Before You (11 page)

F
aith leaves me standing in the parking lot. I take a moment to cool off, to calm myself after kissing her, like an engine powering down for the night.

I still feel her on my lips.

It takes a minute to realize that the sensation in my stomach is knots, nerves snaking around each other.

I don't know what happened to my resolve. I could've sworn that I was done with Faith when I came here tonight. Obviously, I'm not fooling anyone.

Especially myself.

“There you are,” Javier says. “I thought maybe you had another run-in with MS-13s.”

“No. Nothin' like that,” I say. “I'm good.”

I'm sitting on some sort of electrical box behind the club. Javier takes a seat next to me.

“Everythin' cool?” he asks.

I love Javier like a brother. He always has my back.

“It's cool,” I reply.

He smiles. “Never thought I'd see what I saw tonight.”

He means Faith, I'm sure.

“Me, neither.”

“Are we goin' to have to fight her
novio
? 'Cause you know I got you—just wonderin' what we're up against on Monday.”

“Nope,” I say. I cannot help grinning. “She doesn't have a boyfriend anymore.”

“No?” He whistles. “Is that thanks to you? 'Cause we'll still have to deal with Jason, if that's the case.”

I don't know why Faith and Jason split. I didn't think to ask.

“
No sé
.”

“So what happened tonight?” he asks.

“You have to be all nosy?”

“Yep,” he says. No shame.

Usually a sleazy comment would slip my lips and knock Javier's curiosity away. But I think Faith deserves more. Something is going on under the surface with her. I intend to find out what.

“She kissed me,” I admit.

I pull out a cigarette. Light it. Slow inhalation draws embers close to my face, sparks tangoing in my vision.

“¡
Dios mío, Diego!
How did you pull that off?”

I think about what happened right before the kiss. She traced my lips. Everything after was fair game.

“Don't know.”

“She's a good dancer,” Javier comments.

Yeah, she is. I'll be dreaming about the way she moved her hips against me for a long time.

“She was actin' like she wanted you,
primo.
How long do you think it'll take?” my cousin asks.

I check my temper, knowing Javier doesn't mean anything by it. And normally I would jump on the opportunity, tackle it with all I have, but Faith is different.

“It's not like that,” I say.

Javier looks at me like I've lost it
.
He's never known a time when it wasn't like that for me.

“Less or more?” he asks, feeling out my train of thought.

Do I want nothing to do with her, or everything to do with her?

“More,” I admit. I want to know what Faith is hiding. Why does she act
perfecta
for everyone else? Why did she let me see more tonight?

Why do I care, anyway?

Javier looks at me, the ground, the roof. He finds interest in the distant multicolored beams of light from some faraway building that probe the sky.

“You got it bad, huh?”

Is it that obvious?

“No,” I answer. I don't need people to think I'm spun because of a girl. Even if it's true.

“It's cool,” he says. “I won't say anything. Hey, if she's into you, maybe she isn't as bad as I thought.”

I've never had a steady girlfriend. Javier is used to me going through girls like I go through Aunt Ria's homemade cookies.

“She's strange,” I admit.

I think about the front Faith puts on for other people. How she let me in tonight. There was no front. Only the real, raw Faith Watters. I can never think of her in the same way again.

“It'll be tough,” Javier says. “You better be ready for haters, 'cause you and I both know our kind don't mix with hers. It's like oil and water. Everybody will expect you two to be separate. And if I'm honest, I have to say it doesn't come from her side alone.”

He's not lying. I don't think
mi padre
would care if I date a white girl, but I know Aunt Ria cares if Javier does. It's not right, but that's the way things are.

“I don't care about them,” I say. Let them hate if they want to. It's time someone broke the mold. I want to rip standards into a thousand pieces and watch them flutter away.

Javier laughs. “Your life is about to get a lot more interesting. Hope you're ready.”

I
am
ready. I wonder if Faith will go on a date with me now that she's done with Jason. And suddenly, I remember the conversation I had with her ex earlier in the week.

I smirk
.

Guess I got my Friday night date after all.

T
en, eleven, twelve seconds I stare into the mirror, wondering at my reflection. Green eyes that used to be as soft as dew-moistened grass. Slightly tanned skin, roughened by the aftereffects of pain. Upturned lips that want to relax into their natural set, overworked for the benefit of others. I concentrate on a thin layer of eyeliner that clings between my lashes, holding on for dear life, begging to be remembered.

As if I could forget last night.

I'm not sure where to go from here. My options are few: give Diego a chance, or savor the memories with him as I reapply the mask. It has to be one or the other. I can't be fake with Diego close. I don't know why that is; I only know that he has a way of breaking down my defenses.

“Faith! It's time for church,” Susan hollers.

I slip on a black dress and pull my hair into a ponytail. Like almost every other dress I own, this one has three-quarter-length sleeves, a high neckline, and falls below my knees. I look like a girl who wears confidence, who eats compliments for breakfast, who dishes out lies like candy.

When I get to the car, Susan and Grace are buckled in and waiting. Dad is at church, always early on Sundays, preparing his sermon.

The usual crowd greets us in the parking lot, a swarm of mosquitos thirsty for a drink, just one sip before moving on to the next victim. Everyone smiles and asks how I'm doing. I tell them I'm well, my standard response. They never ask for more.

Church starts the same as every Sunday, with worship songs and Dad welcoming everyone. The sermon takes forty-five minutes. Typical. I try not to look for Jason. We usually sit together, but today I race to Susan's side. I muster my confidence and try for casual. My stepmom looks at me strangely, but thankfully doesn't ask questions.

People have probably noticed that I'm not in my regular spot. I'm glad Susan sits up front. That way I won't have to see all the curious gawking.

By the end of the sermon, I want to escape. I can't deal with Jason. I stand and turn. Suspicion confirmed; everyone is looking at me. Three hundred piranhas, six hundred eyes starving for a piece of me.

Mrs. Magg steps in front of me.

“Hello, Faith,” she says.

Her face is pinched, unhappy.

“You've broken my son's heart, you know.” Her voice is hushed, meant for me alone. “How can you be so selfish? Did you think at all about the pain this is causing Jason? I suppose you didn't think about Grace, either, about the example you set. You have obligations to the church body, to your family, to my son.”

I open my mouth to speak, but she cuts me off.

“You are the daughter of a pastor, Faith. Don't forget where your commitments lie.”

Before I can blink, Mrs. Magg is gone, moving through the crowd to the door. A smile on her face as though nothing happened.

I fake not feeling well and tell Susan I need to visit the back bathroom—the one reserved for church employees. Less chance of bombardment.

I open the bathroom door. Stalls are clear. I walk to the sink and splash cold water on my face.

How did my life get so twisted? It's hard to tell when things went wrong. Or are they finally going right?

The bathroom door opens with a groan, its arthritic hinges protesting. A woman I recognize, but don't know well, walks in.

“Darling, are you okay?” she asks.

I must look awful. My face is wet from water that I haven't yet wiped off. Drops cling to my lashes, clouding my vision as though I'm looking through a kaleidoscope.

“Yes,” I say, grabbing paper towels.

“Are you sure? You look a little pale,” she says.

I wipe my face, bringing the woman into focus. Her image sharpens, exposing crinkles at the corners of her mouth. I ponder the lines. Maybe she's a smoker. Or a laugher. Or a person who smiles constantly to hide what's underneath. Just like me.

How little I know her, others like her.

How little they know me.

“Are you sure?” she repeats.

I want to tell someone. I need to tell someone. I'm desperate for a second opinion. But I have to be careful how I say it.

I throw away the towels. “No,” I admit.

I cannot remember what department of the church this lady works in. A secretary, maybe?

“Go on,” she encourages me.

I clear my throat. “If a girl likes a guy who's really different—I mean, nationality, appearance, race, past—but he's beautiful all the same, can it work?”

I want her to tell me that the past doesn't matter. That we all come from somewhere. That it's where we plan to go that makes a difference. I want her to water my seed of hope.

But I expect her to let me down.

The woman scrunches her eyebrows for a moment. “No,” she finally says. “I don't believe it can work.”

She pauses to smile at me. A sad smile. For my benefit, she pretends we aren't talking about me, and I'm grateful. I suppose small acts of kindness still exist.

“She's probably had a nice upbringing, like you,” she continues. “Nice girls belong with nice, simple boys. There's nothing simple about a biracial relationship. Think about the social issues she'll face. And what about her parents? His? Can you imagine what her folks would think? Tell her to find a nice boyfriend like that Jason of yours. He's a keeper.”

I swallow hard, fighting to appear calm. My mouth is a desert, dry, cracked.

“You're right. Thanks for the advice,” I say.

I don't know why I thought this would be a good idea. The woman has confirmed everything I already knew. She's right, though. It would be tough to maintain a relationship with the world against you.

I cannot have Diego.

We do not belong together.

I could disregard her advice. But caution tells me to obey. The freedom I felt the previous night? It's gone. Freedom reminds me too much of drugs, of having a choice, too many choices, of spinning out of control. What if Diego becomes my new drug? What if the feeling with him is too good? Too addictive? Suppose I let go too much?

And then he hurts me. What will be left?

The woman is still staring.

“I have to go,” I say.

I find Susan in the lobby. I ask her if she can please take me home. Quickly. I tell her I need to rest. She picks up Grace and we leave. I try not to think about Jason. Or the curious eyes that follow me like the glare of a sharpshooter through a scope. I especially try not to think about what the woman in the bathroom said.

It's hard, though. All I want to do is see Diego. All I want is the pressure of his lips. My brain fights my heart, volleying shots back and forth, a war declared within. One will win. But somehow, I fear, as a whole I'll lose.

I have one day to hold on to him. One day to miss him. It's no time, really. When I get to school tomorrow, it's back to the old Faith.

The Faith who doesn't ruin people's lives with her selfishness.

O
n the way to school, I think of Faith. Clouds move in and out of focus. The sun is too bright, but I stare at the sky anyhow. I remember her smile. Her fingers. Her freedom. Her words. All the things that served as windows into her world.

As I open the double doors and head to my locker, I keep a watchful eye. Her first class is near mine, but I don't see her yet. My hands reach for books. My elbow shuts my locker. My mind abandons me. I forget what I need to do, lose the task at hand, clutch the wrong books. Try again. Stare at too many numbers before I remember my combination. I grab the right books, but I can't grab my attention. It runs away, searching for Faith. Caring about nothing else.

I look down, double-checking; do I have everything I need? As I look up, Faith comes into view, wearing her usual one-size-too-big clothes. Her hair is in a braid. Not much makeup, not that she needs it. But what throws me off is the look on her face.

Wrong.

That is all I can think. She looks wrong. Like someone took her apart and put her back together incorrectly.

She doesn't smile when she sees me. She comes closer. I hold my breath. Pressure builds in my sternum, like I've dived too deep underwater. Her touch is the surface and I'm desperate for air. I push away from my locker. I open my mouth to speak.

Three steps, two, one, and she's within range. Doesn't matter, though, because she walks right by me without a word.

I hate how I want to make her smile, how I want to ask what's wrong. I should walk the other way. Instead, I cut through the hall after Faith, her current sweeping me up and carrying me along.

When I get close, I reach out a hand and grab her forearm. Her skin is warm and smooth and too perfect under my calloused palms. She turns.

“What?” she asks calmly.

I am fire and ice and fuel and water.

“Faith,” I say, hating how her name feels so good rolling off my tongue. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says.

Her face is blank. No anger, no passion, nothing. Void. Like the robot she's used to being. Not like the Faith at the club. Loose and free.

“Liar,” I challenge.

She eyes me. Her head tilts slightly, a gun cocked, ready to fire.

She is fierce.

She is beautiful.

“Should something be wrong?” she asks.

Maybe she didn't see me. Maybe I'm overreacting. I try to relax.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Good.” She smiles but it looks forced, like she's smiled for too many people already today. Like she's saving the last remaining smiles for somebody worth her time.

I wonder if I should tell her that I've been thinking about her.

“Well, I need to get to class. Glad you're fitting in, Diego. See you around,” she says, and begins to walk away.

This is not the same Faith that I danced with at the club.

“What's going on?” I ask, stepping in front of her. The bell rings. People shuffle into class. I'm officially late for first period, but I don't care.

Faith looks past me to the suddenly deserted hall. For the briefest second, I see a flash of panic in her eyes. Then she reins it in.

“I don't mean to be rude,” she says, “but I need to get going.”

I lean closer, just a little further over the edge, hoping my feet will stay solidly planted. “Not until you tell me what's going on,” I say.

She laughs hoarsely, not like the sweet sound I heard the other night.

“What do you want me to say?” she asks. Her eyes are
fuerte
, unbreakable.

“I don't know, but say somethin',” I reply. “Give me some
sentimiento
.”

Even though I'm angry, I still have an urge to kiss her.

She says nothing.

I think about biting my tongue, but at the last second, I let my words flow freely.

“Are you going to act like you weren't into me at the club, like that kiss never happened?” I say. “
Mami,
I didn't kiss you. You kissed me. So don't pretend there's nothing there.”

Her eyes scan our surroundings. “Let's get this over with,” she says sharply. “What happened the other night can never happen again. It was a stupid, irresponsible mistake. Are we done now?”

“No,” I reply. “We're not done. Not even close.” I thought we were just getting started. “What's the point of this?”

“Did you not hear me the first time?” Faith asks. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. “The dancing meant nothing. The kiss meant nothing.”

She looks around, making sure the hall is still deserted. “You mean nothing.”

Too far, Faith.

If she's going to have amnesia about how good our kisses were, then maybe I need to remind her. I move in. I'm teetering on the edge, close to falling. With or without her.

Her eyes are remote. I raise my fingers to brush her cheek. She steps back.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“What do you think I'm doing?”

“Diego, please.” Even though she uses nice words, her tone is rough. She's acting like I'm the scum of the earth, which, let's face it . . . next to her? I kind of am.

“What's the deal?” I say, exasperated. “You won't leave me alone when I want you to. Then you dance with me at the club and kiss me like it's your dyin' wish. Now you couldn't care less?”

“Yes. And if you're done, I'm late to class,” Faith says.

“Will you promise me you'll never bring this up again? That you'll let it go?” She looks unsure, like she expects me to expose our night.

“Don't worry, Miss
Máscara.
I'll take our little secret to the grave”—aside from Javier—“but I won't promise you anything about letting go. Because I don't think you want me to.”

She smiles wickedly. “You obviously don't know me at all.”

I wonder if I'm making a mistake. Even if I am, I can't deny that Faith intrigues me. Still. And I enjoy a good challenge.

“Give it up,” she says, noticing the competitive glint in my eyes. “You and I will never be. It's unnatural. And you know it.”

“All I know is that you won't let me close. I think it's 'cause you're scared.” I smile. “Scared that the moment I get you in my arms, you'll never want to leave. And
you
know it.”

Faith turns, walks away. No matter what she says, I'm not giving up that easily.

And one backward glance from her tells me that she doesn't truly want me to.