Dream Things True (4 page)

He jogged toward the broken sprinkler and paused underneath, letting the cool streams of water run over his head and seep into his sweat-soaked shirt. Revived, Evan shook the excess water out of his hair and turned to go home. Then he saw it. The red Ford pickup was headed straight for him.

 

 

Alma squinted and stared ahead. Was that Evan Roland stepping away from the sprinkler her dad had been called to repair? He turned around and her stomach lurched. Yes, it was Evan. And yes, he was sopping wet, with his shirt plastered to his chest and shaggy hair falling across his forehead, sending streams of water down his flushed face.

She gathered herself and called out, “Hey, Evan. There's not a shower in that big fancy house of yours?”

Laughing, Evan walked toward her window. “Good morning, Mr. Garcia,” he said. “Good morning, Aaaahhhlllma.”

“
Ya es tarde,
” grumbled Alma's father.

Alma glanced toward the clock on the dashboard. Her dad was right. It was almost twelve fifteen.

“Man, it's hot today, huh, Mr. Garcia?”

Evan was trying to make small talk with her dad—a lost cause.

“Yes, it is,” her dad replied curtly, stepping out of the truck.

“Get that boy some cold Gatorade from the back of the truck, Alma,” her dad said in Spanish. “He looks like he's about to pass out.”

Evan looked pretty amazing as far as Alma was concerned. She went around to the truck bed and dug in the cooler as her dad grabbed a toolbox and made his way to the backyard.

“Do you want a Gatorade?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” Evan replied absently.

When she came back, Evan was holding one of her books. She always brought books to work. Reading was an easy way to pass the time as they drove across town, from one client to another.

He turned the book toward her and pointed at the cover. There was a charcoal drawing of a young woman with downcast eyes and a white flower in her hair.

“I like the picture. She looks like you,” Evan said, glancing up at her.

“That's sort of offensive, Evan,” she replied, scowling. “That girl's from the South Pacific. I'm from southern Mexico.”

“Didn't mean to offend, Miss Garcia,” Evan replied, throwing his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.

“‘
Coming of Age in Samoa
,'” he read from the cover. “So Samoa is in the South Pacific?”

“Yeah.”

“And why, exactly, are you reading about Samoa?”

“One of my teachers from North Atlanta High let me borrow it,” she said. “It's written by a famous anthropologist.”

“A famous
what
?” Evan asked.

Since he was grinning in a way that made butterflies rush through her gut, Alma wasn't so focused on his intelligence at this particular moment. Trying to hold herself together, she took the book and opened it to a dog-eared page.

“Read this part,” she commanded.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, really. I mean, unless you want to stay ignorant.”

“Ouch,” he replied.

He grabbed the book and leaned against the door of the truck. He read slowly, “‘In our own civilization the individual is beset with difficulties which we are likely to ascribe to fundamental human traits. When we speak about the difficulties of childhood and adolescence, we are thinking of them as unavoidable periods of adjustment through which everyone has to pass.'”

Thankfully, Alma had read the lines several times before, since she was completely distracted by the way his hands grasped the book. She imagined touching the thick veins that ran along his forearm.

He looked up at her, squinting.

“OK, so
why
are you reading this?” he asked.

It was a legitimate question. The book wasn't exactly
Gossip Girl
.

“It's interesting,” Alma replied, shrugging. “Just keep reading.”

“‘We feel, therefore, grateful to Miss Mead' … blah, blah, blah.” His finger skimmed along the page and then he picked up reading again. “‘The results of her painstaking investigation confirm that much of what we ascribe to human nature is no more than a reaction to the restraints put upon us by our civilization. Franz Boas, 1928.'”

He looked up from the book.

“That's anthropology,” Alma said, “studying different cultures to see how they vary. Margaret Mead thought learning about other cultures helps us better understand our own.”

“Just to be clear, Alma,” he said, grinning a perfect grin, “is this book saying there's no such thing as adolescence?” He ran his hand slowly through his hair and stepped toward her. “That would have been great to know three years ago, when I had pimples and all the girls were a foot taller than me.”

Alma felt herself blushing as he came closer. She didn't believe Evan's skin had ever been pimply.

“No,” replied Alma, stepping back to lean against the truck. “It exists, but it changes in different times and places.” Evan moved toward her again, which made her heart start thumping fast.

“I mean, look at us,” she said, hoping that her voice wasn't shaking. “We're standing here talking without a chaperone, which wouldn't have happened a couple of generations ago.”

They both looked at her dad, who was now crouched in front of the sprinkler but watching them like a hawk about to swoop in for the kill.

“Well, in my case, not exactly,” Alma said, shrugging. “But I'm sure
you
can hang out with girls without a chaperone.”

She felt a heaviness in her gut as she saw her dad stand up from the sprinkler. “
Ahorita v
á
monos, hija,
” he called out, heading through a gate and toward the back of the house.

“Dad fixed the sprinkler. We've gotta go.”

Her chest pulled tight.

“Alma,” he said, looking directly into her eyes.

She had to look away.

“I'm having a ski party tomorrow. Or I guess I should say my mom is having a party for me. But she won't be hanging around. She just likes planning parties for other people. Can you come?”

She knew what she had to say, but her mouth would not form the words.

Evan filled the awkward silence. “I can pick you up.”

“I have to work,” she said.

“It's the last weekend of summer, Alma. Can't you get an afternoon off?”

“Not really,” she replied, shrugging. “I need the money.”

“So, come after work,” he said.

Alma had to find a way to explain.

“The truth is, Evan, there's no way my dad will give me permission to come to a party at your house. Ever.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

Alma nodded once.

“Could I maybe call you,” he said, grinning, “or is that not allowed either?”

Alma's eyes darted toward the backyard. No sign of her dad yet.

“Do you have your phone?” she asked.

Evan shrugged, stretched out his arms, and looked down at his still damp body.

Alma didn't dare follow his gaze. She already felt her cheeks turning red.

“Dumb question,” she said, turning to rummage in the truck's glove compartment. She found a pencil and an old Walmart receipt. She looked once more toward the backyard and then scribbled her number on the back.

“Text before you call.”

Evan looked down at the phone number written neatly on the paper.

“You have a cell phone?” he asked.

“Of course, idiot. Everyone has a cell phone.”

Evan shrugged and bit his lip.

“But unlike you,” she said, “I have to pay for mine.”

“How do you know I don't pay for my phone?” he asked.

Alma shot him a withering look.

“Yeah, OK,” he said.

Alma stepped sideways, her back still against the truck. She was afraid of the way her body might react if she let him any closer.

“Do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” He leaned in toward her and rested his hand against the truck. His nearness produced another strange sinking sensation in her gut. She sucked in a deep breath, grabbed the wheel hub, and replied.

“You can text me whenever you want to, but don't butcher the English language by doing annoying things like using the number two for ‘to,' got it?”

Evan chuckled. “Right. Complete sentences, I promise.”

Alma heard the back gate swing open.

“Put it somewhere, Evan.”

His eyebrows arched as he shot her a puzzled look.

“The phone number. Now.”

Evan nodded once and tucked the scrap of paper into his waistband.

THREE

Night Swimming

Evan was standing with his friend Logan at the far end of the pool when he saw the French door open. He watched as two amazing legs carried Alma toward him. Evan took in every inch of them, from her ankles all the way up to a very revealing black bikini. Set off against the jet-black fabric, her slim body was the color of milky coffee. Her dark, shining hair flowed down to the middle of her back, but a few strands fell forward to brush her perfect breasts. Her smooth stomach moved perceptibly with each long breath. And her cheeks blazed red with shame.

“God, Logan, stop gawking,” he heard Logan's girlfriend, Caroline, say.

Without thinking, Evan set off toward Alma, pulling his T-shirt off over his head. He caught Alma's gaze, training his eyes steadily on hers as he passed by groups of friends gathered around the pool. Arriving next to her, Evan resisted the overwhelming temptation to look down at her vulnerable, almost naked body. Instead, he held her gaze and blindly pressed his T-shirt toward where he thought her hand might be.

“You look a little cold,” he heard himself say roughly.

As soon as he said it, he knew he sounded like a complete idiot. It was August in Georgia.

“Thanks, Evan,” Alma replied, shrugging his shirt on. “Uh, your mom, she, uh…”

“I get it,” Evan broke in. “She's not exactly the one-piece type.”

After his run the other day, Evan had made the mistake of mentioning Alma to his mom. She immediately decided that it was her personal responsibility to ensure Alma's social success at Gilberton High, and that Evan's ski party would be the perfect place to begin. Evan tried explaining how strict Alma's father was, but that didn't keep his mom from accosting Alma and Mr. Garcia an hour earlier. Evan and his mom were driving home from the grocery store with supplies for the party when they saw Alma and her dad working at a house down the road. Evan's mom launched herself from her Escalade and demanded that Alma be allowed to come to the party, while Evan watched from the driver's seat.

Alma explained that she had to work, but Evan's mom said she should “live a little.” When Alma said she didn't even have a bathing suit, Evan's mom said she had dozens that would look great on “that cute little body.” Alma's dad, clearly frustrated, gave in to his client's wishes. He said that Alma could go to the party as long as she got home by eight thirty.
Eight thirty.
Did that even count as a curfew? It was more like bedtime for a kindergartener.

The whole thing was humiliating for Evan. He couldn't even manage to get out of the Escalade, much less come to Alma's aid. So now here he was, desperately wanting a girl who was wearing his mom's bikini.

Gross.

Alma pulled her hair out from the neck of his shirt and let it fall forward. “She even made me take my hair down,” Alma said, throwing her hands into the air. “I was completely at her mercy.”

“When my mom sets her mind to something, there's not much you
can
do,” Evan said, trying his hardest to stop imagining what it might feel like to touch her body underneath his own shirt.

Evan reached out to take her hand. “Let's go skiing.”

 

 

Evan led her onto the dock, where a dozen people she didn't know were climbing into ski boats. She watched as all of these strangers, presumably students at her new school, casually distributed themselves into boats.

Do all these teenagers own boats?
Alma wondered. Evan led her onto his boat, where two other people were already rummaging around under the seats for life jackets. An athletic-looking girl with long brown hair threw her one.

“I'm Caroline,” she said, “and that's Logan.” She motioned toward a short, muscular guy with a shaved head. He had his back to Alma, and was untying ropes from the boat. Hearing his name, he turned and grinned.

“
¡Bienvenidos!
” he said in terrible, Southern-accented Spanish.

“Just ignore him when he acts like an idiot,” Caroline said. “That's what I do.”

Evan got behind the wheel and started the engine. Just as he was backing out, an amazingly beautiful girl came running down the dock.

“Evan, hon! Wait for me!” she called out.

The girl reached the edge of the dock and, without hesitating, leapt gracefully across the water and toward the boat. She was wearing nothing but a bright-red string bikini. Her sandy-blond hair bounced and shone like a model's in a shampoo commercial.

Evan pulled her safely onto the boat, and she collapsed into the passenger seat.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she said to Evan.

“This is Alma,” Evan said, nodding in Alma's direction. “She'll be starting at Gilberton next week. And this is Mary Catherine,” he said, grabbing onto the beautiful girl's shoulder and squeezing hard. “She's my perpetually late neighbor.”

“But he loves me anyway!” Mary Catherine proclaimed. Then she smiled, revealing perfect teeth to match her perfect body.

Were they flirting? Alma felt a tightness in her chest, knowing that she was no competition for this girl.

The engine rumbled, and the boat lurched forward from the dock. Evan grasped Alma's arm to steady her and then pulled her toward him. “Ready to learn how to drive?”