“Bueno, descansá,” I say, agreeing to let her rest. I lift the tray off her, and she nestles into her pillow.
On my way out, I pass the only color photograph in her room. It’s from her wedding, and it hurts to look at because I’ve never seen Perla smile that big in person.
For some reason I think of Don Quijote de la Mancha. When we read it together last year, we were both delighted to find that neither of us believed Don Quijote to be delusional. I think that’s the secret that’s always bonded Perla and me:
Deep down, we would rather be dreaming than awake.
* * *
I keep my word to Mimitos and take him up to the rooftop with me. I hate days like these when I’m confined to this building. I feel like a video game avatar that can only move up or down.
This rooftop is the only place I can see the world without it seeing me. Evenings are my favorite, when the sun casts a fleeting rosy glow over our street, before igniting and setting us all ablaze. I’ll lie along the building’s ledge and watch the fiery red clouds cool to a purple ash, until night’s first bold stars start to wink at me, wooing me to unknown worlds.
Right now, though, is the worst time to be up here. A little after midday, the sky is white and overexposed, making the city look washed out and hot to the touch. My skin is slick with sweat from just standing in place.
I would much rather be in the heavily air-conditioned library, legs cradled in a chilly plastic chair, arms pressed to the cool tabletop, face buried in the woodsy-scented pages of the Victorian fantasy series I’m hooked on. I wouldn’t even mind how my sunglasses’ tint makes the font hard to read in the fluorescent lighting because the cold would be worth it.
I cast my gaze for cops canvassing the neighborhood, but there are none. Nor do I spot any threatening black SUVs with flashing blue lights in the distance. I’m going to be finished with Cien Años de Soledad soon, and since Perla’s migraines last all day, I’ll have nothing to do until Ma gets home tonight.
I could probably make it to the library and back in thirty minutes if I hurried. Ma would never have to know.
Except we don’t break our promises. Our trust in each other is the only thing they can’t take from us, she’s always reminding me—and I’m not about to risk everything over air conditioning.
Mimitos brushes his soft fur across my leg, and I drop down to pet him. “This isn’t forever,” I tell him as much as myself, scratching under his eye in the spot he likes. “We’ll make it out of here.” He offers me his other cheek, and I pet him in the same spot, for symmetry. “Did you finish your turkey?”
A girlish giggle floats into the air, and every sector of the city orchestra—cars, construction, conversation—fades into the background. My new and improved hearing singles out the sound, and I snap upright.
Other Manu is in front of the pink building, wearing her Argentine blue-and-white striped fútbol jersey with Messi’s name and the number 10 sprawled on the back. She has the same razor-sharp cheekbones I inherited from Ma, my tall and curvy figure, and my heavy brown hair. The only difference between us is her eyes are an acceptable color.
And she has him.
A brawny guy draws Other Manu to his chest, smiling at something she says, his white teeth stark against his black skin. He’s been her boyfriend for about a year.
I’ve watched their entire courtship—when he picked her up for their first date in a coat and collared shirt, when she slammed his car door after their first fight, when he pulled her into his chest for their first kiss. Now she tugs on the neckline of his shirt, and as he leans down, I drink in every slow motion second of their mouths meeting.
Other Manu closes her eyes, and a comma forms between her eyebrows, like the kiss is a puzzle it’s taking all her concentration to solve. I wonder if I’ll look like that too, if I ever get kissed.
Something flickers in my periphery, and I realize I’m not the only one spying on the couple. Leaning against the side of the pink building is a guy wearing a leather jacket in ninety-degree weather.
While he stares at their make-out session, I study him. He’s taller than anyone I’ve ever seen, with dark hair and thick eyebrows, and he’s wearing a belt with a flashy buckle that reflects sunlight like a blade. I’ve never seen anyone like him around here.
I think back to the woman I overheard on the rooftop this morning. It could be coincidental, just a couple of out-of-the-norm occurrences—or this guy could be the person she was on the phone with. Nacho.
Are they here to spy on Other Manu? What’s she gotten herself into?
The Miami weather being typically temperamental, a light drizzle starts to fall from the white-gray sky. Other Manu squeals, and her boyfriend holds her against his broad chest as they dart to his beat-up Ford. When I look back at Leather Jacket, he’s gone.
Mimitos has already dashed to the part of the wall that’s sheltered, and I stuff my book up my shirt and follow him. Small drops splash against the hot cement, and a sticky musk clings to my skin as I sit on the floor, my back against the wall. I open my book, and I have to go over the same paragraph a few times to finally focus on the story and not Other Manu’s life.
Mimitos curls up next to me, his tail twirling along my leg, and I’m up to the scene where the almost-invisible Santa Sofía de la Piedad takes off on her own when I hear the scream.
It’s so faint, it barely registers, but it’s coming from inside El Retiro.
I spring to my feet and pull on the stairwell door. Mimitos senses my urgency because he hurries over, and then we’re leaping down the stairs, all six stories a blur. Please let the scream have come from anywhere but our apartment.
Adrenaline steadies me the whole way to our door, until I swing it open—
“Perla!”
She’s in a clump on the living room carpet.
I drop down and grab her wrist, but my own pulse crashes so loudly in my ears that I can’t focus on hers. I bring my hand to her nose to check if she’s breathing, and that’s when I see the blood pooling behind her head.
“No no no no,” I moan, my eyes burning and heart racing. “Perla, por favor—”
Her eyes suddenly flicker open, and I gasp. Mimitos jumps on the turquoise couch, his back arched in terror. Perla’s hand moves toward me, and I close my fingers around hers. “¿Perla? ¿Me escuchás?”
Her mouth opens and closes like she’s trying to talk but no sound comes out. Yanking the phone from its cradle, I dial the number I never thought I’d call.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“We need an ambulance at El Retiro unit 3E! It’s for Perla Sanchez—I think she’s fallen and hit her head—and she’s bleeding! She’s unconscious and ninety years old, so hurry!”
I hang up before the operator can ask me anything and lean over Perla, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Vas a estar bien,” I reassure her while we wait for the ambulance. “Estoy con vos.”
She suddenly starts to shake her head, like she’s having some kind of spasm, and her rattly voice comes out in a breathy whisper. “Corré…”
Run?
“Corré…” she says again, and I grip her hand tighter.