Spellbound. Cara Shultz Lynn
pushed it away. Cisco leaned in closer.
“Come with me to the quad when you’re done eating,” he said. I looked at the sandwich, now strewn about my tray like doughy confetti.
“Uh, I think I’m done.” I laughed, surveying the mess I’d made, and walked with him to the door. I noticed he got very quiet until we were in the quad with no one within earshot.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Cisco asked, keeping his voice low as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his black pants. Oh, no. No, no, no. Please don’t tell me he’s asking me on a date.
“Friday? Nothing much,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Probably just going to the movies with my cousin, maybe play some pool after. What’s up?”
“Well.” he leaned in closer and his voice got lower. He sounded nervous. “My boyfriend Gabe’s band is playing at this bar farther up on the East Side, and I wanted to know if you wanted to come with us and hang out. I’m going with my cousin and some friends, and it could be fun.”
“Oh, that’s what you wanted to ask me?” I blurted out, relieved. It’s not that Cisco wasn’t cute—he was plenty cute, with thick chestnut hair and warm cocoa eyes. But, as much as I hated to admit it to myself, I’d lost interest in anyone who wasn’t him.
“You look relieved,” Cisco said, smiling at me.
“Honestly, I thought you were going to ask me out and I’m on, well, on a guy-cation. Like a vacation. But from guys,” I babbled on. “That probably sounds arrogant, but you know, we get along, you asked me all secretively, making me come out here….”
“Sweetie, you’re cute, but you’re so not my type.” He smirked, laughing. I pretended to be offended.
“I just don’t want anyone knowing my business,” Cisco continued, getting serious. “It’s my business and if you’re ever in the guys’ locker room, it’s ‘that’s so gay’ this, and ‘no homo’ that. Not exactly the most welcome coming-out party.”
“It’s never fun to be the one people are staring at,” I said, instantly understanding. I crossed my arms and looked down. “Exactly.”
“Let me check with my aunt and make sure it’s not a problem. I don’t think it will be.”
“Cool.” He smiled, reaching into his blue messenger bag and pulling out a notebook. “Here’s the address and my number. Meet me on the corner of Third Avenue and Ninety-first Street tomorrow night.”
Walking home with Ashley that afternoon, I told her about my plans to hang out with Cisco and his friends. I was so afraid of hurting her feelings—the past two weeks, we’d had standing weekend dates—movies or billiards hall—when she didn’t have plans with some of her classmates. Although she always invited me along, I usually passed. Her friends seemed so much younger than she was, and a little too gossipy for anything I could handle. To her credit, her face fell only a little bit before composing herself.
“No, it’s cool,” she said, smiling at me. “You should get out of the house,” she added, giggling. “And hey, Francisco’s cute.”
“Oh, no,” I stammered. “It’s not like that.”
“Why not?” Ashley pressed. “He’s cute. You can tell, he totally works out. And he seems really nice.”
“No, really. We’re just friends.” Even though I knew Ashley wouldn’t care, I had to respect his privacy. It wasn’t my story to tell.
“Anyway,” I continued. “Do you think that Aunt Christine will mind if I go out?” I wasn’t prepared for Ashley’s response—breaking out in uncontrollable laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, but Ashley just continued laughing. She laughed so hard tears actually started rolling down her face, and she had to lean against a building for support. “What is so funny?”
“Are you kidding me?” she howled, her tears causing her eye shadow to leave iridescent streaks down her cheeks. “She’s going to be happy that you’re going out with someone other than me. Ooh, maybe you’ll actually get to bed after 9:00 p.m. for once. Really, Emma. You’re in the early-bird dinner crowd these days. Are you going to play bingo next? Are there hard candies in the bottom of your backpack?”
“Okay, Ashley, I get it.” I rolled my eyes.
“I mean, I thought you were going to start stealing Splenda from diners….” She continued mocking me until we were at her parents’ place on Sixty-second Street—and until I left around dinnertime.
That night after I was clearing the kitchen table—my aunt had ordered in some Indian food—I broached the subject. “So, Aunt Christine, a guy in my class invited me to hang out tomorrow night….”
“Which guy?” she asked without looking at me, scrutinizing her nighttime cocktail as she swirled it around in its glass. She and my uncle George used to toast each other every night with a dry martini, extra olives. After he died, she continued the tradition, making two martinis every night and drinking just the one.
“Cisco. I mean, Francisco Fernandez.”
“Oh, yes, I know the family,” Christine said, smoothing out her billowy cloud of dark brown curls. “His mother’s lovely. His sister and cousin, I believe, also attended Vincent Academy. That’s fine.” She looked at me blankly. “Am—am I supposed to give you a curfew?”
I stood there and stared dumbly back.
“Um, I don’t know.” I shrugged. And the truth was, I didn’t know. I was so young when my mom died—I wasn’t exactly hitting the clubs in eighth grade. And Henry kept switching from no curfew to wanting me home right after school. I never paid attention to either rule.
We stared at each other blankly. Christine swirled her cocktail again and took a sip.
“How about, oh, let’s just say when someone tells you what time they have to be home, you say, ‘Me, too,’” she said.
“Wow, um, thanks Aunt Christine,” I said, a little amazed.
“Well, you haven’t done anything to make me not trust you, so don’t make me lose that trust.” She went back to sloshing her martini in its Waterford crystal glass. “I’ll leave you some money on the counter. Buy yourself a new shirt or something.”
I ran over and hugged her. “Thanks, Aunt Christine,” I breathed into her neck, which smelled heavily of Estée Lauder’s Beautiful.
The next day, I sat in Latin, staring at the clock tick slowly, slowly, slowly. 2:51. 2:52. 2:53. 2:52?
I rubbed my eyes and looked back at the fuzzy numbers on the clock, squinting. Is time actually going backward? No, no, it’s 2:54. Just six more minutes. Ashley and I were going shopping after school. I was getting a new shirt—actually, a replacement shirt, since I’d left a lot of things in Keansburg. Once I’d decided to finally move in with Christine in late July, I’d moved quickly, and never went back for anything I’d left behind. I was sure that, by now, Henry had sold or trashed my stuff, with mementos from my life finding new homes in plastic garbage bags. Every now and then, I’d look for a shirt or hoodie and realize that I’d left them in the laundry bag, or hanging in the closet.
When the bell finally rang, I ran out of my seat and down the stairs to my locker. I had to be at Third Avenue promptly at 8:00 p.m. Since I didn’t have a cell phone, I had no way of finding out if there were any changes in plans. I used to have a cell phone—a cute purple one at that, loaded to the hilt with my favorite ring tones, too—but I’d left it in Keansburg, in the charger on my nightstand. It was just as well: it had pretty much stopped ringing.
Shopping with Ashley was fun, even though she kept trying to talk me out of buying the plain black, long-sleeved boat-necked shirt I wanted. I figured that, with jeans, would be fine. It was the first time I’d see any