I race down the stairs in pajama pants and a Level 8 State Championships sweatshirt. The person at the door could have something to do with Richard–
I throw open the door to find not a military man with a somber face, but Marcos. He’s wearing an orange Texas Longhorns sweatshirt and jeans, and as soon as I blink at him with bleary eyes, he smiles. “Good morning. What time do you need to be at the gym?”
“Uh.” I look down at my shirt to check for toothpaste stains or drool. Marcos’s gaze drops, taking in my getup. I feel my ears heat up under the scrutiny of his eyes, the way his smile slowly spreads. God, what time is it? Mornings have never been my forte. “Eight forty-five.”
“Great, so we have plenty of time.”
“For?” The breeze blows cold and I wrap my arms around myself.
“A driving lesson,” he says cheerfully. “Once you pass your road test, you won’t need anyone to drive you to school or the gym.”
“We couldn’t have done this at a normal hour?”
“I work a double today.” His smile slips. “I’m sorry. I thought it would be fun to surprise you.”
“No, this is awesome,” I say hastily. “Let me, um, get shoes or something.”
When you’re not desperately wishing you were warm and sleeping, you find Ponquogue kind of beautiful in the morning. There’s so much light, and it comes in at angles you’ve never paid attention to. And you’re a little less nervous about driving, even though you’re next to your boyfriend who may like you a lot less if you crash his car, and in fact you’re not nervous at all, because you can easily convince yourself that you’re still asleep.
There’s no music or conversation. Only the groan of the engine and better yet, no traffic. Marcos doesn’t flinch when I stop short, barely missing a jogging couple in matching green Spandex. Once in a while he’ll offer encouragement. “I think if you speed up a little here, you’ll still be good, know what I mean?” he says when I cruise by Ponquogue Elementary School at five miles per hour.
After an incredible parallel park behind a Mercedes (I need to do this sleep-deprived driving more often), I feel empowered. “Bagels? On me. If you win the scholarship, you’ll owe me one.”
“If you insist,” he agrees. “If I win the scholarship, I’ll owe you anything you want.”
We walk into Bayside Bagels, Marcos all fresh and crisp with his hair smelling like coconuts and me in the running for a Ponquogue version of The Bachelorette in my pajama pants and sweatshirt. In my smoothness at the counter, I drop my bag. Marcos bends down and comes up with my driver’s permit in his hand. “‘K.S. Gregory,’” he reads. “Have I met her?”
“I’ll take that back now, thank you very much.”
He holds it out of reach, using the few inches he has on me to his advantage. “Katherine? Kara? Karma?”
“Marcos I-Don’t-Know-Your-Middle-Name Castillo, put the permit down and nobody gets hurt.” I take a swipe at it.
“Marcos Alonzo Rodriguez Castillo.” He wheels around. Andreas was right–the boy does have athletic skills. “Kelly, Kristina…”
We’ve attracted onlookers; an older lady with her fleece sweatshirt zipped up to her chin inspects us, and I brace myself.
“Can you believe that?” she says to her companion. “Kids up early on a Saturday? Who would have thought?”
Momentarily distracted, Marcos lowers his arm, and I snatch the card from him. “Kaitlyn, by the way.”
“Kaitlyn.” He says it with an unreasonably large grin. “What’s wrong with that?”
“I like ‘Savannah’ better.”
“So if I call you Katie–”
“How about you help me pass my road test, and then you can call me whatever you want, okay?”
“It’s a deal.” He offers his hand and I shake it, both of us pulling back slowly without letting go.
We sit next to the window and watch the baymen gather their nets and lines, tug on thick boots, and make their way down the docks. From here, they look unafraid of the biting cold water. The breeze ruffles the long hair that sticks out from under their knit caps. The red and blue buoys bob in the bay, waiting, riding the white curling tips of waves.
“How was work yesterday?” Marcos adjusts the salt and pepper shakers so that they line up perfectly.
I launch into the story of a child’s elbow colliding with my skull and he laughs, drawing more glances from people leaning over coffee and newspapers. The looks are fleeting. Caffeine and bold-typed headlines are more concerning than us.
Nobody at Bayside Bagels cares.
My feet swing under the chair and once in a while I look up from my sesame seed bagel to find Marcos watching me. He smiles each time I catch him, dimples widening.
Seven forty-five a.m. Does this count as a date?
WE PULL UP in front of my house at eight fifteen, which gives me another fifteen minutes to locate a leotard and attempt a power nap before Emery picks me up so I can teach (and she can nap) before practice.
“What were you and Cassie whispering about yesterday?” Marcos asks.
The golden rule of best friendship: be at odds with one another, but always stand united against the world.
You need an ultimatum.
My stomach twists. How can I do that after he showed up at my house this morning with a smile on his face, ready to let me get behind the wheel and possibly endanger him?
“Cass had some stuff on her mind,” I say evasively. Technically it’s not a lie.
“Did it have to do with the dirty look she gave me when I high-fived you?”
I snort. Subtle, Cass.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Marcos straightens up.
“I gotta get ready for the gym.” My fingers slip around the handle. “Thanks for the driving practice.”
Before I can tug open the door, he says, “I don’t mean to offend you, but you’re different around Cassie.”
Don’t mean to offend means that I am already halfway to offended. “How so?”
“It’s like you wilt when she’s in the room.”
“Thanks.” One swift tug, and I’m out of here.
“Stop. Let go of the handle.”