“We’re not fighting,” Kat says, wrapping an arm around Pen’s waist.
Pen pokes Kat in the shoulder again as Mase gives the all-clear. “You should talk to him,” she hisses.
Kat shakes her head. “They were together for two years. I can’t compete with that.”
“Yes, you can. You’re here, and Brandon’s not. And you’re amazing. Mase is lucky to have you as his girlfriend.”
“I guess,” Kat says. Is that what she wants? To be Mase’s girlfriend for real?
She watches him come in and settle his stuff on the beat-up sofa nearby. She misses him. They’ve seen each other every day between work and rehearsal, but it’s not the same. They were inseparable for two weeks, and she didn’t get bored or annoyed with him at all. They had so much fun together—not just kissing, but joking around, singing show tunes, painting, playing with the cats, having picnics in the empty café. They were supposed to be pretending, but somehow she was more real with him than she’s ever been with anyone except Pen and her family. She didn’t worry about being too dramatic or too loud or too much. She was herself. And Mase liked that.
Or she thought he did, anyway.
She looks at Adam, whose popped-collar dude-bro attitude doesn’t seem appealing at all anymore. She knows that the dimples and stormy gray eyes and warm brown skin create an attractive package, aesthetically speaking, but somehow, sometime in the past two weeks, she’s stopped being hyperconscious of where he is in the room, so aware of his voice that she could follow the thread of it even when the whole cast is chattering on break. She doesn’t watch Adam to see whether he’s watching her or whether he’s holding Jillian’s hand.
She watches Mase instead.
Mase, with his mustard-yellow hipster-grandpa cardigan and skinny jeans and wingtip shoes. Mase, with his perfect black eyeliner and obscenely long lashes and dark-chocolate eyes. Mase, who makes her laugh and sings Hamilton to the cats and gives shoulder massages that rock her world.
She’s actually falling for him.
This definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
Chapter Twenty-Four
VI
Vi skips family dinner for the first time ever on Friday night.
Cece and her abuela have plans to make Julia’s famous chicken and tomatillo tamales, which, Cece explained, is a time-consuming, whole-afternoon process and one of her very favorite things. She was appalled that Vi has never had tamales. That had to be rectified immediately, she insisted, and she gave Vi her most winsome, dimpled smile as she invited her over for dinner. Vi would have agreed to almost anything for that smile. Fortunately, Gram took one look at Vi’s pleading, puppy-dog eyes and conceded.
Now, as she stands on the Pérezes’ front porch, Vi wishes Gram had said no. At home, she would be wearing shorts and her Girls Just Want to Have Fun(damental Rights) T-shirt instead of a knee-length black dress with a bumblebee print and a Peter Pan collar plus a pair of pinching black flats, both borrowed from Kat. At home, she wouldn’t worry about whether she was talking too much or not enough. She wouldn’t worry whether she likes tamales. She definitely wouldn’t wonder if anyone in the room thought she was going to hell.
Vi takes a deep breath, then reaches out and rings the doorbell.
The door flies open almost instantly. “You’re here! Hi!” Cece is wearing shorts and a black tank top, and she’s barefoot, with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Vi immediately worries that she’s too dressed up.
“Hi,” she says.
They’ve seen each other almost every day since Cece announced she was bi. On Saturday, Cece asked if Vi wanted to go to the movies; the Remington Theater was showing an Anne Hathaway double feature of The Princess Diaries and Ella Enchanted. Vi said yes, of course. The theater was crowded with tons of tween girls, but they sat in the back and shared a bucket of popcorn, and every time their hands touched, Vi felt like she’d been electrified. They started off sitting rigidly in their own seats with their hands in their laps. But by the end of the first movie, Cece’s leg was pressed against Vi’s, and her hand rested on her knee, only inches away. Vi had wanted to reach over and take it. Did Cece want her to? Had Cece moved closer on purpose? What if she was misreading the situation, and that wasn’t what Cece wanted at all? In the end, Vi just sat there, yearning and confused.
This week, they had walked Juno and Athena in the park on Monday and Wednesday. Cece worked the lunch shift on Tuesday, but afterward, they grabbed fraps at the Daily Grind, where Cece convinced Vi to share one of her Beronica fics. Blushing furiously, covering her eyes with both hands, and squirming in her seat, she had handed Cece her phone and practically held her breath while Cece read. Cece had said she loved it. And then yesterday, she had swung by Arden and invited Vi to dinner.
They texted all the time now. About everything. Cece had started watching Riverdale and texted Vi her reactions. She sent her selfies with funny filters. She complained about her brothers and fangirled about the books Vi lent her. It was amazing, a total dream come true, and Vi was so grateful—but she was also confused. Was this what having a best friend was like? It felt like more than that, intense and intoxicating. But maybe it only felt like that to her?
In the Pérezes’ front hall, there’s a crucifix and half a dozen framed photos of Cece and her brothers. Vi pauses in front of a picture of Cece in her middle-school soccer uniform, posed with a soccer ball on the athletic field, her dark hair a riot of curls, her smile full of braces.
Cece cringes and pulls her away. “No, don’t look. Those are so embarrassing!”
“Please.” Vi rolls her eyes. “Like you ever take a bad picture.”
Cece laughs her fizzy laugh. “I do too. I just use filters.”
Cece always looks adorable, even if she’s vomiting a rainbow or sporting red-laser robot eyes or koala ears. Vi doesn’t understand how she does it. It takes Vi ten minutes to get a flattering selfie. She always has an initial moment of disorientation, as though the girl staring back into the camera isn’t really her. There’s something off about her eyes or her smile or the way she carries her shoulders. Is that how I really look? she thinks, and she feels disappointed.
“Filters don’t help with my innate awkward,” Vi says.
“You’re not awkward! Well, you are sometimes, but…” Cece touches the shoulder of Vi’s dress, her fingertips brushing Vi’s neck. It’s the latest in a series of increasingly familiar gestures, like tucking her shirt tag in yesterday or touching her hand to get her attention. “Don’t you know how pretty you are?”
Vi feels helpless, caught in an invisible current between them. How can she be the only one who feels it? They stand there, Cece’s hand lingering on her shoulder, her brown eyes staring into Vi’s blue. Vi takes Cece’s other hand, twining their fingers together.