I pause. “What nerdy girl?”
Pilar scoffs and throws her hands up, annoyed.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Camila asks, irritation piquing because of Pilar’s actions. “I know you’ve been kicking it with that girl from your church.”
Riley. How did she find out about Riley? On cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Riley’s probably still being clever. My hand itches to see what she says next but I’m sure that Mila’s hand is itching to clock me upside the head if I even dare respond right now.
“Pilar’s brother saw you and her at Heritage Hint yesterday,” Camila explains, answering the question written all over my face. “What the hell was that about?”
I open my mouth to answer but the words get stuck. That’s probably a good thing since they’d be paired with exclamation marks. Camila was grouping me in with all these other high school dudes that hook up with the whole female population. I never really had a girlfriend but knew that wasn’t my style. I saw how happy one woman made my dad and that’s what I wanted. One girl to share inside jokes with and to sit next to without having to say anything because our energy said it all. But happiness certainly wasn’t being accused of doing something I didn’t do.
“And don’t even lie, Jay,” Pilar adds. “Victor knows it was you. You were wearing that dusty hoodie you wear even when it’s a thousand degrees out. And he says you were with some chick wearing some doofy Converses.”
“You told me that annoying girl from your church has like a thousand pair of Converses,” Camila says.
“Why you talking to Mila about another girl, huh?” Pilar this time. My eyes zigzag, zigzag, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“Well?” Camila shifts her weight to the other side. I almost expect her to tap her foot, but she’s not stereotypical like that. Instead, her nostrils flare in and out, in and out, like she’s trying to keep herself from crying. I noticed that when we watched The Lion King remake together, right after Simba’s dad croaked. “I got popcorn butter in my eye,” she insisted.
My whole body sighs. Seeing this girl cry would melt me to the floor right now. I can’t handle that on top of everything else. “Can we talk alone?” I ask Camila.
“Why? You weren’t alone at Heritage Hint,” Pilar snaps.
I plead to Mila with my eyes. Her arms loosen just slightly across her chest.
“I got this, Pilar,” she mumbles.
“You sure?”
Camila’s silence is all the response she needs. Pilar pokes her lips out at me, then squeezes Camila’s shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
“It’s not what you think,” I say as soon as Pilar’s completely out of sight.
“Don’t tell me what I think, Jay,” Camila says. “You wouldn’t know, anyway, since you’ve been a ghost lately.”
Fair enough. I’ve been a jackass to her. I’ve been a jackass to a lot of people lately, but I was trying to make up for it. Funny how when you try to right the wrongs you add a couple of more wrongs along the way.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I am. I just have a lot going on right now with MiMi and . . .” I almost let Nic slip. “And . . . work,” I try again. “I listened to your concerns about the paper stuff, so I got a legit gig. I come home every night smelling like ground beef and taco seasoning, but at least I won’t get expelled for that, right?” I try another smile with Camila. She does not return it.
“And these are all things you could talk to me about,” Camila says. She pinches the bridge of her nose and folds her arms across her chest again, toughens up. “I tell you when things are going down at my house. Like when my mom skipped out on dinner to do something for work?”
“Yeah, because you hate watching all your sisters alone,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. It sounds like I’m picking a fight. And, I don’t know, maybe I am a little. But now’s not the time to question what we are and why she likes me. To ask if she’s just using me for free babysitting services and an arm to hold on to until something better comes along. She doesn’t deserve the asshole routine. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I like your little sisters.” I reach for her hand but Camila steps back. Holds up both her hands so I can’t lay a finger on them.
“Don’t even bother, Jay. Because I don’t care what or who you like. Not anymore.” She looks me right in the eye and pauses a second or two before laying it on me: “Because we’re done.”
I blink. I knew that’s where she was heading, but I didn’t expect to feel turbulence along the way. “Mila, there’s nothing going on with me and Riley,” I say. Saying Riley’s name so close to hers gives my stomach the ups and downs. Almost like I committed some kind of crime and was afraid of getting caught. “She’s just helping me out with something . . . that’s all.”
“I said I don’t care, Jay. She can help you until the cows come home. You’re not my problem anymore.” She whips around and her hair smacks me right in the eye.
I rub my eye, my good one watching her walk away. I wait for my heart to sting just like my cornea. Camila’s been my dream girl since eighth grade. When she finally gave me the time of day, I was the clown who wondered what colors we were going to wear to prom together. But I never really wanted to go to prom. That was more her thing—like dressing up for spirit week or going to football games. I never looked good in Youngs Mill’s random colors of purple and gold, and I could never find a comfortable way to sit on a cold, hard-ass bleacher.
I finally wipe Camila’s hair out my eye and take a seat back on the stairs. I try to force the rest of my nuggets down, but they’re a little tough to swallow.
Camila officially kicking me to the curb is yet another thing on my mind as I pretend that restocking the napkin dispenser at Taco Bell is the most riveting task on the planet. Joshua Kim likes all employees to paste a smile across their face—whether it’s the guy pumping cheese on your nachos or the lady showing you where to insert your credit card chip to pay for said nachos. Smiles make people want to spend more money, Joshua says. Funny, I just assumed it was a late-night case of the munchies after a bliss break.
The good news (and yes, I still try to find good news even as a toddler crushes cinnamon twists in her tiny palms and then blows the dust on the floor—cinnamon dust that I’ll have to clean up later) is that Joshua Kim is not the tool in charge this shift. I get Maurice instead. Granted, Maurice and Joshua are pretty much cut from the same cloth. Maurice is just a bit thicker around the belly and a bit darker in the pigment, but Maurice is a little older than Joshua. He’s not taking this manager job to score brownie points with some professor in his MBA program. Nah, Maurice is a family man. Has a wife and two small kids at home. River and Parker—or some other unisex names that he probably let his crunchy wife choose. But anyways, Maurice is good people overall. Probably willing to help out another brother when needed. I catch him giving me a look sometimes when a customer is getting a little too hype after accidentally getting soft instead of hard tacos. Same look that MiMi gives me when we see a kid cutting up in the grocery store, all: “If that was MY child . . .”