“It’s fine.” I breathe and take in the weird crayon smell of Melissa’s car and the late-evening sun seeping through the windshield. “Thanks for getting me. Sorry I need rescuing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I relax into the worn seat with another deep breath. That’s the thing about Melissa. She has this ability to make me feel totally welcome, like I’m not just joining her life, but improving it. She’s like the anti-Connie.
By the time we get to her house, I’m almost smiling.
“Oh, hello, Ellen!” Mrs. Larsen waves from the treadmill in the front room and shows off her gums in a huge smile. “We missed you at graduation. What’s all this?”
Mrs. Larsen looks just like Melissa—blonde and tall and curvy, with a pointy chin and invisibly light eyelashes that (they think) require daily mascara use. She’s wearing layers of neon workout gear, the same kind of bright tight-fitting clothes she fills Melissa’s closet with.
“Fish tacos.” Melissa holds up the bag. “From the Lopez-Rourke-Treviño household.”
“Oh, how nice,” Mrs. Larsen chirps. “I was going to ask if you two wanted to finish up the macaroni and cheese.”
“She’s vegan, Mom.” Melissa rolls her eyes. I smile and shake my head, because it bothers me less than zero when people I don’t live with forget my dietary restrictions.
“Oh, of course. There’s fruit salad left, I think.”
“Thanks,” I say, “maybe later.”
“I’ll put these in the fridge,” Melissa says. I trail her into the kitchen, and Mrs. Larsen follows us.
“It was nice of you to bring them, Ellen. Did your stepmother make them? I’m sure she’s an amazing cook.”
“Mom!” Melissa slams the bag onto the gray marble countertop. “They’re obviously from a restaurant. But please, continue being racist in front of my friends.”
“That was not racist!” Mrs. Larsen protests. “Was that racist?” She turns to me. “Melissa thinks everything is racist these days.”
Melissa groans and I shrug, holding back an uncomfortable laugh. I can practically hear the curt response Xiumiao would give (“Maybe that’s because we live in a racist society where most things are racist, Sharon”), but I’m not as quick (or as fearless) as she is.
I snap a picture to send Connie, and we make our way to Melissa’s room. I stop at the sight of the calendar taped to her door. “Oh, wow, you flipped it.”
The last time I was here, the calendar still showed May. Now June stares back at me, blank and beautiful and missing any of the bright red dots that mark tests and major projects, or yellow stars for exciting, stressful events like prom or Melissa’s spring band concerts (Xiumiao’s and my choir performances are noted with smaller gray stars).
For as long as I’ve been coming over, Melissa, her parents, and her older brother have all kept meticulously updated monthly calendars taped to their doors. The year I got my own color (ninth grade) marked my unofficial adoption into the household.
Xiumiao always tried to argue that her events should be marked in Melissa’s color. Instead she got lumped in with me, which is probably the only time someone has been romantically rebuffed by organizational color coding.
I flip to July, which is just as empty, and then locate the first giant yellow star in mid-August—MOVE IN—and the second star a week later—CLASSES START: TEXAS A&M UNIVERSITY.
“We’ve got time to kill,” I say, flipping back to June, but the words don’t feel true.
“But that’s what’s great about this summer.” Melissa smiles and runs her finger down the line of empty weeks. “I’m only going to do maybe ten hours a week of babysitting, so as long as you don’t find a job—you’re never going to find a job, right?”
“I hate you.” The past month of job searching has been an exciting game of “give this crappy résumé to a bored employee and watch it disappear forever.” Aside from a few hundred bucks of birthday savings, I’m going to go to college utterly broke. Dad says as long as my grades stay up, he’s happy to support me. Connie seems less excited about that plan.
“Right. So we have the whole summer for bonding and movies and quidditch!” Melissa grins, gums gleaming like her mom’s. “We’ll have so many summer adventures!”
I match Melissa’s smile, irritation evaporating. Whatever Xiumiao says, at least the two of us are on the same page.
3
Two days later, I’m digging through my closet trying to locate a decent pair of running shoes I can wear to quidditch practice. It’s a little ridiculous that I don’t remember the last time I wore anything but flip-flops or Converse (which, Melissa claims, are not acceptable for sports played on grass). When did tennis shoes stop being part of my everyday uniform?
I find one of the nice ballet flats Connie’s sisters sent me a few Christmases ago, buried unused. It’s thoughtful of them to send gifts—shoes and makeup kits and low-cut leopard-print blouses. But I never really grew into the girly look, or the girly hobbies, or the whole idea of being a girl.
I mean, obviously I’m not saying fashion interest (or lack thereof) is the same as gender identity. And the whole “not like other girls” trope makes it hard to tell if the voice in my head is just internalized misogyny or actual gender feels. I don’t know. Gender stuff is weird and nuanced and I can contemplate it after I fix the rest of my life, starting with my footwear.
When did Dad and I stop shopping for tennis shoes? It used to be our tradition at the beginning of each school year, back when it was just the two of us. He’d put me on his shoulders and carry me into the store barefoot so I could wear the new shoes straight home, because when I was five I cried about hurting the old shoes’ feelings. That was the year after my mom died, and everything was still a little out of whack.
It’s possible that Dad stopped taking me shoe shopping because I’m a freak.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I read the text message even though I know what it will say.
Every. Single. Time.
Melissa is waiting (impatiently) for me. What else is new? I toss aside a cluster of dirty socks.
Maybe Dad stopped taking me to buy new shoes when my feet stopped growing, which was when I was approximately twelve years old.
No, wait, I do remember when it was—the year he married Connie. He asked if I minded if Connie and baby Yasmín came with us on our shoe trip, to all go together as a family. Of course I didn’t mind, because minding wasn’t an option. But I decided that I didn’t really need new shoes that year after all. The special shopping trips disappeared along with my cat Dorito, Christmas trips with Grandma and Grandpa Lopez, Friday night TV marathons, and the only two dinners Dad ever cooked (enchiladas and fried rice).