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Authors: Diana Rodriguez Wallach

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Chapter 8
I
walked into the classroom—sophomore chemistry. It was one of the most dreaded courses at Spring Mills. It required all students to memorize the periodic table. This might be useful if we all pursued careers in chemical engineering, but considering most adults (including our parents) admit to not knowing the molecular formula for any compound other than water, it was hard to convince the student body that we would need this information “in real life.”
Science, however, had always come naturally to me, so I refused to believe the doom and gloom rumors about the course could be true. I made it through biology last year, and that course wasn't exactly known as a “no-brainer.”
It was my last period of the day. Mr. Berk was quietly seated behind his teacher's desk scanning the attendance chart. Almost all courses—gym, English, chemistry, whatever—followed a virtually identical formula on the first day. Students received assigned seats. Then, teachers reviewed objectives for the course and expressed their expectations. Finally, we'd have a lame discussion about some current events topic that vaguely connected the subject matter to the outside world.
In gym, we sat on the basketball bleachers and discussed the chances of an Eagles playoff run and whether the QB's ability to throw outside the pocket could lead them all the way to the Superbowl. In English, we discussed recent plagiarism scandals, the importance of citing sources, and how cheating of any kind would get us expelled from school. In geometry, we analyzed the angles of Citizens Bank Park and discussed how the Phillies could improve their game by using geometric formulas while batting. Now it was Mr. Berk's turn to convince us that the periodic elements impacted the daily life of a teenager.
“Mariana! Hey, Mariana!”
I spun around and saw Boddy McNabb seated at a lab table equipped with a stainless steel sink, a few Bunsen burners, and several glass beakers. The stool next to him was vacant.
“Hey, Locker Buddy! I can't believe we actually have a class together this year.” I plopped onto the cold metal stool beside him.
“Yup. I guess we'll be more than locker buddies now.” He adjusted the black-framed glasses that sat on his slender nose.
He was the only boy I knew who could pull off the look. Somehow the thick plastic frames weren't dorky on him. They were funky and cool and matched his intentionally messy hair and his button-downs layered over “emo” band T-shirts.
I peered around the classroom. It was the usual suspects. Spring Mills believed in tracking students by their academic ability. So since the eighth grade, I had been in Level 1, which placed me with the top ten percent of our grade. It made it easier to participate, since none of us was winning any popularity awards, and therefore we had no need for dumb acts or class clown routines.
Madison and Emily, however, were in Level 2, which housed approximately sixty percent of our grade and ninety percent of our school drama. That's why Madison felt comfortable inviting half the student body to her birthday party—she did actually spend time with them (even if they were merely a source of entertaining gossip). She spent most of her classes whispering to Emily rather than listening to her teachers. Not that it mattered much.
Madison's dad was an alumnus of Duke University, and so were her mother and her brother, and her sister was currently a Duke sophomore. Madison knew where she was going to college, and her father knew how to get her in. She was a legacy, and she just needed to maintain the solid academic record to back up his influence. Emily had a similar set up. Her mother was a poetry professor at Swarthmore, an elite liberal arts college not far from where we lived. Every time we went to her house, Mrs. Montgomery spat poetry and harped on the importance of a solid liberal arts background to achieve a well-rounded life. Emily was destined to be an English major on the school's quaint campus, whether she wanted to or not.
Unfortunately, I did not share in their family connections. My dad put himself through night school to get his degree. He made no hefty alumni contributions, nor did he have any deep connections with high-level administrators. Vince and I had to be accepted to college the old-fashioned way—by earning it. I already knew I was competing for spots in the Ivies with every other member of my Spring Mills advanced classes, let alone every other school in the country, so I couldn't afford to fall behind.
“All right, everyone!” hollered Mr. Berk as he stood up from his teacher's desk. “Look to the student beside you. That's your new lab partner. Now, let's get started.”
I turned to Bobby. When I'd sat down I hadn't realized I was handing him control over so much of my grade. I knew he was smart, but if given a choice of a lab partner, I would have gone with Sarah Fliesher. She was first in our class and had won a county engineering competition last year.
“Don't worry. I'm not a slacker,” Bobby whispered, as if reading my expression.
“I, um, I didn't say anything,” I stuttered, turning my gaze toward my three-ring binder.
“You didn't have to. But that's cool. You know, I can do more than just shoot movies.”
“You're right. I've seen you open a mean locker,” I teased.
“You too. You're pretty quick with that dial.”
“Well, I practice at home. I have a simulated locker set up in my bedroom, so I can increase my locker-opening speed and maximize my time between classes.” I offered a smile.
“Oh, well, that explains it,” he chuckled, his gleaming white teeth peeking through his grin. “You know, Mariana, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Spoken like a true film geek.”
I opened up my binder just in time to hear Mr. Berk start his lecture on how various chemical properties affect everything from our morning makeup applications to our weekly dry cleaning bills. It went on for ninety minutes.
After class, I headed straight to Madison's locker and waited for Lilly. She was late.
“Are you sure she knows where to meet us?” Madison asked.
“Yes, I'm positive. I told her.” I scanned the hallway.
“Her locker is pretty far away,” Emily noted.
Since Lilly was a freshman, her locker was located on one of the upper wings—actually not far from where Vince's locker used to be.
I peered down the hall once more and finally spotted my cousin turning the corner. Her auburn locks flowed as her borrowed clothes swished in a way that they never did on me. Three guys, whose names I didn't know, but whose faces were popular on local sports pages, were tailing her. Their tongues practically left trails of saliva on the floor as they panted. Beside Lilly was Betsy Sumner, Spring Mills' very own Olympic-bound tennis star.
“Hi, guys. Sorry I'm late, but it turns out I'm not gonna need a ride home today,” Lilly announced as she approached. “Betsy invited me to watch her tennis match. I'm thinking of joining the team, if it's not too late.”
She smiled at her perky blond friend.
“Oh, don't worry. I can totally get you on. Mrs. Silver will do anything I say.” Betsy's orthodontia-perfected grin nearly lit up the hallway.
“Well, you
are
the star,” said one of the guys, gleaming at Betsy.
“Maybe Lilly will become your secret weapon,” another guy stated dreamily, his green eyes oozing devotion toward my cousin's cleavage.
“Well, I've never played before, so I doubt it.” Lilly flipped a glance toward him, and a wave of pink fluttered across his face.
Back in Utuado, guys reacted like this to Lilly all the time, but I had assumed their feelings were based on long-standing relationships. This spectacle, with these guys, in my hometown, was grounded merely in a first impression. She had an instant impact on my classmates. She was accepted. My chest clamped as I swallowed hard.
“Well, whatever. We gotta go,” Madison stated through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, see you at home,” I added, shaking my head to knock the puzzled expression from my face.
Emily clutched my shoulder and pulled me away.
 
After an hour of “Oprah” and an endless conversation about how Lilly's Spring Mills debut seemed oddly fitting for the social pages of the
Main Line Times
, Madison abruptly shifted the conversation toward a new topic—my birthday plans. And while I realized turning sixteen was a monumental moment in Madison's life from which all else circled, I just wasn't feeling the same enthusiasm (though I had a hard time getting this point across to my friends, no matter how bluntly I put it).
Realistically, I didn't have the largest social circle, and inviting the entire sophomore class, all 276 of us, didn't seem appealing (nor a financial undertaking I could reasonably talk my father into). So, if I were to go through with the dreaded celebration, I would have to resort to inviting either my honor society classmates or a bunch of relative strangers whom I passed in the hallowed halls of Spring Mills, but to whom I rarely uttered a syllable. Sure, Madison had no problem doing this when it came to her party. She shared classes with jocks and cheerleaders and class clowns, while I was not a blip on their radar. And even if I were (due to the superstar Latina down the hall), I wasn't sure I wanted to spend my birthday celebrating with them. They weren't my friends, nor did I wish them to be.
“You could have a theme party,” Madison suggested as she grabbed a catalog off my desk. “Make everyone wear white. Or throw a Parisian bash with mini Eiffel Tower favors. Or hire a fortune teller ...”
“Or you could throw the whole thing at that cool new bowling alley in the city, or rent out a club and have live music,” Emily offered as she leaned against a bed post.
“Guys, I'm sorry, but I just don't know if I'm into it. It's not like I've got much time to plan. My birthday's in a month.”
I was sprawled lazily on my bed, staring at my giant poodle cuddled in a ball at the foot of the mattress. His subtle snoring was more interesting than this conversation.
“Mariana, it's your Sweet Sixteen. You
have
to have a party,” Madison ordered as she flipped through the designer lingerie catalog.
My mother was on a mailing list for every clothing and home goods store in the Western world. We received at least two color spreads per day, along with at least one mail-ordered product.
“You could just rent out a restaurant or something,” Emily suggested.
“Yeah, and bore us all to death?”
“So? If that's what she wants ...”
My mind drifted from the conversation. I couldn't stop thinking about Lilly. She had found new friends in a single day. I suddenly felt embarrassed for latching onto her so tightly in Puerto Rico. She must have thought I was a loser. Why couldn't I adapt to Utuado like she was adapting to Spring Mills? And why wasn't she happy with just being friends with my friends? I was sure Madison and Emily would warm up to her eventually.
“Mariana! Are your friends staying for dinner?” my mother called from downstairs.
I looked to Emily and Madison, who both shook their heads.
“No!” I screamed toward the kitchen.
“Hey, did you tell your dad about that woman moving here?” Madison asked, looking up from her catalog.
I groaned, standing up from the bed and shoving my polished toes into a pair of flip-flops. Tootsie's curly head popped up; he was annoyed that I had disturbed him. I rubbed his belly. “No, not yet. I'm thinking of bringing up Teresa over dinner. God, I can't tell you how much I hate this. I just want my family to be normal again.”
“Like it ever was?” Madison joked.
“Seriously, there's nothing you can do,” Emily said, her expression hardening as she pulled a hair elastic from her wrist. “At least it's your aunts and uncles who are fighting, not your parents.”
She gathered her dark brown hair atop her head, her short locks creating more of a bunny tail than a ponytail. It looked nothing like the long sweeping mane I remembered.
“I know, but my dad ...”
“Your dad, what? Spic, you can't change the fact that he has some bastard sister,” Madison snipped candidly.
“Okay, there are so many things wrong with that statement that I'm not even gonna go there.” My shoulders tensed.
“What? Why are you getting all defensive?”
I cocked my head at Madison and didn't respond. There was no point in explaining it. She didn't want to understand.
Chapter 9
L
illy came home not long after my friends left. She was buzzing about her newly forged tennis career and asking to borrow my old racquet. I had lasted one summer's worth of private lessons in sixth grade before realizing that ballet was my only true talent. Of course, this realization came only seconds after the fuzzy green ball was served directly into my nose. There's still a bump.
“Betsy is
so
nice!” Lilly glowed. “I can't believe she got the coach to put me on the team. I mean, I'm only on JV, but still. They've already been practicing for a month now. Did you know that teams start practicing in the summer before school starts?”
“Uh, yeah, Lil. I do live here, remember?”
“Oh, right. And Chad gave us a ride a home. He was really impressed with your house, by the way. He said he'd never been down this street before. Have you ever been to Chestnut Grove? That's where he lives. He said it's near some lake.”
“I know where Chestnut Grove is,” I moaned, dismissing her praise.
“Oh, I keep forgetting. It's all so new to me.”
“I know,” I muttered, before trudging out of my bedroom and down the hardwood stairs toward the kitchen.
I could smell the sauerkraut simmering, and frankly the scent of Lilly's borrowed Chanel perfume (“Betsy carries it everywhere!”) was beginning to make me nauseated.
“Good, I was just about to call you,” my mother stated as I entered the kitchen.
She held out a thin white plate, which I grabbed before lifting the lid off a sizzling pan of kielbasa and pierogies. It was one of my favorite dishes and one of the few Polish meals my mom learned to make before my grandmother passed away.
“Make sure you take some sauerkraut and salad,” my mom insisted, gesturing toward a brimming bowl of lettuce. “Lilly, do you know what all this is? Pierogies are like dumplings, but they have different fillings—meat, cheese, potato. You can put sour cream on them.”
“And I dip the kielbasa in mustard. It makes it kinda like a hotdog.”
Lilly sniffed the pan cautiously, her nose wrinkled.
“My family's Polish,” my mom explained. “This is what I ate growing up.”
Like my father, my mom grew up in low-income housing. That's how my parents met—they went to the same Catholic school in Camden. My mom's father was a factory worker, and my grandmother raised the kids. I still vaguely remember their house in Jersey—a beat up row home with tomatoes growing in the tiny fenced-in yard and a porch with thick chunks of paint peeling from the wooden posts. My grandpop died when I was seven, and my grandmother had passed away last year. After her funeral, my mom started cooking more Polish meals.
“I'm sure Lilly's a better eater than Mariana,” my dad nagged from his seat at the kitchen table.
“Dad!” I whined.
“What? Like it's a big secret. We practically had to force feed you growing up.”
“You should have seen her in Puerto Rico,” Lilly chimed. “She barely ate rice.”
“I can imagine,” my dad chuckled, peering over his newspaper.
“Gee, just gang up on me why don'tcha?” I griped as I filled my plate in defiance.
“Hey, if everyone ate like you, the world would be a thinner place,” Lilly exclaimed as she breathed in the sauerkraut's pu-gent odor.
She winced slightly. Then she lifted a slice of kielbasa to her mouth, her eyes mildly confused, and quickly brushed her tongue on the meat. I smiled.
“You'll like it,” I whispered. “It's kind of spicy.”
I strutted back to the table and plopped down in time for my mom to catch my dad scanning the business section.
“Lorenzo, don't you think you're setting a bad example for our guest?” she asked, her blue eyes round and bulging.
“She's not really a guest, Mom. She lives here,” I said as I bit into my kielbasa.
My father folded the paper in his lap.
“So how was the first day of school?”
“Fine,” I grumbled.
His eyes swung toward Lilly.
“Great,” she chirped as she walked toward the table with her tiny portions of food. “Everyone was really nice. I met this girl named Betsy, who is an all-star tennis pro, and she managed to get me on the team. Mariana said I could borrow her racquet. Practice starts tomorrow. And I met a bunch of really cool guys. This boy, Chad, drove us home. He was super nice, and he knows Vince. I think they played baseball together. He even tried to speak Spanish to me, which I thought was funny and kind of cute... .”
My father stared at Lilly, his face altered with shock. She could have been speaking Spanish, English, or Swahili for all it mattered, because he was fundamentally unable to understand “girl.” That's why I never told my parents any personal information. Sure, I kept them updated on my grades, extracurricular activities, and ballet schedules, but that was about it. Madison, Emily, and I made sure to keep our conversations to a minimum when around any of our parental figures—so did almost every teenager I knew. It was basic survival. Lilly, however, was from an alternate dimension where families were close and her mother was her confidante.
My mom's eyes sparked to life while my dad's gaze turned back to his stock reports.
“That's great, Lilly! So, tell me all about this boy, Chad. Mariana do you know him? Did
you
make any new friends today?” asked my mother, dripping with excitement.
My dinner quickly lost its flavor.
“Mom, I've been going to Spring Mills for ten years. Do you really think there's anyone there I don't know?” I stared at my plate and shoved another mound of pierogi into my mouth.
“Well, possibly. Lilly's new, and she made new friends. Maybe Chad has a few friends you would like... .”
“Mom!”
“What?”
“I have friends. I don't need any more.”
“Everyone could use more friends.” She sighed as she fixed my father's plate.
I shot Lilly a look and kicked her lightly under the table.
“
Sorry
,” she mouthed.
“Maybe if you just gave people a chance ...” my mom continued, her blond hair sweeping into her eyes as she spooned the food.
“Speaking of giving people a chance,” I interrupted, hoping to shift the focus off me. I knew the mention of Teresa should do it. “Dad, I have to tell you something.”
I spun toward him. “Dad.”
He didn't look up.
“Dad!”
He flinched and put down his newspaper.
“What?” he asked firmly, his dark eyes tired.
“Lilly got an e-mail from Teresa while you guys were at Cornell.”
He sat up straighter.
“She met some guy on the Internet. And she's moving to be with him.”
I paused a moment and looked at Lilly.
“Dad, he lives in the States. In Jersey.”
My mother dropped her serving spoon, and my father cleared his throat.
“I thought you should know.”
My father said nothing.
“I mean, the way Uncle Diego reacted ...”
“Mariana, I'll handle this,” he said matter-of-factly, rising from his chair.
“Wait, did you know about this?”
My father exhaled loudly. “She said it was a possibility while we were in Utuado.” He was clearly fighting back his irritation at having to explain himself.
“Wow. That's just great. I don't know why I'm surprised. Our family's just a mountain of secrets lately.” I wiped my mouth with my cotton napkin and stood up.
“Mariana,” my mother warned, not moving from her spot behind the stove.
“What? Let's face it, Mom. Every time I turn around, I find out something else you've been keeping from me. Why didn't you just tell us in Puerto Rico? Why the hush-hush?”
“Because I didn't know if she would go through with it. And, really, it has nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, of course not. She's just my
aunt
. I'm just the one who happened to uncover her existence this summer.”
My father's lips tightened. “Oh, stop being so dramatic
.
There are a lot of other people involved here. Not just you.”
My body surged with grisly defensiveness as my face flooded with heat.
Before this summer, my father and I had never fought. Vince was his sparring partner. But ever since I was shoved on that plane, I had harbored a lot of unsettled resentment toward my parents.
Frankly, I was sick of my father acting like the family's self-proclaimed dictator.
“You're right Dad. Why should I care about what happens in this family? Maybe I should just wait for you to tell me how I feel.”
I spun around and headed for the stairs.
“Mariana!” my father shouted.
It was too late. I was already halfway to my room.
 
Lilly knocked on my door a few minutes later. I rolled over on my rumpled bed and turned up the radio. Tootsie was the only company I could tolerate right now, and I was thankful Lilly took the hint and retreated to her bedroom. A few minutes later, I heard her hop on the phone with her mother, which only further justified what I was feeling.
Lilly might be family, but she couldn't possibly understand the complexity that was my father, anymore than I could understand her parental upbringing. Actually, there was only one other person in the world who had as much experience dealing with my dad as I did. I picked up my cordless phone.
“Hey, Vince's room ... hehehe,” giggled a sultry female voice.
“Vince, stop!” she cooed, still giddy. “Oh, yeah. Mmmmmm ... ”
My stomach turned in nauseating loops.
“Um, hello,” I hissed.
Heavy breathing filled the line.
“
Hell-O
! Sister here! On the phone! Get off my brother, skank!” I shouted.
“Oh, hey, Mariana. Wassup,” Vince panted as he grabbed the receiver.
“You are so disgusting. Do I even want to know?” I clenched my eyes shut, trying to block out the mental image of what might be occurring on the other end of the line.
“Vince, baby, where you going?” whined the pouty female voice.
“I think I'm gonna puke,” I groaned, clutching my abdomen.
“Dude, sorry.” He cleared his throat.
I could hear his footsteps and guessed he was walking out of his dorm room. Loud voices filled the background.
“Okay, if you've got some nasty chick in your room, why the heck are you answering the phone?” I asked, still cringing.
“Dude, Mariana, did she say what her name was? Because I seriously can't remember,” Vince muttered.
“How am I related to you?” I gasped. “It is some freakish biological screwup!”
Vince chuckled on the other end. “These chicks are so easy that it's not even funny. It's like they're begging me to ...”
“Nahahahahahah!” I shouted into the phone, holding the receiver away from my ear. “I don't wanna hear it! Not listening, not listening!”
I could hear Vince bellow with laughter. “All right, all right!” he said between breaths.
I slowly placed the phone back on my ear.
“Anyway,” I huffed, hoping to shake off the last thirty seconds. “How's college, aside from Professor McSkanky?”
“It's awesome. Parties every night, people are totally cool. Classes suck, though. They doled out mega assignments on the first day.”
“What, no lectures on the practical applications of high school chemistry?”
“I wish. One professor gave us seventy-five pages to read. Seriously, like I don't have any other classes?”
Actually, right now, college courses and dorm rooms sounded like absolute heaven. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what it was like where he was. I could almost see the stone buildings, the grassy quads, the kids in jeans and baseball caps. I could feel leather-bound books against my skin and smell the stale beer. I wished I was there. Part of me wanted to dive in a car and drive up to visit him right now—only I'd need a driver's license first.
“So, why you callin'? Boy trouble? Ballet catastrophe?” he asked.
“No, I wish,” I grumbled.
“Don't tell me, you finally realized our parents suck, and you've run away from home,” he joked.

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