“You would love it here, you know,” I say, putting her leg down. I slide the blanket back over it and move to the other leg. “They sell statues of the Virgin at the gas station.”
Grandmother’s rosary beads click against the table, like the second hand on a clock. She never really notices when I do her exercises. I’m not sure she can feel her legs anymore.
“And it’s hot here.” I grab her ankle and pull her left leg into a gentle stretch. “Do you remember that summer back in Mexico when it was so hot we tried to bake cookies on your windowsill?”
The clicks of Grandmother’s rosary beads are my only answer. I bite back the rest of my story, letting the question linger, unanswered, in the air between us. I picture Grandmother standing at the window, watching the cookies bubble in the heat. That was before the stroke, back when she was strong and beautiful. When she leaned forward, the thick gold cross she used to wear swung into the cookies and got covered in gooey batter. She gave me the cross and let me lick it off, like a spoon.
Now I slide her left leg back onto the bed and cover it with her blanket. Grandmother always said she’d give me that cross some day. She hasn’t worn it since before her stroke.
I flip open the cardboard box on top of the stack next to her bed, which my mom marked CLOTHING & JEWELRY, and dig through piles of sundresses until I find Grandmother’s jewelry box buried underneath. I open it to find a tangled ball of pearls and beads and thin silver chains. I pick through them, carefully separating the chunky gold cross.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, slipping the cross over my head. “What do you think, Grandmother? You like?”
A line of drool spills from Grandmother’s mouth. I drop my arm and wipe it away with my sleeve, cringing. Downstairs, the front door opens and closes. Footsteps creak in the foyer.
“Sofia?” my mom calls.
“See you later, Abuela,” I whisper to Grandmother before slipping into the hall.
Mom stands in the kitchen with her back to me, a bag of groceries sitting on the counter next to her.
“My class was canceled, so I ran to the supermarket,” she says when I walk in, putting a carton of milk in the fridge. Her green camo scrubs hang limply from her thin frame, and tiny spots of sweat dot the small of her back. “Do you know they sell Bibles next to the tabloids at the cash register?”
“The nerve,” I say, playing along. Mom doesn’t notice my sarcasm. She shakes her head and pushes the refrigerator door shut. I clear my throat. “So my first day was fine.”
“What?” she asks, blinking at me. Her short black ponytail pulls at the skin around her face, making her confused expression seem more severe. Then her face relaxes as she remembers. “Right, your new school. Did you make any friends?”
She says this in such an upbeat, positive way that you’d think I meet dozens of friends every time we move to a new place. In reality, I’m lucky to find one or two people to hang out with for the few months we’re there.
I study Mom’s face for a moment to figure out if she’s trying to be upbeat or if she’s just oblivious. “Oh yeah. Hundreds,” I say. “They’re actually calling today Sofia Flores Day. Tomorrow I get a parade.”
Mom opens her mouth—probably to tell me to watch my tone—but then her eyes drop to my neck. She points to the cross I’m still wearing.
“What’s that?” she asks. Without waiting for me to explain, she holds out her hand.
There’s no use arguing with her, so I slip the necklace over my head and place the cross in her open palm. “I thought it was pretty.”
“It’s not meant to be pretty.” She sighs and puts the necklace in her pocket.
I press my lips together. Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible that she and Grandmother are even related.
I head back to the kitchen table, unpacking my textbooks while Mom goes upstairs to return Grandmother’s cross to her jewelry box. I finish my homework in silence.
But later that night, when I’m sure my mom’s asleep, I sneak from my bed and creep, barefoot, into Grandmother’s room. I slip the cross from the cardboard box. Grandmother stares ahead, unblinking, while I shove it into my backpack. Half of her mouth moves in the same slow, wordless prayer while the other half remains twisted, frozen.
The only sound I hear as I pull her bedroom door shut behind me is the click click click of her rosary beads echoing in the dark.
CHAPTER THREE
The next day I wedge myself into one of the narrow green stalls in the girls’ restroom between third and fourth periods. Black and silver Sharpie scrawls cover the door, telling me that Erika is a slut and that love that has been lost was never mine to begin with. A roll of toilet paper stretches across the black-and-white tile. As soon as I slide the lock into place, I hear the bathroom door creak open.
“Sofia?” The voice startles me, and I stand too fast, smacking my elbow on the plastic toilet paper holder. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Riley?” My voice echoes off the bathroom walls. I hadn’t even looked for Riley and her friends this morning, assuming lunch was a one-time thing. They took pity on me and wanted to show me that Adams High wasn’t all animal mutilation and satanic rituals. Still, I fumble with the lock and push the door open.
Riley leans over one of the sinks, adjusting the silk scarf tied around her neck. She looks like Audrey Hepburn in her sleeveless button-up shirt and high-waisted pants. The fluorescent light flickers overhead.
“Love the necklace,” Riley says, catching my eye in the mirror as she pushes a perfect brown curl behind one ear. I touch the cross hanging from my neck.
“Thanks.”
“We saw you come in,” Alexis explains. She sets her white leather purse next to the dingy porcelain sink and digs out a tube of peach-colored lipstick. Her wispy blond hair trails over the counter as she paints her lips. “Thought we’d say hi.”
Grace shuts the door, and Riley slides off one of her leather ballet flats and wedges it beneath the frame. She tests the door, but it doesn’t budge.
“There. Now no one can surprise us.”
I open my mouth to ask who’s going to surprise us, then think of Brooklyn and the dead cat and close it again. Grace leans against the avocado-green counter. Today she’s tucked her black braids behind a leopard-print headband, and she’s wearing gold platform sandals that add an extra five inches to her height.
Riley puts her hands on my shoulders. “Sof, do you know how pretty you are?” she asks. “Guys, isn’t Sofia pretty?”
“You’re so pretty,” Alexis purrs, capping her lipstick.
“Thanks,” I say, studying their reflections in the mirror. Are they messing with me? My hair is shiny, and my skin can sometimes look golden in the sun, but these girls are perfect. Their skin looks dewy and fresh and completely poreless, even under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights, which are scientifically designed to make everyone look like a zombie.
I smile, shaking my head. Clearly they’re just being nice.
Riley slides the hair tie off my ponytail and finger-combs my curls.
“Look how much better it is down,” she says. She’s right—it is better down, but I’ve been pulling it back so the Mississippi heat doesn’t make it frizz. Already, a thin line of sweat forms on the back of my neck.
Alexis puts her lipstick back into her purse and removes a flask. I’ve never described a flask as cute before, but hers is tiny and silver, with flowers and vines engraved around the sides. She takes a swig and hands the flask to Grace.