Chapter Nine

After school the next day, I start applying for jobs so I can save Abuela’s dress. Our cat, Patch, keeps me company while I do. I take pride in the fact that he likes my room best and that he often snuggles up to me in bed. (It’s probably because of all the natural light my windows let in, but I tell myself it’s because I’m his favorite.)

In between job applications, I manage to schedule a FaceTime call with Aiden for that night, our first since right before school started. I should be excited about it, but I don’t know. I want to keep my expectations low, I guess. A girl can only take so much disappointment.

The scheduled call at least saves me from having to fift h-wheel it when Marisol texts to invite me to dinner with her, Sophie, Noah, and Ari. My friends’ responses are so perfectly them that it makes me laugh out loud.

Marisol: Tell him he’s on thin ice. THIN. ICE.

Sophie: Ahh, yay! I hope it goes really well!

I decide to use the call as an excuse to pamper myself. I take a long, hot shower, slather myself in cocoa butter, paint my nails. While my hair dries, I put on some music and work on my makeup, going for something a little more sultry than my day-to - day look, though I’ll admit it’s not necessarily for Aiden— more for myself. I want to feel pretty. I want to feel desired. I want to feel wanted. Especially because I haven’t felt any of those things lately.

In an attempt to drum up some excitement, I try to conjure up some of the sweetest memories I have with Aiden: our weekly date nights to his favorite sushi spot, whenever he invited me to watch him play flag football, all the different types of musical artists he introduced me to, like Fivio Foreign and Sleepy Hallow.

Only . . . as I go through each memory, turning them over in my head, I notice a pattern: the best times also seemed to include our friends, and what few one - on- one habits we developed sort of revolved around him: his favorite restaurant, his games, his playlists.

Aiden was lots of things. Patient. Usually kind. A little clueless. Excellent kisser, among other talents. But often a little preoccupied with himself and his own interests.

It’s enough to make me scroll back through some of our recent texts. I note that most of our conversations began with me reaching out, rather than the other way around.

When was the last time Aiden texted me first? Sent me a photo? Initiated a FaceTime?

I wonder this as I select my outfit and my earrings, then spray some water in my hair to rejuvenate the curls that have gone limp. In the mirror, I look beautiful, but there is a pit in my stomach as I continue scrolling and come across that pool selfie I sent him. With some distance between me and the moment, I think I actually look pretty freaking good in it— and he responded with Nice? Of all things?

As the clock ticks closer to the time we’ve set for our FaceTime date, I find myself secretly wondering whether Aiden will even call. Or maybe I’m hoping he won’t.

I prop my phone up on my ring light and stare at it.

Don’t ring.

Don’t ring.

Don’t ring.

I repeat this over and over, so many times I lose count, until long after we’ve passed the time when he was supposed to call.

But instead of crying, I send him a text.

Me: Thanks for blowing me off.

And then I silence my phone, pull open my laptop, and start to work on my digital vision board for Fall Fest, along with a spreadsheet of ideas.

I lose track of time, so deep in it that I don’t hear the knock at my door, and only come to when Lily calls my name. When I look over at her, she’s in an oversize Intonation T- shir t, and she’s grinning.

“Oh, hey.” I close my laptop. “Sorry.”

“We’re going to make some empanadas,” Lily says. “You want to help?”

“That sounds nice. Be right there.”

As Lily slips out of my room, I pull off the date-nig ht outfit I selected and instead dig out my own matching Intonation T- shir t from my pajama drawer. I pile my curls into a giant, messy bun on top of my head and pull on some cozy socks, but leave the makeup. It looks good. Why waste it?

In the kitchen, Abuela is rolling out the empanada dough as Lily watches eagerly. When she spots my shirt, she motions between me and Lily with a laugh. “Twins!”

I come over and bump my hip into hers. “You know it.”

“¡Que linda!” Abuela smiles. “Where’s mine?”

“You want one?” I ask, pulling out my phone, ready and willing to buy one for her, too.

“No, no. I’m only teasing,” she assures me. But I jot down a note to myself to get her one for Christmas. Hopefully I’ll have a par t-time job by then.

I take in a big breath, sweet and savory scents mingling over the stove behind Abuela. “What kind of empanadas are on the menu for tonight?”

Abuela starts listing them off on her fingers. “Carne, pollo, guava—”

“And pumpkin!” Lily adds. “Guess whose idea that was?”

I walk over to the stove and stir the pot of ground beef that’s sizzling with chopped olives, potatoes, tomato sauce, sazón, adobo, and a mix of other spices. “Hmm, lemme think . . .” I blow on a small spoonful I’m totally planning to eat right out of the pot. “Could it be my genius little sister?” Lily nods enthusiastically and I bite down, letting the umami mixture of delicious spices dance on my tongue. “That’s so good.”

Abuela swats at my hand. “No tasting from the production line!”

“Yeah, Whitney!” Lily teases, sticking out her tongue. “I chose pumpkin because we all know how obsessed you are with fall.”

“With good reason!” I argue. “So, what’s this big plan for your pumpkin empanadas?”

She shrugs at me. “That’s as far as I got.”

“Maybe a little brown sugar? Cinnamon?” I do a quick search on my phone for a recipe that might help. “This also suggests adding some nutmeg and cloves.”

Lily nods vigorously. “That sounds really good.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” I wash off the spoon I licked and put it in the dishwasher, grabbing a new wooden spoon to continue stirring the beef. “So, how has everything been going at school for you, Lil? Are you liking it so far?” I ask. Lily casts her glance down to the floor and gives me a small shrug.

“I remember having a hard time switching from middle school to Elmwood High,” I reassure her. “It gets easier, though.”

I open the guava paste and measure that, as well as the accompanying cream cheese, into a bowl.

“Actually, it’s funny you mention that,” Abuela says, using a circle cookie cutter on the dough she’s just rolled out, alternating dough, parchment paper, dough, parchment paper.

I grab a whisk. “Oh, yeah?” Stir. “Why’s that?”

Abuela catches my eye. “Lily was telling me she thinks she’s ready to be a little more independent at school— get ting herself to and from her locker and the bus, that kind of thing,” Abuela says, keeping her voice light, gentle. “Isn’t that great?”

“But I usually walk with her,” I blurt out.

Lily shrugs. “I want to walk with my friends like everyone else does.”

I pause. “Oh.”

“It’s good Lily’s adjusting to everything so quickly,” Abuela adds. “As it turns out, she’s been reunited with one of her friends from middle school. Remember Ruby Davis?”

The name stirs something in the recesses of my brain. Was she the one who stole Lily’s hat that one time? Or was that someone else? “Not really . . . ,” I admit, switching from the guava to preparing the pumpkin filling.

“Ruby lives near Nora’s grandma across town. Nora would take me over there all the time two summers ago,” Lily explains.

“And Ruby is a year ahead of Lily, so they were just becoming friends before she moved on to high school. Now they’re back in the same school,” Abuela explains. “She’s a good girl.”

I look over at my sister, who’s reaching for the whisk I’ve just used to stir the guava so she can lick some of the remnants off. So much for not tasting from the production line. I hand it to her anyway.

“It must be nice to see her again,” I say, and Lily nods. “That’s great.”

Abuela shoots me a thankful look. “This is a good thing, mija.”

“Yeah. Definitely.” But I can’t help feeling a little sad about it. I had envisioned spending the year walking with Lily in the mornings and afternoons, assuming she’d not just need but want my guidance— plus the extra time to catch up. Guess not.

Abuela lets out a breath, wiping away some flour on her forehead. “Phew. Okay. The dough’s all ready to be filled.”

“Let’s do it!” Lily says, and before I can let myself get too in my feelings, she pulls out her phone and the nostalgic sounds of Intonation fill the air.

Abuela starts to sing, loudly and off-key, which leads to Lily and me joining in while we make an assembly line of filling and sealing each empanada until they’re ready to be fried.

Between misremembered lyrics and bad dance moves, we manage to prepare dozens of empanadas: half to be frozen, the other half ready to either cook now or share with our tías.

After we’ve sampled them all, the verdicts are in: Lily’s favorite remains the guava, Abuela loves the carne, and in a su rprise to no one I’m partial to this new pumpkin flavor.

Back in my room, I turn my phone on to see if Aiden’s written back.

He hasn’t.

So I settle back into bed with Patch, pull my Excel doc back open, and dive in again, getting lost in the ease of organization.

If I can’t have perfection in most parts of my life, let me at least have it here.