“Oh. Uh, thanks?”
“I said, you look like Debbie Harry.”
“Oh!” I brighten. “Thanks!”
“But almost futuristic,” adds Leah. “Like a cyborg porn star or something.”
“Did you just call me a cyborg porn star?”
“What even is that?” asks Gabby.
“It’s a porn star with, like, mechanical boobs. I don’t know.”
I smirk. “Mechanical Boobs would make a great band name.”
“Leah, are you saying Jo’s new bangs make her boobs look mechanical?”
“Hey, at least she looks like she has boobs. I told you they’re growing.”
“Shut up about my boobs,” I whimper as quietly as possible, firing a baby carrot across the table. “And I do not look like a cyborg.”
“Whatever you say, RoboBabe.”
We finish our lunches, and Leah puts on her coat, zipping it in anticipation of walking across the quad to fifth period. Five seconds later, her psychic abilities manifest as the monotone school bell hums through the PA. I wrap my scarf three times around my neck, subtly looking back to where Milo had been sitting. My heart sinks a little when I see his empty seat.
7
Robert has to reschedule our Wednesday coffee date because of some really important conference call that can’t be rescheduled. Which sucks. But I put on sneakers and clip Magic to his leash, heading down the block to distract myself. The air is crisp but not freezing, and Magic seems peppier than usual, jerking me left down Hopi Road and then onto Rosina as he sniffs after a jackrabbit. It’s nice to see his mood like this—alert and playful and making me full-on run to keep up. The thought of him eventually going up to the dog park in the sky makes me feel that much further from my mom. As if I could get any further away. Even with all those new pictures from Robert. Even with my bangs. The dumb bangs that I thought would magically somehow—
“Jo?”
It takes all my strength to stop Magic in order to look behind me. “Milo?”
He slams the door to a pickup truck and joins me on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?”
Sweating, I think dismally. I can feel it, cold and sticky and dripping down the back of my neck. Ew. The absolute suckery of looking like shit in front of gorgeous, flutter-inducing Milo with the stormy eyes and the dimples and—well, all of it.
“I’m taking Magic out for a walk. Magic, meet Milo. Milo, Magic.”
Milo extends his hand and—I swear to God, I love my dog—Magic actually takes Milo’s hand. Even my dog wants in on bonding with this hottie. I can’t help laughing, and neither can Milo.
“He’s not usually this friendly. You’re obviously a dog person.”
“Hamster,” Milo says. “In second grade. It didn’t end well.”
“Oof. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Snowball’s in a better place now.”
“You live around here?” we both say. At the same time.
I blush, which probably doesn’t matter because my cheeks are already pink from running. I kick the chipped fire hydrant between us, waiting for him to answer first.
“I live in that house across the street. With the chile pepper thing?”
“Ristra,” I say, and his eyebrows rise. “The strand of dried red chiles on your front door. They’re called ristras.”
“My mom calls it ‘local flair,’ ” he says, brimming with an adorable amount of pride. “She says we have to do as the locals do, if we’re going to embrace this move.”
“Órale!” I say with a giggle. It basically means hell yeah in Spanish. Everyone around here says it. I start to explain, but Magic tugs on the leash and I have to yank him back toward me, shushing him with a treat before this damn dog sabotages my moment. “So, are you? Embracing Santa Fe, or whatever?”
He shrugs, eyes darting toward Magic. “Does he need to keep walking? Because I’m not busy, if you want some company.”
“Really?”
A grin lights up his whole face.
We start to walk in no particular direction, and, even though we’d literally been in the middle of a conversation, neither one of us says anything. It feels nice, actually. Okay, my heart is full of lit sparklers, but other than that, it’s nice. We walk quickly to keep up with Magic, close enough that our arms brush against each other when the leash jerks. The sidewalk ends, and something flutters through me. A craving to make this walk epic.
“Hey, are you hungry?”
Milo nods without hesitation. “Always. You offering a dog treat?”
“No.” I giggle. “But I have something even better in mind.” I raise one eyebrow and jerk my head to the right. “Follow me.”
Within minutes, we’re at this tiny fast-food joint off Cerrillos Road, its signature flame-font spelling out the words Baja Tacos in bright red lettering. A local institution. The place is too small for indoor seating, so Milo leads Magic to one of the little stone tables underneath a banana-yellow umbrella while I go inside to be the expert orderer. The best thing about Baja (besides the food) is that it never takes very long. A few minutes later, I walk out with a tray full of two Sprites, a couple of chicken tacos, and a large Frito pie, which is basically a bag of Fritos brimming with ground beef, green chile sauce, and tons of cheese and diced tomatoes. In other words, heaven.
I hand Milo a fork, and he clinks his Sprite against mine. We both dig in, and for a while we just munch, enjoying the flavors and the crisp afternoon air. I try not to focus too hard on how nice this is. How I don’t feel pressured, the way I did with my dad.
“This is amazing,” Milo says, mouth full, eyes rolling back in his head. “You come here a lot?”
“Are you asking me if I come here often?”
He has to cover his mouth as he laughs.
“Not really,” I answer. “In fact, my grandma is probably going to kill me when I go home with no appetite for dinner. But I’m willing to suffer the consequences.”
“Do you like living with your grandparents?”
“Basically? It’s not like …”
“What?”
I force an awkward shrug. It’s not like I have another choice. That’s what I was going to say. A chill rattles my bones, and I pull my knees into my chest, hugging them tightly. The chicken taco on my plate is mostly demolished, and I crumple a napkin on top of it.
“Hey,” he says gently, bumping his knee against my foot. “I was supposed to come up with scintillating conversation topics, remember?”
I grin and sit up a little straighter. “That’s right! Okay. Hit me.”
Milo gulps Sprite through his straw and scrunches his brow. “I’ll start easy. Would you rather have superhuman strength or invisibility?”
“Invisibility. You?”
“Yeah, same. Okay, would you rather go back in time or travel into the future?”
“Back in time. Hundred percent.” I scrunch my nose, wracking my brain for ideas. “Would you rather have spoons for fingers or a cat butt for a face?”
“A cat butt!?” he yelps. “Wow, you are really bad at this! Spoon fingers, I guess.” He squeezes the back of his neck with one hand. “What do you like better, reading or writing?”
“Both. And sewing.”
“Yeah? That’s pretty cool. YouTube or Spotify?”
“Spotify,” I say, no hesitation. Well, some hesitation. “Except blender videos. I’m a sucker for those.”
“Blender videos? What the hell are those?”
“You know. Like, will it blend?”
“No, I do not know.”
I dig around on the plate for a non-soggy Frito and grin. “So, this guy, Tom somebody. He puts all kinds of crap in this, like, industrial-strength blender and tries to see if it’ll blend. Golf balls, Jar Jar Binks toys, iPhones—”
“He annihilates iPhones?” Milo winces. “God, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“No! It’s amazing. You should watch one—here, I’ll show you.”
I star
t to reach for my phone, but Milo touches my forearm. “Wait,” he says softly. “Let’s just keep talking. You can show me next time.”
I try for a nonchalant nod—because inside I am screaming, next time?! from the hills of Austria—but my Frito goes down the wrong way, and I start choking. Full-on, head-between-my-legs gagging. I can feel Milo watching me too, one hand hovering at my back, the other extended in front of my mouth, ready to catch a phlegm ball if necessary. Dear God, do not let me hack up a phlegm ball. When he offers me my Sprite, I suck about half of it down before meeting his eyes again.
“Sorry about that.”
The cutest crinkle appears on his forehead. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I got something caught in my throat.”
“Does that happen a lot when guys ask you out?”
I almost choke again, then manage an unrefined swallow. “Is that what you did?” My cheeks literally roast, but I pinch the gloriously giddy feeling into a tiny ball and tuck it deep inside my heart for later. “Uh, I can honestly say no. No, it does not. But the statistical evidence is limited.”
“But it’s a yes?” he asks, voice inching up. “To hanging out?”
My grin pretty much answers for me. Milo grins too, nodding slow and victorious. I can’t explain the non-awkwardness of it, but, for a few minutes, we stare at each other. Fighting back blushes, having a squinty, flirty showdown. It just … is. He starts to lean closer, and I swear to God I think he might kiss me, but then evil Magic growls at him.
“Magic!” I shriek. “What is your problem!”
Kill me now.
I think he might freak out and run away—the dude, not the dog—but Milo only laughs. He reaches down and grabs a chunk of Magic’s soft apricot curls and gives him a scritchy-scratch behind the ears.
“That’s a good boy,” he says, using one of those smoosh-lipped voices people seem hardwired to reserve for babies and puppies. “Lookin’ out for your big sis, huh? I respect that.”
I laugh and put my hand on top of Magic’s head too. Our fingers touch for a second. Long enough to zap me with happy. Again, Milo starts to lean closer. This time it’s me who jerks back, my stupid brain screaming, Save it for your date! Which is dumb, because, for all intents and purposes, this basically is a date. But, whatever. I can’t help it. I panic.
“We should probably head back. It’s getting dark.”
Milo’s face falls a little, but he stands, collecting our trash and throwing it in the bin. “Hey, thanks for bringing me here. That green chile was staggeringly good.”
“I know, right? Happy to share the local flav.”
We hook Magic back to his leash, testing our Would You Rather limits as we walk down the street. Part of me doesn’t want him to ask me everything now and then be bored by the time our real date rolls around, but, at the same time, I want this night to go on forever.
We stop on the corner of Rosina Street, and Milo sighs.
“Want a ride home?” he asks. “There’s room for Magic in the back.”
I shake my head. “We’ll be fine. Magic needs to run around a little more.”
“I’ll see you at school,” he says, his breath catching as he hesitates.
My breath catches too. “What?”
“When are we hanging out again?”
It is physically impossible not to soar through the sky before answering. “You tell me.”
“How about Saturday?”
“I’m supposed to be sleeping over at Leah’s.”
Shit. Why did I say that? Like my friends care if I cancel a sleepover for a hot date. In fact, they’ll probably punch me when they find out.
“No worries, we’ll work something out.” He smiles, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Can I get your number, at least?”
My cheeks pinch into giddy little knots as I reel off the digits way too fast. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket and pats Magic on the butt. “Good night, Jo. Good night, Magic.”
“G’night, Milo.”
Milo from history.
8
Coffee date, finally. Minus the date. Minus the coffee.
“Sorry I’m late,” Robert says, rushing over to my corner table with frazzled determination. “We’re starting this big project, and it’s like everyone wants to use Python, even though Python is awful. I think it would make way more sense to write it in Ruby, because it reads like English, and it’s way more expressive. They’re being total idiots.”
“Wow. Intense,” I say, because, um, whaaaat?
He smacks his forehead. “God, listen to me.”
“It’s okay.” I shake my head, and my bangs sway a little.
“Your hair!” he says. “Was it like that before?”
“No, I decided to cut it after looking at the—”
“Pictures,” he finishes. “Aw, totally. You look exactly like her.”
A mild flush turns colossal on my cheeks, burning my earlobes.
Robert clears his throat. “I should grab a coffee. Want anything?”
When I point to the chai I’m currently cradling, he gets in the coffee line, and, for the first time, I let myself look. Really study the slump of his shoulders, slim line of his nose. Because it’s my nose, really. Fucking identical. We stand the same too—feet turned in, one hand cradling the other elbow. No doubt about it, this guy is my dad.
Robert comes back a minute later, slack-jawed. “Man, there was a resemblance before, but now you look exactly like her. I can’t get over it.”
“Really?” I push aside thoughts of our matching noses in order to smile. “Thanks. That’s what I was going for.”
“Impulsive, same as Mandy.” He smirks. “Do you always do stuff like that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Y’know, change your appearance at a moment’s notice.”
“It’s kind of hard to get away with too much, living with my grandparents. They’re not super huge fans of spontaneity.” I sip my chai, searching for the right words. “I mean, they want what’s best for me. To provide for me. Not just food and stuff, but strong values. Giving back to the community. Teaching me how to sew.”
“You sew?”
“It started out because Gran wanted me to get into quilting, like her. She makes a thousand quilts a year like some one-woman sweatshop for the church fundraising committee. But I mostly make my own clothes.”
“Really?” Robert’s eyes widen as he bites into a scone. “Whamt kimd of shmuff moo mou make?”
“All kinds. Here—”
I fish my phone out of my bag, hesitating only slightly as I hand it to him—like, double-checking with my soul if he deserves a free ticket to this part of my personality. But I offset my caution with the eagerness in his smile and remind myself of why he’s here—why I’m here. It feels right enough that I hand it over, all cued up. A hundred images of gauzy tops, tulle dresses, purses, and gloves. Sometimes it’s me modeling. Sometimes Leah or Gabby, who’ve been playing dress-up with me since kindergarten. I try to explain the epicness of our friendship. That no matter how different we seem, however unrelated our goals, that we have a bond tighter than spandex.
I don’t hover or interject as Robert scrolls, but I can see his eyes glowing. Maybe with admiration, maybe pride. Maybe.
“Wait, so you sewed all this?”
I offer a small smile.
“Wow.” He makes this explosion gesture as he grins. “Who knew I had such a talented daughter!”
Daughter.
Sirens blare in my head. A flurry of hot snow, sizzling under my skin. I cough and Robert grimaces, handing the phone and our fleeting easygoing moment back to me. I shove it in my bag and will my cheeks to stop burning. Daughter. The word seesaws inside me until it sounds blocky and foreign—daw-der, daw-der.
“I’m also into music,” I blurt, out of nowhere. “In addition to sewing. Y’know, since you asked about hobbies.”
Robert leans back in his chair. “Yeah? What kind of
music?”
“Lunachicks. The occasional Billie Eilish. But older stuff, mostly. Blondie. The Ramones. Television.”
With every band I mention, Robert’s expression grows more animated, his grin morphing into a chuckle. “Check. Check. Check. You got good taste, kid. I approve.”
I grin. As if liking good music is a skill I can take credit for.
Not a skill, but maybe a family trait?
“I saw Blondie on tour once. Not, like, heyday Blondie. But Debbie killed it, even though she’s getting older.”
“You’ve seen Debbie Harry?” I shriek, way too loud. It takes me a second to close my mouth. “That’s so cool.”
Robert laughs this big, thunderbolt hah that echoes around the room. “You know, you kind of look like her.”
“Deborah Ann Harry?” I scoff. “Please.”
“You do.” He nods defiantly, but then his eyes seem to unfocus. “So did Mandy, actually.”
The way it hurts him to think about her breaks my heart.
“How’d you guys meet?” I ask, guilty but desperate to keep the conversation about her. “Was it love at first sight or whatever?”
The story shoots out of him like a rocket, this Muppet grin overtaking his lips. Talking about her brings him to life. Makes him look young and fresh, the way she must have seen him.
There’d been a graduation party. Mandy had accidentally spilled a bowl of nacho cheese on his favorite jeans and then gone off to find him something from the lost-and-found in her college dorm. He describes her bubblegum laugh as she convinced him how cool he looked in tight, red running shorts, even though he knew she was lying. The way he’d held her hand. Conversations cascading, from animal rights to lightning bolts and favorite movies. He asks me if I knew she was a strict vegetarian or obsessed with rainstorms.
“No,” I murmur, nails digging into my palms.
Surprise dwindles on his face. “You weren’t kidding. They didn’t tell you anything.”
I stare into my empty mug. “My whole life I’ve wanted to know more about my mom, and now that it’s happening—”
“What about your dad?” he asks nervously. “Ever wonder about me?”
“What?” My stomach lurches. “I don’t, I mean, you never—”
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