What You Always Wanted (8 page)

We run past the pool and outdoor kitchen in our bare feet, through a patch of tall, cool grass, and crawl over the springs of the trampoline through the slit in the protective netting. Keeping my feet on the taut black fabric, I bounce a few times to get the feel of it. It's been years since I've been on one of these. Every time I've come over here, I've eyed it with jealousy, but I've always been afraid to ask Angela if we could play on it. I mean, we
are
nearly adults.

Angela and Tiffany are already flying high into the air, and I work up the nerve to join them, allowing myself to go higher and higher. With each jump, I get looser, throwing my arms wide and arching my back, face to the sky. Freer and freer.

Right now, I'm nobody's sister, nobody's daughter. Nobody's potential homecoming date. I'm just me, working to tear away from gravity and failing, but loving every second of it.

We challenge each other to a toe-touch competition, which Tiffany wins with her gift for all things athletic, and promptly collapse on the bounce mat on our backs. We lie in silence save for our ragged breathing, heads together in the middle, legs stretched out like a pinwheel. I notice a light turn on in a room upstairs and my eyes automatically shift toward it.

Jesse's silhouette is framed by the window. He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor, then ruffles his hair with his hands, no idea we're out here. Tiffany must not see because she wouldn't be quiet about it. I'm sure not going to tell her. This show is for me. I deserve this. Though it's doing the opposite of lifting my spirits.

After the way he looked at me tonight when I unknowingly revealed one of his secrets, I'll be lucky if he speaks to me at all when he brings me home from school next week, assuming he even continues doing that. He may be afraid to tell me anything ever again.

I may have permanently stunted our friendship.

Jesse and I are at school by my locker, and he offers to carry my stack of books. Then suddenly we're riding in his truck, except the seats are beanbag chairs and he can hardly see over the steering wheel. The sun sets at the snap of his fingers, and it begins to rain. The windshield wipers don't work, so he pulls over. Then the rain turns into a blizzard, trapping us inside without a heater because he says the engine might overheat if he turns it on. I'm shivering so hard my teeth clank together, and he squeezes next to me on my beanbag chair, running his hands down my arms to warm me. I tell him I'm scared we'll never get out, and he sings softly to me in Spanish. The most beautiful voice I've ever heard in a language I don't understand. The most beautiful voice . . .

The high-pitched
whir
of a motor jolts me awake. I blink in the bright sunlight and roll over, my body rising and falling.
I'm on a water bed. I open my eyes fully and see Jesse wielding a Weed Eater around the flagstone of the pool. Not a water bed. I'm still on the trampoline. And he was the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes.

Which would explain my completely wacky and unwelcome dream.

A groan sounds next to me and I realize all three of us must have fallen asleep after our jumping spree, and after our sugar crash. An all-night buffet for mosquitoes with their West Nile virus. I see a couple bites on my arms and at least one on my leg, and feel around on my face in a panic. I need a mirror.

“I can't believe we slept out here all night,” Tiffany says, rubbing her neck. “How stupid. I feel so stiff. And I have a game this afternoon. Unless it is afternoon and I slept through it.”

“Jesse and Red like to do the yard early in the morning before it gets hot,” Angela says as we come down the three-rung ladder and step into the dew-covered grass. “It's probably, like, eight.”

“It's seven thirty,” calls a man's voice from the table by the pool. “Did y'all get banished from the castle last night or something?”

“Dad!” Angela rushes to him for a hug. “When did you get home?”

“This morning. I brought breakfast.” Mr. Morales motions to a white box with a red stripe that says Shipley Do-Nuts. I don't know about Shipley, but just the sight of the pastries makes my mouth water for the goodness that comes from the orange-and-pink box that is Dunkin' Donuts. Apparently they aren't very common around here.

“Thanks, Mr. M.” Tiffany high-fives him before snatching a glazed and pulling out a chair.

“Help yourself.” Mr. Morales smiles at her, then looks at me. “Maddie, how are you and your family settling in?”

I've met him once before, briefly, but I'm surprised he remembers my name. Maybe Angela talks about me.

“Slowly,” I say. “Mom's tearing apart the house to fix it up.”

“Been there,” he says through a sympathetic laugh. “Sherri and I want to have y'all over for dinner sometime. I'll have her call your mom.”

“That's so nice, thank you.” I brave a smile, but all I can think is that my parents should wait for Ma's barfing stage to be over before making new friends.

“Boys!” Mr. Morales shouts over the string trimmer. “Donuts!”

Jesse abandons his task as Red finishes filling the lawn mower with gas, and they join us by the pool. I hear Angela quietly suck in a slow breath like through a straw, and I turn just in time to see her gaze linger on Red's arms. In his sleeveless white shirt, his muscles are more massive than I thought. He could probably lift either of us with a pinkie.

Red shakes hands with Mr. Morales before sitting and snatching two donuts, sliding the extra one onto his thumb.

“Hey, Dad.” Jesse brushes off his hands on his shirt. “The Weed Eater's acting—”

“I'm sure you can fix it,” Mr. Morales dismisses, nudging Jesse's shoulder with a fist. “So, since I'm finally home this weekend, I can work with you on your curveball.” He selects a donut at random for Jesse, who puts it back and takes a different kind.

“I've
been
working on my curveball, Dad.” Jesse's eyes dart to mine for a second. “Can we talk about this later?”

I glance at Tiffany as she shifts in her seat and bites her lip. Red continues chomping on his breakfast, unaffected by the conversation going on around him.

“All I'm saying is, we need to get it consistent before the preseason games start. It's not too soon to get in some extra practice.” He waits for a response, but doesn't get more than a nod.

I expect Jesse to give me one of those annoyed eye rolls that says
Parents
, but he keeps himself from looking at me again, and returns to his yard work without another word.

“Well, come find me when you're done. I'll catch for you,” Mr. Morales calls to him before turning to Red. “I pay you to sit on the mower, not a chair,” he teases. “Get back to it.”

Angela asks her dad about his trip to see her grandmother, and he answers in Spanish, the two of them chatting as she follows him inside the house. Tiffany snatches a second donut—chocolate-iced—and watches Red unashamedly as he climbs onto the mower.

Using the band around my wrist, I pile my hair up into a loopy bun to get it off my neck. “So you're just gonna sit here eating donuts, watching the guys work in the yard?” I ask Tiffany.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, like I'm stupid for asking.

The trimmer makes a strangled sound and I find Jesse attacking a thick patch of grass creeping into a flower bed. I've never seen him dressed so casually before—blue shirt with ripped-off sleeves and bright red athletic shorts that cling to his legs. His muscular, tan legs. If I didn't know any better, I'd think they were dancers' legs.

And now I'm staring. I reach for a donut and take a bite, officially joining the sport of spectating. Still struggling with the trimmer, Jesse smacks the end of it against the ground to get it to spin again. He looks in our direction as if to check to see if he has an audience, and holds my gaze with an unreadable expression and no hint of a smile.

Then he decapitates the seedpod of a weed, and I can't help thinking he imagined that it was me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I wish I could say Rica was forced to see the light after that first day, but she's just mean. People like her shouldn't be allowed to be talented. She can outperform almost everyone in class. And I've heard her sing-humming to herself in a disgustingly pretty tone. If she can dance too, she'll have me beat. And that simply won't do.

I need to sign up with a dance studio ASAP before I lose all my groove ability.

Sarah is Rica's opposite, which is probably why I get along with her so well. We gravitate toward each other, performing a lot of the in-class exercises together. And where Sarah goes, Ryan follows, with Brian close behind. But Brian's never sat next to me before today.

“Nervous about auditions on Monday?” he asks.

We're doing
Barefoot in the Park
mid-December. Part of me feels like I already had my audition, in the middle of the
street, no less. And it
was
basically my idea to do this play in the first place. I mean, if I hadn't started reciting lines from it that day, we'd probably be doing something else. Something less awesome.

I shake my head. “Trying not to be.”

“I'm sure you'll be amazing,” he says, smiling. “It's like that part was written for you, even though it was probably written before our parents were even born.” We laugh.

Not one to discourage a compliment, I ask, “You really think so?”

“Oh, yeah. You've got that same spunk. Quick wit.”

It's too bad I don't blush. He's working really hard for it.

Offering a smile, I tilt my head to the side and study Brian's face. He has a few freckles on the ridge of his nose and the tips of his cheeks. At first glance, his hair looks about the same brown as mine, but there's a coppery undertone to it that gives it a zing of personality. He's not unattractive, but, well, I haven't really thought about him that way before. I'm not sure if that says more about me or him.

“I've officially decided you shall be Corie and therefore I must be Paul.”

“Oh, are we a package deal now?”

“Yes!” Brian leans in close like he's about to hug me. “Maddie.” He swallows. “Let's audition together.”

The gears in my head automatically start turning. I've never done a scene with him in class, but I've seen him. He's a natural. The type of acting where you can't really tell if he's reciting lines or making them up. And in real life he's relatively funny and quick-witted himself. This could work. We could
practice to perfection and completely blow the casting directors away. They'd have no choice but to cast us both. Assuming we have chemistry. Chemistry is key. The movie wouldn't have been quite so memorable without the perfect pairing of Robert Redford and Jane Fonda.

I raise an eyebrow and see Brian's confidence shrink. “You have to audition for that.”

“For what?”

“To be my audition partner. You have to audition for me first. We need to make sure we have chemistry.”

“Shoot, Maddie, I got this,” he says, relaxing into his chair, his legs stretching out long in front of him. “When and where?”

“Hold up.” I raise my hand, signaling for him to stop. “We need to find out if we're even allowed to do this. Monologues are the norm, you know, as in, performed by one person.”

“Already asked. We're approved.”

I smile at his determination. “Okay, we should get started right away, then.” I take out my phone and text my address to him. I won't be nearly as embarrassed now that we have new flooring and all the boxes are stowed out of sight in the garage. The house itself is still tiny, but I can't do anything about that.

“Come over after school, and we—”

“What are you two talking about?” Rica drops into the seat next to Brian.

He rolls his eyes so only I can see before twisting to look at her. “Nothing that concerns you.”