“You realize your family is single-handedly boosting the Latino population at your school district at an alarming rate,” she joked.
“Not exactly. Vince is away at school.”
“Ah, but holiday break is just around the corner. The numbers are swinging in our favor.”
She was right. My parents’ home was quickly becoming a halfway house for Puerto Rican teens looking to migrate from Utuado.
Alex was visiting as part of a mini-exchange program. Somehow his tiny mountaintop private school had arranged to send him to the States for two months to tour American universities. He would keep up with his classes in Utuado online, utilizing Spring Mills High School’s computer labs, library, and all other facilities. He’d also be passing me in the halls, eating with me in the cafeteria, and bumming rides from my friends.
I glanced around the yellow-and-green guest room. My grandmother, my mom’s mom, used to stay here when she visited. It was decorated specifically for her with the thick plush carpet she preferred, the colors she favored, and an ivy-stenciled border that mimicked her bedroom in Camden. She stayed in the room a lot after my grandfather died. Aside from our maid, hardly anyone had stepped foot in it since she passed away two years ago.
Now it would be Alex’s room. Only I couldn’t picture him in it. I couldn’t picture him here.
Chapter 2
My eyes darted around the cafeteria. Alex would soon be joining the packs of classmates I’d known since kindergarten—the jocks, cheerleaders, band members, mathletes, rockers, and artists. They were all familiar and boring, and now that comforting, predictable dynamic was about to change.
“So you’re kinda moody,” Emily noted as she swallowed a mouthful of yogurt. “I thought that was my job.”
I smirked at her. “It’s the whole Alex thing.”
“Exactly how many Spanish runaways do your parents plan to take in?” Madison asked as she swished her glistening platinum hair over her bony shoulder. “’Cause ya know, for just the price of a cup of coffee they could support entire villages in Africa.”
“Very funny,” I chirped. “Alex is just visiting. He’s not moving here.”
“Like the last one,” she huffed, examining her manicure. She was referring to Lilly.
Ever since the “Cornell incident” last month, when Emily confessed that her mother was having an affair with my locker buddy Bobby’s dad and Madison revealed her secret communications with Evan, she and my cousin had been getting along. Sure, they weren’t about to purchase interlocking best friend charms anytime soon, but they had stopped snarling at each other (most of the time). Emily reminded us that we could have bigger problems.
“Well, I’m excited to meet him. At least one of us has a boyfriend,” Emily stated.
“I have a boyfriend!” Madison squeaked. “Sort of…”
“I thought you and Evan were just talking,” I pointed out.
“We are. I mean, we haven’t labeled it, but he IMs me every night.” She gazed across the cafeteria to where Evan was seated with his wrestling buds.
For the past four weeks, Evan had been secretly contacting my best friend via the Internet and text message. But he had yet to ask her on a date, offer any physical affection (they hadn’t so much as held hands), or acknowledge their friendship publicly. At this point, I felt he was either embarrassed to be involved with her, or he was keeping his options open to be with other girls. Regardless, I hated him for it.
I watched as Madison stared longingly at the wrestling stud; he was utterly oblivious.
“You know, Mad, maybe you should have ‘the talk’ with Evan. Ask him what’s going on,” I suggested, casually dipping a Tater Tot in a mound of generic ketchup.
“No way. I don’t want to look all needy and pathetic. Besides, he wouldn’t call me if he didn’t like me.”
“He doesn’t call you. He texts you,” Emily pointed out before crunching into a carrot stick drenched in ranch dressing.
“It’s the same thing,” Madison muttered.
“Actually, it isn’t,” I said.
Madison snapped her icy blue eyes toward me. “At least I didn’t have to import some guy from a third world country.”
“Puerto Rico is not a third world country! It’s part of the U.S. And I didn’t ask him to come here,” I defended.
“Whatever. Still, not all of us can have guys pining away for us from across an ocean.” Madison shrugged and popped a green grape into her mouth. She was eating a Greek salad for lunch, part of her new vegetarian kick (though I secretly wondered if it was just an excuse to eat less calories unquestioned).
“Yeah, well don’t get too jealous,” Emily stated. “Relationships never last.”
“That’s not true,” I said softly.
The dark circles under Emily’s eyes had deepened several shades over the past month. No amount of yellow under-eye concealer masked them, and there wasn’t much she could do to prevent them given that she spent most of her nights listening to her mother sob into a pillow. Living with a woman who’d gone from confident college professor to self-destructive mistress had been justifiably wearing on her.
“Try telling that to my dad. Of course, you’d have to speak with the concierge at the Marriott because he never seems to answer his phone. I swear, the woman who cleans his hotel room spends more time with him than I do,” Emily muttered.
Madison and I exchanged a look. There wasn’t much we could say. We had spent the last four weeks dissecting the situation, listening to her, supporting her, and offering any advice we could find from Oprah to Cosmo. We were tapped out. The reality was that her father was now living in a Center City hotel and her parents were probably getting divorced. And as much as Madison and I wanted to take that pain away from her, it didn’t look like we could.
“So when does Ricky Martin fly in again?” Madison asked.
“His name is Alex Montoya, and he just e-mailed me his itinerary. I think his flight comes in at 8:00 P.M. on Thursday,” I reminded her. “You still driving?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss the grand welcome of your Latin lover.” She smirked.
“Will you please stop calling him that.”
“Um, no.” She laughed.
I shook my head, smiling.
It’s not often that sixteen-year-olds get to play with fire in an academic facility. But today we were in the midst of a chemistry flame test. It was notoriously known as one of the most fun labs conducted all year, mostly because there was an urban legend that a teacher once accidentally singed a student’s hair off. As a precaution we were all forced to wear goggles and gloves, and tie our hair back securely.
I fidgeted with my tight ballet bun. I had years of experience tying them, but I usually didn’t have to fit the elastic strap of protective eyewear around it. The combination was digging uncomfortably into my skull.
“Okay, the first metal is lithium,” Bobby said, reaching for the solid.
“No, wait!” I grabbed his arm.
The skin-to-skin contact made me immediately uncomfortable. I let go and quickly looked down at my notebook. The last thing I needed was a flashback of us getting caught kissing at Cornell—especially not with Alex about to arrive.
“We have to make sure the wire is clean or it won’t work,” I said.
I dipped our wire into hydrochloric acid and placed it