by Ally B
“Purple!” She answers.
I nearly laugh, grabbing the onion out of the basket. “Purple?” I ask her as I set it next to her cutting board.
“I know they’re called red onions, but that really doesn’t make sense.” She shakes her head, chopping off the ends.
Bill sits down next to Mia at the island, flipping open a green notebook and scribbling down illegible notes, no doubt about the game.
“How do you feel about the win?” Camila asks him as she chops kale and arugula.
“It was a little too easy.” He chuckles. “The boys said they felt bad.”
“They felt bad?” She raises an eyebrow.
“That team only had one sub. What kind of school has a twelve-person soccer team?” He shakes his head, scribbling more notes.
“Is that what the subs were about?” Camila asks. Bill never uses the freshman on the team, but I assume he did tonight. “Gaining a conscience all of a sudden?”
“Only when we win 7-0.” He shakes his head. “I told St. Paul to let a few in, but they just kept missing.”
“They really missed every time?” I speak up.
“Our guys were just standing there for like three of their attempts.” He tells me.
“They suck real bad, right?” Mia asks, kicking her feet in the air.
“Yeah.” Bill nods.
“No one sucks.” Camila shoots him daggers. “They just aren’t the best team. They don’t have the same funding or opportunities they do at Daddy’s school.”
“And Maxie’s school,” she corrects.
“And Maxie’s school,” Camila affirms.
“What can I do?” I ask Camila.
“Chocolate almond milk,” she says, turning back toward the oven and checking on the flatbreads.
I open their meticulously organized fridge and pull out the almond milk.
“I’ll do it!” Mia shouts, digging through the fridge and pulling out an opaque bottle of what I assume is expensive chocolate syrup, but kind of looks like a skincare product.
“Pitcher, Mimi,” Camila instructs.
Mia climbs onto the counter and sits on her knees, pulling out a huge glass pitcher.
“The smaller one, Mi,” Bill says, not bothering to look up from his notebook.
She rolls her eyes before putting the huge pitcher back into the cabinet and pulling out a smaller one. “Take this.” She hands it to me.
“Yes, ma’am.” I grab it from her, setting it down and offering her a hand to get off of the counter.
She scoffs at my offer, jumping off of the counter and landing on her feet with a loud ‘thud.’
“Mi, be safe,” Bill warns.
“That was very safe.” She wipes her hands on her black leggings. “Milk.” She holds out her hand, not even looking away from the pitcher.
“Please.” Camila corrects.
“Please.” She adds.
“Yes, chef.” I hand her the milk.
She manages to lift the carton over the pitcher, pouring a shaky stream of milk into the pitcher to the point of it nearly overflowing. I grab the carton out of her hands and quickly close it. She doesn’t like that.
“I had it.” She scowls.
“Just here for reinforcements.” I hold my hands in the air.
“Chocolate syrup.” She holds out her hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” I hand her the jar.
She spoons too much of the chocolate syrup into the pitcher, but I don’t dare stop her. It’s Camila who finally speaks up. “No more, Mimi.” She scolds.
“At least it’ll taste good.” She shrugs, speaking only to me.
She whisks the mixture together until it reaches her desired color. When she’s finally happy, she puts the pitcher in the fridge.
“Maxie takes forever.” She pouts from her seat at the island.
“What was that?” Max’s voice echoes through the house as he makes his way to the kitchen.
“You take forever.” She repeats.
“You’re a brat. You know that?” He pulls out the chair next to Mia, ruffling her hair.
“We don’t call our sisters brats, Max.” Camila scolds while chopping cherry tomatoes.
“Fine,” he pauses, “you’re a turd then.”
“Max,” Camila warns as the timer rings.
“Food’s done!” He shouts, changing the subject from the inevitable scolding.
“You’re lucky,” I mutter as I follow him to the oven.
“I know.” He throws me the quilted oven mitts, and I slide them on. I open the oven, and the heat blasts my face. I close my eyes to avoid the heat as it curls my eyelashes upward, blindly grabbing for the baking sheets in the oven.
I set them one by one on top of the pot-holders Max placed on the island.
“Really, Mimi? Pineapple?” Max scoffs.
“It’s good!”
“Barbeque sauce, pineapple, and onions with mozzarella cheese melted on top is not good,” Max says as he cuts the steaming flatbreads in half.
“What would you change?” I ask him.
“I would make it a normal pizza,” he says, walking to the window herb garden and plucking off a few basil leaves, setting them on all of the ‘normal’ flatbreads.
“You eat olives on your pizza. You don’t get to talk.” I cross my arms.
“Girl’s got a point,” Bill says, still not looking up from his notebook.
“Olives on pizza is a normal thing.” Camila defends.
“Just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it tastes good.” Mia chimes in.
Bill puts up his hand for a high-five, which Mia accepts with a grin.
“You’re wrong.” Max huffs.
“And you’re outnumbered.” I can’t help but grin, earning a chuckle from Bill.
“You’re both brats,” Max says as Camila begins to put the food on plates. She doesn’t correct him this time. Instead, she gives a disapproving shake of her head.
Telescopium
The Telescope
Dinner at the Sanchez house is perfectly normal.
When my mom finally went back to work after the accident, I practically lived at their house. She was working days then, so she got home at around seven, but Camila and my mom still hated the idea of me being home alone.
It wasn’t because of my age. Jack had stayed home alone when he was twelve. I think it was more about distracting me after.
I had to quit gymnastics, which I loved.
I had to quit basketball, which I didn’t love as much.
But the worst part was everyone treating me differently.
Everyone at school pitied me. And being pitied by a bunch of twelve-year-olds isn’t fun. It was a lot of weird glances and whispers. Gabby even made me cookies and gave them to me at school in front of everyone, but that was when Gabby and I were close friends.
Pink frosted hearts.
Then as we got older and people just started avoiding me. No party invites, no vacations, no friends.
It was more ‘she’ll either rat or be mad at us for drinking’ than pink cookies.
Max was always there, though.
I learned as much as I could about the stars—my only interest besides the things the accident took from me.
Max got good at soccer.
Really good.
Good enough to start getting invited to camps and win state championships. And with that came friends, and when he started getting invited to things, so did I.
Everyone knew that we were a package deal, so they invited me because they had to.
And that’s why I said no.
I wanted to go. I really did. I wanted more than anything to stop being the girl who everyone thought would break. But they weren’t my friends. They were Max’s. Beside Violet, she was my contribution.
During the summer before my sophomore year, I finally accepted that maybe they like me, and not just Max, but mostly because of Vi.
She was friends with Gabby and Ava, but after Ga
bby made out with Jackson at a party in front of her, Vi was destroyed.
Unfortunately, she had no other friends. Max was at a soccer camp for the summer, so neither did I.
Vi and I were an extremely unlikely pair, but she was exactly what I needed, and I was the only one willing to hang out with her without knowing why she wasn’t friends with Gabby and Ava anymore.
When Max came home, we started getting invited to things again. It was Violet who pushed me to say yes, mostly because it was at Jackson’s, but that was the first time I actually agreed to go. Mainly because Max convinced me Vi would be mad if I said no.
We were all at Jackson’s pool almost every day that summer. If it was sunny, we were at the pool. If it was rainy, we were in his insane games room playing pinball or pool or Pac-man.
Max made me keep going, even if I didn’t want to. And Camila kept having me come to dinner, even if I didn’t want to.
“So, how was school today?” Bill asks Mia,
“Boring.” She shoves a bite of salad into her mouth.
“What was so boring about it?” Camila raises an eyebrow.
“We had math forever.” She groans.
“I don’t know where you get your disdain for math.” Camila shakes her head.
“Dad.” Max takes a bite of his pizza. “Definitely Dad.”
“I don’t hate math.” Bill defends.
“You’re just terrible at it?” He shoots back.
“I’m not that bad at math. I’ve made it through more school than you have, kid.”
“That’s a technicality, not my fault you went to school with the dinosaurs.” Max shrugs.
“Max,” Camila warns, amusement pulling at her lips.
“Daddy’s that old?” Mia asks, clearly baffled.
“Yes,” Max says before either of his parents can object. “He was on that boat with George Washington, too. And he was roommates with the guy who invented the fridge in college.”
“Max…” Bill warns, but Camila’s laughter makes it seem like an empty threat. “You aren’t that much younger than me!” He tells his wife.
“Yeah, mama went to school with Abraham Lincoln, not George Washington.”
“No dinosaurs?” Mia asks, clearly now in on the joke.
“No dinosaurs,” Max tells her. “The occasional wooly mammoth, but no dinosaurs.”
“You can make fun of your father all you want, but I’m where I draw the line.” Camila crosses her arms.
“Thanks, honey.” Bill chuckles.
The rest of dinner is all laughs. Max making fun of both of his parents instead of just his dad. Naturally, Mia believes everything her brother says, so Camila has to explain that it’s all a joke.
“Wanna do homework?” Max asks as I put the last plate into the dishwasher.
“Let me run home and grab it?” I ask him as I walk toward the side door, sliding on my sneakers.
“Fine,” he huffs jokingly. “I’m timing you.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I tell him as I open the sliding door.
“One… two…” He counts with a grin.
I close the door behind me as I walk through the rain-covered grass between our houses.
I unlock my door and grab my backpack, flinging it over my shoulder and checking more notifications as I walk back to Max’s.
Thomas Mitchell
I have an interview Thursday night, can we do Saturday night instead?
I let out a sigh of relief as I open the door to Max’s.
“Sixty-eight seconds,” Mia says from her chair at the island.
“You really counted?” I ask her.
“He told me to.” She shrugs.
“Really, Max? I thought you were above child labor.” I joke as I text my dad back.
Tom Mitchell
Works for me! Good luck tomorrow!
“Are you texting a boy?” Mia’s face pinches.
“My dad,” I answer, shoving my phone back into my pocket.
“It’s almost bedtime, Mimi! Let’s go!” Camila shouts from the living room.
“Goodnight, Phoebe.” She smiles. “Max.” She gives him a single head nod before jumping down from her chair.
“Night, Mimi,” I say as she scurries toward the stairwell.
“She hates me.” He shakes his head.
“You two are exactly the same.” I defend.
“She’s a brat!”
“She’s seven.” I pull out my Calculus binder, flipping through my notes to reach the yellow assignment packet.
He doesn’t bother arguing as he sits in the tall black chair next to mine, pulling his identical packet out of his backpack along with the pen I’d given him in government.
“You haven’t lost that one yet?” I jab.
“It’s almost been a week. Are you proud?” He scribbles his name at the top of the paper.
“Very.” I do the same, pulling my calculator out of the pocket on the inside of my binder.
We work in near silence, the news is playing on a low volume from the living room, and there’s a fan on somewhere, but other than that, it’s complete silence.
“Taking this,” Max says as he picks up my calculator, punching in an equation I already completed.
“Do we have a Government quiz tomorrow?” He asks me as he checks his calc answers with mine.
“Not that I know of. English, though.” I answer.
“This book is getting on my nerves.” He shakes his head. “It’s so obvious.”
“How is it obvious? I ask as I pull out my cherry-red English notebook, thumbing through my notes.
“Emma and Knightly are going to end up together.” Max shakes his head.
“I don’t think it’s that obvious.”
“He’s nice to her, and every other man is kind of a douche. It makes sense.”
“You don’t know that.” I shake my head.
“I read the Wikipedia page. I do know that.” He laughs.
“Not even the SparkNotes?”
“Too long.” He reads over his sloppy handwriting.
“You’re awful.” I shake my head as I read over my carefully written notes.
“Not all of us want to re-write our notes.” He defends himself.
“It helps you remember!”
“Just like blue ink and chewing a different kind of gum. I know.” He rolls his eyes as he turns the page.
“I can’t believe that stuff doesn’t work for you.” I shake my head.
“It works, but not enough for me to care.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I roll my eyes, returning to my English.
“You wanna do the Astronomy, and I’ll do the Spanish?” He suggests.
“Deal,” I tell him, pulling out the packet Miss Salazar had given us at the end of class.
The assignment is a bunch of questions on our favorite constellations. I love Salazar, but her homework is almost always something kids would do in sixth grade. I scribble down the answers about Cygnus quickly. “Orion, right?” I ask Max as I open the notes app of my phone.
“Huh?” He looks up from the Spanish work.
“Favorite constellation.” I clarify.
“Yeah,” he answers.
“Weird.” I shake my head.
“Why?”
“He got killed! By his friend!”
“So did Orpheus!” He rebuts.
“But—”
“No buts,” he interrupts, “I’m right.”
He is. But there’s no way I’m going to let him think that.
“Orpheus isn’t definitively the reason for the name of that constellation.”
“You really think they named it after the guy that crashed his dad’s sun chariot?” He raises an eyebrow.
“You’re oversimplifying the story.”
“But I’m right.”
I opt to give him a disapproving head shake instead of an answer, not bothering to fight it.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He returns to the
Spanish work.
“Don’t,” I tell him, typing out the answers to the questions for him.
“Are you done yet?” He asks a few seconds later.
“Are you?” I ask him.
“Yep. Some of us don’t need seventeen years to answer a few questions,” he deadpans.
“Some of us didn’t have to do two separate assignments.” I mock his tone. “Done,” I tell him as I type the last answer.
“Finally.” He throws his Spanish packet at me. I slide my phone across the counter to him, and we begin to scribble the work down.
“You might want to get a few of those wrong, just so it looks realistic.” He tries to suppress a grin.
“You’re an ass.” I roll my eyes as I scribble down the answers, occasionally looking at his paper.
“I like Orion because of my love for mythology?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Saying it was because you’re cocky with a God complex didn’t feel right.” I grin.
“You’re officially a bigger brat than Mia.” He shakes his head.
“You didn’t deny it.” I shrug.
“How’s Jerry?” He changes the subject.
“He’s good,” I answer. “Busy as usual.”
“I miss that guy.” He scribbles in the corner of his astronomy paper.
“Stop by some time. I bet he would love it.” I tell him as I put my packet back into my binder.
“I have practice until six every night.”
“And we’re open until nine.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“You can come and save me from the toddlers and old people.” I joke.
“Old people are cool. And I love kids.”
“Then you would love the planetarium.”
“You say it like I don’t live there when I don’t have soccer.” He crosses his arms.
He’s right. Max plays for a team in Syracuse during the winter, but in spring, he’s always at the planetarium. I give him an annual pass every year for his birthday as a ploy to try and get him to come more often, but he doesn’t until at least March when everything dies down.
“Jerry’s going to forget you.”
“My man could never forget me.” He shakes his head. “I’ll come and visit tomorrow after practice.”
