Chapter Twenty-One

After a jam-pac ked Sunday, including me staying up way too late to review Isaiah’s binder of Fall Fest ideas, the very last thing I want to do is spend time after school helping out at El Coquí. But Abuela needs me so we can stay on top of the bookkeeping, and thus, begrudgingly, I drive there with Lily.

I’m quiet on our car pool to the shop, which is easy, since Lily is still not really talking to me.

When we arrive at the shop, Abuela instructs Lily to help organize some of her new supplies in the back room, while I head into the office with Abuela so we can go over the last month’s expenses. We’re in decent shape, but our sales have been slow this quarter, so I see why Abuela was hopeful she could sell her dress for a few hundred dollars. I still feel a little guilty that I selfishly want to hold on to it, but hopefully my first check from my new job will help.

Out of nowhere, Abuela turns to me and her face grows serious. “How are you doing, mija?”

I don’t know why, but the question catches me by surprise. “I’m good,” I reply, automatic, without thinking.

“No, I mean, how are you? Really.”

“What do you mean?”

Abuela sits back in her chair. “You’ve seemed a little bit out of it lately.”

“I am,” I admit. “I have a lot going on with sen ior-yea r work, thinking about college applications, Fall Fest . . . th is new job.”

“I keep telling you you don’t need to have this job,” Abuela reminds me.

“I know, I know. But I want to help out around here. I’m old enough to be contributing now.”

“Your only job is to go to school and get into college— or find a job, whichever— and be happy,” Abuela says. “That’s all I care about.”

“Well, let me at least stick around a little more and we’ll see.”

“All right,” she agrees. “What else?”

“I broke up with Aiden,” I confess. Abuela gasps. “Mija, are you okay?”

“I’m actually fine. We just hadn’t been connecting, really, and he met someone else.”

“Bastard!” Abuela shouts, taking me by surprise.

“Jeez, Abuela. Tell me how you really feel,” I say, laughing. “Honestly . . . I’m kinda okay with us being done. I was hanging on to what we were when we first got together, but we’d been losing our momentum for a while. But . . . being single sometimes makes me feel like a fifth wheel around Marisol and Ari and Sophie and Noah . . . wh ich I know is silly, but still.”

“Oh, yes. I know you all liked hanging out as a group. But you can go alone, no?” Abuela asks.

“I mean, I do, but it feels weird! Last night at the movies, I ended up sitting by myself.”

“Oh, no. That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I’m just . . . ti red.”

“Tired? Are you not sleeping enough?”

I rub at one of my eyes wearily. “No, I am. I’m sleeping plenty. I just feel exhausted, no matter how many hours of sleep I get. And . . .” My voice trails off as I try to figure out how much I want to share. “My period still isn’t here.”

Abuela squints at me. “I thought it was just here a few weeks ago?”

“Ugh, no. I just bought tampons to hide the other reason I needed to run to the pharmacy.”

“

¿Qué?” Then her eyes go big with a realization. “No! ¡Ay dios mío! You’re pregnant!”

Now my eyes go big. “What?! No! I’m not pregnant!”

Abuela puts her hand over her heart. “You scared me!”

“Why is that your first thought?!”

“Well! No period, tired all the time, mood swi ngs—”

“Hey! Mood swings?” I scowl at her. “I didn’t say I was having mood swings.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, now. I get it. I was young once, too. But it’s been like this.” Abuela motions her hands up and down as if her palm is riding on a rol ler- coaster track. “No?”

With a sigh, I plop my chin in my hand. “No, you’re right. I’ve been all over the place.”

“But you were saying, about the pharmacy?”

I’m almost too embarrassed to say, don’t want to choke the words out. This hairy face of mine has such a hold on my sel f- esteem lately. It makes me feel disgusting. Like I’m a boy, but I don’t want to be. And I know there’s nothing wrong with cis girls who have facial hai r— tru ly, nothing at all but it just feels like this huge, shameful secret I’m harboring, like it’s weighing on my chest and I can’t breathe. Before I even say it, I feel hot tears threatening to fall. “My face has been growing hair,” I manage.

“Oh, mi querida! We’re Puerto Rican. We’re hairy, you know?”

I shake my head, one fat tear rolling down my cheek. “Not like that. Hair on my upper lip or my chin, I expect.” I sniffle. “It’s more like hair here. And here. And here and here and here. Just, everywhere.” I’m pointing at my jaw and my chin and where my cheeks meet my hairline and along my neck. “And it’s not even just that. But my curls— my beautiful, wild curls that I love so, so much— have been falling out in clumps.”

Abuela clucks her tongue sympathetically and stands, stretching out her arms to me. “Ven aquí,” she says, beckoning me to come to her. I fall into her open embrace, crying for the first time in weeks as she rubs my back. “Todo bien, mi amor. Todo bien.”

The tenderness in her voice welcomes a fresh wave of tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” I cry.

“Shh, shh, shh.” Abuela’s rubbing my back in big, calming circles, and drawing in deep breaths in a way that instinctively encourages me to do the same.

It takes a bit, but eventually, the waves of tears slow, and I calm, settling like the ocean waves after a storm.

Abuela pulls back from me a little, but keeps both hands on my wrists, inspecting me. “¿Bien?”

I wipe my face and nod. “I’m good.”

“Okay. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Delgado for you, yes?”

I’m too tired to protest. So I just nod. She gives me another hug and tells me to go home and rest.