Chapter 5: cosas malas

Dear Journal,

Abuelita's teaching me how to knit. I used to think it was just some old woman activity, like bingo and crochet, but it's not. Knitting is relaxing and calm, and it really helps me think.

There's no talking involved, if you want. And when you really get good at it, you can even close your eyes and just breathe.

I like to knit in the rocking chair on the porch, especially after the sun has set. There's a light on the porch, so I just sit there, rocking back and forth, and knit something useless, like a scarf or a knit hat, something I'd never really need back in Houston.

In my sophomore year in high school, about a year after Jose left, I started taking anger management classes. It didn't really work. I came up with the breathing techniques all on my own.

The only thing the instructors taught me to do was talk about my feelings and some other bullshit.

The instructors should have offered knitting as a coping technique. It's really calming, helps me sort out my thoughts, and allows me to focus all of my negative energy on something productive.

I wonder if Quinn likes beanies.

There's nothing better than some good home cooking when you're seven hundred miles away from home. Your dad was never a good cook. Somehow, you find this strange, especially the way your abuelita throws down.

She can make a great meal out of anything. Just yesterday, she made estofado de tenera out of just a few random ingredients in the cupboard. At first look, the food looked so gross you thought it was a joke, but when Abuelita snatched your spoon out of your hand and shoved the stew into your mouth, you couldn't believe it.

(It was like a party in your mouth.)

As you and Mowgli sit at the kitchen table and wait for dinner to be ready, he quizzes you on what you've learned so far. Throughout the weeks, you've been getting better at speaking Spanish, but understanding Spanish is a whole other thing in itself. The people here talk so fast, you'd think there was a fire somewhere, or that Timmy got stuck in a well again.

Mowgli flips through his own journal, lifting his head to ask, "¿De dónde eres?"

"Soy de Houston, Texas," you answer without a second thought.

"Bien," Mowgli smiles, squinting his eyes in thought. "¿Cuántos años tienes?"

You bite your bottom lip. This one always throws you off. "Tengo diecisiete años."

Mowgli doesn't say if you got it right or wrong, so you're going to assume it's the former. "¿De qué color es el sol?"

"El sol es amarillo," you respond, brushing off your shoulder cockily.

"Excelente." Mowlgi grins, clapping his hands together. "¿Cuántos cerdos le puede meter en una manta?"

Your abuelita laughs from where she's checking on the food in the oven. Mowgli's never asked this question before, so you have no idea what he's saying. Now, they're both laughing at your confused expression.

Rolling your eyes, you kick him in the shin under the table and mumble, "Ustedes son gente mala." It's not one of your best insults, but you're pretty limited when it comes to the Spanish language. "Puedo hacer cosas malas contigo. Las cosas malas."

They still laugh at you. Your abuelita is literally cracking up, bent over sideways as she wipes at the tears building in her eyes. You're not sure why, but Mexicans just love it when people who suck at Spanish try to speak the language. You're so used to the comical glances people give you, you can't even be offended anymore.

"One day, you two will regret laughing at Santana Lopez," you warn, staring your abuelita down as she breathes out a sigh of relief, trying her very hardest to quit laughing, though Mowgli's abruptly stopped his giggling, and the look he's giving you is a little creepy, so you lift an eyebrow and stare back. "What?"

"Your last name's Lopez?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Yeah..." you respond hesitantly, shrugging a shoulder, because you're not really sure why that matters.

Mowgli cocks his head to the side. "My last name is Lopez too," he whispers in amazement, nodding his head furiously. "Gabriel Tomás Romero Lopez."

(Well, that's a mouthful.)

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. Mowgli always seems to get excited over the smallest things. "And..." you trail off, shrugging your shoulders. "There are probably thousands of Lopezes in this country. It's a common last name, Mo."

Mowgli furrows his brows, looks down at the table, and nods his head, the excitement slowly deflating from his small body. "I suppose..." he mumbles, averting his eyes to the wall.

(Christ, why do you hate it so much when this kid is sad?)

"By the way," you speak up, uncomfortable with the sudden silence. "Quinn stopped by today."

Mowgli's ears perk up, and he stares at you guiltily. "You don't say?"

"Cut the crap, Mo," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "You shouldn't send strangers to other people's houses. Hell, you shouldn't even send strangers to your own house."

"She's not a stranger," Mowgli counters. "I see her in town every day. She asks about you and wonders why you're so shy, and I'm like, Santana is the total opposite-"

"She asks about me?" you interrupt, raising an eyebrow disbelievingly. It's flattering, you must admit, that Quinn's been basically stalking you for two weeks now.

"Santana?"

"Hm?" you murmur, distracted.

"I said," Mowgli repeats, seemingly irritated with your lack of response. "You totally have a crush on her. How is she a stranger if you have a cru-"

Jumping across the table, you clamp the palm of your hand over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up," you breath out through gritted teeth, glancing hesitantly over your shoulder.

Abuelita's busily stirring a pot on the stove as she hums a song under her breath, so you assume she didn't hear anything.

(Not like she'd understand anyway.)

You settle back into your seat, wiping Mowgli's saliva off your hand with a napkin. "I can't believe you licked me, you moron," you huff, ducking your head to whisper, "And I don't have a crush on her."

"I'm eleven, not stupid," Mowgli whispers back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "You like her, just admit it."

You eye him skeptically. You're not used to people being this accepting of your sexuality, especially here in Mexico. That's why you've decided to keep it a secret from your abuelita. Your family knows; they've known for quite awhile now, and they're fine with it, but you know everyone isn't as liberal as them.

"I don't judge," Mowgli reassures you with a shrug, sensing your skepticism. "My uncle's gay." The way he says it so easily; it kind of reminds you of when you told your family you were gay.

Your mother had just shrugged her shoulder and said, "I know, mija. And I still love you." Your father was sitting on the couch, entraced by the football game in front of him. At first, you didn't think he heard you, but after a seconds delay, he glanced at you and murmured, "I'm so proud of you, hon."

You think your brother's reaction was the best of them all. He had been sitting next to your dad, his legs thrown over the armrest comfortably. You remember the way he had rolled his eyes and scoffed, "It's about time you came out. I was getting tired of pretending to act dumb, since eveyone here knows I'm the smartest in this house."

He had smiled then, sending you a private wink that no one saw but you. And in that wink, you'd received everything you would need to stay true to yourself.

You offer him a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. "How do you know I'm gay?" you question, pursing your lips challengingly.

"You're not?"

"No, I am," you say, smirking when Mowgli rolls his eyes at you. "It's not cool to just assume though."

Leaning over the table with his elbows propped up, Mowgli raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice, whispering, "So, do you like her or not?"

Quickly peeking over your shoulder, you release a heavy sigh and admit, "Okay, maybe I do like her...kinda."

"Just kinda?" he repeats, looking at you skeptically.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you lean back in your chair and murmur, "Just kinda."

"Hey, baby." It's only been a month, yet you can't describe how good it feels to hear her voice.

"Hi, Ma," you murmur, sinking into the sheets in your bed. It's a cool night, and if Abuelita doesn't have air conditioning, there's no way she has heat.

You don't hear anything for awhile, then, "What's wrong, hon?"

Smiling crookedly, because somehow, she always seems to sense when there's something out of the ordinary, you wrap your arm around your legs and whisper, "What makes you think there's something wrong?"

"I breastfed you," she chuckles, a lightness to her voice that makes you feel closer to home. "We are connected forever. I will always know when there's something wrong with you."

You screw up your face in distaste. "Gross."

"Seriously, though," your mother continues, sighing into the speaker of the phone. "Is this about Abuelita? Are you guys not getting along?"

You think your abuelita and you have been getting along swell. You're not used to building relationships so easily with people. You're naturally guarded, building walls to keep people out. Not because you're afraid of them hurting you; quite the contrary actually.

You fear many things, but the scariest thing is letting people in just to break their heart. You've done it before, and you never want to do it again.

"It's not about her. She's fine," you tell her, draping a handwoven quilt around your shoulders. It's blue and yellow and red; your three favorite colors. Blue; the sky at night. Yellow; the sun during the day. Red; the blood pumping through your veins. "We're fine," you continue, pausing for a moment to breathe through your nose. "I just..."

You never finish your sentence, but Ma picks up the slack, prompting, "You just..."

"I met a girl." The words come out fast and sloppy, and if you hadn't been thinking about saying it aloud for awhile now, you would've had no idea what you just said.

Ma's seemed to put the jumbled mess of your words together. "Oh, I see..." she says, and you roll your eyes at the teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah," you mumble, because it's all you can think of to say. In the beginning of the summer, the last time you had spoken to your mom, the two of you joked about meeting a girl. You meant it as a joke, a way to get rid of the lingering feelings of Skye in your mind. You had meant it to reassure your mother and yourself that you were ready to move on, yet...

There's a brief silence where all you can hear is Mr. Ramos' hound dog howling from across the street and into the night. "What's her name?" Ma speaks up again after a period of ten seconds. You know this because you were holding your breath and counting, like always.

(Always counting.)

Despite your conflicting emotions, you smile as you whisper her name. "Quinn..." It makes your tongue feel numb, your fingers tingle, your heart race, your toes prickle.

Your mom chuckles, and you bite your bottom lip to keep from giggling like a school girl. "You seem to like girls with only one syllable as their name," she says in a teasing manner.

You groan, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Ma..."

"Okay, okay," she drawls, but you can still hear the goofy grin in her voice. "Sorry."

You lay back in bed and rest your head down on your pillow. The room is dark, so you can't see the ceiling, but you know it's there and that's a comforting thought. Your mom hasn't said anything in awhile, but you can hear her breathing over the phone, and somehow, it's comforting knowing she is there for you without her actually being here with you.

"I just..." you start, then pause, because you don't know what to say. Eventually, after a moment of thought, you whisper, "I know Skye and I broke up, but somehow it still feels wrong."

"Even more than before?" Ma wonders aloud.

You suck in a gallon of air, your chest rising like an inflated hot air balloon. "Way more," you exhale, slowly letting the air out of your body.

"Guilt?" she presses.

You loll your head back and forth in thought. "Some guilt, but mostly..."

"But mostly..." she prompts, pushing you to finish your incomplete sentence. Your mom always says it's important to complete a thought, because there's no telling what can happen if you refuse to release it and set it free.

"But..." you continue, folding your right arm under your head. "Mostly regret."

You wonder if you should be concerned Mowgli's talked to Quinn more than you have. You wonder what he's told her about you, or what she's told him. You wonder if it's really a good idea to be getting into whatever it is you're getting into, knowing you have to go back home in a little over a month. You wonder if it's really smart to start falling before you've even landed on two feet yet.

The breeze out here is nice. Every time the wind blows, your hair flies into your face, but you don't move it. You just wait for another breeze to push your hair out of the way again.

You swing your legs back and forth, and you tap your fingers on the wooden pier on which you sit. Quinn told Mowgli to tell you to meet her here, so here you are, waiting on the pier and watching the sunrise.

White sailboats bob in the water in a long line along the wooden pier. Sweaty men with bronze skin mop the deck and untie the ropes from their dock, readying themselves for a long day at sea. Seagulls squawk as they fly above you and perch themselves on the top of the sails. Squinting your eyes, you watch as they fight over french fries and poop all over the decks of the boats.

The sun is blaring today, but it's not as hot and humid as usual. As you look up at the sky, you watch the clouds float passed the sun. Another breeze passes, and you briefly decide today would be a great day for sailing.

"Bonjour, jolie dame."

You turn your head, and there she is, standing behind you with these dark aviator shades. Inwardly, you want to scoff. She speaks French too. It figures.

Quinn's smirking, like usual, hands on her hips. Your eyes immediately go to her sun kissed legs. They're so shiny, especially when the sun glows against them.

(You wonder what they feel like.)

You try not to smile, but it happens anyway. "What did you call me?" you ask, arching an eyebrow as she pulls up her sunglasses and rests them on the top of her head.

She sits beside you, staring forward as the sun rises higher in the pink sky. You can feel her body heat. If you scooted closer, you'd be able to feel the softness of her skin, but you stay put and hope for contact later.

"Pretty lady," she tells you, sending you that coy smile; the one that makes her eyes glow; the one that makes your breath hitch; the one you absolutely can't resist.

(And you think she knows this.)

Shaking your head, you send her a smile before looking back down at the water beneath you. "Aren't you the charmer..."

"That's me," she singsongs, and you don't really know how to reply, so you just sit there and remain silent.

The sun has fully risen. The seagulls are gone; you think Quinn's confident presence scared them off. Glancing to your side, you quirk an eyebrow and cough into your fist. You don't know why you're here, why Quinn told Mowgli to tell you to come here, or what you're waiting for.

You're just about to ask when Quinn speaks first. "I got us breakfast," she says, leaning to the side as she digs through her pocket. Her shoulder brushes against yours as she pulls out a shiny apple and drops it into your hand.

"An apple," you murmur, staring down at the red fruit, amused.

Quinn smiles and nods, reaching into her backpack. You watch with a raised eyebrow as she pulls out a banana and holds it up with a smirk. "Fruit is good for you," she states, slowly peeling the banana like she has all day, and you suppose she does. "What's your favorite fruit?"

"Honeydew melon," you respond without a second thought, wiping the apple against your shirt before taking a hearty bit out of it.

"Honeydew melon?" Thin pink lips quirk upward. Hazel eyes shine under the sunlight. Furrowing your brow, you nod your head slowly, unsure of what's so amusing. Quinn leans back on her elbows and stares forward with an easygoing smile. "I had a dream last night."

The conversation just did a 180 turn, but you don't mind. Better than talking to your abuela about boys and marriage and silkworm tuxedos. Squinting your eyes, you consider her for a moment. "Yeah?" you say, looking closely into her eyes.

Quinn sits up with an airy laugh, knitting her eyebrows together in thought. "Yeah," she responds, scratching the side of her head. "It was a little trippy, so brace yourself."

A ghost of a smile appears on your lips, but you try to constrict it as much as possible. "I think I can handle it."

There's this look in her hazel eyes that you can't quite decipher as she looks out into the ocean. The smile on her cheeks slowly disappear, but she's not frowning. Her lips are a straight line, a mixture of conflict and resolution in her soft features.

"I was standing on an empty highway. I was alone, and it was raining..." A long beat, and you wait patiently as Quinn nibbles on her lower lip. "I was soaking wet, water dripping down my neck, drenching my hair and clothes," she murmurs, rubbing the side of her arm up and down.

(You realize it's a nervous tick, and you smirk at learning something new about her.)

"There was something wrong. I didn't know it, but I could feel it," Quinn continues, squinting her eyes as the sun reflects against the surface of the ocean. "There was a tunnel only a few yards away, I think. And somewhere around me, it smelled. Like, a sewer or something. Then, the dream ended."

You try to imagine it, but all you can picture is your own dream from a few weeks ago. You haven't dreamed since then, and the realization of this is a little unnerving.

"What does it mean?"

"Huh?"

Quinn grins wryly, pulling her sunglasses back down in front of her eyes. "My dream," she clarifies, tilting her head sideways in question. "Do you know what it means?"

Your dreams never seem to mean anything significant, but that doesn't mean other dreams don't. Bowing your head, you mentally run through everything you've noticed since you met Quinn, but nothing you recall adds up with the happenings in her nightly visions.

Lifting your head, you look at yourself in the reflection of her dark shades. "No," you whisper, because this moment feels heavy for some reason, and you don't want to destroy the silence by being overly boastful. "I don't really know how to interpret dreams anyway."

"My dad used to be great at interpreting dreams." Quinn shrugs her shoulders, peeling down her banana further before taking another bite out of it. You bite your apple and chew with her, and when she swallows, so do you. "He used to..." Here she pauses to wet her lips, and you can't take your eyes away from the glossy residual left behind. "He would see a dream as a puzzle, slowly putting the pieces together. He'd dissect the whole thing, like a corpse, then put it back together until the body was alive again."

(Her words are like poetry, and you wonder if she keeps a journal too.)

Another breeze drifts by, alerting you to the strange silence between you. You wring your fingers together and look out onto the ocean. Although your dad's a doctor, he's not really as receptive as what Quinn describes her father to be.

Your dad is a logical thinker; he likes formulas and equations and laws and theories. Dream interpretation takes creativity and thinking out of the box and a vast knowledge of a mental world that doesn't even exist.

Your mouth opens, but then you close it, shaking your head. Eventually you open your mouth again, because you can't take the odd silence anymore. "Your dad sounds...wondrous," you settle on, not used to serving compliments to people you don't even know.

(Hell, you can barely compliment the people you do know.)

You take another bite out of your apple when you realize the air is slowly turning it into a gross brown color. Your cheeks puff up like a hamster as you chew, and you feel like a fat ass for taking such a huge bite, but at least you don't have to think of something to fill the beat in conversation now.

You've finished your apple, and yet, still no words are exchanged. Quinn hasn't finished eating her banana, but you don't think she's hungry anymore by the way she's stopped licking her lips.

Biting your lip, you glance her way and ask, "Do you mind me asking why we're out here?"

Quinn crinkles her nose and blows a strand of hair out of her face. "Oh, right," she sighs in remembrance, and you smile at the way she knits her blonde eyebrows together.

She doesn't answer for a moment, letting the suspension float in the air, then she smiles and says, "We're waiting."

"For?" you prod, raising a brow.

She shakes her head in amusement. "You need to relax, San."

"Excuse me?"

"I said you need to relax," Quinn repeats, chuckling at the confused expression on your face. You were actually questioning the sudden nickname she's bestowed upon you, but whatever. "Why are you so impatient?"

"I'm not impatient." Actually, you are. Very much so, but that's beside the point. "I just want to know why-"

"Let's just sit here and enjoy the beauty of the morning," Quinn advises, leaning into you, and you sigh breathlessly at the scent of lilacs and summer filling your senses. "It's going to be an amazing day. I can just feel it."

You're not really sure what to say to that, so yet again, you don't say anything. It seems like the logical response, but eventually you become overwhelmed by your impatience and beg, "Please tell me why we're waiting." You know you're pathetic, but that's okay when it comes to her. You can see her resistance cracking, so you purse your lips and singsong, "Pretty please..."

Quinn scoffs, shaking her head back and forth with an amused smirk spread across her lips. "We're waiting for my friend, Mando," is all she says, peeking over the pier and down at the blue water beneath her swinging feet. "He'll be here soon."

All of your questions are finally answered when Mando shows up. His real name is Armando. Well, at least that's what you think you heard.

He can speak English, but he has a pretty thick accent. You can't really understand a word he says unless you're staring right at his mouth when he speaks, which is kind of weird, so you try not to do that when he's talking to you. You just smile and nod when you have no idea what he's talking about, and it's seemed to work so far, so.

Quinn calls him Mando. Apparently she gives all of her friends nicknames, not just you, and for some reason, that makes your head hurt. They've known each other for awhile; ever since she first came to Mexico and started this program during her freshmen year in college.

Armando is young and tall, with curly light brown hair. He looks to be about the same age as Quinn, and you suppose you would be threatened by him if he didn't show you a picture of his wife and three kids right after introducing himself.

Armando's a boat keeper. He's from a long line of boat keepers, actually. His whole family has been in this business for decades. His father was a boat keeper, and his father's father was a boat keeper, and his father's father's father was a boat keeper.

(Honestly, you can go all day.)

You look at his boat; Rodriguez is written in script across the body of the white sailboat. There's at least twelve other boats on this dock with the name Rodriguez plastered on it.

There's no telling how rich these people are, and it kind of pisses you off how they flaunt their riches in everybody's faces, especially in a poor town like this, where people work hard and sweat all of the liquid out of their bodies for a living.

Your abuelo worked hard too; he was a strong fisherman. You've seen pictures of him around the house. He had a light complexion, bronze hair, and gray eyes to match your father's.

You imagine him working out here; sweat gathering on his temple as he lifts heavy crates under the hot sun, his muscles straining as he works hard for his family to bring home a steady income. He probably worked on a boat just like this, everyday, going out to sea, throwing out nets, deboning slimy fish, mopping the deck, organizing the bait.

You wonder if Armando knew your grandfather, but you suppose he was much too young to remember anything before Abuelo got sick.

It happened fast, his death. One day, he was as strong as an ox, then the next, as weak as a sloth. You assume he probably caught some disease out at sea, and since he was getting older, his immune system wasn't what it used to be and couldn't fight the infection.

It's been thirteen years since he passed, yet Abuelita still rarely leaves the house unless it's to go to church. You never accompany her. It's not that you don't believe in God, it's just...

Armando takes you out on his sailboat. Quinn smiles at you with an arched eyebrow as she takes your hand and helps you onto the rocking boat.

You kind of wonder how many people Quinn has done this for in the past. You don't know why, but something about her just isn't quite right. She seems like one of those girls; the kind who are all fun and flirty. The kind who like to show off and impress you until you fall head over heels for them.

(And it's working.)

You are impressed with her, and you do like how fun and flirty she is, especially when she gives you that look as she pulls her shirt over her head and tugs her shorts off, revealing a skimpy white bikini underneath.

Your mouth goes dry, the last recognizably dry part of your body, as you trail your eyes down her body. She's nothing like Skye, thankfully. Her skin is tanner, her body is firmer, hips curvier.

She takes a towel out of her backpack and rolls it out on the deck with a smirk. You don't notice you're staring until Quinn looks up at you, her shades perched on the tip of her nose as she says, "You're staring."

"Sorry," you murmur, clearing your throat as you avert your eyes to the water. You're so far out at sea, you can't even see the shoreline anymore. You're not sure where Armando is; probably steering the boat or something important like that.

Quinn pats her towel, gesturing for you to take a seat next to her, and after a moment of consideration, you sit down and cross your legs. "Don't be sorry," she chuckles, running a hand through her short hair. "You can look if you want."

You're kind of surprised your jaw hasn't hit the deck yet. Quinn's giving you this look, the one you can't quite read. It's a mixture between flirty and innocent, and it has your head spinning.

You dip your eyebrows and crinkle your nose. "I can look..." It's not a question, just a skeptical sentence, because you're puzzled, so very puzzled by her.

Quinn's only response is a quick shrug of her shoulder. It happens so fast, you would have missed it if you blinked.

Now that you have her permission to do so, you let your eyes linger on her firm abs as you grab the hem of your tank top, feeling a bit brazen suddenly. Quinn's hands rest on yours, brazen as well, and helps you pull off your shirt with a pleased expression on her face.

"Nice honeydew melons," she teases, her eyes practically glued to your chest, and when you nudge her in the shoulder, she chuckles; her laughter is throaty, and you shiver.

(You're not sure if it's because of the cool breeze, or Quinn's breezy voice.)

With a sigh, Quinn lays back on the towel, and after a beat, you lay next to her, your heads right next to each other. You can see the tip of her nose by glancing out the corner of her eye. You wonder if she can see you too.

"If you had to make a choice between honeydew melons and bananas, which would you pick?" you ask softly, folding your arms behind your head.

Quinn purses her lips through a grin. "We're not talking about the fruit anymore, are we?"

(She sure is perceptive, isn't she?)

"No, we're not," you answer, turning your head to watch her, to catch her reaction. She's calm and collected, like always, hands resting on her sleek stomach as she looks up at the sky underneath her dark shades.

"I like pineapples," she responds eventually, turning her head to face you. "Did you put any sunscreen on?" Before you have a chance to answer, she's sitting up and raking through her backpack. "Turn over," she instructs, and as you roll over on your stomach, you're amazed at how good she is at changing the subject.

Her hands are cold when she first touches you, and you flinch. Quinn laughs, and you can't help but smile as her fingers skate over your skin, covering every inch of your back and shoulders in creamy, white lotion.

"Turn over," she repeats, and again, you roll over on your back and look up at the sun as her hands find your stomach and lather you up. The sky is blinding, and you have to squint your eyes as you gaze up at her.

Quinn's shades are perched on the top of her head, hazel eyes focused on your clenching stomach muscles as she massages your skin and skims the underside of your breasts every now and then. You squirm, trying to hold in a giggle, because gosh, that tickles.

Her features are so soft. And her lips are so pouty. Quinn's smiling down at you, and you frown, because her lips are so close to yours, but then they're not. You raise your eyebrows and call out to her.

The next thing you hear is a splash of water after seeing her jump off the sailboat, blonde hair flying high, arms flapping frantically, legs kicking around in the air. You laugh when drops of water sprinkle you, and the feeling is refreshing. Without thinking twice, you stand, you tug off your shorts, and you jump in after her with a giddy scream.

Dear Journal,

Today, Quinn jumped off a boat, and I followed her. That kind of scares me in a way. I can almost hear Ma's voice in my head, scolding me about peer pressure and individualism and personal security.

It's ten o'clock at night and I'm already in bed. My legs are under the covers, but my back is leaning against the headboard as I write and think and write.

My pencil has worn out, and I'm afraid of what to do once the point snaps.

Abuelita doesn't have many writing utensils around here. I found this pencil under my bed. It was dusty and broken in half, but it was something.

The point is dull, and it's hard to write in script with it, but this summer I've been learning how to cope, so I suck it up and deal with it, just like everything else.

The mariachi band must be off on Tuesdays. The town square is quiet, too quiet, and it's hard to admit, but you think you may actually miss the sound of their guitars and maracas and trumpets and tambourines. You miss their bright colors, blinding smiles, twinkling eyes, joyful voices. All you can hear is the soft murmur of people in the background, and it makes you feel itchy.

Santo Amor isn't much of a tourist attraction. There are a lot of beautiful sites to see and historical monuments to document, but the town is rundown and poor and dangerous. You'd be scared to leave your front door if the townspeople didn't somehow know you were the granddaughter of Rita Lopez.

You're outside Mowgli's favorite restaurant, eating lunch like it's your last meal. Mowgli munches on a chicken bone. All of the meat is gone, but he's a growing boy, so you suppose he's still hungry. You'd give him some of the chicken wings on your plate if you weren't starving as well.

"So, did you tell Quinn you like her yet?" he asks, twisting the bone between his pursed lips.

You chew quickly in order to answer him, because you don't want a question like that hanging in the air for too long. "I just met her, Mo," you huff, setting the piece of chicken on your plate. "What do you want from me?"

Mowgli licks his lips, his dark eyes focused your plate. You're pretty sure it's the chicken he wants, but instead, he says, "I want you to be a man and suck it up."

Pushing your plate across the table, you smile, amused. "I'm a bad influence, aren't I?"

Mowgli's eyes grow twice as wide as he digs into your plate, grabbing the juiciest chicken bone he can find. "The worst," he chuckles, nodding in agreement. "The absolute worst."

You know he's only joking, but you can't help but wonder how many people would agree with this assessment of you. It scares you, but that's okay.

(You're used to it.)