Carmen is there, leaning against the railing. She looks at me, then moves her head forward and shouts.
“Hey, asshole, stop stalking me.”
I move a finger to my chest, then type a text.
Stop shouting. I am mute, not deaf.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Her eyes drop as she pulls it out and reads the message.
“Stop stalking me,” she says silently now, almost whispering, but I can still read her lips.
I raise a brow, still leaning against the wall by the bed. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a guy named Nico, whom I met last week while driving around Del Mar.
My friend has a party at his place, wanna come?
As I look at the screen, I notice Carmen step inside. She walks toward the shelf where I keep helmets and the soccer trophies I won at ten and twelve. They are laid out with a few pictures from when I was a kid. LEGO figures and medals are piled on the right side of the shelf in my messy compromise to make space for helmets.
She turned to me and said,1“Qué chaotic.”
I stand up and move toward her. I grab one of the helmets from the shelf and push it into her chest.
She raises a brow. “What’s this for?”
I shake my head, lift my phone, and text.
To cover your face.
I laugh at my own joke, but she doesn’t find it funny.
“Very funny,” she says, pushing the helmet back to me.
I lift my phone again, this time showing Nico’s message, pushing the helmet back to her.
“You want me to go with you?” she asks. She raises her brow again, shifting the helmet between her hands and leaning into one hip. “Why?” She chuckles. “Do you need protection or something?”
I roll my eyes and type another message.
Don’t be a brat, wanna go or not?
She nods. “Sure.” She squints, suspicious. Then she turns and asks, “Why do you want me to go?”
I exhale and shrug.
I cross my arms over my chest, watching her, trying to recognize something I thought was lost.
“Whatever. Don’t answer,” she says. “I’ll change. When are we going?”
I lift my hand and hold up my fingers, showing ten.
She nods, sets the helmet on the table beneath the shelf, and moves back toward the balcony. Before sitting on the railing, she says, “I’ll be back in ten.”
I turn away, my reflection catching in the mirror near the closet. I look at myself. Years spent working on my body, trying to be perfect for everyone else, and they still find flaws. I breathe in. Every muscle shifts as I step closer to the mirror.
I will never be good enough for myself.
Tragic.
If we thought of ourselves before everyone else, maybe we would see how good we actually are.
