“¿Qué?” I ask, confused. Why is she pissed at me right now?
“Susan just passed by Kate’s house, and she told me she saw your car there.”
Mrs. Temple, that gossipy snitch…
“Mom, I’m sorry. Kate has an emergency. I’ll come tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? ¡Por Dios! We haven’t seen you for six months, and when you’re finally back, you can’t even come to the house?!”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I see my brain. “Mom, it’s barely been two months, and Kate needs me.”
She finally catches something’s wrong, and her attitude changes entirely. “Oh, no… Is she okay?”
“She will be,” I say, looking at my best friend with hope.
“You two are coming home tonight. You’ll get a nice, warm meal, and you girls can have a sleepover in your bedroom like you used to.”
“Mom, I don’t think she’s up for a sleepover right now.” Kate understands what’s happening, so she nods enthusiastically, urging me to accept my mom’s offer. “Oh, actually, she… wants to… come?” I carefully reply. I set the phone on my chest, ignoring my mom’s exclamations of joy, and turn to Kate. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, my God. Anything to get out of my head right now. And I miss your mom’s cuisine.”
I put the phone back to my ear, ready to negotiate the modalities of our detention. “Okay, Mom, I just arrived from a long drive, so we’ll stay here a bit and then come to you.”
“You will be just as good here. Oh, Rafa is thrilled to know you’re coming. Your dad, too. And your abuela just pretended she doesn’t remember who you are since you haven’t called her in a week.”
I look at Kate, who still needs to get ready, and myself, still wearing Lex’s hoodie. Ormyhoodie now—it’s one of the unwritten laws of dating.
“Mom, we’ll be there in thirty minutes. I can’t do better than that,” I offer.
“Okay. I’ll prepare your bedroom whilemamáworks on dinner.”
“Oh, MC is cooking,” I enthusiastically whisper to Kate.
“Ugh, even better!”
Alright, we can do this. We’ll head to my parents’ place, feast on my abuela’s food, and then figure out how to kill and bury Stefano without getting caught.
As Kate and I walk to my parents’ porch, I’m reminded of the hours we spent playing in the front yard, often with Rafa. Various toys used to be scattered over the lawn, but those times are long gone. In the backyard, there’s a small pool where we spent entire summers, living off PB&Js and lemonade.
I knock using the dragon door knocker my dad installed against my mom’s will three years ago. It’s always strange to be a guest in what feels like my own house. Some activity happens inside, and soon enough, the door opens wide, revealing my mom’s familiar silhouette.
Isabella Walker, born Ibanez, isn’t precisely a coquettish woman, but she takes care of herself, trying not to let the years passing become too obvious. She’s a little chubby despite counting calories and race-walking with her friends three times a week. And she dyes her hair to hide the growing number of white strands in it. Sometimes, like now, she doesn’t have time to take care of her roots, so she wears a headband to maintain the illusion.
As unfeminist as it may sound, she was put on this earth to care for kids—always warm, compassionate, and sensible. That’s why she’s so good at teaching, and it explains why, at the end of every year, her students pitch in to offer her a thank-you gift. She can be strict at times but she’s always fair, and I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. And I’m a bad daughter for not coming back sooner.
But she doesn’t mind, engulfing us both in a tight and motherly hug.
“I’m so happy you’re here, my girls,” she says, kissing each of us. The affectionate reunion lingers for a few seconds, and she eventually releases us before inviting us inside.
We follow her to the dining room, where Rafa and Dad have just finished setting the table.
Thanks to our video calls, I know Rafael has been growing a little scruff, almost a beard by now, so the sight doesn’t shock me too much. Still, it’s odd to see him with so much facial hair. He’s tall, has our father’s green eyes, and our mother’s brown complexion. But we share curly dark hair, a straight nose, and plump lips. People often tell us that we look a lot alike. It was a terrible insult during childhood, but now, we’re both glad whenever someone points it out.
It’s hard to be objective since his ugly mug has graced my life from the very beginning, but it’s my understanding that he’s a handsome devil. The fact that he’s an artist on top of being deaf apparently makes for an irresistible combination. All he has to do is snap his fingers for ten women to rush in, ready to fulfill his every need. Somehow, people expect him to be a sweet and sensible guy. But it doesn’t work like that. Rafael was destined to be a man-whore, deaf artist or not.
My father lets Rafa continue alone and comes to me.
“Hi, peanut,” he greets me, giving me a tight hug and a quick kiss on top of my head.
