I don’t want to pull away.
Finally, everyone starts to clear out from under the umbrellas, and Evan and I are forced to let go.
I dive in the water.
Mila and Evan both follow me in. Without saying anything about the tomato attack or the sudden kiss or the touch of his strong fingers around mine, we lead the cleanup of the tomato bombs from the bottom of the pool.
The strange thing is, while I’m stunned by my own choice to kiss him, I don’t feel the panic that I did mere minutes before.
As I dive the eight feet underwater, searching for the drenched fruits, I am strangely calm, strangely happy. All I can think about is how fine I am in this moment. I know I should feel upset about Sammie, about this sudden strange entanglement with Evan, about the consequences of all my bad decisions.
But none of that is weighing on me at all.
All I can think about is diving down to the bottom of this pool to find these tomatoes.
I am right here swimming. I am right here laughing. And that’s enough.
The last hour has been absolutely absurd and absolutely wonderful.
For the first time in a very long time, I feel fine.
I feel really, really fine.
*
When we get back upstairs, Mila is still hyper from the tomato attack. I open the door, and she runs to the window. “I can’t see anything from here,” she whines. “Could we go up to Sammie’s? She said she can see right into his apartment, right?”
“We’re not bothering Sammie right now,” I say.
My mom, who’s sitting at the dining room table, looks up from her papers. “What are you two talking about?”
“The Nut!” Mila exclaims, her forehead still pressed against the window. “He went crazy today! Threw tomatoes at us! It was awesome!”
My mom looks at me. “Are you talking about Professor Cox?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “He stood on his balcony and threw like fifty tomatoes at us.”
“Made a huge mess!” Mila turns from the window. “Do you think he’ll be arrested?”
“Someone called the police?” my mom asks.
“No. Not yet. I mean, I don’t think so,” I say. “But one guy, some upset dad, was threatening to. I don’t know if he did.”
“That would be a shame,” my mom says. Then she grabs her phone to text someone. I lean over close enough that I can see she’s texting Sammie’s mom.
“What’s his story, Mama?” I say.
She pulls her phone from my view and shakes her head.
“Come on,” I say. “Tell me. What’s going on?”
“None of it is your business,” she says, still texting. Then she puts down her phone. “Your father called today.”
“Daddy called?” Mila runs from the window to the table. “Is he home? Where is he?”
My mom bites the side of her mouth and then says, “No. He is not home.”
“But wait,” I say. “When I talked to him, he said he’d be home by now.”
“You talked to Daddy?” Mila yells at me. “I want to talk to Daddy! I haven’t gotten to talk to him in like a month!”
My mom ignores Mila. “He said he might be home by now. Not that he definitely would.”
Mila’s crying now. “I want to talk to Daddy!” she repeats. “It’s not fair! You guys get to talk to him, but I don’t. I’m never part of anything.”
“Mila. Sit down.” My mom shuffles some papers out of the way. “Both of you. I need to talk to you.”
I don’t like this. I was just in a good mood—the best mood—and I want to stay that way, even if it’s for one night. Or at least for more than ten minutes. “I don’t want to.”
“Viviana, come on,” she says. “Sit. This is important.”
Mila’s looking at me through her wet, glossy eyes for a cue of what to do, so I sit down. Mila wipes her nose with her sleeve and takes the chair next to me.
“Your father won’t be home for a while,” my mom says. “Not until September.”
Mila doesn’t understand. “So Daddy won’t be home for our birthdays?”
Mila and I were born 7 years and 364 days apart—her birthday is on the third of July, and mine is on the fourth. I remember being mad at my mom that she couldn’t hold Mila in one more day so that I could have a baby as my birthday present.
My mom shakes her head. “He is busy with this job. And, well, when he comes back in September, he will find a new apartment and move his things then.”
So that’s it. It’s official. It’s happening.
“What are you talking about?” Mila asks. “What does that mean?”
“It means the trial separation is over,” I say. “It means they’re getting a divorce. It means they tried being separated and they liked it better than staying married.” The words spill out, and I know they come out as mean, as maybe too direct, too honest for an eight-year-old’s ears, but my mom’s only going to try to mince words, to soften the blow, and I’m sick of not talking about what’s really happening.
“I did not use the word divorce,” my mom snaps at me. “Please don’t say it like that. You’ll upset your sister.”
Mila is crying, but that’s only to be expected. “That’s not my fault. You can’t blame me for her being upset.”