“That they’re skanks. And right now, confirming everyone’s opinion of me is the last thing I need to do.”
He quietly studied me, squinting. “Nah, that’s not what this is about. You care even less what those Park Prep clones think than I do. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. So tell me, princesa, how long before you stop thinking I’m a skank?”
Step. Back.
“Don’t you dare ‘princesa’ me, Mackenzie Rodriguez. It’s not like I’m making this up. How long did you date Monique after you marauded her at the welcome-back junior picnic? How long did you and Lizzie last after you did the vertical grind at junior prom?”
“It’s called the reggaeton.”
“Is that also the name of what you two did in the parking lot after? I’m trying to keep you in my life. I’m not trying to be that girl who—still—buys you energy water at your soccer matches months after you dumped her. I realize your brain might be kind of fuzzy because you haven’t kissed anyone for a record-breaking number of weeks—”
“Weeks? Try, like, almost four months.”
“But history doesn’t lie, Macky. We’re essentially perfect as is. We see each other all the time; we’re constantly on txt. You practically equal my favorite. Do you really want to mess with that?”
“For the chance to kiss the girl I like? Yeah, I’m willing to take the risk.”
“But I’m not. And for what it’s worth, my biggest priority right now isn’t hooking up—”
“Neither is mine.”
“—and that doesn’t make me a high-maintenance princess.”
Fine. Maybe I’d been suppressing some resentment. And maybe my delivery was harsh. But it didn’t make any of what I said less true. He sprawled away from me, frustrated. Grabbing onto his headboard, he stretched backwards so I could just see his perfect stomach.
“I’m not the opposing side, Kyla. You don’t need to decimate me.” When he sat back up, his features were smooth again. “So indefinitely, then. The answer is you’ll hold my past against me indefinitely. Bien, bien. Ahora yo sé. Somos solo amigos, Ms. Cheng.”
In an exact mirror of his mom, whenever Mac got flustered or upset, he spoke more Spanish.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad. Just, no lo sé, disappointed.”
I didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. We’d never talked about any of this before—it just kind of lived between us—and when I’d imagined doing so, things went smoother and there was more hugging involved. Maybe this was where he rolled his eyes and said, What am I going to do with you? Because he realized that the question was more what would he do without me. I couldn’t deny that he was right. Barring the completely inappropriate timing, I wanted to date Mac. So how long would it take to stop worrying that doing so would mean losing him?
“Maybe we can just table the discussion until I can sort out the video mess.”
“Sure. Aces.” He got to his feet and pulled on a hoodie. When I got to my feet, Mac lightly put a hand on my shoulder. “Can I just ask one favor?”
“Okay…” I stretched the word out with wariness.
“Do you think maybe we can be, I don’t know, less affectionate? ’Cause I know we’re only friends, but sometimes we act like more, and I think it’ll be easier if I, like, touch you less.”
This day had officially grown as terrible, humiliating, and heart-wrenching as any day ever lived by anyone in that exact five-foot radius. (President Malin always said it was important to keep a healthy perspective.) He let his hand drop. This felt like my driving test all over again. I could see all the errors I was making; I just didn’t know how to correct them in that moment.
So, dumbly, I nodded. Sure. Yes. Less physical touching would be aces, Mac.
BTW, I also failed my driving test.
Mac sighed with relief. “Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Unfortunately, we were standing toe to toe, nearly right on top of each other. This was normally where he’d hop around and pretend to box with me or swipe a finger down my nose or tug my earlobe or flap my hood over my head or fix my bangs or touch me in another hundred little ways that made my tummy constrict.
How were we supposed to say good-bye now that we had “no touching” restrictions in place? How were we supposed to do anything we normally did?
Mac held up his fist. I bumped it with mine.
Oh, terrific.
“Come on, I’ll grab Victor’s bike and escort you home.” Then he scrunched up his nose in a way that meant that whatever was about to come out of his mouth would make for one irritated Kyle. “Unless you’re afraid that might make you skanky by association.”
When I got home, Dad was in the living room, waiting. He clicked pause on the anime he was watching as I collapsed on the couch next to him. Mom and I had a general script to follow at times like these. Huge fight. Tension ebbed. Tension built. Huge fight. Repeat. But this was new ground for me and Dad.
“A new anime, huh?” I said.
“Boy-Kyle turned me on to this one. It’s stupidly good.”
“I’ll believe half of that last sentence.”
Dad snorted. “Audra was here before.”
“She was? That’s weird. I just saw her at dinner. She didn’t tell me she’d be dropping by. Was she okay?”
Dad shrugged. “She seemed great. Spent about a half hour talking with Mom in the kitchen.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, really. They were just chatting.”
“Did she leave me a message?”
“Uh-uh.”
Great. Rub it in, universe. My mom got along famously with everyone except me. As if he could tell this conversation was taking us into choppy waters, Dad cleared his throat and said, “So I found a person.”
“Are you going to get a medal?”
Like Kyle, Dad always laughed at my jokes.
“A lawyer. He deals with cases like ours.” Ours. “He’s rated five stars on LawLink. I told him it was urgent, so he squeezed us in at twelve thirty tomorrow. We’re his last appointment before he takes off for the holidays.”
“Cool.”
What I wanted to say was: Hey, Dad, ever win an argument and still feel like you lost?
Dad patted my knee. “Not a great reaction on my part. Sorry, kiddo.”
I shrugged. “It was mild in comparison to school.”
“Ahh,” he said, like that made him feel worse. “When I was growing up, if I ever complained about anything, your n?inai would say—well, first she would whap me across the back of my head, but then she’d say, ‘Jade doesn’t become a gem without some chiseling first.’ We’ll get through this. And we’ll be stronger and richer for it.”
N?inai.
N?inai would have told me I did the right thing with Mac. “Lots of time for boys,” she’d always said, then tapped her head—brains first. As if my n?inai were sending me a message from the afterlife, my Doc emitted its horror movie–style shriek.
Dad let out a mock mini wail. “Worst ring ever.”
Are you having a good night, pookie?