“Mom won,” Yasmín says with the hint of a pout.
“Yeah, that was pretty sad. But my point is that they got over it. That’s what married people do. They fight and then they make up. Even if . . . even if it takes some time.”
It’s the closest I’ve gotten to mentioning the Mexico trip to Yasmín. She stares at me through the rearview mirror, and I look away first.
“I’m still not getting married,” Yasmín sighs.
“More power to you, kiddo.”
We turn in to her school, and I wish her good luck on her test and watch her walk into the gym where all the kids gather before camp starts. The program runs from third to eighth grade, so Yasmín’s in the younger half of the camp, but she dresses and walks and rolls her eyes at the teacher who greets her like a miniature teen. It hits me, suddenly, that she’s going to end up being cool and popular and socially adept when she gets older. And even though I want her to be strong and confident, the thought makes me anxious in a way I can’t really justify. I just worry that Yasmín is going to grow up and still think I’m a weirdo, that I ruin everything. I worry that she’ll grow up to be Connie.
* * *
• • •
When I get home, Connie’s door is still closed, so I stop in the kitchen for some peanut butter and banana toast. I don’t find a list of chores, so I head to the garage. I did promise to work on it today.
My next job is to cart not-trashed furniture to the donation center, so I start loading the trunk of Connie’s van. I manage to fit the two coffee tables, mismatched dining room chairs from different eras, and Yasmín’s collapsible playpen. I’m staring at the crowded back seat and debating whether I can squeeze the old patio umbrella in when Connie opens the back door to stare at me.
“What are you doing?” Her swollen eyes blink at me, frizzy curls escaping from her tight unstraightened ponytail. In her shower flip-flops, her feet look oddly small and squat.
“Just getting ready to head to Goodwill.” I shrug, trying not to notice how upset she is, how she looks like she’s coming unraveled. I don’t want this sympathy or this guilt. “I was going to come in and ask before I left.”
“Oh.” She stands in the door frame, like she can’t quite bring herself to step outside. “Thanks. Do you need any help?” Even as she says it, she shrinks back into the house.
“No, I’m good. Just need permission to go.”
Connie nods absently. “It’s looking really good,” she says, staring at the half-empty garage. “We should sit down with the plans soon, see what you think of them.”
“I guess.” I shrug, dragging the giant umbrella toward the car.
She hovers over my shoulder, radiating nervous energy. “I won’t really be able to start anything major for at least a couple of months, until we see how things are looking with your tuition.” The bitter edge to her voice might be directed at her argument with Dad, but after Yasmín’s comments I can’t help feeling guilty. “But of course we’ll have to get this in good shape before I start work on my studio . . .” Connie’s fingernails tap the frame of her car. There’s sleep caught in her eyelash, and lines around her eyes.
“Are you and Dad . . . Is everything okay?”
Connie stiffens a little and pulls her fuzzy pink bathrobe around her more tightly. She smooths the top of her ponytail and doesn’t answer, so I slide the umbrella diagonally across the back row of seats, trying to make it fit.
Connie reaches to stabilize the end while I jostle it into place. “Of course everything’s fine,” she says when we slam the door. “How is . . . your flying game going? And, oh! How is Melissa feeling?”
Her voice makes it clear which topic she finds more interesting.
“I think she’ll be okay,” I answer. “Melissa is very resilient.”
“Good.” Connie nods, and she looks like she might ask more questions, so I pull the car keys out of my pocket and hop into the driver’s seat.
“I’d better get this load done,” I say. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“All right.” Connie retreats back to the door. “And . . .” She looks down at her feet. “I’m not feeling well today, and I’m sure you don’t want to be hanging around here. So you’re free to make plans with Melissa. I just need the car to pick up Yasmín.”
“Oh,” I say quickly. “Yeah, totally.” I feel guilty benefiting from a fight I might have caused, but I’m not about to miss the opportunity to escape a day of grounding. “Thanks.”
It takes me most of the drive to the donation center to talk myself out of my annoyance with Melissa, but by the time I pull into a parking spot I’m convinced that I overreacted. She’s been reluctant to share news before. We’re fine. I pull out my phone and send a text. I know you just got rid of me, but want to grab lunch or something? Connie’s giving me time off while she has a breakdown, so let me know. I think I’m free all day.
I finish at the donation center, but Melissa still hasn’t answered. I stall in the parking lot, debating my options, but I don’t want to waste this opportunity.
I end up driving myself to Tea Corner, which is where I always end up because the tea isn’t too expensive and tastes better than coffee. I’m sipping boba through a thick straw when someone sits down next to me on the couch, close enough in my personal space to startle me.
“Milk tea is better,” Xiumiao says. Her plastic cup is nearly empty, just a hint of purple liquid surrounding a few straggling tapioca balls.
I roll my eyes automatically, but I can’t help smiling. Mocking my vegan tea is such a Xiumiao staple that it basically passes for a greeting. “Hi.” I can’t believe we haven’t been here since graduation. No wonder I was craving tapioca. No wonder I missed the teasing.
She’s wearing a new dark blue hoodie with a gray owl mascot on the front, which is wild because I never took her for a school-spirit kind of person. “You just missed my new roommate,” she says.
My smile freezes. I normally like that Xiumiao doesn’t waste time with small talk, but there’s a big difference between discarding pleasantries because you’re basically attached at the hip and discarding pleasantries even after you haven’t seen each other in weeks. One means you don’t need to ask; the other means you don’t care to.
Xiumiao doesn’t catch my slight change of expression, so she continues, “We met up to plan furniture and stuff.”
“Oh yeah?” I don’t know who my roommate is going to be. I think I saw a name on a paper somewhere in one of my welcome packets, but all the information blurred together. Do I need to plan furniture?