I mean Zach does...”
“That’s right,” Jackson says, leaning in Antonia’s window like some famous sculptor carved him right there on the spot. It’s almost funny how full of himself he is.
Antonia smirks at him. “And?”
“And what?” Jackson asks.
Now he’s flirting with her too.
“Are we invited?”
Jackson shrugs. “I just assumed you’d be there.”
“Whatever!” Antonia slaps his muscular shoulder. It’s obvious Jackson is obsessed with working out. He’s pretty ripped. “You weren’t even going to tell me. And neither were you, Liv.”
I look at her. I can’t believe she’s taken about thirty seconds to get us invited, and I’ve been trying for three days. Even for her that must be some kind of personal record.
“You didn’t tell her?” Jackson asks me. “Were you gonna ditch us?”
“Ditch?” I hesitate. “I didn’t realize I was invited.”
“Uh...of course you were.”
“I was?” I ask, then attempt the clumsiest backtrack of all time, wishing I could appear at least slightly more confident. “I mean, yeah, I knew that.”
“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends.
I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”
—Jane Austen
Antonia pulls up to her house and parks the Land Rover in her driveway. In the car, she told me that both of her parents are back at work after their long summer vacation so we don’t have to worry about being loud as we enter the house.
Going to Antonia’s house feels like traveling to another country. The colors of their drapery and furniture are vibrant and deep and the hallways are filled with Antonia’s mother’s framed vinyl album covers—she’s a famous singer from the Dominican Republic—and pictures of her with other famous singers and musicians. There’s one photograph of her mother hanging in the entryway that’s always been my favorite. She’s very young—just barely twenty, maybe—and wearing a tight, sparkly sequin dress that fits her like she was poured into it. Antonia looks almost exactly like her mother, but with a darker complexion.
It’s wild how much they look alike. Even though my mom is part Latina, no one ever guesses that I’m Mexican. It’s the last name, I suppose. Blakely. Not to mention my skin is ghostly white. I spent most of the summer running around conference rooms and fund-raisers, helping Mom with her campaign to increase childhood literacy. I’m basically her intern and help with everything from setting up events to data entry. Sometimes I get to read to little kids at her events, which is my favorite part, but mostly I have to hang out with adults who think I have everything together but don’t really know who I am.
Summers are hard for me. Without school to focus on, I’m always obsessing about my weight and how hungry I am. I binge more. This year, with Antonia visiting the Dominican Republic and Sam away working as a counselor at a surf camp, I got really lonely. I started eating a lot and feeling crappy about myself. I got to a point where I started vomiting after every meal. It was so bad that I couldn’t stop myself from purging after a fund-raising luncheon, even though I knew Mom was in the stall next to me.
I told her I was sick.
I’m hoping Antonia being back will make things better.
“I’m grabbing a snack and then we gotta get ready,” Antonia says, walking through the entryway toward the kitchen. “You want anything?”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m not hungry. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Leaving her in the kitchen, I walk up the stairs to her bedroom and plop down on Antonia’s bed, trying to figure out a plan to talk to Zach tonight without seeming awkward and obvious. Her bedroom is super bohemian. The shelves are filled with knickknacks from her mother’s tours around the world. The room is also cluttered with different musical instruments—guitars, conga drums, a balalaika—that she plays. Multicolored batik rugs cover the ground, which is nearly impossible to see because Antonia’s clothes are everywhere.
I daydream about the possibility of meeting LeFeber. It’s not only his art that I admire. It’s his life. His mother was an alcoholic who abandoned the family when he was a baby, and when he was sixteen, his father disowned him for being openly gay. The article said that when he lived in New York during the ’80s, LeFeber was practically homeless, trying to scrounge up enough money for materials and find places that would host his installations. I want to ask him how he found so much courage to pursue his dream. I want to ask him how he found so much courage to believe in himself for so long.
When she returns, Antonia shoves a plate of reheated black beans and red rice at me. Even though she’s trying to be nice, I give her some side-eye.
Right away, I feel like a total jerk—why can’t I just be normal about food for once? Why can I barely stand to eat in front of my best friend?
“Seriously not trying to be a nag,” she says, “but you should eat something. Especially since we’re gonna be drinking.”
She’s right. I can handle a few bites.
“Fine,” I say, taking the plate and a fork from her.
I pick at the rice and beans, eating a few bites to make her happy, while Antonia digs through her closet, looking for something for us to wear to the boat party.
I’m glad she’s going with me. I would have been nervous going alone. I don’t even know how I would have gotten there.
My phone buzzes.
“Oh crap,” I say, not even realizing I’m thinking aloud. I totally forgot that I’d made plans with Sam to go see a movie tonight. We’re supposed to be there in an hour.
“What’s up, BB?” Antonia asks, throwing a random pink shirt over her shoulder onto a pile of clothes and shoes behind her.
“Sam’s going to kill me.”
My phone buzzes again and I pick it up.
Yep. Just like I thought. He’s already texted two or three times.
“I promised him I’d hang out tonight,” I say. “He’s supposed to be picking me up from my house soon.”
“Okay, so? Invite him over,” she says. “It’s not like they’ll mind one more person at the boat party. Everyone’ll probably be so trashed that they won’t remember anyway.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that kind of party...”
I really do love Sam as a friend, but hanging out with all three of us means that there’s a totally different dynamic. I can be open with him about my feelings for the
