The Second Time I Lost Her The first time I met Mariana, I was reminded of a firecracker. She was mesmerizing, tall and tanned, with auburn hair shot through with red highlights, and brown eyes that shone in the sun like copper coins. In her Facebook profile picture, white wisps of water vapor curled out of her half-open mouth and around her face. She was reckless. She danced El Payaso de Rodeo at Dana’s quinceañera party in crimson, five-inch heels. She had a crackling laughter that I could hear from three rooms away. She made jokes during class that teachers at the Colegio Mexicano Valladolid tried to be angry at but could not. Mariana took me under her wing—a sickly-looking fifteen-year-old—after she heard the sarcastic comments I constantly made under my breath. During a study date, in a moment of awe at how this girl managed to be both incredibly smart and ridiculously fun at the same time, I whispered, “Eres una chispa.” Chispa became her nickname. Spark. Soon, her real name grew foreign on my tongue. The first time she saw me cry I grew so embarrassed that I cried harder. She had informed me she was going to get ice cream, and I joined her despite my best judgement. After all, how could I tell anyone about how, more often than not, the thought of eating made me feel like someone was standing on my chest? I ate two salads and three almonds a day, and anything else sent me flying off the handle. How to admit that every night there was a spectacular showdown of screaming, crying, cajoling, and pleading as my parents tried to get me to eat something, anything? These arguments ended when I agreed to sit down to eat a real meal, but the night actually ended, supervision or threats be damned, with me managing to hide away most of the food, sometimes chewed but always uneaten, and throw it away at school the next day. Most pertinently, though, how did I tell her all of that? I did not. By the time I received my gelato—a scoop of sugar-free lemon sorbet—panic had seized me by the throat. My hands were sweating, and as I sat down with Chispa on the cold metal of the outdoor bench I could hear my pulse behind my ears. “Hey, girl?” Chispa’s voice broke into the inner monologue of my dessert dilemma. “The guy from the ice cream shop? I think he’s looking at us.” “Hu-What?” I turned around, momentarily distracted. He stood behind the counter, leaning forward, and didn’t bother to conceal his interest even after we made eye contact. “He’s probably looking at you,” I said. It was half compliment and half concern. She frowned. “Ew,” she declared, loud enough that I was sure he would be within
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