is rushed. “It’s not even about their gender—I shouldn’t have brought that up. I love them both, but Wes is closer to Zaq than me. And Zaq, well, he’s not exactly unpopular. It’s just nice to, uh, have a friend of my own. Separate from them, I mean. Though I guess you and Wes are friends, so never mind.” She stares at her fingers as they move to trace invisible designs on the tablecloth, laughing at herself.
That ache, the one I felt at Lindsay’s party all those months ago, burns in my chest again. She’s watching her moving hand, but the other is just sitting on the table, and everything in my peanut brain is screaming out for me to hold it.
But all of a sudden, I hear someone calling Talia’s name from behind me. Her head shoots up as she hears it too. I watch as her expression shifts from confusion to something resembling a deer caught in headlights.
I turn around and see a girl approaching who looks about our age. Her face is young, but her neon red lips, sharply cut black hair, and cheetah-print stilettos make her seem more mature. She struts over, arms full of shopping bags. I’m tempted to take her photo and send it to Agatha for a fashion-inspo board.
“Prima,” the girl coos once she reaches our table. Now that she’s up close, I recognize the familiar shape of her round nose and wide-set eyes. She’s lighter than Talia, with much straighter hair, but the resemblance is there. “?Cómo estás? It’s been so long.” Something about the squint in her eyes and tapping of her nails on the table tells me she doesn’t think it’s been nearly long enough.
“Hi, Dani,” Talia replies tightly. “What’s up?”
“Oh, you know me.” Dani laughs. “Just shopping around.” She lifts her bag-heavy wrists. “My brother just started dating this Cubana who said this place makes amazing pastelitos, so I decided to give it a try.” She pauses, but when Talia doesn’t speak, Dani turns to me, running her eyes slowly over my sitting body. “Who is your friend here?” she asks.
Talia clears her throat. “This is my classmate Ophelia,” Talia replies mechanically. “Ophelia, this is my cousin Dani.”
“Cute name,” Dani says with a smirk, then nods to my garment bag hanging over the empty seat between Talia and me. “What’s in the bag? Did you finally change your mind about that silly little suit?”
“Suit?” I ask Talia.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you!” Dani clasps her hands together. “She didn’t tell me herself either—don’t be hurt. I heard from her dad that she’s wearing a suit to prom.” I look at Talia out of the corner of my eye. She’s gripping her soda bottle so tightly, I’m worried it might shatter. “They barely got her into a dress for her quince, so we shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I’m sure she’ll look beautiful,” I say sincerely. Dani smiles, tight-lipped, her intensity startlingly similar to Talia’s. Her thick false lashes cast deep, sharp shadows across her heavily contoured cheekbones. It’s a little dizzying how similar the two of them look, while still looking nothing alike. Talia is all curves and curls, while Dani is all angles and edges.
I’m tempted to tell her she’s got lipstick all over her front tooth.
“Pastelitos para Danielle?” the abuelita at the counter shouts. Dani waves her hand in her direction.
“I should go grab that,” she says. “But I’ll see you soon, Talia, sí? It was nice meeting you, Olivia.” Dani blows a kiss, then leaves, her echoing steps making me wince.
We sit in silence for a minute before Talia speaks. “Sorry about that,” she says, poking the final papa with a fork.
“It’s okay,” I say, because I don’t know what else to. “She seems … nice.”
Talia snorts, and the tension of the moment dissipates. “No, she doesn’t.” Talia, midlaugh, strands of curly hair falling into her face as she toys with my favorite food, looks a little bit more like the girl I saw in Lindsay’s basement again. “Some of my family is a little … traditional.”
I think of Dani’s crop top and cheetah heels. “How so?”