Love Times Infinity Page 2

  My cheeks grow warm at the blatant reminder of my financial inferiority here. I stare at the five dollars like it’s venomous. The girl behind me in line drops her head down to hide a smile, or even worse, a laugh. Great, now I’ve made it a whole scene.

  I retreat, crushing the bill into my pocket as if it were ticking. I’m itchy from embarrassment, ashamed that I feel ashamed. I have never considered myself free-lunch poor. And at Lee High, no one, and I mean no one, except I guess now me, gets free lunch. It’s one of the most affluent public schools in the state.

  I slump down into my empty seat at the end of our table. Across from me, Gwen is on a tirade about her latest save-the-world passion project—bee endangerment. I peel a banana in silence and ignore its price tag. Zero dollars in cash, but breaking the bank in dignity.

  “Okay, so I checked, and there’s a robotics tournament tonight at U of R,” JoJo says as she bites into a mini carrot. “Pick you up after work?”

  “You only want to go to check out the team,” I grumble.

  “I am done dating high schoolers. Amy Ferrara was a total nightmare. And Ben Haley turned me off of boys for two years and counting.” She holds up two fingers for emphasis. “Plus, I’m an old soul.”

  “You just binge-watched Doc McStuffins.”

  Her hand slams over my mouth. “You promised!”

  Gwen stops midlecture, noticing us for the first time. “Oh, hey, are y’all going to the assembly after school?”

  “Is it about honey desserts or vegan Oreos?” I ask, licking the inside of JoJo’s hand until she rips it away with a grimace.

  “Oreos are already vegan,” Gwen answers.

  “Barely,” JoJo says.

  Gwen’s eyes narrow. She simply refuses to accept the fact that Oreos live a fraudulently vegan life since they’re cross-contacted with milk. The Scarlett Johanssen of the vegan community.

  “That’s a technicality,” she responds. I don’t point out the irony of her veganism relying more on her convenience than the cold hard facts. “Anyway, no, the college fair assembly. Lee’s hosting this year, and we all get to enter a Hunger Games–esque, dog-eat-dog death match to get host assignments for each school. You work as some alum’s personal attaché for a few hours, and boom, you’ve got yourself a straight-to-Go, collect $200 card to the school of your dreams. They pretty much have instant admissions power.”

  “Sounds awful. Pass.” I crack the top on my mini water bottle and gulp half of it down.

  “No pass,” JoJo says. “Hosting is the Brown golden ticket. I can’t believe I forgot about it. This is it, baby. The big leagues.”

  JoJo turns to Gwen, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “We’re in. Save us two seats.” She glances at me with a raised eyebrow, challenging me.

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes, but caterpillars settle in my stomach and cocoon themselves. I hope they turn to butterflies and not moths. I hope they mean something promising. Something beautiful.

  CHAPTER TWO

  VOICES COME FROM EVERY DIRECTION AS JOJO AND I move through the students crowding the auditorium’s middle aisle. Gwen waves with a large sweeping motion from the fourth row.

  I apologize behind JoJo as we teeter-totter over everyone’s laps to get to our seats, praying I don’t pass gas in anyone’s face. I think I’ve endured enough back-to-school embarrassment for one, or two, or even three lifetimes.

  A large projection screen hangs in the center of the stage. 2022 RICHMOND COLLEGE FAIR sits in large letters in front of geometric shapes. Robert E. Lee High School (yeah, I know… welcome to Richmond, folks) is in script at the bottom. For such an allegedly fancy affair, the presentation is giving me clip art.

  Principal Hamil approaches the podium, and the room falls into instant silence. A prim woman in a knee-length pencil skirt and a bun so tight she looks inquisitive sits in a plastic chair behind him. Her legs cross at the ankle just like Grandmère taught Mia Thermopolis.

  Principal Hamil clears his throat. His black hair, combed to the side to cover his receding hairline, glows beneath the lights. I’m not sure if his hair or his forehead is shinier.

  “Thank you all for coming to today’s assembly detailing the process for hosting this year’s citywide college fair.” He scans the room for the impact of his words and receives nothing in return. Hamil’s like a Will Ferrell movie—it would be a more enjoyable experience if the effort wasn’t so strained. He clears his throat again.

  “It’s a great and unexpected honor for Lee to be chosen as this year’s host.”

  It’s actually not unexpected. Despite the fair being a citywide event, the only schools ever chosen to host are in the suburbs, of which there are seven, even though the fair is held in the heart of the city. So the chances of Lee being chosen are pretty high because 1) money, money, money; and 2) there aren’t enough brown kids here to make the Ivy League school representatives “uncomfortable.” Which also means that the inner-city kids never get to host, and thus never get the instant in to their dream schools. A self-fulfilling shit prophecy. I’m not even sure I want any part of it. Or if I deserve to skip the line when my next-door neighbors don’t get the same shot just because they go to school on the wrong side of the river.

  But… Brown. JoJo is right. It feels selfish and dirty, but I want it. How broken must I be to want to take part in such a broken system?

  “As I’m sure you are all aware,” he explains, “the process is simple. The online application will open at the close of this assembly. You will have one week to submit your applications by answering a series of short-answer questions and ranking your top three choices.”

  I roll my eyes. Great, more essays when I’m doing so well on the ones I already have.

  “After online submissions are evaluated, those selected will interview before a panel. Each panel will then write a report that the College Fair Board will use to make final decisions.”

  Hamil clicks through the presentation as he explains. The participating schools are on the last slide. MIT (for JoJo), Sarah Lawrence (for Gwen), and Brown (for me, hopefully).

  “As you leave, please take a brochure of the application requirements, as I will not be repeating myself. Now a few words from a representative of the board.” He nods in the woman’s direction, and she stands, joining him at the podium.

  “Good afternoon,” she says, her voice quiet. “I’m Debbie Matthews, and I’ll be your main liaison to the board. I know there are always rumors that hosting guarantees a spot at your school of choice. This is false.” She gives us a tight smile. “We cannot make such guarantees, and the coincidence of hosts’ admission into their host schools is beyond our control. But we on the board are thrilled for this journey with you all and wish you the best of luck.”

  She steps away and reclaims her seat.

  “And with that,” Principal Hamil says, “dismissed.”

  Sound erupts across the room. He looks pained at how excited we are to get out of there.

  “You will definitely get MIT,” I tell JoJo, passing her a brochure from the table by the auditorium doors.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs, flipping through the pages as we make our way to the parking lot.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You and MIT are like a dream match. And they already want you.”

  “Exactly,” she says. “They already want me. But hosting is your Hail Mary pass. I should pick a school I have to work for.”

  I stop in the middle of the lot, earning a honk from a Bronco attempting to pull out of its spot.

  “You don’t have to work for any school. You could get in anywhere comatose.”

  “Maybe.”

  She’s being weird. We both know she’s being weird. Tim Burton–movie weird.

  “What school are you applying to, then?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to read the brochure. Yale is still a reach. And University of Chicago.”

  UChicago. The school where her mom has been an assistant professor for three years and desperately wants to be tenured. The school that has kept JoJo’s mom halfway across the country for ten months every year since eighth grade. If she gets in, JoJo will finally get the mother-daughter time she pretends she doesn’t care about. But I don’t mention any of this, because while our mom situations are different, they both suck big-time. So I pretend I don’t know why her plans have suddenly changed.

  “You want a ride to work?” she asks, holding up her keys.

  “Is Cherry Garcia the superior Ben and Jerry’s flavor?” I ask, opening the passenger door.

  “No,” she says. “It’s Phish Food, but I’ll allow you into my car anyway.”

  She laughs, and I laugh, and the tension releases like a popped balloon.

  People think being best friends means being open and exposed all the time. I think it means being able to hide in a safe place.

  Javier Navarrete’s Pan’s Labyrinth score floats over the room as I run a rag doused in Windex over the stained-glass window at the front of the café. The inset letters spelling SIP AND SERENDIPITY glisten in the dim lighting.

  Then I straighten the pillows piled high in the reading nook and reorganize the bookshelves that Taran, the café owner, built herself. My fingers drag over the tapestries brought back from Taran’s adventures abroad. I have traveled the world in this small corner.

  I circle the room again and again, clearing tables of empty mugs. When the large coffee machine beeps twice, I pour its contents into a wide-lipped carafe marked At Your Own Risk.

  The bell above the front door tinkles. The boy’s hair glides against the top of the doorframe, spiraled curls falling in every direction. He looks like he’s been drinking the sun from a firehose, he’s so golden. He takes in the world that Taran has c
rafted. His eyes shift from overwhelmed to awed in the space of a breath as he approaches the counter. Someone so long shouldn’t move with so much grace.

  “Hi,” he says, reaching up a hand to scratch an earlobe. Up close, he has dark freckles across the bridge of his nose. They’re spread haphazardly, as if an artist flicked them over his face with a paintbrush.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice pitched too high. I clear my throat. “Welcome to Sip and Serendipity.”

  His eyes scan over the rows of books that line the walls. He reaches for the mystery shelf.

  “You can take one,” I suggest, watching as he reads each title. “They’re free. Just bring another one back next time. Or that one if you don’t like it.” A take a penny, leave a penny, but with stories as the currency. “Or you can pass it on. Or even keep it if you want.” I’m babbling, words tripping and stumbling over themselves to get out.

  “Cool.” He nods, folding a small book, We Have Always Lived in the Castle, in half and sliding it into his back pocket. I wince but say nothing.

  He looks down at me now, and my breath hitches under the full power of his glance. His eyes are deep-set and a brown so dark they’re nearly black, the pupils bleeding into the irises.

  “So, what’s good here?” he asks, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the counter with both hands.

  I take a deep breath before rattling off a long list of drinks, from traditional options, like the iced mocha, to concoctions of my own creation. A hazelnut buttercream frozen latte, a peanut butter Americano, and on and on. When I’m done, he blinks at me in amazement.

  “Can I get an iced coffee, black?” he asks.

  “I…” He could have a peppermint latte with a dusting of cinnamon sugar, and he wants the bare minimum? “Okay.”

  He reads the disappointment on my face.

  “Sorry.” The left corner of his mouth turns up. “You sounded really excited. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  I scoop a plastic cup into the ice bin beneath the counter and fill it to the brim with hot coffee. The ice melts immediately, steam rising as I click a lid on top. I smooth my hand around its edges to ensure it’s on tight.

  “Anything else?” I hand him the cup and a straw.

  “No, this is fine, thanks.” He punches the straw through the lid and takes a large gulp before setting the cup back on the counter. Pulling a wallet from his jacket pocket, he slides out a twenty for his $1.59 coffee.

  I hand him the change, and he dumps it into the tip jar. I stare into the jar in disbelief as he backs away.

  “Oh,” he says as I notice his coffee on the counter. We reach for it at the same time, his hand closing over mine. A jolt flies through my fingers.

  “Sorry,” I say, slipping my hand from beneath his. I tilt my head down so he can’t see the blush spread over my face at the softness of his skin.

  He leaves the café like a sudden breeze, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Wally, a middle-aged writer who spends every Monday night here, catches my eye. He winks with a toothy grin. “That was fun,” he says, his voice gruff from heavy smoking.

  I look away to hide the warmth in my cheeks. But the boy sits at the front of my brain like an unwelcome guest for the rest of my shift.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I SHOULD BE FOCUSING ON TODAY’S LEWIS AND CLARK lecture, but my laptop is open to my college essay. Or at least the file that should be my essay, but is instead still a bone-white page. On the other half of the screen is the PDF version of the college fair’s hosting application. I’ve completed the easy parts—name, age, address. The short-answer questions are still blank. Essays. Junior year is becoming nothing but essays.

  I reread the first option: What would make you a good host? Honest answer: I don’t know; I have crippling anxiety but am sometimes a little funny.

  I move on to the next: Describe a facet of your identity that is essential to who you are. I either have to talk about my race, or the fact that I’m poor, or both. Or I can talk about Renee and being the result of her worst nightmare come to life. Either way, if I could answer it for the College Board, I wouldn’t be suffering under the weight of my scholarship essay in the first place.

  In fact, I have to turn in a draft of the scholarship essay a couple of weeks from now, and the idea of sharing it gives me hives. It won’t be the happily-ever-afters my classmates have been working on all year. So far, I’ve kept it smothered like a gas fire. Never feed it; always choke it out.

  A crumpled page of lined notebook paper bounces off my shoulder and hits my desk. The blue lines spiral like broken piano strings. I lift it off my notes, where I’ve scribbled only purchased the Louisiana Territory on the first line. I’m a little bummed I missed the lecture. Ms. Yancey teaches it as if Sacajawea were the first Captain America. Which she basically was, because she led the entire expedition with an infant attached to her hip and probably endured a lot of colonizer mansplaining. So, I have no choice but to stan.

  JoJo huffs as the bell rings over Ms. Yancey’s last words. I palm the ball of paper as I head out of the classroom, JoJo close on my heels.

  “Do I need to read this, or are you going to save us both thirty seconds?” I ask, slowing down so she can fall in step beside me.

  “I need you to appreciate the dramatic flair,” she says, swinging her hair over her shoulder. The scent of tea tree oil is overwhelming.

  “Hit me with the highlights.”

  “Do you think they’re going to have proofs on the SAT? And do you want to go to Garrett’s party Friday night after the game? And the mall? Before the game?”

  She continues with her questions in a stream of consciousness. Her brain is the equivalent of those bullet trains in Japan.

  “No to proofs. No to party. Yes to mall.” I can’t afford any shopping, but I want a cinnamon-sugar pretzel and a lemonade from Auntie Anne’s.

  “Boo. I don’t want to go solo. And I know you aren’t busy. Therapy is tonight, and you don’t work Fridays.”

  It will never cease to amaze me how someone who studies so much also finds the time to both have a social life and memorize my schedule.

  “You don’t have to go solo. You have a million friends.”

  “But you’re my favorite friend,” she says with a large grin.

  “Please.” I toss the balled paper across the hall and into the metal trash can.

  “Kobe!” a voice like jazz calls out above the noise of stampeding students. His voice cracks over the name. He’s easy to pick out of a crowd, a head and shoulders above everyone else. My mouth drops open.

  Iced coffee, black. We Have Always Lived in the Castle. JoJo reaches over and pushes on my chin to bring my lips back together.

  Suddenly the hall feels way too warm. JoJo shuffles me forward, both hands gripping my shoulders to lead me toward our classes. AP Chemistry for her and Spanish for me. I crane my neck backward to keep him in view, but he turns to face his locker.

  “Wh-who,” I sputter, letting JoJo push me around an automatic water fountain that I almost slam into hip-first. I flinch with phantom impact.

  “Derek de la Rosa,” she answers, her voice amused. She removes her hands, and I stand frozen in place, having lost all ability to use my legs. She pulls her phone from her back pocket, smiling at a passing teacher who pretends not to see it. She loops her arm in mine as she maneuvers us to second period, never looking up from her phone. She stops in front of her classroom, mine next door.

  She turns the phone screen up, showing me the Instagram and Facebook pages she’s found and followed in the last half minute. The Feds, I swear. “Just moved here from”—she scrolls through his profile—“San Francisco.”

  San Francisco, California, to Richmond, Virginia. The land of Full House and an ocean breeze to the land of, well, Monument Avenue. Talk about a culture shock.

  “And guess what?” JoJo teases. She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

  “What?” I’m scared to know what she’s found. He has a girlfriend. He likes Starbucks better than Dunkin’. He wears seersucker.

  She wraps an arm around my neck and places her chin into the mass of curls. She’s eight inches taller in her heeled ankle boots and more often than not enjoys using me as her personal armrest.