The other guy looked at him but kept on with his story, turned a little to push Victor and me out of it.
Victor forced his way closer, came up a step to stand next to me inside the doorway. He pointed his fork in my direction.
—You went to Hialeah Lakes, he said.
He leaned against the doorframe and slipped another chunk of avocado in his mouth. I reached up and back with the hand holding the fork to tug my ponytail forward and drape it over my shoulder, but I accidentally poked myself in the cheek with the fork’s tines.
—Yeah? Yeah, I did.
Having gone to the same high school didn’t mean much when a few thousand people a year could say the same thing: he might as well have said, I know you, you’re from Miami. But he still hadn’t faltered in his eye contact. He didn’t seem to need to blink. His chewing looked more like teeth grinding, the small silver hoops in his earlobes dancing a little with the motion of his jaw. Thanks to the help of the streetlights illuminating parts of the backyard, I made out the surprise of red hair glinting from his chin.
—Oh shit! he said. He repeatedly stabbed his fork into a greasy plantain and smiled. You used to go with Omar, right? You’re that smart girl.
—I’m not that smart.
I’d said this too many times to guys from Miami, though the reflex had never kicked in up at Rawlings, didn’t show up, for instance, when I talked about lab with Ethan.
—But yeah, I said, I go with Omar.
—Oh so you’re still going with him?
I rolled my eyes, mostly to see if I spotted my mom anywhere. She hadn’t turned up behind me, and I didn’t hear her voice in the crowd. Victor stroked his chin in mock concentration. His fingernails were ringed with dirt, and I imagined his hands wrist-deep in a car engine. I let my bag slip off my shoulder, let it dangle in a way that I hoped looked casual and that tugged down my shirt a little from the side.
—No, I said. Sorry, I meant what you said. Used to. See how I’m not smart?
He laughed like fast hiccups—too rough—but still stared at me while he jerked his shoulders and bent forward. I decided to think of him as intense—as one of those intense guys looking always for the one woman who gets them—and made myself stare right back at him. He picked up the plantain he’d basically shivved and flung it in his mouth, all without looking at anything but me.
—So you know my mom? I said.
He shook his head no.
—I know of your mom. Like how I know of you.
I nodded and said, Okay. You know of my mom.
—Don’t change the subject, he said. You’re that girl that went to New York for some scholarship.
I smiled, said, Yeah.
He made ticking noises with his tongue. So did you cheat on Omar up there?
I squealed What? as my bag swung and hit the doorframe. Rice spilled from my plate.
—I see it all over your face, he said.
He laughed again, big stuttery bursts, shoulders jumping. Then he finally looked away and down at his plate, mumbled, I’m-kidding-I’m-kidding.
He smashed an avocado piece into mush under his fork tines. I decided to laugh, too, giggled a halfhearted Whatever, bro as I lowered my bag to the floor.
—Why have I never seen you here before? he said.
—I’m just down for the weekend. Just visiting.
His face snapped back up and I tried to match his new stare without smiling but couldn’t hold it back. My teeth came out like a white flag.
—Oh so you’re a visitor, he said. I got it. Hey guys, she’s visiting.
But no one outside even looked at him. He lowered his voice and said just to me, You might want to visit the beach too. While you’re visiting. Fucking ghost.
—Funny, I said.
He used the edge of his fork to nudge a single grain of rice around his plate. He pushed the grain all the way to the plate’s edge, then laughed at it for a few seconds.
—So! he said. He dropped his head down so that it was closer to my face, gave me an exaggerated scowl. You think Ariel should go back or stay here?
He reached out with his fork and stole a piece of avocado from me even though he had plenty on his own plate. I knew I should just say Stay here, but I still thought maybe we were flirting, the green eyes making me feel like we were someplace else.
—Why are you asking me that? I raised one side of my mouth. Why do you think I’m here? You know my mom is –
—I know of your mom. Get it right.
He pointed the fork at my face again and closed one eye, shifted his weight to his other foot.
—No wait, he said. Why are you here? That’s actually a good question.