What You Always Wanted (7 page)

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I walk the winding driveway to the Moraleses' house, the sinking sun filtering through the trees overhead like long fingers ready to seize me and carry me up to the sky. I wish they would.

A baby. A sister. Or another brother, ugh. It's too much to process. It's like in
Yours, Mine and Ours
with Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda when their two already huge, widowed families are joined, and the oldest boy just enlisting in the military finds out his new stepmother's pregnant. He gets blood drawn for the health exam and tells the doctor to take it all. I get it now.

A baby. An infant. A toddler. Child. Adolescent. Adult. They're going to have to go through every stage all over again. And I'm going to have to help. I'm going to be one of those seventeen-year-old girls who have to watch a baby sister and not get paid for it. If I take her anywhere, people will think she's mine. That my mother's just helping me out because I got myself into trouble. Little do they know I don't even let guys kiss me offstage.

This better not interfere with my life after high school. I'm going places. College, where I'll study my craft with other kids just as serious about theatre as I am, then on to traveling shows—the dream is at least one traveling Broadway show, but I know how stiff the competition will be. I have to be at my absolute best. The window of opportunity is very small for making it anywhere significant. You can't be too young and inexperienced, and you can't be too old, because of the physical demands. The human body has such a short prime of life. And mine's almost here.

The overnight bag slips off my shoulder to my elbow, but I'm gripping the cake plate with both hands. When I reach the
porch, I have to poke at the doorbell with my elbow. The dead bolt unclicks and it's Tiffany who appears. When Angela said
slumber party
, I didn't realize that involved more than me and her. I need a good venting session with carbs, not an actual party. That's not going to help my mood.

About the only thing that might perk me up is the possibility of glimpsing Jesse in whatever he wears to sleep.

Tiffany looks me over. “What happened to you? And what's with the cake?” She takes it from me when I hold it out to her.

I shake my head as I follow her inside, not yet ready to speak. Cool, pizza-scented air slaps me in the face, prompting my eyes to water all over again. I drop my bag at the bottom of the stairs on the way to the kitchen. Angela's at the dining table cutting a slice of pizza into smaller bites for Elise to eat with a fork—she doesn't like to touch her food with her hands.

“Maddie's here, Maddie's here!” Elise squeals, hopping out of her seat.

She rushes to me and hugs my legs. My body tenses at her touch for an instant, but I make myself relax. This is Elise. I adore Elise. She won me over the very first night I was here, dragging me all over her room to show me her drawings. She has nothing to do with my parents. It wouldn't be right to take out my shock on her.

“I made you a picture!” She runs back to where she was sitting and grabs a black sheet of paper with colorful chalk scratches all over it. She points to the boxy figure in the center, then to a smaller one next to it. “That's you and that's me. And my balloon.” A bright red ball floats above her chalk head.

The smile I've been holding back wins. It's the balloon I gave her earlier this week. They were passing them out at school to promote some club I don't remember the name of, and I took one for her. I don't even know what made me do it. I just thought she'd like it.

I look into Elise's eyes, so big and green and innocent. They whisper,
Wouldn't you like to have a baby sister like me? Wouldn't you love her?

And I realize I would love her. Or him. It won't be the kid's fault I'll be seventeen years older, about to really start my own life. Or that by the time the kid's seventeen, I could have children of my own. Eventually, I'll get used to the idea. But I don't have to be happy about it at this moment.

Or talk to my parents for a long time.

Angela puts Elise to bed—Mrs. Morales is at the playhouse, helping with a production, and Mr. Morales is visiting family in Mexico—and then the three of us polish off the rest of the cake. After two thick slices and a tall glass of iced milk, I find myself loosening up and spilling my secret.

“Maybe it was an immaculate conception,” Tiffany says. “Like Mary when she got pregnant with Jesus.”

Angela smacks her on the arm. “Don't make jokes. She's upset. How'd you like to be reminded that your parents . . . ?” Her voice trails off and she shudders.

“Please,” Tiffany says. “How do you think
you
got here? How did any of us get here? It's what happens.” She raises her cup. “To nature . . . and all that implies.” No one clinks glasses
with her so she guzzles the last bit of milk and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What does your brother think?” Angela asks, stacking our paper plates and tossing them into the trash under the sink.

“Hold up,” Tiffany says. “You have a brother?”

“Rider. He goes to Texas State. He's a freshman.” I pull out my phone to check for missed messages. Nothing. “I haven't talked to him yet.”

“Texas State? In San Marcos? Partaaay! Let's go see him.” Her expression brightens. “Next weekend! It's not far. Is he hot? If he looks like you, he must be.”

Angela returns to the table, frowning. “She won't think her own brother's hot. That's sick.”

“Like you don't know yours is hot,” Tiffany shoots back, looking to me for support.

I shrug and look at Angela. “He isn't even close to my type, but he's not exactly terrible to look at.”

Angela and Tiffany both go silent, looking over my head with wide eyes. Tiffany bites her lip.

A soft laugh rings out just behind me. “Thanks? I think.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I can't bring myself to look at him.
Improvise
.
Improvise
. I stand and go to rinse our empty glasses. “Don't you wish I was talking about you.”

“Weren't you?” Tiffany has to open her stupid mouth. “Because I don't have a brother.”

I slide the glasses onto the top rack of the dishwasher and risk a glance at Jesse. He leans his shoulder casually against the wall, untucked black collared shirt, hands in the pockets of his black slacks. Bare feet. He smirks like he just beat me at a game. I can't believe I just added to his clearly large ego.

“I knew you had a thing for stars,
mi reina
,” he says, tapping the top of his cheek.

I'm pretty sure he just called me his queen, but I don't give him the satisfaction of a response. I reach up to touch my cheek, and realize I didn't wear my star today.

“Get over yourself. You must have missed the part where she said you aren't her type,” Angela says to him as she switches on the washer. “He always comes home in Spanish mode
después del trabajo.
”

“Well, that's why he works there, right?” I clarify. “To learn Spanish? It's good he's using it.”

Tiffany snorts as she tries to contain a laugh, and Angela's jaw slacks. I glance at each of them, confused. Jesse's eyes widen in surprise, staring me down before he retreats into the darkness behind him. My stomach full of cake feels heavy.

“What did I say?” I ask Angela once I'm sure he's out of earshot.

She shakes her head. “I can't believe he told you that's why he works there.”

“I didn't know he couldn't speak Spanish,” Tiffany says. “I assumed he was just as good at it as you are, Ange.”

Oh, no. I totally forgot he said it was embarrassing. He told me that in confidence, which I didn't realize until this very second.

“I actually try, though. I
want
to be fluent.” Angela finishes cleaning up the mess on the table, folding the empty pizza box and clearing away crumbs from the cake. “If I'm bilingual, I'll have so many more opportunities, like for scholarships, jobs, whatever. I'd be dumb to let all that go.”

Tiffany stands at the window watching Mrs. Morales pull up the drive. “Yeah, but you're such a daddy's girl. He wants his children to go to UT; you're probably the only one who will do it. He wants you to marry a Latino, and you probably will.”

“I'm already the doomed middle child; I've gotta do something right.”

“The doomed middle child. No, no, no.” I drop into a chair and lay my upper body on the table, head down. I can't believe for a whole five minutes I actually forgot. “I'm not going to be the baby of the family anymore. There'll be a newer version, a better version. She'll grow up like an only child, too, because she won't understand that her siblings can be adults. Yes, I said ‘she' because I refuse to accept another brother.” We laugh, but mine comes out a little delirious. All that sugar I ingested is hitting me and I can't stop. “To her, we'll just be like the cool aunt and uncle who swoop in with presents on holidays and birthdays. But I'll always know. I'll always feel like the middle child from here on out. I can't believe this is happening to me.”

“Oh, no. Are you
crying
?” Tiffany asks, and I can feel her eyes roll.

“Rude,” Angela says to her from behind me. She squeezes my shoulders. “It's not all bad. There's a little more freedom, since all the attention goes to the little one. Well, unless you're babysitting. There's no freedom in that. But you'll be in college soon enough, so really you won't even notice.” She taps me on top of the head and I look up at her through blurry eyes. “I hate to say this, but you may love it. The whole thing. I was upset when Elise was born, but look at her. How could I stay mad? Now I don't even remember what it was like without her around.”

Mrs. Morales enters the kitchen, dropping a stack of mail and her purse on the counter. “Hey, girls. Everything okay?”

You'd think I could improvise in front of my theatre teacher, but I've got nothing, and I'm worried what Angela and Tiffany
might say. I'm not ready for anyone to know, especially an adult. Too mortifying.

“Maddie doesn't have a date to homecoming yet,” Tiffany supplies, and it happens to be the truth. “We're discussing potentials.” That's not the truth, but it can be remedied. “Hey, what about Jesse?”

“Dad suggested he take his friend's daughter Gabby, remember?” Angela catches eyes with her mom, who shrugs. “So that's a done deal.”

“Well”—Mrs. Morales leans in close, talking low—“I may have overheard something I'm not supposed to know.” The girls perk up. “But I won't ruin the surprise for Maddie.”

Now I perk up too.

“Mom, you have to spill now,” Angela whines. “Is someone going to ask her?”

She pulls her lips in and tilts her head. “All I can say is you shouldn't pout. You don't want to get wrinkles prematurely. Trust me.” She stretches out the skin around her eyes. “ ‘Stay gold, Ponyboy.' ” And with that, she hums the tune from the credits of
The Outsiders
and sneaks off to the dark part of the house.

I have the coolest teacher in the world. A smile takes over my face, but quickly fades at the realization that someone is making it known that he wants me as a date to the dance. What are the chances he'll ask me in some epically memorable way? Why am I already preparing how I'm going to say no?

“Should we watch a movie or something?” Angela asks.

I shake my head wildly in a figure eight. “I have too much energy. I could run a marathon.”

“The pool feels like a bathtub, but we could swim. Might not be too bad now that the sun's down.”

“Or we could jump it out,” Tiffany suggests.

“Yes!” I turn to Angela. “To the trampoline!”

Every Christmas and birthday for as long as I can remember, I've asked for one. But no, they're too dangerous. It's not like I was asking for a Red Ryder BB gun I might accidentally shoot my eye out with.