Pineview is hot. It sounds like there’d be acres of shady redwoods around here, doesn’t it, what with the “pine” and the “view”? Well, no pines around here. No view, either, unless you consider the California Aqueduct and the I-5 worth looking at. Even the spinach fields are dried up.
But the lucky yuppies driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles and back still need gas and food. So despite fallow fields and Valley fever and a nasty drought, Pineview endures—a pimple on the otherwise majestic map of California.
If I was driving by, I’d speed past, telling myself I’d get gas someplace less pathetic. Fortunately most drivers aren’t me.
Since summer started, it’s been busy, busy, busy. Which is good, because private school costs money, money, money, and I’ll need that money in the fall. Though Dad doesn’t seem worried. He threw me a party complete with Stanford colors when I graduated last week. I swear, all forty residents of Pineview came. No, I’m kidding, it was more like fifty people.
Still kidding.
Anyway, my point is that Pineview is unremarkable. Which means that some people who live here just stand out. I’m not one of them. I’m brown, and everyone here is brown. I’m just a different kind of brown—South Asian, instead of Latina.
But Félix Sandoval—he stands out. He’s got that look in his eyes, like he’s doing something with his life. Like me, Félix is going to Stanford. Unlike me, he got a full scholarship because in addition to having annoyingly perfect grades, he is about ten feet tall and plays basketball. We’re probably the only two kids in this entire stretch of the I-5 with a tree as their mascot in the fall. (Seriously, a tree? Come on, Stanford.)
“Poe!”
At first I pretend I don’t hear Félix. I’m in the station’s walk-in freezer, stacking drinks, and it is very plausible that his drill-sergeant bellow wouldn’t make it back here.
“Pooooeeee!”
It’s the stupidest nickname in the world, and I place full blame for it on my AP English teacher. A month ago, he made me read one of my poems out loud in class. It happened to be about death, so Félix started calling me Poe. Which is strange, because we don’t exactly move in the same social circles. My friends play Assassin’s Creed, read J. R. R. Tolkien, and worship Pink Floyd. His friends play basketball, limit their reading to the Taco Bell menu, and worship Floyd Mayweather.
You think I’m exaggerating. I am not.
“I’m in the freezer, Félix! Doing your job!”
I crack my back, cursing Sam—my best friend and the station’s go-to stock boy—yet again for getting himself thrown in jail. (First offense, meth possession. He’d just turned eighteen. His public defender got a reduced jail term by persuading the judge that Sam was using with no intent to sell. In any case: Stupid. As. Hell.)
Félix was a desperation hire, the only person who applied for the job after Dad posted the help wanted sign. Why he applied is one of Pineview’s greatest mysteries (along with why Señor Arena, who manages the Subway attached to our gas station, puts up with his crazy wife). Félix spends more money on one pair of jeans than I spend on iTunes in an entire year. Rumor is that his mom’s a big-shot lawyer who sends him guilt money every month from DC.
When I shared my puzzlement with Sam before he left for prison, he cocked his head and lifted arched black brows I always wanted to trace with my fingertips. “I can tell you why he wants the job,” he said. “But you’d get mad at me.”
“Only because I’m mad at you all the time anyway.” I punched him—a little too hard, maybe. But who cares? He didn’t feel it because Sam’s arms look like they got really hungry one day and swallowed rocks but never digested them.
I drop a case of Coke and head out of the stockroom to find Félix hunched at the counter, peering over my notebook.
“‘Dear Sam,’” he reads out loud. “‘Do they care about—’ Hey!”
“That”—I grab the notebook from his hands and tuck it into my backpack—“is none of your damn business.”
“You’re writing to the gringo, huh?” Félix says. “I thought you were mad at him.”
“I can be mad at him and still write to him.” I point at a tower of soda in the stockroom. “We have to move that entire thing into the freezer before the Coors guy comes at three. Hop to it.”
“Yes, boss.” Félix bows. “You finish your letter.”
“Why, thank you, Félix, that’s remarkably thoughtful of you.”
“Don’t get too excited.” He grins. “I need a favor and I’m trying to get on your good side.”
Félix’s favor is cutting out early so he can take some girl from Joaquin High to the movies. She lives a half hour away, and the movie theater is another half hour away from that. So if he wants to be on time, he has to leave by four. Such is the dating scene in cultured and sophisticated Pineview, CA. I don’t turn back to my letter until Félix is gone and the evening rush has died down.
June 5
Dear Sam,
Do they care about the drought in jail? Do you guys have to use less water? We’re limited to two-minute showers. My dad loves it, says the water bill is lower than ever. Do I even want to know the shower situation in jail? Ha ha. Okay, sorry, bad joke.
The store’s been busy. I must say, I am shocked at the consumption of Subway sandwiches in this country, specifically the consumption of meatball subs, which we all know are the sloppy, gross younger brother of the Philly cheesesteak. How do people digest such foulness?
Anyway, at this rate, I might actually be able to afford half of a book for classes this fall! I wish I played a sport and got a scholarship. Or, you know, had a mysterious great-uncle who could be my educational patron.
You told me not to ask how you were, so I won’t. I hope you’re okay, that your cellmate isn’t a horrible monster. I can’t imagine you taking any crap, but still.
Love,
Ani
June 15
Dear Ani,
Thanks for the letter. My cellmate is all right. Talks in his sleep a lot about someone named Tomas. I think it’s his kid.
Tell your dad I say hi. You think he’d want to hire a meth head once Félix leaves?
Sincerely,
Sam
My favorite time to work at the station is early in the morning, because no one ever wants to pick a fight. Pump’s not giving a receipt? Too tired; they don’t care. Out of Marlboro Menthol Lights 100’s? Too tired; they don’t care.
I’m opening this morning, picking out Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” on the guitar and reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the thirtieth time when Félix comes in. I look up in surprise.
“You don’t get free drinks unless you’re working, Sandoval.”
“Chill out, Poe. I came to keep you company. It’s Tuesday.”
“You take a bath on Tuesdays?”
“You said last Tuesday that you hate the second Tuesday of the month because the gas tanker guy shows up and he’s always a creep.”
Félix waves his hands around a lot when he talks, and I shift back so he doesn’t whack me in the face. It’s been known to happen.
“I thought if there was a big, scary Mexican guy around,” he’s saying, “he might think twice about hitting on you.”
“Félix, you are too pretty to be scary, and you are only three-quarters Mexican.”
“You think I’m pretty?” He bats his dark eyelashes at me. I smack him with the Harry Potter book, and he grins. When he catches sight of my notebook, the grin fades.
“When does he get out?”
“Eight months,” I say. “Six, if he doesn’t screw anything up. Just in time to miss every opportunity to do something useful with his life because he’ll be a convicted felon.”
“Wow, Poe, bitter much?”
“We were supposed to get out of this place together,” I say. “I always thought I’d be a doctor and he’d be a paramedic and we’d work in the same hospital, which is so stupid because paramedics take people to different hospitals, but still.”
“And now . . . he can’t do that.”
“Not unless he waits ten years for his record to clear, and even then, he can’t screw anything up in the meantime.”
“That’s why you’re so mad at him. You guys had this whole boyfriend-girlfriend life plan. With marriage and kids and stuff?”
I squirm. “Sam and I aren’t together. You’ve met my dad. If I even thought about dating a boy, he’d give me a horrible lecture about premarital sex and then I would have to kill myself from embarrassment.”
“That’s like my aunt Tina.” Félix makes his voice shrill and speaks with a heavy accent. “‘You want to keep your scholarship, mijo, you better not even look at a girl! You better not even think about a girl!’”
“Hope she didn’t hear about your hot date the other day.”
Félix laughs and picks at the lint on his jeans. “No danger of that.”
I just give him a look, and he shrugs. “She was nice. Boring. I kept asking her, ‘What do you like to do?’ She didn’t have anything to say.”
“I thought guys liked girls who had nothing to say. Less talk means more . . . you know.” I hit a wrong note on my guitar, and my face gets hot. Ugh, what am I, eleven? Also, Ani, way to play into harmful stereotypes of males.
Félix tilts his head. He’s grinning, but his brown eyes are serious. “Not this guy.”
June 20
Dear Sam,
That was quite an expansive letter you sent. You shouldn’t waste so much paper.
You’re not a meth head. If you’d been as smart as you normally are and refused to get into a car with your idiot brother, this wouldn’t have happened. You’d be in the stockroom instead of too-tall Félix, complaining about how bad my guitar playing has gotten. And maybe we’d have a chance to talk about what happened the night before you got arrested.
Anyway. Don’t mess with the guys who really do that stuff, okay? Stay away from the bad influences. Wait, is that even possible?
Enough about that. Do you read much in there? You want me to send you some books?
Love,
Ani
June 30
Dear Ani,
Books would be good. Nothing to do here but work out and it gets boring. Send me trashed books though. Nothing new. Don’t want them stolen.
Sincerely,
Sam
July 7
Dear Sam,
I have enclosed five books, which you will probably get through in fifteen minutes. They are all on my reading list for English Lit 10A in the fall. Read carefully so I don’t have to!
Dad says you of course can have your job back.
Okay, I tried to be subtle. I hoped you’d bring it up. But that didn’t work. So here goes. What happened between us, Sam? I know you are in prison and you have big things to think about like your life and your future and surviving every day. And I would never say something unless I thought that it was more than just a kiss. Don’t you dare tell me it didn’t mean anything, because I can tell when you are lying, even over mail. We went from zero to sixty really fast, which makes me think that you’d been thinking about it for a while. And that makes me think there’s a lot to say. Only you’re not saying it. So I have to. Except . . . now I’m not really sure what to say.
Love,
Ani
Félix has been working here for almost two months, and I can finally go pee without worrying that he’s going to burn the damn store down.
“Is it six yet?” He comes in from restocking the paper towels at the pumps, and even though it’s about two thousand degrees outside, he’s not sweating. My friends and I used to comment on it at basketball games. Every other guy would look like they’d been dunked in the aqueduct. Not Félix.
“Yeah, you can go.”
Félix nods, hands in his pockets. He takes them out. Then puts them back in.
“Me and some buddies are going to a party in Fresno. You wanna come?” He doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I get the distinct feeling that he’s trying to be nice.
God, how embarrassing. A pity invite. He must think I’m such a loser.
Which I sort of am. Because instead of hanging out with friends, I mostly spend my time at the store, daydreaming about my best friend. About how his hands felt in my hair. And about how his chest felt against mine. And about—
“Uh . . . Poe? You home?”
Crap. “Party! Yes. I mean, no, I—I can’t. I’m uh, I’m—”
“Never mind.” Félix grabs his backpack and practically runs out of the store. He looks mad, which is damn strange because in two months, he hasn’t gotten mad once, even when I’ve been grumpy with him. Before I can say anything, his truck is peeling out of the parking lot.
When he gets back the next morning, he’s his usual cheerful self. And I feel so strange asking about his reaction yesterday that I play along.
July 30
Sam,
Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you. I’m worried. Did something happen?
Ani
The three suits who come into the gas station are going to be trouble. I know it the second they step out of the slick black beamer. Bored, rich Silicon Valley jerk bags, propping themselves up by making other people feel worse.
“Hola.” The white guy who walks in wears boat shoes and a suit jacket over a V-neck. The douche lord of the bunch. He tosses two bags of Funyuns and some beef jerky on the counter. “How’s your day?”
It always starts out like this. Innocent. Polite, even. There’s the lift of the eyebrows. The “look at me, I’m being nice to the locals” look.
“Fine, thank you,” I say. “That will be eight thirty-three.”
“Ooo.” The douche lord’s eyebrows go higher. “Expensive! How about I buy one, get one free, pretty girl?”
“The price is on the bag. If you can’t afford it, maybe just buy one.”
“Oh, I can afford it.” He drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and I’m forced to point to the sign that says I can’t make change for large bills.
Now douche lord is irritated. And embarrassed. A bead of sweat rolls down his pink face. He pauses for a long time, considering me, before digging through his wallet—and handing me a ten. “You’re not very friendly.”
I make his change. He stares at me with watery eyes, his mouth puckering when I lay the change on the counter instead of dropping it in his hand. “Nice-looking girl like you,” he says. “Stuck in a backwater like this. What a waste.”
Ah. Here we go.
“Not even a night school around here to make something of yourself. Guess you’ll be pumping gas forever.”
“Guess so.”
“Well, with an attitude like that, you’re definitely going nowhere fast.”
Usually when this happens, I ignore it. We get a lot of assholes in Pineview, and none of them are worth more than an eye roll. But unfortunately for both of us, I’m in a bad mood.
I grab the bags of chips out of his hands, throw his ten in his face, and point to the door. “I refuse you service,” I say. “Get out of my store.”
For a second, he looks like his head’s going to explode. Then he opens his mouth. “You stupid b—”
The cooler door slams, and Félix’s face is thunderous when he walks out. I take a step back. His shoulders are bunched up, his chin sticking out, and he is not pretty at all. He’s scary as hell.
“You were saying?” He walks right up to the douche lord and keeps walking when the guy starts backing up, all the way to the door. “You heard her,” Félix says at the door. “Get out.”
The guy bolts, muttering something about illegal immigrants. A few minutes later, he and his friends are gone.
Félix mutters under his breath. “Maldito pendejo—”
“Félix, hey—”
“What’s your problem?” Félix whirls on me, and he looks as grumpy as I feel. “You get a dozen guys a day in here like that. You can’t pick fights with all of them.”
I put up my hands. “I was just going to thank you. What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” he snaps, before going back into the freezer. I leave him alone for a while to cool off. (Har har. Because freezer.) When he emerges a half hour later, he doesn’t look quite so mad.
“Sam hasn’t written to me in more than a month,” I say to him. “I’m worried. Why are you upset?”
“Because you care so much about whether Sam has written you that you don’t notice anything or anyone else.” He turns red as soon as he says it, and I’m so shocked that I barely register what he says next.
“All I mean is that you sit here, thinking about this guy who—él se fue, Ani. He’s gone. And when he gets back, you’ll be gone. You could be . . . living life. Having fun. But you can’t stop thinking about him.”
“What do you care?”
Félix looks at me so pityingly that I’m actually embarrassed. Because of course I’m not a complete idiot, I know why he cares, even if I haven’t wanted to admit it.
“Why not just go see him?”
I mumble my answer, and Félix rolls his eyes.
“Inglés, Poe.”
“I never learned to drive,” I say a bit louder. “My dad can’t take me because someone has to watch the store. And before you offer, I do not need—”
“Sábado,” Félix says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Ask your dad if you can have the day off.”
“How do you know visiting hours are Saturday?”
“My cousin Alonso is doing twenty for aggravated assault and armed robbery. Sometimes I drive Aunt Tina out.”
I almost say no. Almost. But I’m too worried about Sam. “All right,” I say. “But you don’t need to babysit me. I can go in alone.”
The prison scares the crap out of me.
The barbed wire, the hard look in the eyes of the correctional officers. The soullessness of the place, like there are probably Dementors somewhere around here. It gives me the willies.
Félix insisted that he wanted to see his cousin Alonso, so he walked in with me. He didn’t mention my bluster from earlier, about going in alone. I’m relieved.
I surreptitiously wipe my sweaty hands on my dress. I decided to wear one because Sam once told me I looked pretty in it, and I want him to know that I remember the things he said. But when I see the way the prison guards look at me, I wish I’d worn my oldest, grossest clothes.
It’s just like in the movies. I sit behind a glass partition, waiting for Sam to show. The woman to my right is crying, pale skin blanched gray. The woman to my left is holding the phone for a little boy. “Papá, Tío Héctor me llevó a ver—” he babbles to his father—who is also crying.
And then I hear a grinding beeeeep, and Sam is led in by a guard. He’s not bruised or limping. In fact, he’s bigger than he was—he shouldn’t have a problem stocking as much as Félix, that’s for sure. But the mop of black hair I’m used to is gone—his head is shaved. And there’s a sullen anger in his expression. It’s the same anger Sam’s brother used to have. But until now, I’d never seen it on my friend’s face.
He picks up the phone. I had a joke ready. I’ve forgotten it.
“I—I was worried about you.” This is so strange and horrible. His eyes are so blank.
“Sorry.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Sorry? Don’t tell me you didn’t have time to write.”
He drums his fingers on the table. Why won’t he look at me?
“I shouldn’t have come.” To my surprise, my voice shakes.
His voice is soft. “Don’t cry, Ani.”
“It’s something in the damn air! Look, it’s not just me. Even that big dude three cubicles over is crying.”
Sam cracks a smile, and my stomach drops. He’s always had the best smile. One dimple pops out, and his big brown eyes, which make him look like a little boy no matter how tough the rest of him is, crinkle just a little bit. It was that smile that made girls come into the store to talk to him, starting three summers ago. Too bad it took me forever to notice it.
“Did you join a white power gang? Is that why you’re not writing to me?”
“Christ, Ani, no.” He looks around, uncomfortable. “I . . . how’s Félix?”
“What the hell does Félix have to do with anything?”
“You mentioned him in one of your letters.”
“Because I’m stuck working with him all day,” I say. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m stupid. I thought—” I wipe my face. “I thought something had happened, but you’re fine. You have more important things to deal with than your stupid friend and a stupid kiss.”
“It wasn’t stupid.” He glances up at me and away quickly. But I almost drop the phone at the look in his eyes. The same look as when he kissed me. Longing—like he needed more and didn’t know how to get it.
“Then why aren’t you—”
“Keep writing,” he says. “If I don’t write back . . . I’m sorry. But please, keep writing to me.”
He hangs up the phone, nods to the guard. A moment later, he’s gone.
My hands are shaking when I walk out. I feel so ridiculous in this dress. Ridiculous coming here and expecting anything more than a dismissal.
When Félix sees my face, he silently opens his truck door, then drives straight to an In-N-Out. He orders me a Coke and a shake and two cheeseburgers and fries, and I already know I’m going to eat it all. He parks on the edge of the lot, the AC blasting. As we’re eating, I stop to listen.
“You like Pink Floyd?”
“After the four hundredth time you played Delicate Sound of Thunder, they started growing on me.”
“You know the name of a Pink Floyd album?”
“Dios mío,” he sighs under his breath. “I also read the first two Harry Potter books, Poe, not that you noticed.”
I’m quiet for a long time. Sam was the one who introduced me to Harry Potter. Before that, I hardly ever read. “He and I have been friends for so long, you know. Such a cliché.”
“When did you fall for him?”
“A few months ago. He was fixing the roof and my dad was up there, laughing at something Sam said. I hadn’t heard Dad laugh since my mom died. I tried to ignore it for a long time. Sam always had girlfriends, so there didn’t seem to be any point.”
“Pero like he had hookups,” Félix says. “You were different. You’re his girl. No one at school ever looked at you, because they didn’t want to deal with him.”
“The worst of both worlds. I’m not his girl, but people think I am. Thanks, Sam.”
“So . . . what happened? Did he go Aryan Nation on you or what?”
“I think he has a lot to deal with. It’s stupid of me not to understand that.”
Félix sighs. I’m glad he doesn’t tell me that I’m not stupid. Or that things will be all right. He just hands me my shake, and turns the music up.
August 15
Dear Sam,
I just had orientation and omg, the kids at Stanford are so rich. But my roommate isn’t. She’s from Palmdale, which is like this backwater of L.A., apparently. We bonded over living in overly hot places with weird people and no money.
I’m excited. Scared too. My English Lit 10A professor sent three more emails after that first one with the reading list. He’s waaay too excited about the start of the year.
Love,
Ani
August 27
Dear Sam,
Did you read those books I sent? If so, please write a thousand-word report and summary on each. Due date is Friday. Kidding. But actually sort of not? Ha ha ha.
I’m so nervous about Stanford, Sam. Half of those kids have been tutored in five languages since before they could walk. I don’t even know how I got in. You helped me with all of my essays. How am I supposed to analyze stupid poems about fish and the withering moors or whatever crap Emily Browning Brontë writes about without you around to explain?
I miss your letters, even though they were insultingly short. The store is lonely without you. Your brother sucks.
Ani
September 9
Dear Sam,
I know I’ve only written three letters. But I don’t know why I’m even doing this. What, you want to hear about my life? I get up. I open the store. I deal with assholes all day. I dream about Stanford. I used to dream about you, but I try not to anymore. I go to parties with Félix every now and then. We danced together at the last one. But it was sort of a group dance . . . like there was a big crowd, so I don’t know if we actually danced together or not. Whatever. I know you care so much about this stuff.
Maybe I’ll go out with him. He smiled at me the other day, and my stomach got a little funny.
But then, when we were at orientation, I saw him talking to this volleyball player. And she was so pretty that even I wanted to make out with her. Also she was twice as tall as me. Like two of me stacked on top of each other would barely reach her forehead. She and Félix would be cute. Not that I care. Do I care? Why aren’t you here, Sam? Why aren’t we having this conversation in person? Is your release date still November 14? Don’t screw it up. Please don’t screw it up.
Ani
September 18
Dear Sam,
This is my last letter before I go to school. My new address is on the inside flap. Not that you’ll write to me.
Ani
September 29
Dear Ani,
Thank you for writing to me. Your letters have made a huge difference. I reread them every day. Maybe a hundred times a day. I think of what your hand must look like as you write them. And your head and how you get really close to the paper and sort of hunch over it like an old granny when you write. My favorite is when you change pens in the middle and I can tell. You need to start throwing out old pens, Ani. Then you won’t have to change them so much. I’m not making fun of you. I love that about you.
Also—I loved your dress, when you came to see me. I know how much you hate dresses. It meant a lot to me. You looked beautiful. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t. I have been thinking about it, though. I can’t stop thinking about it, actually. Or about our kiss. And how it felt to finally touch you, after wanting to for so long. Or about all the other things I want to do with you. To you.
But that stuff doesn’t matter, because this is the last letter you are getting from me until I get out. My release date is still November 14. And I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, maybe. But for now, try to focus on school. Don’t write me anymore. I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to think about me. Go out with Félix—he was always a cool guy. Forget about me. I’m not good for you anyway, and I don’t know how things will be when I get out. It sucks in here. I’ve tried to keep to myself, and it’s lucky I know how to fight. But it’s not always easy.
Sincerely,
Sam
I wait in my room after class for Félix to stop by—a routine that began because we didn’t know anyone else at school, and continued into the winter because it was so much fun.
Nayyana, my roommate, zips up her duffel bag on her way out for the weekend and gives me a giant grin.
“He’s going to make a move tonight.”
“Félix and I are friends.” I’ve said it so often that I should just tattoo it on my forehead.
Nayyana rolls her eyes. “You’re cold, Ani. I order you to have fun tonight.”
“Isn’t the whole point of leaving high school to not have to go to stupid dances anymore?”
“It’s his winter formal!” Nayyana blows me a kiss on her way out the door. “Reject him if you want, but as long as he’s a gentleman, don’t be too hard on him, okay? He’s a good guy.”
“What if he’s not a gentleman?”
“Then punch him in the face, obviously.”
The second she leaves, I kick off my heels—jeweled emerald slippers that match the strapless ankle-length dress that Nayyana insisted I borrow—and check my phone.
I haven’t told Nayyana much about Sam. But after living with her for three months, I’m pretty sure she’s in the “pick the basketball star over the convict” camp. She’d give me an hour-long lecture if she knew I was texting Sam right before going to Félix’s winter formal.
I read over my message again.
Ani: Dad gave me your number yesterday. I’m glad you’re out.
No response yet. Maybe I should have asked a question. He would have been more likely to answer.
At two loud knocks on the door, I jump, dropping the phone with a thud. I shove my heels back on and yell, “Come in!” As I stuff my phone into the ridiculously small clutch I saved from a wedding I went to four years ago, Félix walks in. I’m too embarrassed to look at him, worried that he’ll act strange, or tell me I’m beautiful or something else that would make our friendship seem like less of a friendship and more like . . . something else.
But he just gives me his big Félix smile as he looks over my dress. “Órale. Brings out your eyes. And thanks for doing this—I know it’s not your scene. But Dominic is DJing, so we know the music won’t suck.”
I manage a quick nod, self-conscious as I walk down the hall, my heels bringing me to Félix’s shoulder.
He chatters happily about his game tomorrow, and it’s me who is awkward and quiet. Me eyeing him, noticing how incredible he smells, and how great his jaw is when he actually decides to shave it.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Don’t answer. It’s rude to answer. Surreptitiously, I glance down and try to get a glimpse of the screen.
Sam.
All I catch is a flash of his name before I shove my clutch closed. This is Félix’s night. I’m not going to ruin it by texting someone who thinks it’s fine to ignore me for hours before finally responding.
Félix is right. The music doesn’t suck. And despite the fact that all the guys here are fraternity boys, most of them are cool. Félix and I tear up the floor, and by the time we get into his truck and head back to Palo Alto from the city, I’m buzzing with happiness.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” Félix says when we reach the dorms. “But I don’t want to go to Dom’s after-party either.”
So instead we park and walk through Stanford’s dark campus. I clutch my shoes in one hand, my buzz fading with every second—because Félix is quiet. And he’s never this quiet unless something is going on in that head of his.
We’re passing through the shadow of Hoover Tower when he slows down.
“Ani.” I can’t see his eyes very well in the darkness. But maybe it’s just as well. “You must know by now.”
I’m almost tempted to make it difficult. But that’s just mean.
“I know,” I say. “But . . . Félix—”
This kiss has been coming for months, but it still surprises me. I feel the calluses on his hands as he reaches for mine, hours and hours of basketball practice compressed into a tough knot on each of his palms. His fingers shake a little, nervous with something he’s tried to keep under wraps for ages.
It’s not a bad kiss. It’s not awkward, at least. It’s fine. Nice. I even feel a little flutter—a little bolt of excitement.
If Sam hadn’t kissed me months ago, and if I had never felt that wild electricity with him, then I would probably think that this is just how kisses are. That I’d feel even more the next time I kiss.
You’re overthinking this.
But I’m not. I know I’m not. I pull away.
“I’m sorry, Félix.”
“Qué desastre,” he says. “You don’t—okay, I get it. That’s cool, Ani.” He nods, pulls his hands away. His teeth flash in the dark. “I misread. I’m sorry.”
He’s so apologetic. Such a gentleman—and for a second, I hate Sam and the fact he kissed me. Why, Sam? If you never had kissed me, then Félix and I might have had something.
I need to end this awkward silence before I sink into the ground permanently, so I paste on a fake smile, hoping Félix buys it.
“I could really use a Double-Double and a chocolate shake right now.”
Hearing Félix laugh is such a relief. Twenty minutes later, we’re squeezed into our usual booth at the Rengstorff Avenue In-N-Out, arguing over Five Guys fries versus In-N-Out’s. When he throws a fry at my head and calls me an idiot, I finally relax. We’re friends again, like before. It’s as if the kiss never happened.
“Félix is coming up.” Nayyana peers out our window to the quad below, where my friend makes his way through the crowds of students heading out for Thanksgiving weekend. “You should probably pack.”
I grab my backpack and start throwing clothes in. “I didn’t think he was coming.”
“Because you are an idiot who doesn’t know what a lovestruck boy looks like.”
“I rejected him. And he hasn’t come by all week.”
Nayyana rolls her eyes. “He’s licking his wounds,” she says. “How could he not? You picked a ghost over him.”
“Sam’s not a ghost,” I say. But I’m worried. Maybe he is a ghost, by now. His texts to me have been painfully short. And he hasn’t picked up his cell when I’ve called. I tried twice. Then I decided to stop being pathetic.
“I just hope your ghost is worth it,” Nayyana says.
Me too.
“Poe! Vamanos.” Félix does his customary two-tap knock on the open door. “You’re not packed. Of course you’re not.”
He grabs the stuffed cheetah my mom gave me two years ago (which I may or may not take with me wherever I travel) and throws it into my bag. Then he surveys my desk and picks up Harry Potter 7, which I’ve been rereading, ignoring my organic chemistry book—which I should be reading.
And as he’s packing, I notice his hands, long fingered and big. Beautiful really, strangely graceful. Why have I never noticed them before? Because he’s always waving them around when he talks, maybe?
Or because I never wanted to notice them. Because noticing them would mean noticing other things about him. And that would mean forgetting about Sam.
Nayyana gives me a pointed look before turning back to her laptop and pulling on her headphones. “Look at how great Félix is,” her look says.
A half hour later, Félix and I are on our way to Pineview. I keep expecting him to say something, but he stares straight ahead, occasionally tapping his fingers to the music.
He doesn’t mention the game he won a few days ago, or how excited he is about Thanksgiving—even though I know it’s his favorite holiday. Sam’s return to Pineview—which Félix knew about, because I told him—hovers between us, making the air feel bitter and strange.
“Poe, I have to tell you something.”
Please don’t tell me you love me. Please. Please.
“Close your eyes.”
Oh, shit. “What?”
“Just . . . I don’t want you looking at me when I tell you because it’s too embarrassing, so close your eyes. Promise you’ll keep them closed.”
Our exit approaches, and he slows the truck. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’mreallysorrythatIkissedyouanditwillneverhappenagain butIvalueourfriendshipand—”
“Félix, it’s okay.” I open my eyes, and he’s so red. It’s actually quite adorable. I feel a sudden lurch in my stomach. Embarrassment? Attraction?
“I . . . I’ve felt something too.”
“You have?” His head spins, Linda Blair fast. “What—what did you—”
“Things,” I say quickly. “I felt things. Things that I need to think about.”
“You mean . . . you need to see Sam first.”
“I mean, I need to think.”
He slows his truck to a stop in front of the station. It looks dumpier than it did when I left. But the smell of gas and concrete and dust make me smile. The lights are on in the apartment upstairs, and I see Dad’s shadow move across the kitchen window. Home.
“Pick you up Sunday—sixish,” Félix says. “Happy Thanksgiving, Poe.”
I watch him drive off, my backpack at my feet. Shoes crunch the gravel behind me. Sam. Behind him, the store is shuttered, a sign posted up in his neat handwriting.
CLOSED UNTIL FIVE A.M.
FOR COPIOUS POULTRY CONSUMPTION.
Typical Sam. I mutter a “hey,” which he returns, and then I just stare at him. Is he here? Is he real? Is he actually back? He wears his usual uniform—black jeans, a black T-shirt, and Chucks. His beanie is pulled low, and seeing him, so familiar—it’s like he hasn’t been gone and no time has passed at all.
But then I see the curl of a tattoo sticking out of the bottom of his T-shirt sleeve. New. He doesn’t quite look me in the eye. And that makes me feel like a million years have passed.
“Let me get that.”
He reaches for my backpack, because he’s always been polite. He’s still not really looking at me. But his eyebrows, those beautiful black arches I know so well, they furrow, like he’s thinking up the answer to one of my crazy English 10A essay questions.
His finger brushes mine.
It’s barely a brush. Like an eyelash kissing my finger—that’s it. But it sends a shock like lightning through us both, and his whole body goes still. Everything but his eyes, which jerk up to meet mine, hot with everything he never said in his letters or texts or over the phone.
I step forward, hooking a finger into his belt buckle and yanking him close as he drops my pack with a thud and pulls me toward him at the same time. As Sam’s eyelids drop closed, I realize distantly that Félix never had a chance. Poor Félix, I think.
Then Sam is kissing me the way he kissed me months ago, the way I hope he will kiss me again and again. And I don’t think of Félix at all.