For crying out loud, can the guy take a hint? I don’t want to talk about Emery because that twists right back to “when are you going back to gymnastics?” and the fact that Marcos, despite his handsome face and one crooked tooth and excellent shoulders, just doesn’t get it.
“I’m sorry.” His tone is no longer teasing. It’s soft now as he leans on the table, trying to make me look at him. The smell of coconuts and fresh laundry come closer. I’m eyeing the wall above him sternly–I am– except my heart’s galloping again. “Sometimes I don’t think. If I see it, I’m gonna say something.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
He crosses the finger with the scar. “No more snooping. Promise.”
My lips lift in spite of themselves. I decide to play a game called How long can Marcos Castillo go without asking a question?
He flips through his planner, revealing line after line of tiny block letters. “So I could use your help with triangles.”
This I can do. My father might actually be less pissed at me if he catches wind of this. “Okay, what aspect?”
“Cosine, tangent, cotangent.” His face flushes ever so slightly. “The works, really. Know what I mean?”
“Do you have any specific problems you want to work on, or are you looking for more of a smorgasbord?” How long does it take him to write with such meticulous penmanship? I see “5 to close” written down for today and something’s scribbled in for Saturday–
The planner whisks away. “Ah-ha! Now you’re the one spying.”
At least I’m working on those extracurricular activities Dad was harassing me about.
Marcos flips through his textbook. “Just when I think that I have sines down, they have to go and throw a wrench into things with cosines.” He looks up at me with a self-deprecating grin. “Do I sound like I know what I’m doing?”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d put you at a solid six right now.”
He shakes his head. “Uh-oh. Wait until we get to cotangents.”
For the first time since I landed on the ground screaming in April, I’m excited about what’s next.
IN BETWEEN TEACHING Marcos about cofunctions, I learn that he works at Pav’s Place twenty-five hours a week, that he swears up and down their fried avocado tacos are heaven, and that he has an older brother named Victor with whom he shares a car.
When I tell him that Richard was on Ponquogue’s first state championship team, he leans back in his chair. “You were exposed to soccer greatness and never played?”
“Too boring.”
His jaw drops. “Boring!” The freshmen at the computers giggle at his outburst.
I ignore the heat burning my ears. “It’s glorified running.” The only kind of running I used to enjoy was toward the vault, but that was sprinting for something higher, faster, better.
I wonder again why he’s not on the team. Perhaps he tried out and didn’t make the cut. It’s possible that working so much would interfere with practice and games. Wouldn’t he have said that outright, then?
He places both palms firmly on the table. “I’m going to change your mind, Savannah Gregory.”
Go for it. When he says it like that, maybe I need to keep an open mind after all.
The wooden doors swing open and Cassie flies through. She’s a hurricane in a blue dress, her beaded bag bouncing against her hip and her hair half-tugged up into a ponytail while the other half streams free. “There you are, Savs.”
“What’s the matter?” I say automatically, because by virtue of her presence, something important is happening. Cassie’s not one for the library. “Too many dead texts,” she calls it.
“We need to go,” she says.
“We do?”
She loops her arm through mine, stronger than usual. “I have to show you something. See you later, Marcos.”
I almost pull back. Can’t she wait?
Marcos’s brows furrow, but all he says is, “Thank you so much, Savannah. I’ll bring you tacos tomorrow.”
Tacos. That gets Cassie’s attention, but her blue eyes focus on me instead. “Let’s go.”
I wave to Marcos as Cassie moves us along with surprising speed. She steers me straight to the courtyard. As we step outside, the first droplets of rain fall. Shielding her camera with one hand, she presses a button to illuminate the tiny screen.
This is what she had to rush me out of the library for?
Her bitten-down thumbnail presses briskly through a series of photos. Waffles, her cat, glaring at the camera; Juliana in the cafeteria, hands raised in the middle of talking; the sunset, burning and brilliant. The photos are perfectly focused and balanced. She really could work with greeting cards if she wanted to.
“There.” UCK YOU SPICS. The black-and-white photo makes the locker text ominous.
“I can’t believe they still have no idea who did it.”
“I have a theory.” The screen goes dark. “But that’s not why I wanted to show you.”
The rain picks up force, and I hastily tuck my hair into the hood of my sweatshirt. Since all of my gymnastics sweatshirts are on the Do Not Wear list, this one’s a hand-me-down from Cass that says, “Ponquogue Rocks!” with dancing starfish. By hand-me-down, I mean that it last fit her in sixth grade.
“I know it’s exciting that Marcos is into you,” she begins. “As he should be. You’re awesome. But he’s no saint.”
I’m not so convinced that he’s into me. Into my knowledge of trigonometry, I’ll give her that.
“At that guy Nelson’s in El Pueblo, a bunch of guys from the Galway Beach soccer team showed up and things got out of hand. Fast.”
How come this is the first time I’m hearing about it? Cassie’s all about the breaking news, the here and the now. Ruminating on previous events and contemplating the best time to discuss them, not so much her style.
“He punched a guy, Savs.” She looks at me without any kind of wink wink. The worry is palpable. “I heard Andreas and Juliana yelling, and the next thing you know, Marcos put this kid on the floor. It was unreal.”
Marcos–who smells cotton-fresh, who helped me change my tire and frets over cotangents–punched a guy? I try to imagine the hand with the scar connecting with someone’s face. “Was he provoked?”