“It looks like some of you don’t think my class is important,” Mrs. Peterson says. She starts handing out the test from yesterday.
As Mrs. Peterson heads toward my and Alex’s shared table, I sink down in my chair. The last thing I need is Mrs. Peterson’s wrath.
“Nice job,” the woman says as she places my paper facedown in front of me. Then the woman turns to Alex. “For someone who aspires to be a chemistry teacher, you’re off to a very poor start, Mr. Fuentes. Maybe I’ll think twice about sticking up for you if you don’t come prepared to my class.”
She drops Alex’s test in front of him with her index finger and thumb, as if the paper is too disgusting to touch with the rest of her fingers. “See me after class,” she tells him before passing out the rest of the tests.
I can’t understand why Mrs. Peterson didn’t rip me a new one. I turn my paper over to find an A on the top of it. I rub my palms over my eyes and readjust them. There must be some mistake. It takes me less than a second to realize who was responsible for my grade. The truth hits me like a hammer to my gut. I look over at Alex, tucking his flunked test into his book.
“Why did you do it?” I wait until Mrs. Peterson finishes her after-class discussion with Alex before approaching him. I’m standing beside his locker, where he’s paying little, if any, attention to me. I’m ignoring the stares burning into the back of my head.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says.
Duh! “You switched our tests.”
Alex slams his locker shut. “Listen, it was no big deal.”
Yes, it is. He walks away, as if expecting me to leave it at that. I’d watched him work diligently on his test, but when I glanced at the big red F on the front of his paper, I recognized my own test.
After school, I hurry out the front doors to catch him. He’s on his motorcycle, getting ready to leave.
“Alex, wait! ”
Feeling fidgety, I curl my hair behind my ears.
“Hop on,” he orders.
“What?”
“Hop on. If you want to thank me for savin’ your ass in Mrs. P.’s class, come home with me. I wasn’t kiddin’ yesterday. You showed me a glimpse into your life, I’m gonna show you a glimpse of mine. It’s only fair, right?”
I scan the parking lot. Some people are looking our way, probably ready to spread the gossip that I’m talking to Alex. If I actually leave with him, rumors will fly .
The sound of Alex revving his motorcycle brings my attention back to him. “Don’t be afraid of what they think.”
I take in the sight of him, from his ripped jeans and leather jacket to the red and black bandanna he just tied on top of his head. His gang colors.
I should be terrified. Then I remember how he was with Shelley yesterday.
To hell with it.
I shift my book bag around to my back and straddle his motorcycle.
“Hold on tight,” he says, pulling my hands around his waist. The simple feel of his strong hands resting on top of mine is intensely intimate. I wonder if he’s feeling these emotions, too, but dismiss the thought. Alex Fuentes is a hard guy. Experienced. The mere touch of hands isn’t going to make his stomach flutter.
He deliberately brushes the tips of his fingers over mine before reaching for the handlebars. Oh. My. God. What am I getting myself into?
As we speed away from the school parking lot, I grab Alex’s rock-hard abs tighter. The speed of the motorcycle scares me. I feel light-headed, like I’m riding a roller coaster with no lap bar.
The motorcycle stops at a red light. I lean back.
I hear him chuckle when he guns the engine once more as the light turns green. I clutch his waist and bury my face in his back.
When he finally stops and puts the kickstand down, I survey my surroundings. I’ve never been on his street. The homes are so . . . small. Most are one level. A cat can’t fit in the space between them. As hard as I try to fight it, sorrow settles in the pit of my stomach.
My house is at least seven, maybe even eight or nine times Alex’s home’s size. I know this side of town is poor, but . . .
“This was a mistake,” Alex says. “I’ll take you home.”
“Why?”
“Among other things, the look of disgust on your face.”
“I’m not disgusted. I guess I feel sorry—”
“Don’t ever pity me,” he warns. “I’m poor, not homeless.”
“Then are you going to invite me in? The guys across the street are gawking at the white girl.”
“Actually, around here you’re a ‘snow girl.’ ”
“I hate snow,” I say.
His lips quirk up into a grin. “Not for the weather, querida. For your snow-white skin. Just follow me and don’t stare at the neighbors, even if they stare at you.”
I sense his wariness as he leads me inside. “Well, this is it,” he says, motioning inside.
The living room might be smaller than any room in my house, but it feels warm and cozy. There are two afghans lying on the sofa I’d love to have on top of me on cold nights. We don’t have any afghans at my house. We have comforters . . . custom-designed ones to match the decor.
I walk around Alex’s house, gliding my fingers over the furniture. A shelf with half-melted candles sits below a picture of a handsome man. I feel Alex’s warmth as he stands behind me. “Your dad?” I ask.
He nods.
“I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to lose my dad.” Even though he’s not around much, I know he’s a permanent fixture in my life. I always want more out of my parents. Should I feel lucky just having them around?
Alex studies the picture of his dad. “At the time, you’re numb and try to block it out. I mean, you know he’s gone and all, but it’s like you’re in this fog. Then life kind of gets into a routine and you follow it.” He shrugs. “Eventually you stop thinkin’ about it so much and move on. There’s no other choice.”
“It’s kind of like a test.” I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. I absently run my fingers through my hair.
“You’re always doin’ that.”
“Doing what?”
“Fixin’ your hair or makeup.”
“So, what’s wrong with trying to look good?”
“Nothin’, unless it becomes an obsession.”
I put my hands down, wishing I could superglue them to my sides. “I’m not obsessed.”
He shrugs. “Is it so important that people think you’re beautiful?”
“I don’t care what people think,” I lie.
“ ’Cause you are . . . beautiful, I mean. But it shouldn’t matter so much.”
I know that. But expectations mean a lot where I come from. Speaking of expectations . . . “What did Mrs. Peterson say to you after class?”
“Oh, the usual. That if I don’t take her class seriously she’ll make my life miserable.”
I swallow, not knowing if I should reveal my plan. “I’m going to tell her you switched the tests.”
“Don’t do that,” he says, stepping away from me.
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. You need good grades to get into . . .”
“What? A good college? Give me a fuckin’ break. I’m not goin’ to college and you know it. You rich kids worry about your GPA as if it’s a symbol of your worth. I don’t need it, so don’t do me any favors. I’ll get by with a C in that class. Just make sure those hand warmers kick ass.”
If I have anything to do about it, we’ll get an A+ on the project.
“Where’s your room?” I ask, changing the subject. I drop my book bag on the living room floor. “A bedroom tells a lot about a person.”
He gestures to a doorway off to one side. Three beds take up most of the small space, with enough room for one small dresser. I walk around the small room.
“I share it with my two brothers,” he states. “Not a lot of privacy here.”
“Let me guess which bed is yours,” I say, smiling.
I scan the areas around each bed. A small picture of a pretty Hispanic girl is taped to one wall. “Hmmm . . . ,” I murmur, glancing at Alex and wondering if the girl staring back at me is his ideal.
I slowly walk around him and examine the next bed. Pictures of soccer players are taped above it. The bed is messy, and clothes are strewn from the pillow to the foot of the bed.
Nothing adorns the wall by the third bed, as if the person who sleeps here is a visitor. It’s almost sad, the first two walls saying so much about the people who sleep below them and this one totally bare.
I sit on Alex’s bed, the hopeless and empty one, and my eyes meet his. “Your bed says a lot about you.”
“Yeah? What does it say?”
“I wonder why you don’t think you’ll stay here long,” I say. “Unless it’s because you really do want to go to college.”
He leans on the door frame. “I’m not leavin’ Fairfield. Ever.”
“Don’t you want a degree?”
“Now you sound like the damn career counselor at school.”
“You don’t want to get away and start living your own life? Away from your past?”
“You see goin’ to college as an escape,” he says.
“Escape? Alex, you have no clue. I’m going to a college that’s close to my sister. First it was Northwestern, now it’s the University of Colorado. My life is dictated by the whims of my parents and where they want to send my sister. You want the easy way out, so you stay here.”
“You think it’s a breeze being the man of the house? Shit, makin’ sure my mama doesn’t get mixed up with some loser or that my brothers don’t start shootin’ shit up their arms or smokin’ crack is enough to keep me here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I warned you never to pity me.”
“No,” I say, my eyes moving up to meet his. “You feel such a family connection, yet you don’t place anything permanent beside your bed, as if you’re going to leave at any moment. I feel sorry for you about that.”
He steps back, shutting me out. “You done with the psychoanalysis?” he says.
I follow him into the family room, still wondering what Alex wants for his future. It seems the guy is ready to leave this house . . . or this earth. Could it be in some way Alex is preparing for his death by not placing anything permanent beside him? That he’s destined to end up like his father?
Is that what he meant by his demons?
For the next two hours, we sit on his family room couch and hatch a plan for our hand warmers. He’s a lot smarter than I’d realized; that A on his test wasn’t a fluke. He has a lot of ideas about how we can research online and get information from the library on how to construct the hand warmers and various uses for them to incorporate into our paper. We need the chemicals Mrs. Peterson will provide, Ziploc bags to enclose the chemicals, and to get extra brownie points we’ve decided to encase the Ziploc bags in material we’ll pick out at the fabric store. I purposely keep the discussion on chemistry, careful not to touch on any subject too personal.
As I close my chemistry book, out of the corner of my eye I see Alex run his hand through his hair. “Listen, I didn’t mean to be rude to you before.”
“That’s okay. I got too nosy.”
“You’re right.”
I stand, feeling uncomfortable. He grabs my arm and urges me back down.
“No,” he says, “I mean you’re right about me. I don’t place anything permanent here.”
“Why?”
“My dad,” Alex says, staring at the picture on the opposite wall. He squeezes his eyes shut. “God, there was so much blood.” He opens his eyes and captures my gaze. “If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that nobody is here forever. You have to live for the moment, each and every day . . . the here, the now.”
“And what do you want right now?” Right now I itch to heal his wounds and forget my own.
He touches my cheek with the tips of his fingers.
My breath hitches. “Do you want to kiss me, Alex?” I whisper.
“Dios mío, I want to kiss you . . . to taste your lips, your tongue.” He gently traces my lips with the tips of his fingers. “Do you want me to kiss you? Nobody else would know but the two of us.”
