Perfect Chemistry 1 (26 page)

Sierra grabs her purse and shoves it onto her shoulder.

I don't want her mad at me, but I want her to know where I'm

coming from. "What if you want to tell Doug stuff? I don't want to put

you in a situation where you have to lie to him."

Sierra gives me a sneer that resembles the one I use all the time.

"Screw you, Brit. Thanks for making me feel like my best friend

doesn't trust me." Before she leaves my room she turns back and says,

"You know how people have selective hearing? You have selective

disclosure. I saw you having a major conversation with Isabel Avila

today in the hall. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were sharing

secrets with her." She throws up her hands. "Okay, so I admit I was

jealous that my best friend is obviously sharing stuff with another

friend and not me. When you realize I'm rooting like hell for you to be

happy, call me."

She's right. But this thing with Alex is so new, and I'm feeling

vulnerable about it. Isabel is the only one who knows both me and Alex,

so I went to her. "Sierra, you're my best friend. You know that," I say,

hoping she knows it's the truth. I might have trust issues, but that

doesn't negate the fact that she's the closest friend I have.

"Then start acting like it," she says before leaving.

I wipe a bead of sweat slowly dripping from my brow as I drive to

meet Alex for the wedding.

I picked a cream-colored, fitted sundress with spaghetti straps.

My parents will be home when I get back, so I put a change of clothes

inside my workout bag. My mom will see the Brittany she expects to

see when I get home--a perfect daughter. Who cares if it's a facade

as long as it keeps her happy. Sierra was right; I do have selective

disclosure.

My car rounds the corner, riding the path to the body shop. When

I spot Alex leaning on his motorcycle waiting for me in the parking lot,

my pulse skips a beat.

Oh, boy. I'm in trouble.

Gone is his ever-present bandanna. Alex's thick black hair rests on

his forehead, daring to be swept back.

Black pants and a black silk shirt have replaced his jeans and T-

shirt. He looks like a young Mexican daredevil. I can't help but smile as

I park next to him.

"Querida, you look like you've got a secret."

I do, I think as I step out of my car. You.

"Dios mio. You look . . preciosa."

I turn in a circle. "Is this dress okay?"

"Come here," he says, pulling me against him. "I don't want to go to

the wedding anymore. I'd rather have you all to myself."

"No way," I say, running a slow finger along the side of his jaw.

"You're a tease."

I love this playful side of Alex. It makes me forget all about those

demons.

"I came to see a Latino wedding, and I expect to see one," I tell

him.

"And here I thought you were comin' to be with me."

"You've got a big ego, Fuentes."

"That's not all I've got." He backs me against my car, his breath

warming my neck more than the midday sun.

I close my eyes and expect his lips on mine, but instead I hear his

voice. "Give me your keys," he says, reaching around and taking them

from my hand.

"You're not going to throw them into the bushes, are you?"

"Don't tempt me."

Alex opens my car door and slides into the driver's seat.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" I ask, confused.

"No. I'm parkin' your car in the shop so it doesn't get jacked. This

is an official date. I'm drivin'."

I point to his motorcycle. "Don't think I'm getting on that thing."

His left eyebrow raises a fraction. "Why not? Julio's not good

enough for you?"

"Julio? You named your motorcycle Julio?"

"After my great uncle who helped my parents move here from

Mexico."

"I like Julio just fine. I just don't want to ride on him wearing this

short dress. Unless you want everyone riding behind us to see my

undies."

He rubs his chin, thinking about it. "Now that would be a sight for

sore eyes."

I cross my arms over my chest.

"I'm jokin'. We're takin' my cousin's car." We get in a black Camry

parked across the street.

After driving a few minutes he pulls a cigarette from a pack lying

on the dashboard. The click of the lighter makes me cringe.

"What?" he asks, the lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

He can smoke if he wants. This might be an official date, but I'm

not his official girlfriend or anything. I shake my head. "Nothing."

I hear him exhale, and the cigarette smoke burns my nostrils more

than my mom's perfume. As I lower my window all the way, I suppress a

cough.

When he stops at a stoplight, he looks over at me. "If you've got a

problem with me smokin', tell me."

"Okay, I've got a problem with you smoking," I tell him.

"Why didn't you just say so?" he says, then smashes it into the

car's ashtray.

"I can't believe you actually like it," I say when he starts driving

again.

"It relaxes me."

"Do I make you nervous?"

His gaze travels from my eyes to my breasts and down to where my

dress meets my thighs. "In that dress you do."

THIRTY-EIGHT : Alex

If I keep looking at her long legs I'm gonna have an accident.

"How's that sister of yours?" I ask, changing the subject.

"She's waiting to beat you again at checkers."

"Is that right? Well, tell her I was goin easy on her. I was tryin' to

impress you."

"By losing?"

I shrug. "It worked, didn't it?"

I notice her fidgeting with her dress as if she needs to fix it to

impress me. Wanting to ease her anxiety, I slide my fingers down her

arm before capturing her hand in mine.

"You tell Shelley I'll be back for a rematch," I say.

She turns to me, her blue eyes sparkling. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

During the drive, I try and make small talk. It doesn't work. I'm

not a small talk kind of guy. It's a good thing Brittany seems content

without talking.

Before long I park in front of a small, two-story brick house.

"Isn't the wedding at a church?"

"Not for Elena. She wanted to get married at her parents' house."

I rest my hand on the small of her back as we walk up to the house.

Don't ask me why I feel a need to claim her as mine. Maybe deep down

I am a Neanerthal.

When we enter the house, Mariachi music blares from the

backyard and people fill up almost every inch of space. I check out

Brittany's reaction, wondering if she feels like she's been magically

transported to Mexico.

My family doesn't live in big houses with swimming pools like she's

used to.

Enrique and a bunch of my other cousins yell greetings to us. They

all speak Spanish, which would seem normal except that my date only

speaks English. I'm used to being kissed to death by my aunts and given

hearty slaps on the backs by my uncles. I'm not sure she is, though. I

nudge Brittany closer to me as a sign that I haven't forgotten her, and

attempt to introduce her to my family but give up when I realize

there's no way she'll remember all their names.

";Ese!" comes a voice from behind us.

I turn to Paco. "What's up?" I say, slapping my friend on the back.

"Brittany, I'm sure you've seen mi major amigo around school. Don't

worry, he knows not to tell anyone he saw you here."

"My lips are sealed," he says, then like a dork pretends to lock his

mouth and toss the key away.

"Hi, Paco," she says, laughing.

Jorge sidles up to us, wearing a white tuxedo and a red rose in his

lapel.

I slap my cousin-to-be on the back. "Yo, man, you really do clean up

nice."

"You don't look too bad yourself. You gonna introduce me to your

friend, or not?"

"Brittany, this is Jorge. He's the poor guy . . I mean, lucky guy,

marrying my cousin Elena."

Jorge hugs her. "Any friend of Alex's is a friend of ours."

"Where's the bride?" Paco asks.

"She's upstairs in her parents' bedroom, crying."

"From happiness?" I guess.

"No, man. I went in there to give her a kiss and now she's thinkin'

of callin' it off, says it's bad luck to see the groom before the

wedding," Jorge adds, shrugging.

"Good luck," I say. "Elena is superstitious. She'll probably make you

do some crazy shit to make the bad luck go away."

As Paco and Jorge contemplate what Elena will make him do to

erase the bad luck, I take Brittany's hand and lead her outside. A live

band is playing. Even though we're pochos, we definitely keep our

traditions and culture close. Our food is spicy, our families are big and

close, and we like to dance to music that makes our bodies move.

"Is Paco your cousin?" Brittany asks.

"No, he just likes to think he is. Carlos, this is Brittany," I say when

we reach my brother.

"Yeah, I know," Carlos says. "Remember I saw you two swapping

spit."

Brittany is stunned into silence.

"Watch your mouth," I say, slapping Carlos on the back of the head.

Brittany puts her hand on my chest. "It's okay, Alex. You don't

have to protect me from everyone."

Carlos takes on a cocky stance. "That's right, bro. You don't have

to protect her. Well, maybe except from Mama."

That's it. I exchange heated words with Carlos in Spanish so

Brittany can't understand. "Vete, cabron no molestes." Is he trying to

make my date have a shitty time? With a huff, Carlos heads for the

food.

"Where's your other brother?" Brittany asks.

We sit at one of the many small rented tables in the middle of the

yard. I drape my arm over the back of her chair.

"Luis is right there." I point to the corner of the yard, where my

little brother is the center of attention doing imitations of barnyard

animals. I have yet to inform him that talent isn't as much of a chick

magnet when you get into junior high.

Brittany's eyes are focused on my cousin's four little kids, all

under the age of seven, running around. Two-year-old Marissa has

decided her dress isn't comfortable and has tossed it in the corner of

the yard.

"They probably all look like a bunch of rowdy mojados to you."

She smiles. "No. They look like a bunch of people having fun at an

outdoor wedding. Who's that?" she asks as a guy in a U.S. military

uniform walks past us. "Another cousin?"

"Yep. Paul just came back from the Middle East. Believe it or not,

he used to be in the Python Trio, a Chicago gang. Man, before the

Marines he was really fucked up with drugs."

She flashes me a look.

"I told you before, I don't mess with drugs. Not anymore, at least,"

I say firmly, wanting her to believe me. "Or deal them."

"Promise?"

"Yeah," I say, remembering at the beach when I got fucked up with

Carmen. That was the last time. "No matter what you've heard, I stay

away from the coca, 'cause that stuff ain't no joke. Believe it or not,

I'd like to keep all the brain cells I was born with."

"What about Paco?" she asks. "Does he do drugs?"

"Sometimes."

She watches Paco, laughing and joking with my family, desperately

trying to be a part of it, instead of his own. His ma left a few years

ago, leaving him in a crap situation at home with his dad. I don't blame

him for wanting an escape.

My cousin Elena finally appears in a lacy white dress and the

wedding starts.

While the vows are recited, I stand behind Brittany and gather her

into my arms, holding her snugly. I wonder what she'll be wearing at

her wedding. She'll probably have professional photographers and

videographers capturing the moment for eternity.

"Ahora los declar. Marido y Mujer," the priest says.

The bride and groom kiss and everyone applauds.

Brittany squeezes my hand.

THIRTY-NINE : Brittany

I can tell Jorge and Elena are madly in love with each other and it

makes me wonder if I'll be as in love with my future husband.

I think about Shelley. She'll never have a husband, never have

children. I know my own kids will love her as much as I do; she'll have

no lack of love her entire life. But will she ever internally yearn for

something she'll never have--a husband and family of her own?

Looking back at Alex, I can't see myself involved in gangs and who

knows what else. It isn't me. But this guy, smack dab in the middle of

everything I'm against, is connected to me like nobody else. It's my

mission to make him change his life so, one day, people might say we're

a perfect couple.

As music fills the air, I wrap my arms around Alex's waist and lay

my head on his chest. He pushes stray tendrils away from my neck and

holds me as we sway to the music.

A guy approaches the bride with a five-dollar bill.

"It's a tradition," Alex explains. "He's payin' to dance with the

bride. They call it the prosperity dance."

I observe, fascinated, as the guy attaches the five-dollar bill to

the train of the bride's dress with a safety pin.

My mother would be horrified.

Someone yells to the guy dancing with the bride and everyone

laughs.