“Thanks,” I say, yawning. It’s only 9:57. I’m not even late. “Thanks so much for the ride. You super saved me.” I stretch until I feel more awake. My arms and legs protest.
“Yeah, no problem . . .” John shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. “Well, good night . . . you.” Before I can react, he laughs and holds up his hand. “Sorry, sorry. But, dude, do you know what’s really annoying?”
“You not knowing my name?”
“No, your last name is annoying. I can’t be like, ‘No problem, Lopez-Rourke.’ ‘Good night, Lopez-Rourke.’ What is that? It sounds ridiculous.”
“I mean,”—I unfasten my seat belt—“there is a simple solution. You could just call me Ellen.”
“Nah, that’s not cool.” John scratches his head. “You should just drop the Lopez. ‘Hey, Rourke.’ ‘See you around, Rourke.’ See? Perfect.”
I scowl. Hyphenated names are not perfect. Hyphenated names confuse teachers who want to seat you alphabetically and standardized tests that only let you bubble letters. Hyphenated names get mixed up in computer systems and on learner’s permits. I do not need to be told what’s wrong with my last name.
“I’m not going to—” I sigh. “I have enough of an identity crisis about being Latina without literally erasing it from my name.”
John cocks his head to one side. “Why do you have an identity crisis?”
Do I really want to get into this? I sigh again, but John looks like a curious puppy, so I make an effort to explain. “It’s just, like, my dad is white Irish American and my mom was Mexican but not from Mexico, but she and my grandparents all died when I was not that old, so I’m missing out on some of the family experiences and, like, cultural touch points, but then my stepmom is from Mexico, like, got her US citizenship when I was twelve, and so sometimes it feels like that gives me more, I don’t know, Mexican points, but other times it just feels like it highlights how not Mexican I am.” Wow, I really got into this. “And, like, it’s Texas, so there are lots of people who are Mexican and Mexican American and bicultural, and it feels like everyone is comparing experiences, and sometimes it just feels like I don’t know if I really fit in, which I know is totally a white Latinx thing to complain about because, like, I have all these white passing privileges and citizenship privileges and language privileges so what am I even complaining about?” My words tumble out faster and faster and John’s eyebrows climb higher and higher until I finally cut myself off with a deep breath. “So, uh, yeah. That’s the identity crisis. In a nutshell. Or whatever.”
John nods slowly. “Wow, okay. But aren’t you just making it complicated? You seem like you’re basically white, you know?”
Well, what the hell does that mean?
John senses danger. “Uh, just because you don’t really act like . . .” My eyebrows shoot up. “Because you’re just really . . . you know what I mean.”
Absolutely not. My heart is pounding and I am not going to let him get away with that bullshit. “I know that you just heard me explain in great detail why my identity is complicated and personal and then you tried to flatten it down for your own convenience and explain it back to me. I know that I regret telling you any of this because you don’t know or care anything about me and you’re just using it as another excuse to be . . . to be . . .”
“An ass,” John says. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to invoke the rage. I’m just being an ass.”
I take a breath, but I don’t feel done yet. I feel breathless and antsy, and John’s apology set me off balance because I was ready to keep yelling at him but now he’s looking at me like yelling is the last thing on his mind. And it’s a nice look and a nice face and it’s close to mine, which might be responsible for at least half of the adrenaline rushing through my brain, but the other half is indignation, and why does such a nice face have to belong to such an obnoxious person? I swallow. “Yeah, you’re being an ass. Why do you do that? Like, you’re a cool dude most of the time, is it really that hard to not be an—?”
Ass.
But I don’t get to say that.
Because my mouth is covered.
By John’s mouth.
And John’s hands catch and hold my hands, which I guess I was flailing, but now they’re not flailing because they are being held by John’s hands, which are warm, and his mouth is warm, and his breath is warm on my face.
The warmth is nice, like stepping out of an over-air-conditioned building into the summer heat. I lean forward a little bit, tilt my head a little bit, and it gets even nicer. But like the summer heat, it soon turns sticky and cloying and I want to go back inside.
I freeze, and after a second John pulls away.
“So,” he says, his mouth quirked into a smile. “You’re Mexican.”
I blink. I stare at his smile. “I mean, I’m also Irish.”
He kisses me again, and the heat wraps around me again, heavy and humid and not entirely unpleasant. I move my hand to John’s shoulder and brush against his curls, so much softer than Alex’s gelled hair. And I know I was yelling at him a second ago, but I get temporarily lost in those curls.
And it’s not until after I’ve typed his number into my phone and waved goodbye and knocked on the front door and retreated into the shower that I even notice that there’s a problem stuck in the pit of my stomach. And it’s not until I get the good night text from John that I remember what the problem is.
Which is that I’m still pissed at John, and I still don’t like him.
Oops.
17
I creep downstairs after my shower, hair damp and stomach growling. The house is quiet, all the lights dark. I expected more interrogation, or at least interaction.
The glow of the streetlights outside the kitchen window guides me to the refrigerator. I require food. Lots. Now.
I use the same spoon to cram mouthfuls of chocolate Rice Dream and peanut butter, sprinkling trail mix on top of each. My stomach swells, but my brain demands more.
I should research vegan sports nutrition. Beans? Protein shakes? Shit-tons of vitamins?
I reach for my phone, tucked into the tiny back pocket of my purple-striped pajama shorts, but stop before actually touching it. John’s number is in that phone. John’s text will still be displayed on the screen, unopened. Instead of my phone, I reach for more Rice Dream.
I kissed John.
I mean, technically John kissed me, right? This was definitely all his doing. Well, except that I kissed him back. And put my hand in his hair. And I think I maybe bit his lip a tiny bit.