Before You (12 page)

“I
don't understand. I saw you two kissing—”

“Give it a rest, Melissa. I can't deal with this right now.”

“I'm just saying. That was not an accident, Faith,” Melissa says, handing me a stack of books to price. “That was intense, it was real—”

“Seriously,” I interrupt. “Can't. Deal. Please.”

Talking about Diego is five hundred pencil points jabbing my skin, etching painful lines into vulnerable tissue with each word. My eyes water as though I've cut two dozen onions. The remembrance of the lies I told him is its own punishment, one that makes it hard to breathe.

He does mean something to me.

“You're pushing him away, aren't you?” Melissa says.

My eyes scurry across the library, hoping no one but me can hear. Two people—a guy and a girl—stand, twenty strides away. The guy places a hand on the girl's lower back. My fists clench.

“Yes. Now let it go,” I warn.

Melissa doesn't back down. “Is this because of Jason?”

Honestly, no. What I feel for Diego scares me. I have to think about other people. About Dad's reputation. We—Diego and I—do not belong together. Simple as that.

“No.” I'm being short with her.

Melissa slams a book on the table. The force sends a gust of air over my arms and shoulders.

“So this is because of your dad? Faith, when are you going to start living for yourself?”

“Diego and I are not a good mix, Melissa,” I whisper.

“What are you
talking
about?” she says.

I can hear our heartbeats in the silence between us.

“Diego and I . . . It's too intense. Too hot. I'm not getting burned.” It's a cop-out, I know.

Melissa laughs, but she doesn't look amused. “Do you hear yourself? You could use some fire in your life.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Melissa gives me a stern look. “It means that you need to lighten up. You
need
that fire, Faith. You haven't been passionate about anything in a long time. You're too worried about what everyone else will think, and you've created such a squeaky-clean image that you feel the need to constantly polish it. It's ridiculous. Let yourself enjoy Diego. If he burns you, so be it. At least then you'll feel some sort of emotion. You'll be
living
. Your life. Not theirs.”

Her words hang heavy, an omnipresent cloud around me. Tears sting my eyes, and I jump up to leave.

“Wait,” Melissa says.

“You're supposed to be the one who understands!” I realize I'm yelling, but I'm too hurt to care. “You of all people should get it!”

She knows why I can't let people in. Especially people who make me forget my name, who kiss me like there's no tomorrow and make me forget how to breathe. Who make my heart sing even though I've tried desperately to quiet it.

“I do understand, Faith. And I love you enough to tell you that you're fading. My best friend is disappearing before my eyes, and I want her back.”

“You have me,” I say. Lies.

“No, I don't. You know it. You feel it, don't you?” Melissa says.

Yes.
“No.”

“Don't lie to me, Faith. Not me. I
know.
”

She always has. It's one of the many things I love about her.

Diego and Lori approach. I quickly wipe my eyes. My hand is slick with tears. I radiate uncertainty and regret like a pheromone, marking myself as a target. I fear Diego's heightened senses will pinpoint my weakness.

“This conversation is not over,” Melissa says quietly.

Diego's wearing ripped jeans and a plain green shirt.

He is breathtaking.

Diego stops one foot in front of me and sets down his backpack. He stares at me. I meet his stare, second for second.

“
Hola
,” he says.

“Hi,” I say quickly. “I set the last of the boxes over there—” I pause to point to the mountainous pile. “If you wouldn't mind opening them and separating them according to category?”

I get down to business. It's better that way. My mask is flawless.

“Okay,” he says.

No fight. I wasn't expecting that.

“Thanks,” I say, businesslike. When I look back at Melissa, she's scowling. I pay no attention.

We're almost done unloading, categorizing, and pricing books. Posters, flyers, and advertising for the fair are next. I have nice handwriting, so I draw the signs. Melissa prefers to color them. We usually go to her house for that.

I like it at Melissa's. Her mom is sweetness and trust wrapped into one package. She lets Melissa make her own mistakes.

I wish my dad had opened up to me. I wish he'd tackled the pain with me after Mom left instead of being a locked box. I searched for the key for years, but I couldn't find it. I still haven't.

“Five,” Melissa says, breaking through my thoughts. “That's how many times Diego will meet us before his detention is over.”

“So?” I say, acting unconcerned. I fear my voice reflects the shallow breaths I take as my heart constricts.

Five more times, really? That's not much.

“Yes,” Melissa says. “So, I wouldn't wait too long. He'll be gone before you know it. And I've seen the way girls look at him, girls who aren't afraid to take the risk.”

I grimace. The thought of Diego with someone else is static, fuzzing my brain, making it hard to think.

I shouldn't care.

“Imagine some other girl dancing on him the way you did. Or him kissing another girl the way he kissed you,” Melissa says.

“Okay!” I yell. “I get it!”

Diego turns, raises an eyebrow. He's far enough away not to hear me unless I raise my voice. I need control. I can't let him see me slip.

He turns back around. Lori helps him with books. If I had a spine, it would be me over there.

While Diego's not looking, I glance at him. I want to go to him. Questions skitter across the surface of my mind. Is Diego bad for me? Why do I care what others think? Was the woman at church right? I mean, what does it matter that his skin is different from mine? Why are tattoos considered art only by a select few? On and on and on. I have a hard time not being annoyed by it. I need to forget them, Diego, everything. But how?

Diego catches me looking. I glance back down, suddenly interested in my shoelaces. Melissa chuckles.

“What's so—”

But before I can finish, Diego is standing in front of me. “Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.

I peer at him. “I already told you that—”

“Not you,” he interrupts.

Melissa?

“Sure,” my best friend says, walking off with him. Traitor.

Consumed by a sudden fit of anger, I want to put Melissa on stage and try her for treason, for conspiring with the enemy. Maybe I'm paranoid, and they're not talking about me? And Diego isn't really the enemy, anyway.

I want to believe that Diego means nothing. I want my best friend to quit bringing him into our conversations. I want to quit seeing him everywhere. The idea of him and me together brings me to the point of weakness.

Or is it strength?

If I am not extremely careful, I just might find out.

Z
ero percent chance of rain, the Weather Channel predicts. The sun's rays coil around everything they touch—the trees, the asphalt, me. Pinned to a post is a flyer, curling around itself, flapping in the slight breeze. The letters are too bleached to be readable, the sun stealing the words with sticky fingers. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip.

It's been five days since I saw Faith in the library, since I pulled Melissa aside. Every moment outside of school I've spent at work, covering for someone on vacation, all the while looking forward to today. Part of me wonders if I should follow through with my plan. It's risky.

“You ready?” Javier asks, tossing a towel at me.

I wipe my face. “
Sí
.”

Ramon, Esteban, Juan, and Rodolfo are waiting in the Honda Civic parked in my cousin's driveway. Luis, Javier, and I pile into Uncle Dimitri's Explorer. He's letting us borrow it for the day. Though the car is big, there's only enough room for three; Uncle Dimitri's work things are the other passengers.

Rolling down the window, I let Florida's scorching heat bake my skin. It has to be near 100 degrees. I'm wearing board shorts and sandals. My scars and tattoos are visible, but I'm past the point of caring. I have other things on my mind.

Javier drives down the highway, Spanish music blaring. Wind whips through my already unruly hair. Stings my skin. Feels like a thousand tiny fangs biting me.

As we close in on our destination, we spot surfboards clinging to the tops of cars. As expected, the beach is busy. The sky is a crystalline blue. Cloudless.

It takes us fifteen minutes to find parking. The sand is off-white and burns my feet when I remove my sandals. Towels freckle the ground, the face of the beach a quilt of many colors. We stop to check out girls near us. I'm not as into it as I would like to be, which only confirms that Faith has taken root in me.

Mis amigos
jump up to go after a group of girls walking down
la playa
, leaving Javier and me alone.

“What are the chances they'll get those
chicas
to come back with them?” Javier asks.

The girls seem out of their league, but maybe the guys can be smooth. I have no real way to know.

“Fifty-fifty,” I say.

Javier pulls a loose string off the corner of his towel. “I'd give it more like thirty percent,” he says.

Sure enough, the boys return a minute later, complaining about how the girls weren't feeling them. Doesn't matter, though. Day like today, beautiful people stretch as far as the horizon. The boys will move on as quickly as the tide turns.

A random thought intrudes, like an unexpected houseguest.

Make Faith jealous.

I never claimed to play fair.

“What time is she comin'?” Javier asks, voice low. The others don't hear.

“Should already be here,” I answer.

I adjust my cheap sunglasses. They do little to block the light, which blares like a bullhorn.

“Ready?” my cousin asks.

No.

Yes.

Part of me wants to go to Faith. Explain. Have her drop the mask. Live in the States. Fit in. The other part wants to run home. Chance it. Stick with what I know.

It's like I belong to two different worlds.

Or neither.

“Yes,” I answer. I'm not sure if it's a lie.

We get up, tell the others we'll be back soon. I double-check my cell. A text from Melissa.

Meet me at Jet Ski cabana. F's in water.

“This way,” I tell Javier.

The Jet Ski rental cabana is easy to spot. Its old straw roof slouches like hunched shoulders. Melissa waits, one hand leaning against the makeshift cabana, the other on her hip; she's smoking a cigarette. Her pink bikini leaves little to the imagination.

But all I can think about is Faith.

My cousin almost stumbles, his steps stuttering.

“Why didn't you tell me, Diego?” he says. “Faith's friend is hot.”

“You should talk to her,” I suggest.

Melissa sees Javier watching and flashes a grin. A weapon of hers, I assume. Probably one of many in her arsenal.

“Hey, boys,” she says. She pauses to check out Javier. I laugh. The girl oozes confidence. Javier looks nervous. I would be, too.

“I'm Melissa,” she says, extending her hand to Javier.

“Javier,” he says, meeting her grip. A moment too long, if you ask me.

“I assume you know what's going on,” Melissa says to Javier before directing her attention to me. “So I'll get down to business. Faith is attempting to catch a wave, which isn't going to happen since the ocean is flatter than the surfboard she's on. I'd give it ten more minutes before she comes in. She knows nothing. Catching her off guard is your best bet. I'm sure you can understand why.”

Melissa looks directly at me, and I understand then that there are some things she won't talk about. She thinks I know enough. I do. Faith is wearing her mask again. Becoming what everyone expects her to be.

But her best friend ultimately has her back and won't divulge too much. She's leaving it to me to crack Faith's mummified exterior. If I want answers, I have to peel away the layers myself.

I kind of admire Melissa. She loves Faith, but hates what she's doing to herself. Enough to invite us out here, but not enough to betray secrets. The perfect balance.

“Ten minutes, boys,” Melissa says. She turns to Javier. Drags a fingertip down his arm, leaving grains of sand like a bread trail, marking a route. Perhaps to visit later. With a wink, she splays herself across a towel nearby.

Javier is speechless.

I grin. “Man, those best friends are trouble,” I say, meaning every word.

Jealousy is an avenue that I hardly walk. Though it has its advantages. It's quick. Cuts to the heart of things. But it's also messy. One wrong move, one wrong turn, and you accidentally sever an artery.

But if it goes smoothly, jealousy can be the fastest way to get what I want. Which is why I go for it today.

I can't seem to reach Faith at school. This is different territory. No watchful eyes. That was Melissa's reason for suggesting the beach; this is where Faith is free.

We walk back to our spots. The boys grab a football and ask us to join. We move closer to the water. Throw to each other. Girls take interest. Two of them, identical twins, are staring. One approaches me. She's fifty miles of legs and not much else.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I reply, grinning. I couldn't have asked for a better setup.

Her twin approaches Javier. In the background,
mis amigos
complain in Spanish about how Javier and I get all the girls. But that's not entirely true—a couple of the twins' friends are hanging back, waiting to be approached.

“I'm Allison,” the girl says.

“Diego,” I reply.

Not that names matter. I'll be forgetting you by tomorrow.

Javier, who's talking to the other twin, waves us over. He wants to take it to the water. I glance to where Faith should be, back on her towel. Empty.

As I approach the salt water, I see why. Faith is treading the current, heading toward the shore, a purple-and-white surfboard like a flower in bloom under her arm. A forest-green bikini hugs her skin. Tiny beads dangle from the triangle top. I have an urge to run my fingers across them, like a breeze through wind chimes. Her body is defined legs and stomach muscles—slim but sexy. Her hair tangles wetly over her shoulders.

Dios mío.

Tattoos?
I ask myself.
Faith has tattoos?

I squint. Try to make out the designs. Can't.

No idea she had it in her. She looks nothing like the Faith she pretends to be.

She's smiling, as if the water makes her happy. I wish I could make her happy.

Faith hasn't spotted me. I flirt with the twin. I purposely line myself up where Faith will see me as she exits the ocean. Caught in the crossfire.

Water laps between my toes, licking my feet. The girl next to me squeals.

“I hate the feel of the bottom of the ocean,” she says, a smile on her face, one leg kicking back like she is posing for a postcard. I imagine it saying something like: “Welcome to Florida!” or “The Sunshine State! Where paradise is home!”

Home my—

The girl squeals again. Annoying. Piercing. Takes all I have not to let her tumble into the ocean and let the sloshing water quiet her.

But her squeal gets Faith's attention.

“Hop on,” I say, winking at the
mujer
.

She jumps onto my back, holds on tight. Legs wrap around my waist. Arms pull me close.

Faith is seething.

She needs this, though. To be pushed. To make decisions that scare her. Just like she did at the club.

I don't bother to wipe the grin off my face. Faith accidentally drops her surfboard. Bends to pick it up. I nearly lose my resolve. She straightens, her board once again under her arm. Her mouth opens as if she's going to speak. I don't give her the chance.

I do exactly what she did to me. I brush past her.

Without a word.