“Sábado,” Félix says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Ask your dad if you can have the day off.”
“How do you know visiting hours are Saturday?”
“My cousin Alonso is doing twenty for aggravated assault and armed robbery. Sometimes I drive Aunt Tina out.”
I almost say no. Almost. But I’m too worried about Sam. “All right,” I say. “But you don’t need to babysit me. I can go in alone.”
The prison scares the crap out of me.
The barbed wire, the hard look in the eyes of the correctional officers. The soullessness of the place, like there are probably Dementors somewhere around here. It gives me the willies.
Félix insisted that he wanted to see his cousin Alonso, so he walked in with me. He didn’t mention my bluster from earlier, about going in alone. I’m relieved.
I surreptitiously wipe my sweaty hands on my dress. I decided to wear one because Sam once told me I looked pretty in it, and I want him to know that I remember the things he said. But when I see the way the prison guards look at me, I wish I’d worn my oldest, grossest clothes.
It’s just like in the movies. I sit behind a glass partition, waiting for Sam to show. The woman to my right is crying, pale skin blanched gray. The woman to my left is holding the phone for a little boy. “Papá, Tío Héctor me llevó a ver—” he babbles to his father—who is also crying.
And then I hear a grinding beeeeep, and Sam is led in by a guard. He’s not bruised or limping. In fact, he’s bigger than he was—he shouldn’t have a problem stocking as much as Félix, that’s for sure. But the mop of black hair I’m used to is gone—his head is shaved. And there’s a sullen anger in his expression. It’s the same anger Sam’s brother used to have. But until now, I’d never seen it on my friend’s face.
He picks up the phone. I had a joke ready. I’ve forgotten it.
“I—I was worried about you.” This is so strange and horrible. His eyes are so blank.
“Sorry.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Sorry? Don’t tell me you didn’t have time to write.”
He drums his fingers on the table. Why won’t he look at me?
“I shouldn’t have come.” To my surprise, my voice shakes.
His voice is soft. “Don’t cry, Ani.”
“It’s something in the damn air! Look, it’s not just me. Even that big dude three cubicles over is crying.”
Sam cracks a smile, and my stomach drops. He’s always had the best smile. One dimple pops out, and his big brown eyes, which make him look like a little boy no matter how tough the rest of him is, crinkle just a little bit. It was that smile that made girls come into the store to talk to him, starting three summers ago. Too bad it took me forever to notice it.
“Did you join a white power gang? Is that why you’re not writing to me?”
“Christ, Ani, no.” He looks around, uncomfortable. “I . . . how’s Félix?”
“What the hell does Félix have to do with anything?”
“You mentioned him in one of your letters.”
“Because I’m stuck working with him all day,” I say. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m stupid. I thought—” I wipe my face. “I thought something had happened, but you’re fine. You have more important things to deal with than your stupid friend and a stupid kiss.”
“It wasn’t stupid.” He glances up at me and away quickly. But I almost drop the phone at the look in his eyes. The same look as when he kissed me. Longing—like he needed more and didn’t know how to get it.
“Then why aren’t you—”
“Keep writing,” he says. “If I don’t write back . . . I’m sorry. But please, keep writing to me.”
He hangs up the phone, nods to the guard. A moment later, he’s gone.
My hands are shaking when I walk out. I feel so ridiculous in this dress. Ridiculous coming here and expecting anything more than a dismissal.
When Félix sees my face, he silently opens his truck door, then drives straight to an In-N-Out. He orders me a Coke and a shake and two cheeseburgers and fries, and I already know I’m going to eat it all. He parks on the edge of the lot, the AC blasting. As we’re eating, I stop to listen.
“You like Pink Floyd?”
“After the four hundredth time you played Delicate Sound of Thunder, they started growing on me.”
“You know the name of a Pink Floyd album?”
“Dios mío,” he sighs under his breath. “I also read the first two Harry Potter books, Poe, not that you noticed.”
I’m quiet for a long time. Sam was the one who introduced me to Harry Potter. Before that, I hardly ever read. “He and I have been friends for so long, you know. Such a cliché.”
“When did you fall for him?”
“A few months ago. He was fixing the roof and my dad was up there, laughing at something Sam said. I hadn’t heard Dad laugh since my mom died. I tried to ignore it for a long time. Sam always had girlfriends, so there didn’t seem to be any point.”
“Pero like he had hookups,” Félix says. “You were different. You’re his girl. No one at school ever looked at you, because they didn’t want to deal with him.”
“The worst of both worlds. I’m not his girl, but people think I am. Thanks, Sam.”
“So . . . what happened? Did he go Aryan Nation on you or what?”
“I think he has a lot to deal with. It’s stupid of me not to understand that.”
Félix sighs. I’m glad he doesn’t tell me that I’m not stupid. Or that things will be all right. He just hands me my shake, and turns the music up.
August 15
Dear Sam,
I just had orientation and omg, the kids at Stanford are so rich. But my roommate isn’t. She’s from Palmdale, which is like this backwater of L.A., apparently. We bonded over living in overly hot places with weird people and no money.
I’m excited. Scared too. My English Lit 10A professor sent three more emails after that first one with the reading list. He’s waaay too excited about the start of the year.
Love,
Ani
August 27
Dear Sam,
Did you read those books I sent? If so, please write a thousand-word report and summary on each. Due date is Friday. Kidding. But actually sort of not? Ha ha ha.
I’m so nervous about Stanford, Sam. Half of those kids have been tutored in five languages since before they could walk. I don’t even know how I got in. You helped me with all of my essays. How am I supposed to analyze stupid poems about fish and the withering moors or whatever crap Emily Browning Brontë writes about without you around to explain?
I miss your letters, even though they were insultingly short. The store is lonely without you. Your brother sucks.
Ani
September 9
Dear Sam,
I know I’ve only written three letters. But I don’t know why I’m even doing this. What, you want to hear about my life? I get up. I open the store. I deal with assholes all day. I dream about Stanford. I used to dream about you, but I try not to anymore. I go to parties with Félix every now and then. We danced together at the last one. But it was sort of a group dance . . . like there was a big crowd, so I don’t know if we actually danced together or not. Whatever. I know you care so much about this stuff.
Maybe I’ll go out with him. He smiled at me the other day, and my stomach got a little funny.
But then, when we were at orientation, I saw him talking to this volleyball player. And she was so pretty that even I wanted to make out with her. Also she was twice as tall as me. Like two of me stacked on top of each other would barely reach her forehead. She and Félix would be cute. Not that I care. Do I care? Why aren’t you here, Sam? Why aren’t we having this conversation in person? Is your release date still November 14? Don’t screw it up. Please don’t screw it up.
Ani
September 18
Dear Sam,
This is my last letter before I go to school. My new
address is on the inside flap. Not that you’ll write to me.
Ani
September 29
Dear Ani,
Thank you for writing to me. Your letters have made a huge difference. I reread them every day. Maybe a hundred times a day. I think of what your hand must look like as you write them. And your head and how you get really close to the paper and sort of hunch over it like an old granny when you write. My favorite is when you change pens in the middle and I can tell. You need to start throwing out old pens, Ani. Then you won’t have to change them so much. I’m not making fun of you. I love that about you.
Also—I loved your dress, when you came to see me. I know how much you hate dresses. It meant a lot to me. You looked beautiful. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t. I have been thinking about it, though. I can’t stop thinking about it, actually. Or about our kiss. And how it felt to finally touch you, after wanting to for so long. Or about all the other things I want to do with you. To you.
But that stuff doesn’t matter, because this is the last letter you are getting from me until I get out. My release date is still November 14. And I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, maybe. But for now, try to focus on school. Don’t write me anymore. I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to think about me. Go out with Félix—he was always a cool guy. Forget about me. I’m not good for you anyway, and I don’t know how things will be when I get out. It sucks in here. I’ve tried to keep to myself, and it’s lucky I know how to fight. But it’s not always easy.
Sincerely,
Sam
I wait in my room after class for Félix to stop by—a routine that began because we didn’t know anyone else at school, and continued into the winter because it was so much fun.
Nayyana, my roommate, zips up her duffel bag on her way out for the weekend and gives me a giant grin.
“He’s going to make a move tonight.”
“Félix and I are friends.” I’ve said it so often that I should just tattoo it on my forehead.
Nayyana rolls her eyes. “You’re cold, Ani. I order you to have fun tonight.”
“Isn’t the whole point of leaving high school to not have to go to stupid dances anymore?”
“It’s his winter formal!” Nayyana blows me a kiss on her way out the door. “Reject him if you want, but as long as he’s a gentleman, don’t be too hard on him, okay? He’s a good guy.”
“What if he’s not a gentleman?”
“Then punch him in the face, obviously.”
The second she leaves, I kick off my heels—jeweled emerald slippers that match the strapless ankle-length dress that Nayyana insisted I borrow—and check my phone.
I haven’t told Nayyana much about Sam. But after living with her for three months, I’m pretty sure she’s in the “pick the basketball star over the convict” camp. She’d give me an hour-long lecture if she knew I was texting Sam right before going to Félix’s winter formal.
I read over my message again.
Ani: Dad gave me your number yesterday. I’m glad you’re out.
No response yet. Maybe I should have asked a question. He would have been more likely to answer.
At two loud knocks on the door, I jump, dropping the phone with a thud. I shove my heels back on and yell, “Come in!” As I stuff my phone into the ridiculously small clutch I saved from a wedding I went to four years ago, Félix walks in. I’m too embarrassed to look at him, worried that he’ll act strange, or tell me I’m beautiful or something else that would make our friendship seem like less of a friendship and more like . . . something else.
But he just gives me his big Félix smile as he looks over my dress. “Órale. Brings out your eyes. And thanks for doing this—I know it’s not your scene. But Dominic is DJing, so we know the music won’t suck.”
I manage a quick nod, self-conscious as I walk down the hall, my heels bringing me to Félix’s shoulder.
He chatters happily about his game tomorrow, and it’s me who is awkward and quiet. Me eyeing him, noticing how incredible he smells, and how great his jaw is when he actually decides to shave it.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Don’t answer. It’s rude to answer. Surreptitiously, I glance down and try to get a glimpse of the screen.
Sam.
All I catch is a flash of his name before I shove my clutch closed. This is Félix’s night. I’m not going to ruin it by texting someone who thinks it’s fine to ignore me for hours before finally responding.
Félix is right. The music doesn’t suck. And despite the fact that all the guys here are fraternity boys, most of them are cool. Félix and I tear up the floor, and by the time we get into his truck and head back to Palo Alto from the city, I’m buzzing with happiness.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” Félix says when we reach the dorms. “But I don’t want to go to Dom’s after-party either.”
So instead we park and walk through Stanford’s dark campus. I clutch my shoes in one hand, my buzz fading with every second—because Félix is quiet. And he’s never this quiet unless something is going on in that head of his.
We’re passing through the shadow of Hoover Tower when he slows down.
“Ani.” I can’t see his eyes very well in the darkness. But maybe it’s just as well. “You must know by now.”
I’m almost tempted to make it difficult. But that’s just mean.
“I know,” I say. “But . . . Félix—”
This kiss has been coming for months, but it still surprises me. I feel the calluses on his hands as he reaches for mine, hours and hours of basketball practice compressed into a tough knot on each of his palms. His fingers shake a little, nervous with something he’s tried to keep under wraps for ages.
It’s not a bad kiss. It’s not awkward, at least. It’s fine. Nice. I even feel a little flutter—a little bolt of excitement.
If Sam hadn’t kissed me months ago, and if I had never felt that wild electricity with him, then I would probably think that this is just how kisses are. That I’d feel even more the next time I kiss.
You’re overthinking this.
But I’m not. I know I’m not. I pull away.
“I’m sorry, Félix.”
“Qué desastre,” he says. “You don’t—okay, I get it. That’s cool, Ani.” He nods, pulls his hands away. His teeth flash in the dark. “I misread. I’m sorry.”
He’s so apologetic. Such a gentleman—and for a second, I hate Sam and the fact he kissed me. Why, Sam? If you never had kissed me, then Félix and I might have had something.
I need to end this awkward silence before I sink into the ground permanently, so I paste on a fake smile, hoping Félix buys it.
“I could really use a Double-Double and a chocolate shake right now.”
Hearing Félix laugh is such a relief. Twenty minutes later, we’re squeezed into our usual booth at the Rengstorff Avenue In-N-Out, arguing over Five Guys fries versus In-N-Out’s. When he throws a fry at my head and calls me an idiot, I finally relax. We’re friends again, like before. It’s as if the kiss never happened.
“Félix is coming up.” Nayyana peers out our window to the quad below, where my friend makes his way through the crowds of students heading out for Thanksgiving weekend. “You should probably pack.”
I grab my backpack and start throwing clothes in. “I didn’t think he was coming.”
“Because you are an idiot who doesn’t know what a lovestruck boy looks like.”
“I rejected him. And he hasn’t come by all week.”
Nayyana rolls her eyes. “He’s licking his wounds,” she says. “How could he not? You picked a ghost over him.”
“Sam’s not a ghost,” I say. But I’m worried. Maybe he is a ghost, by now. His texts to me have been painfully short. And he hasn’t picked up his cell when I’ve called. I tried twice. Then I decided to stop being pathetic.
“I just hope your ghost is worth it,” Nayyana says.
Me too.
“Poe! Vamanos.” Félix does his cus
tomary two-tap knock on the open door. “You’re not packed. Of course you’re not.”
He grabs the stuffed cheetah my mom gave me two years ago (which I may or may not take with me wherever I travel) and throws it into my bag. Then he surveys my desk and picks up Harry Potter 7, which I’ve been rereading, ignoring my organic chemistry book—which I should be reading.
And as he’s packing, I notice his hands, long fingered and big. Beautiful really, strangely graceful. Why have I never noticed them before? Because he’s always waving them around when he talks, maybe?
Or because I never wanted to notice them. Because noticing them would mean noticing other things about him. And that would mean forgetting about Sam.
Nayyana gives me a pointed look before turning back to her laptop and pulling on her headphones. “Look at how great Félix is,” her look says.
A half hour later, Félix and I are on our way to Pineview. I keep expecting him to say something, but he stares straight ahead, occasionally tapping his fingers to the music.
He doesn’t mention the game he won a few days ago, or how excited he is about Thanksgiving—even though I know it’s his favorite holiday. Sam’s return to Pineview—which Félix knew about, because I told him—hovers between us, making the air feel bitter and strange.
“Poe, I have to tell you something.”
Please don’t tell me you love me. Please. Please.
“Close your eyes.”
Oh, shit. “What?”
“Just . . . I don’t want you looking at me when I tell you because it’s too embarrassing, so close your eyes. Promise you’ll keep them closed.”
Our exit approaches, and he slows the truck. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’mreallysorrythatIkissedyouanditwillneverhappenagain butIvalueourfriendshipand—”
“Félix, it’s okay.” I open my eyes, and he’s so red. It’s actually quite adorable. I feel a sudden lurch in my stomach. Embarrassment? Attraction?
“I . . . I’ve felt something too.”
“You have?” His head spins, Linda Blair fast. “What—what did you—”
“Things,” I say quickly. “I felt things. Things that I need to think about.”
Three Sides of a Heart Page 24
