This is me trying, p.11
This Is Me Trying, page 11
“I can’t believe they let you just stand outside like that,” I say as I start the ignition. “You’re like Santiago with that bike…”
Señor Espinosa smiles. “This isn’t my first winter in Vermont, mija. It isn’t his either.”
“Then you should probably act like it,” I snap, barely stopping myself from pointing out that it’s still technically fall. The moment passes. “Sorry.”
“Good Samaritans don’t often talk back to their elders,” he notes without malice. “You’ve earned it, though.”
After our last few encounters, I assumed Santiago would try to talk to me today. At lunch, I sat on the same bench I usually do. I didn’t intentionally leave an open space beside me. It just so happened to be there.
In calculus, we had a pop quiz. In PE, we were divided into teams for dodgeball. I got out immediately, on purpose, and he was the last man standing. In English, we were asked to peer-review essays. He swapped with Will Sanders. After school, I saw him leave with Whitney and Olive.
It shouldn’t bother me, and it doesn’t. I’d developed a routine of solitude, is all. Santiago’s return changed it and I’m still fine-tuning my new expectations.
Señor Espinosa clears his throat as I turn onto his street. “Kim mentioned that you’ve completed your required volunteer hours. With the dinner and all the driving, you’re the first one in your class to finish.”
I stop the car outside his house. I got Kim’s email this morning. “Well, I can still give you rides home.”
He clicks his tongue. “It’s okay. My friend Billy lives just a few blocks away and said he can start taking me back.”
“Oh.”
“You should be happy,” he laughs. “No more driving this viejo around. More free time to spend with your friends.” His gaze unsubtly slides to the house.
“Let me help you out.”
Wary of the snow, we make our way to the porch. Once again, the door swings open to Santiago.
“You need shoes with better traction,” Santiago scolds, then offers his abuelo a hand.
Señor Espinosa nods his head toward me. “You sound like her.”
Santiago gives me a smile as we watch his abuelo shuffle away. “Kids these days.”
I think of Mom smoking on the back porch in the freezing cold. “Tell me about it.”
“By the way, uh, I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk to you at school today,” Santiago rushes to say before I can depart. “I swear the day was conspiring against me; like, I was going to find you at lunch but then Olive and Dustin were asking for help with physics and it ended up taking way longer than expected to get them to stop making ‘mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell’ jokes.”
“That’s biology.”
“So you understand my struggle.” He pauses to let out a laugh. “Actually, how are you doing in physics? You could join our little study group if you want, though I doubt you’ll need it, and it would probably be—why are you smiling like that?”
I touch my mouth. My cold fingers come away with the smallest hint of dark purple lipstick. But they also hit my teeth.
“I don’t need help,” I say. I should have left while he was talking. I should have said the day was working in my favor by keeping him away.
“Of course you don’t,” he says, admiration seeping into the words. “No worries.”
I’m in that supply closet all over again, acting against my own best interests. Or maybe for them. It’s so hard to know the right or wrong thing to do here.
“But, um, if you need another set of hands.” I lift mine up pathetically. The tips that looked pale moments ago have gone pink where they peek out of my fingerless gloves, restricted veins expanding to allow blood flow to return.
“I’ll let you know.”
“I should—” I glance at my car on the street. “Bye.”
He smiles, and feeling comes back into my hands. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
The sentiment keeps me warm on the ride home, but I don’t stop shivering.
chapter eighteen SANTIAGO
December snow hasn’t relented since it arrived, so we’re in the gym for PE more often than outside of it, since zero isn’t a hard number to beat. Basketball, Hula-Hoops, jump rope, and yoga are our usual options, and though my fingers have twitched once or twice for a badminton racket, as embarrassing as that sentiment is, I think playing would just make me sad and guilty. More so than usual.
Bea’s jump rope hangs limply between her hands, but she’s at least borderline participating, with me, no less. “Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-ni—”
I trip, narrowly catching myself before I face-plant. “Damn.”
“New record for you,” she says flatly, then pretends to adjust her grip on her unused rope when Coach Simmons walks by. “You’ll get to fifty someday.”
“Maybe in my dreams,” I say, sighing wistfully. “All right, your turn.”
“You know, I really prefer counting over jumping,” she says, glancing down at her chest. “A sports bra can only do so much for a person.”
I look away from her with difficulty, pretending to be fascinated by a bit of my rope that’s fraying out of the braid. “Fine, but at least give me a fun game to play while jumping. One of those songs you used to sing for us when we were in elementary school.”
“I don’t remember them.”
I give her a look, and it’s impressive that I last a solid three seconds before worrying I’m pushing my luck with whatever tenuous friendship she’s offering me. The brief risk works though, with her impatiently waving her hand for me to continue. I start jumping at the same time she starts singing, my feet serving as drums for the song as they hit the glossy wooden floor.
“Ice cream soda with a cherry on top, who’s your…”
“Boyfriend, girlfriend, or partner,” I fill in quickly and quietly.
“I forgot, is it A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I…”
In the corner of my eye, I notice Olive and friends with their Hula-Hoops frozen around their waists, cheering me on.
“L, M, N…”
At O, everyone in the group except for Olive drops their hoops, the sound loud enough to startle me into stumbling.
“Would you look at that,” Bea deadpans. “Looks like you’re going to date someone whose name starts with an O.”
Olive ducks their head, pushing their giggling friends to the other side of the gym.
“I did kiss a guy named Owen at a party last year,” I admit. “He didn’t seem like the committing kind, though.”
“Brutal assessment for a sixteen-year-old.”
I grin. “He was seventeen.”
Bea scoffs, toeing at her rope. “That the only broken heart you left behind on the lesser coast?”
I whistle at the dig, though my loyalties do ultimately lie with the East Coast. “Hooked up with a couple of people here and there, but nothing serious.” It’s the most literal use of the word couple, but I hope Bea registers it more casually. Owen and, before that, a random girl at a party sophomore year, both of whom were only talking to me because Eric felt like scheming to distract from his own boyfriend drama.
I don’t reciprocate the prodding because I’ve witnessed Bea speak to approximately five people other than me since I’ve been back.
After PE, I meet her in the hall to walk to next period, dreading braving the cold even though it’s a shortcut between here and English. Just as she leaves the locker room, Dustin rounds the corner and jogs over.
“Still on for studying for the gov final later?” he asks me. “Anything less than a B and I lose my A.”
“Yeah, I’m down,” I say, pointlessly adjusting my backpack on my shoulder while Bea watches us.
“You’re a lifesaver.” Dustin presses his hands into a prayer, spinning around to walk backward toward his next class. “Welcome to join us, Beatriz.”
“No, that’s—” I start.
“Sure,” Bea interrupts. “See you after school.”
Dustin nods, smiling, then leaves as Bea continues in the opposite direction.
I chase after her outside. “You want to study with Dustin?”
She glances over her shoulder, strutting confidently through the white-gray haze of the day in platform boots that’re all black except for their shiny, bloodred buckles. I wonder what her shoe budget is. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“Of course not,” I say. “But you don’t like people.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But I do like passing tests.”
* * *
I haven’t been to Dustin’s in a few weeks, and before moving, had only been a handful of times for birthday parties or school projects. He and Abby live in a nice house, almost barnlike with the red and white wood. All the bedrooms except for Dustin’s are upstairs—his is in the basement—leaving the ground floor available for a big, open-plan living room and kitchen, the wide space made cozier with warm pastels and polished knickknacks decorating every surface.
His parents are working at the store, and Abby is holiday shopping with Whitney and Courtney, but Courtney has already video-called him twice since we got here to “check in.” Each time, his smile gets a little more strained, voice a little more fragile, as she asks him to show her proof of what he’s been working on.
After an hour of silently making index cards, Bea stands. “I’m going to use the bathroom.”
I start sliding off the sofa. “I can show you, it’s just down—”
“Oh, I know.” She leaves the room as Dustin reenters it, a tray of snacks in hand, and they nod in passing.
“Bea’s been over before?” I ask, watching as he freezes slightly. Bryce and I would get invited to Dustin’s parties as kids, but he and Abby celebrated their shared birthday separately, and Bea never really hung out with anyone but our group of four back then.
“Uh, yeah. Remember? I told you about us being partners for a project last year.”
“Right.” I shake my head, remembering for the dozenth time that they were all people while I was gone.
We quiz each other with the completed index cards, turning it into a competition that Bea dominates. By the time we go through the entire stack enough times to avoid missing a single answer, we’re exhausted.
“Okay, I have an idea.” Dustin drops his head onto the sofa cushion beside him, arm dangling toward the ground. “Low-stakes, rapid-fire questions to keep our brains pumping while we take a break.”
I groan and roll over on the rug. “My brain is pumped enough.”
“Best meal in the cafeteria?” Dustin asks, ignoring me. “I vote the potato wedges.”
“Potato wedges,” I agree.
“Nothing in the caf tastes good,” Bea says. We give her a look, and she rolls her eyes. “Whatever, potato wedges.”
“See, don’t you just feel your brain pumping?” Dustin says, flexing his hands. Bea tries not to smile, but the afternoon has weakened her resolve.
“All right, uh, best teacher?” I ask next.
“Easily Mrs. Ridley,” Dustin says. “Wait. High school only, or are we talking middle and elementary too?”
“Eh, one for each,” I answer.
Bea ticks them off on her hand. “Ms. Young, Mr. Zhao, Coach Simmons.”
I sit up. “Our PE teacher?”
She shrugs. “I’m her favorite.”
Dustin agrees with Ms. Young and Mr. Zhao but sticks with Mrs. Ridley for high school.
I sink into the comfort of shared childhoods, the ease in which the conversation flows. Favorite middle school play. Favorite street name. Favorite house on the main road.
Shrek, Wimberly, the light-orange one with the yellow roof that always has Christmas lights up until June.
They aren’t my answers, but they’re the first that come to mind, and I wonder if he’d have changed them by now.
“Dream superpower?” Dustin asks.
Bea clears her throat, and with it, the comfortable energy of the room. “Necromancy.”
Dustin watches her carefully, eyes darting to his phone where it lights up with another unanswered text from Courtney, then quietly adds, “Invisibility.”
They look at me, faces open. “Time control,” I admit.
We share a collective sigh, the air suspended for just a moment, before Dustin sits up to message Courtney back, Bea grabs the cards to go through them again on her own, mechanically mouthing the right answers, and I sit there, watching them leave their dreams behind for reality.
chapter nineteen BEATRIZ
Finals season sweeps through school like the latest cold front. It’s inescapable, creeping into our bones and conversations as invasively as the glacial air outside. Stick season ended quickly this year, giving way to winter with less of a fight than usual. But the look on Mom’s face every time I tell her I’m going to Santiago’s or the library to study with him and Dustin, sometimes even Olive, is enough to melt the snow coating the town.
Friday before finals week, Mom opens my door right as I shut my window. I freeze despite the heated room hugging my chilled skin.
“Did you fall asleep with the window open?” she asks like she’s prompting me.
“No,” I say, because it’s a bad lie, even gifted. “I just wanted some air, but it’s too cold out.”
Mom scans my face. Without makeup, my cheeks must be flushed from the hours sitting on the roof. I’m lucky I took my coat off immediately. I’m lucky I’ve given her fewer reasons to worry about me lately. “Well, speaking of cold, the school just sent out a message. First snow day of the year.” I get a delightful twinge of childish glee from the news, even as she adds, “Your teachers should be emailing you work for the day.”
Both pieces of news are expected. Vermont gets more average annual snowfall than any other state. But in the digital age, they’re not going to let us off as easy as they did the generations past.
Mom goes downstairs to do some administrative tasks from home before a coworker with “better” snow tires can come pick her up. Given that both our cars are perfectly equipped for this climate, I assume this coworker is familiar with that bracelet of hers.
My phone dings from somewhere on my bed. I rustle around in the sheets until I find it.
Santiago: I’ve never loved Vermont more than right now
Beatriz: You need to raise your standards
He’s calling me.
I stare at the screen. He saw me without makeup on Halloween. And a million times before that, before I ever started wearing it. It’s fine.
I count to three. And again. Then I answer.
Santiago is lying in bed. A gray fleece hugs his arms and baggy red flannel pants squeeze his legs. They don’t reach his ankles. Half his hair hangs in his eyes and the other half stands up in a cowlick. “Happy snow day,” he sings.
“Southern California made you soft,” I reply, sitting up. Lottie jumps into my lap.
“I’ve been living in a seasonless state for three years—let me have this. Today is a glorious day, and I’m calling to ask how you plan to celebrate it.”
I scratch Lottie’s neck under her collar and she purrs into the phone. “Doing classwork. Studying.”
He boos and I laugh without meaning to. But also without meaning not to. I worked so hard to develop a certain level of control over myself and my body, and yet here I am.
“Well, I have very exciting plans,” he says, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “Abuelo is making me hot chocolate.”
“How glamorous.”
“I can bring you a cup.”
“You and what car?”
“Hey, I’m saving the environment one bike ride at a time.”
“You are not riding that death trap in this weather,” I say, aware of the edge my voice has taken on.
“Come on, it’s not even that bad out.” He looks through his bedroom window. All the harsh morning sun reflects off the snow-covered ground and casts onto him ghoulishly. “The journey will be character building.”
“You’re quite the character already,” I say. He drops the window curtain and flops back into bed. “Stay off the roads, okay? Please.”
It wasn’t snowing when the accident almost happened. Whitney and me in the car, momentarily sure it was the end. It wasn’t snowing when my dad was hit and killed either. Which almost makes both situations worse. We know snowy roads are dangerous, and so we prepare for them.
No one prepares for a sunny day. A boy dying on an early June evening. We forget that the universe doesn’t play by our rules of logic. Real life doesn’t care about setting or theme or foreshadowing. Sometimes bad things just happen.
“I’ll have to bring you a cup when it’s safe, then,” Santiago says. But there’s something in his tone, an acknowledgement of my unspoken thoughts. Safe doesn’t really exist.
chapter twenty SANTIAGO
I invite Olive over to study for their physics final after my weekend shift, bummed that Dustin has to work and can’t join us. Though I have a handful of tests I should be preparing for myself, Olive’s needs are a welcome distraction from the fear that my own grades won’t be enough to impress the colleges and dozens of scholarships I applied to last month.
“Break down what the formulas are for, if that helps with memorization,” I suggest, using a pencil to tap at the velocity formula. “Velocity, velocity. Speed with a direction,” I sing.
“That’s not very catchy.” Olive mouths the song over a few times, their lips shiny with a gloss they’ve reapplied three times in the past fifteen minutes. “But I’m willing to try whatever. This semester has been kicking my ass.” Hearing them curse still sounds foreign, but I try not to show it, smiling instead at how harshly they’re judging the B+ they’ve held all term. “If I ace this test, I will erect a statue in your name.” Their eyes stay trained on their paper while mine drift to their earrings, two large clay snowmen bobbling with their every pen stroke.
