Chapter Thirty-Five

Abuela has plans to meet up with her sisters for dinner and drinks, so it’s just me and Lily. We decide to make the most of things by skipping a proper dinner, picking out snacks at the dollar store instead, and then spending the night watching old movies we loved when we were kids. I even rope her into watching an episode of Gilmore Girls with me.

When it ends and I push NEXT EPISODE without asking, Lily huffs. “I could be hanging out with Ruby, you know.”

“And yet you’re here with me, your amazing sister, watching her favorite TV show.” I give her an exaggerated grin and she rolls her eyes. “So that’s a no on another episode, huh?”

She crosses her arms. “What do you think?”

“Okay, fine.” I turn off the television with a sigh. “What do you want to do instead?”

Lily thinks, and then her face goes bright. “Have you heard the new Intonation song?”

“What?!” I practically shout. “New song? Since when?”

Intonation has been broken up for years. How can they possibly have a new song? And how can I possibly not know about it?

Lily starts to get excited at my interest. “Yeah! Here, listen.” She pulls out her phone and pushes a few buttons at the same time as I whip my own phone out and start hunting for information. I’m shocked and embarrassed I didn’t know this new piece of information about the boys! I mean, yeah, I don’t follow their every move like I used to, but I’ll always love them.

Google tells me the group reunited for this new single, “Hope,” as a one -time- only thing, in hopes of helping to raise money for charity.

I listen intently as it blares from Lily’s phone, savoring the thrill of hearing their familiar voices singing something new.

“It’s good, right?” Lily asks.

“It’s amazing. I love it!” When the notes fade out, I jump to my feet. “Play it again!”

We dance along, trying to commit the lyrics to memory. When Spotify starts shuffling Intonation songs, we keep going, sing- screaming the words at the top of our lungs.

I almost miss the knock at the door. Figuring it’s Abuela, having misplaced her keys at the bottom of her purse again, I twirl my way over to greet her.

But it’s Isaiah who greets me on the other side, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Isaiah!” I turn to Lily. “Can you pause that, please?”

“Don’t break up the party on my account,” Isaiah says with a laugh. “I knew you still had a thing for Rider.”

“You got me,” I joke, hoping it hides my embarrassment. “What’re you doing here?”

Isaiah holds up a gigantic tinfoil tray. “Delivering pasteles. Mami wanted to repay your abuela for the mofongo. And maybe bribe her to give up the recipe.”

“Pasteles? Those are no joke to make. Your mom must really want that recipe.” I reach for the tray. “Abuela’s not here right now, but I promise I’ll ask her about it tonight and text you.”

“Thank you. I can’t take much more of Mami’s nagging.”

“Is that Isaiah?” Lily asks, coming to the door. “Hi!”

“Hey, Lily!”

“He brought us pasteles,” I explain. “And you never greet me that happily.”

She ignores me. “You want to come inside for a dance party?”

“I’m sure Isaiah is really busy, Lil.”

“Actually, I’m not. And I would love to come inside for a dance party.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “You would?”

“Like that’s so weird?” Isaiah steps into the house, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. “I have dance parties with my little sisters all the time. I’m great. Watch.”

Lily hits play again and Isaiah dances freely and without hesitation. As it turns out, he’s good— bec ause apparently my heart needed another reason to crush on him. Isaiah is even content to sing along with Lily, too, and when she suggests they make another TikTok, he’s game.

The notes of another one of Intonation’s singles, “Easy,” fill the room.

Sweatpants, messy bun, I know I’m not the only one Who sees how beautiful you are.

Yet somehow it’s me you chose, And my love for you, it grows, Loving you (yeah), loving you is easy.

I perch on the couch, watching them and smiling to myself, before Isaiah invites me to join them and suddenly Lily’s teaching us the choreography to the song that plays next. Our dance party only comes to a halt when Lily gets serious about editing her TikTok.

“Come on,” I say to Isaiah, nodding with my chin toward the kitchen. He follows. From the fridge, I unwrap three apple pastelillos Abuela and I made together earlier in the week. “Snack?”

He nods. “Please.”

“Great.” I place the pastries on a sheet in the toaster oven and turn it on. “They’re better warm. Does your mom ever make these?”

Isaiah shakes his head. “She has in the past, but not often. She doesn’t like baking very much.”

“That’s totally fair. We cheated with these and used frozen dough, but they’re still delicious,” I say. “Also, can I say that I’m a little jealous of how much my sister likes you? She was so excited when she realized it was you at the door!”

“I have that effect on people,” he jokes.

I lean back against the counter and face him. “Well, I appreciate that you’ve been so kind to her. Thank you.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. People can sometimes be . . . weird about the fact that she has autism, you know? They don’t know how to act around her. Or they baby her. Even I can sometimes be a little much with her. So it’s nice that you’re just you with her.”

“Damn, what a shame,” Isaiah says. “Lily’s dope.”

“I think so, too,” I agree. A few minutes later, I ease the pastelillos out of the oven and onto three separate plates. “Any interest in eating these out on the porch? It’ll let Lily edit her TikTok in peace.”

He nods, reaching for one of the plates. “Okay, yeah. That sounds nice.”

“Take two, and give one to Lily?” I suggest. “She won’t yell at you for interrupting her since you’re her new favorite.”

His gentle laugh fills the kitchen and I laugh a little, too. He heads toward the living room, while I slip into a jean jacket and boots and linger by the door.

Isaiah proves he really is the favorite when he calls Lily’s name and offers her the warmed pastelillo, complete with a dad joke about an apple—“An apple a day keeps the doctor away— as long as you throw it at them hard enough!”— and she laughs and thanks him for the treat instead of shooing him off with a threat like she would me.

When he joins me at the door, he does a little happy dance. “She likes me better than you.”

I stick out my tongue. “Yeah, yeah.”

Isaiah shoves his feet into his shoes and reaches for the door to open it for me. “It’s only fair. Amaya and Gianna have not stopped asking when you’ll come back. Well, okay, mostly Gianna, but still.”

“Amaya is a tough one, but I will win her over.” I settle into one of the chairs on the porch, propping my plate in my lap.

Isaiah closes the door behind us and grabs the seat next to mine. “We’ll see about that.”

“Whatever.” I reach for my pastry, finally cool enough to touch, and hold it up to Isaiah. “¿Salud?”

He holds his up, too. “¡Salud!”

As we enjoy our pastelillos, I suddenly become hyperaware of the fact that Isaiah and I are hanging out, intentionally, just because. At that realization, my pulse quickens and I feel my senses sharpen. Do I look okay? Smell okay? How’s my hair? I had been having an epic veg- out session followed by a dance party with Lily mere seconds before Isaiah showed up, and I didn’t look in the mirror in between.

I can’t sneak my phone out of my pocket without making it super obvious that I’m checking myself out, so I settle for smoothing my hair and hoping for the best.

“Damn, this is good,” Isaiah murmurs.

“Told you it would be.”

He puffs out his chest. “And I helped pick the ingredients. It’s almost like I had a hand in making them.”

“If that’s what you’ve gotta tell yourself, sure,” I joke.

“Well, you and Abuela are the real bakers here, right?” Isaiah asks.

“I helped with the filling a little.”

“It’s delicious.” He pops the last bite into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I would pay a lot for these, frozen dough or not. You should be a baker.”

I giggle. “No way. I’m way too much of a control freak and I feel like baking requires a lot of trust in the oven, which I don’t have.” I take my last bite, too, dusting the crumbs off my fingers and putting my now- empt y plate on top of Isaiah’s. He sets them on the table between us. “I do think I want to be an occupational therapist, though. I’d love to work with kids and teens like Lily.”

“That sounds really nice . . .” Isaiah shoves his hands into the pocket of the vintage Aaliyah hoodie he’s wearing. “Although I have to admit I have no idea what an occupational therapist does.”

“I didn’t either until I started searching for jobs that let you work with people who have autism,” I admit. “Occupational therapists work with people to help make their day-to - day l ives a little better. They basically help them use whatever’s around them to be successful.”

“So, like, teaching people how to adapt to new situations?”

“Exactly like that! OTs can work with people who have illnesses, disabilities, whatever, and basically help them figure out tools to live their lives without the assistance of others,” I explain.

“I think I’d be good at it. I’m a control freak, yeah, but also obsessively observant and empathetic. Good with details, you know? And stubborn. So I wouldn’t be deterred if we tried something and it didn’t work right away.”

Isaiah sits back in his chair, a thoughtful look coming over his face. “Yeah, I could see that. You’d actually be awesome at that.”

I toy with a stand of hair that freed itself from behind my ear, suddenly feeling sel f- conscious. “Thanks. How about you? I mean, not that I believe in the whole we -are - our- occupations thing, but you have me curious.”

He chuckles at that and stretches his long legs to push himself back in the chair so it rocks ever so gently. “Nah, I feel that. I think I want to teach.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve told you about how I tutor kids in math and they’re just incredible. They’re so smart, and some of them barely even need my help— it’s just that the system is built against them, you know? So they just need access and, like, someone to actually invest in them the same way wealthier towns invest in their students. It’s bullshit the way everything is set up.” Isaiah starts to rock a little faster in the chair. “The institutional racism is never more evident than in the way our public school systems are set up. The fact that property taxes fund public education means the system is absolutely rotten from the inside out especially when you consider the fact that Black and brown folks have historically been barred from owning property and thus are less likely to have generational wealth.”

Hearing him get so passionate about this is amazing. “Absolutely. It’s awful,” I agree.

“Yeah, I talk about this with my pops a lot. Our communities often get pushed into cities that don’t have the right infrastructure to support them, so people work jobs that don’t pay enough,” he continues. “Meaning they can’t live in wealthy areas. Meaning they can’t build wealth. Meaning their kids can’t get the education they deserve because the tax base isn’t there. It’s this messed-up cycle and it breaks my heart.”

“It’s horrible, and obviously a strategy to ensure that marginalized communities stay marginalized,” I say. “It’s hard to fight systemic injustices when you’re just worried about putting food on the table.”

Isaiah nods vigorously. “Exactly! I know I can’t fix the system from the inside, but I just feel like if I can maybe be an example of an Afro-Latino teacher and show these kids what they’re capable of, that might help in some way. I don’t know.” The fervor in his voice, mixed with his anger and frustration, makes it so that it takes everything in me not to reach out and take his hands. Isaiah looks over to me, his dark eyes meeting mine for just a moment before he quickly averts his gaze to his shoes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do all that.”

“I love a good rant. And you’re absolutely right. The system is broken.” I keep my voice gentle. “Someone like you could really make a difference.”

“Maybe,” he says, shrugging a shoulder.

“Really. You could. I can tell how much you care.”

“Yeah, well. Someone has to.” Isaiah sighs. “If I don’t become a middle or high school teacher, then I think I’d still want to teach in some capacity. Maybe be an Afro studies professor or something. Do, like, a teaching and research combo.”

“You’d be amazing at that, too.”

He chuckles. “You’re being suspiciously nice to me right now.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I say with a laugh. “Whatever you choose, though, I know it’ll be good.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m hopeful this Fall Fest stuff will help with my college applications when the time comes. I really owe Ms. Bennett for hooking me up.”

“Is that why you joined?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. I mean, I tutor, yes, but I wanted a real leadership role on my resume, and Ms. Bennett said she’d help.” Isaiah smiles at me. “I didn’t know I’d end up liking it so much.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Oh, yeah?” He arches a brow. “Because I thought you were going to strangle me when she made the announcement that I’d be your number two.”

I laugh at that. “But that’s only because I was considering strangling you.”

“Right, right.”

“The good news is that our work seems to be paying off,” I say.

“Yeah, people seem excited,” Isaiah agrees. “The proposals have been getting wild this week!”

“Oh my God, I know! Did you catch Pilar Aguilar’s? Her boyfriend hired a mariachi band!”

“Shit, I missed that. And how about you? You’re going with your boy, right? Andrew?”

“Aiden?” I offer.

“Aiden, that’s right.”

I shake my head. “No, we’ve been broken up for a while.”

Isaiah stops rocking his chair, surprised. “What? I had no idea. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not. Not really, anyway. It was for the best. We weren’t right for each other and, weirdly, I don’t miss him.” It’s true. I haven’t thought about Aiden in . . . well, since that photo of him and his new girlfriend? “So, yeah, I’m not going with anyone. Just Sol and Sophie— and t heir dates, of course. Will I be the fifth wheel? Yeah, sure. You could say that. Or! It’s empowering and I’m bucking tradition!”

This makes Isaiah laugh. “I’m not going with anyone, either.”

My hands fall to my lap in surprise. “Not Destiny?”

He furrows his brows. “Why would I be going with Destiny?”

I glance down, fiddling with one of the buttons on my jacket.

“Aren’t you guys dating? Or, like, I don’t know. Talking or whatever.”

“God, no. We’re just friends.” His voice has a slight edge to it.

“Oh, sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t know.”

But then he looks over at me and his face softens. “It’s all good. We do hang out, and wel l, she’s been wanting to try again. But I’m not interested. Not after everything.”

I think back to what Camila told me when I was at their house, but don’t press.

In the silence, Isaiah continues, “I didn’t like who I became with her, you know? She was great— it was me. I just didn’t feel like I could be myself when we were together. I was worried she wouldn’t like me— the real me, whatever that mea ns— so I kept trying to morph into whatever I thought she wanted.” He shakes his head. “We’re so much better as friends. I’m way more chill now.” Then he breaks into a grin. “Plus, Destiny would never give me the Fall Fest proposal I deserve.”

I return his grin. “So, you want a a proposal, then?”

“Why not? I think I deserve it after all my hard work,” he teases. “And anyway, just to be clear: Things with Destiny are done. I’ve moved on.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Isaiah clears his throat. “I, uh— I like someone else.”

My gaze meets his and I swallow, hard, feeling the quickening thump, thump, thump of my heart beating in my ears.

But before I can ask, before I can think, before I can do or say anything, the bright flash of headlights is in my vision and I squint as an unfamiliar black SUV pulls into the driveway.

We weren’t doing anything, but the two of us scramble to our feet as Abuela climbs out of the car, a wobble in her steps. It must’ve been a great night with her hermosas; she’s totally tipsy. She slams the door and doesn’t even realize we’re on the porch until she’s walking up the steps, and then she gasps.

“¡Ay, dios mío!” Her hand goes to her heart as she bursts into a fit of giggles. “You scared me.”

“So sorry,” Isaiah says.

At the same time, I laugh and say, “Sorry, Abuela. Fun night?”

“Sí, sí.” She kisses my cheek and reaches out to pat Isaiah on the shoulder. “And now, I sleep. Buenos noches, queridas. Don’t stay up too late.”

Then she gives me a not-at-all subtle wink and moves past us to let herself into the house. Once the door is closed, Isaiah and I laugh, a little awkwardly.

“So, I should probably get going,” Isaiah says, checking the time on his phone. “It’s later than I thought it was.”

I tuck my hands into my jacket. “Right. School tomorrow and all.”

“Thanks for letting me hang out. And please say good night to Lily for me.”

“I definitely will,” I promise. “Thanks for delivering the pasteles. Given Abuela’s state, I may not get that recipe tonight, but tomorrow for sure.”

Isaiah chuckles. “Yeah, no worries.”

“Great.”

I expect Isaiah to move toward the stairs, but he doesn’t yet. He just looks at me, like there’s something he wants to say.

Hope sprouts up in my chest when he licks his lips and steps a little closer.

“I noticed something the other day, you know. At the apple orchard.” His voice is soft, low.

“Yeah?” I ask, nearly in a whisper.

“Your hair . . .” He reaches out, his hand stopping just before touching a strand, hesitant, then gently taking a curl between his fingers and pushing it back behind my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “It looks like an apple tree.”

A giggle escapes my throat before I can stop it. “What?”

Isaiah shakes his head. “That came out wrong. I just meant . . . I ca n finally see why fall is so great. Your curls, the way they fall, how they kind of sway whenever there’s a little bit of a breeze? It reminds me of those trees in the orchard. Beautiful, you know?” He pulls his hand back, though I wish he hadn’t moved away from me at all. “Anyway. I should really go.”

I want to utter something— any t hing— to convince him to stay. Put your hand back in my hair. Tell me more. Come close. Compare me to the earth. Touch more than my curls. Kiss me. Instead, when I find my voice, I simply say in a whisper, “Okay. Good night, Isaiah.”

“Zay,” he corrects. “Good night, Whitney.”