“I can go back out later . . .” My face burns, and I wish that I could avoid Connie’s stare. I meant to get more work done. “I’m sorry.”
Connie just shakes her head. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” she says, and her dismissal grates worse than a Brillo pad across my conscience. “Mija, are you ready to go?”
“Ellen’s telling me about quidditch,” Yasmín says. “And society.”
If I had been telling her about homemade explosives, Connie couldn’t look more nervous. “Come on, mija, go get your swimsuit and towel.” She holds out her arms and ushers Yasmín away. Run—don’t walk!—away from the irresponsible teenager with an ideological agenda.
I miss the days when I could fill in coloring books with Yasmín for hours and Connie would thank me for babysitting. I miss feeling like I knew how to exist in my family without setting off everyone’s alarm bells.
The worst part is the voice in the back of my head, reminding me that I messed up my one job. Telling me that maybe Connie’s not evil or unfair or mean. Maybe she’s right.
With both Connie and Yasmín gone, I prop my feet back up. “I fixed the door,” I whisper.
It doesn’t come out sounding very victorious.
* * *
• • •
Several things happen when I get out of my evening shower to make my shitty day a lot less shitty.
First, I find a red-and-purple bruise the size of a strawberry on my knee, and a longer green one running up my right ankle where I kept kicking myself with my left foot. Also a couple of little maroon ones scattered on all the pointy bits of my elbows.
I can’t remember the last time I had a bruise. The ones I do end up with are usually what Dad and I call amnesia bruises. The “How did this happen?” blue spot on your shin that shows up two days after you’ve forgotten about bumping into the coffee table.
When I was little I climbed trees and chased pigeons, got into a couple of bad block-throwing fights (my post-Mom acting-out stage, we think). Dad didn’t kiss the injuries; instead, he would sit down and ask me how they happened. I acted out the whole story while he listened, nodding along. He would pull me into his lap and explain how the cells in my body were already hard at work repairing the damage. He told me that I was a complex machine designed with well-tuned strategies to handle bumps and bruises, that I was strong, that I was healthy, that I would heal. Then we’d slather me with arnica, and Dad would tell stories of my mom using it after her soccer games.
I always felt good after showing Dad my bruises.
I feel good now, knowing that every black-and-blue spot is proof of strength. I dig some arnica out of my bathroom drawer and let it soothe the aches.
The second good thing is that Xiumiao finally answers my messages.
Hey, we’re back. You’re not still screaming, are you?
Then she sends me a link to a YouTube parody of Les Mis. Which doesn’t mean she’s changed her mind about avoiding Melissa and me, but it does mean that she isn’t intentionally ignoring me. This makes me happy, but it also makes my pettiness rise to the surface. I close the window, refusing to answer the text immediately.
The third good thing is that while I’m staring at my phone deciding how to answer Xiumiao, a pop-up notification informs me that Karey has added me as a friend on Facebook.
I accept Karey’s friend request and check out her profile. Facebook’s pretty hit or miss for getting to know people—nobody really acts like themselves on a platform where their extended family might see—but it’s usually good for basic info. I mostly have mine to see what’s up with Aunt Mal and Connie’s extended family, and to message people.
Karey’s Facebook looks pretty active, though. In her profile picture she’s dressed as Columbia from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Her timeline is plastered with quidditch—links to tournament recaps posted by people whose profile pictures all seem to include brooms or hoops, photos of the A&M team posing with various trophies. It’s weirdly fascinating to scroll through.
Right as I start getting the first pangs of Facebook creeper guilt, a new message pops up in the corner of the screen. Melissa’s goofy selfie profile picture sticks its tongue out at me, and I read:
Melissa: Did Karey friend you, too?
Ellen: Dude, I’m stalking her *right now*!
Melissa: Obvs.
Ellen: I love you.
With Melissa’s validation, I happily return to stalking. Between all the quidditch there are Tumblr links, posts about the most recent police shootings, a comic making fun of sexism on dating websites.
Melissa: Can I pleeeease be her when I grow up?
Ellen: I know, right?
I’m about to move on with my life, confident that Karey embodies everything I want in a leader of my summer activities, when I spot the name of the group Karey keeps posting to: International Quidditch Forum.
This I’ve got to see.
I click the link and find myself transported to unfamiliar internet territory. Here be dragons, metaphorically and also literally depicted on the jerseys of several quidditch teams. In between photos, cascades of questions and comments about quidditch gameplay and equipment fill the group, posted by people from England, Brazil, Turkey, and China. Someone from Louisiana explains their team’s new strategy, and a New Yorker argues the effectiveness. There are mentions of a rulebook, a referee committee, a snitch certification exam.
I haven’t been this shocked since I discovered fanfiction.
My first ridiculous impulse is to call Yasmín up here. See? This is a real thing that real people do—apparently all over the world. I scroll past teams named after obscure Harry Potter creatures and spells, past Doctor Who references and Pokémon puns and pickup games with Disney themes. A smile spreads across my face.
Ellen: Dude, have you seen this forum? It’s unbelievable. I love it.
Melissa: She dressed as McGonagall for a costume party. Who dresses as McGonagall? Only the MOST AWESOME people dress as McGonagall!
Ellen: Huh? What are you talking about?
Melissa: Karey. What are you talking about?
I send her the link to the quidditch page.
Ellen: There’s a whole community of these people.
Melissa: Of *us* people.
I reserve judgment on that, but continue scrolling the forum like an anthropologist at a dig site.
Melissa: I’m sending this to Xiumiao. She can see what she’s missing.