I walk to the bottom of the stairs. “Hello?”
No response. Normally Carly’s little sister, Ana, is my shadow—fluctuating between a curious kid who peppers me with questions and an awkward preteen who’s trying to figure out how to flirt. It drives Carly crazy—which could be why they were fighting. Though they’re always in these huge fights—followed by dramatic apologies and what seems like instant forgiveness. Having spent my first seventeen years as an only child, I can’t imagine Sophia and I will ever have that type of volcanic relationship.
“Carly?” It’s a well-established rule that I’m not allowed on the second floor, but it’s uncomfortable to stand here and bellow, so I go up a few steps and try again. “Carly? Are you almost ready?”
Her door opens. She dyed her hair a few weeks ago, and I’m still not used to it being cinnamon colored. She’s wearing jean shorts and a black T-shirt that slides off one shoulder so I can see a hot-pink strap underneath. It’s either a tank top or a new bra—I’m hoping for the second.
“Hey. You ready to go?”
She nods and calls back over her shoulder, “Papai, I’m leaving. I won’t be late.”
It’s her mother who meets us at the door, giving her daughter a long look and a hug. I get a quick nod as she holds the door open.
Either Carly has been in a brutal mood or something’s up.
“Where do you want to eat?” I reach for her hand, but she’s holding her cell phone.
“I already ate,” she says. “Why are you so late?”
It’s barely five. I’m tempted to make a joke about her catching the early-bird dinner with Avó, but she huffs out a breath, so I answer her question. “I got stuck on Sophia duty.”
She rolls her eyes.
I pull her into a hug beside the hood of my car. “I missed you this week.”
She puts a hand on my chest and leans back to look me in the face. “Can we skip Jeff’s party? Let’s go to the state park and talk.”
She means the always-empty parking lot that borders the state park. We must be fine. I kiss her greedily and don’t argue. Carly pulls away to climb into the car. It’s a shorter kiss than her usual greeting—especially since we haven’t seen each other in five days, but like me, she’s got to be impatient to get to the park. I pull out of her driveway and try not to speed for the ten-minute drive.
Talk? Yeah, sure.
I want Carly’s hair between my fingers. I want her voice in my ear. I want to erase the doubts she’s planted in my head lately and forget everything but how she feels.
She bites her lip as I park the car—glances at me out of the corner of her eye with a look that makes me want to stop and thank the inventors of zippers. I know what comes next: she’ll climb over the console into the backseat, squealing “Jo-nah!” when I tickle her on her way by.
But she doesn’t. Instead she fiddles with her seat belt.
I lean across the console to kiss her, but she leans away to apply another coat of her inescapable cherry lip gloss. Then she pauses, the cap in one hand, tube in the other. Both hands fall to her lap. She sucks on the left side of her bottom lip and pulls a knee up to create a barrier between us.
“Okay, Carly, what’s going on?”
She brings the gloss back up to her mouth, touching up the spot she’d been sucking and rolling her lips together. “Where were you really tonight before my house?”
“Watching Sophia. Waiting for Paul to come home and tell me what a failure I am. Why?”
She pulls a folded piece of blue paper from her pocket and flips it over twice, before shoving it back and saying, “I don’t want to go to Jeff Diggins’s party. I want you to take me to one in Cross Pointe.”
“There are no Cross Pointe parties.” At least, not that I know about. None that I’m invited to.
She juts out her chin. “Really? They don’t party in Cross Pointe? What do they do all weekend—listen to Mozart? Eat caviar? Count their money? What?”
“Carly, why do we have to do this again? I thought we were done with this.”
“Because I want to see who you’re with when you’re not here.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not with anyone.” I’m being careful to keep my voice level, but the pauses between my words are a dead giveaway that I’m annoyed she’s brought this up again.
“Are you ashamed of me or something?” she asks. Her chin’s not out anymore. She’s lowered it and is barely looking at me through her eyelashes.
“You’re kidding, right?” I schedule my life around when she’s free for phone calls. I’ve driven an hour round-trip just to watch one of Marco’s soccer games with her, or study next to her at her parents’ kitchen table with our ankles and fingers linked beneath it. “I’m sorry this week was crazy and I couldn’t get over here—” But I don’t know why I’m apologizing. She was the one who was busy, not me. She’s the one who turned me down every time I offered to drive up.