“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Helen slurs, her words barely intelligible.
“Nothing,” we bite out at the same time without taking our eyes off each other.
I don’t say anything else, and neither does Kimiko. Finally, she shakes her head, laughs, and mutters something to herself that sounds distinctly like “Fuck this.”
She walks away but says over her shoulder, “Feel free to call me when you realize I’m right.”
I manage to get Helen to her feet, and she leans on me as we trek back to the dorms.
“I’m never drinking again,” she groans.
“That’s a good idea—you should hang on to that.”
29
I spend nearly a month in the limbo that is returning home for winter break, doing my best not to think about Alex or Kimiko. I wallow for the first few days, but my self-pity is brought to an abrupt halt by—who else?—Sierra.
“If the reason you’re acting so pathetic is that boy you were giggling over at Thanksgiving, I’m going to slap you,” she says apropos of nothing at dinner on Christmas Eve.
“Sierra, must you?” My mom sighs.
“What, you’ve never cried over a boy before?” I snap at Sierra. Although, as far as I know, it’s completely possible she didn’t. She certainly never cried to me.
“Our grandparents didn’t sacrifice everything to move to this country so we couldcryoverboys.”
“News flash, both abuelasdefinitelycried over boys.”
Mom barks out a laugh. “My mom certainly did. She used to throw pots and pans at your abuelo, drugstore mascara streaking down her cheeks, and threaten to go back to Mexico.”
“Wait,what?” I exclaim.
“Why?”Sierra asks.
Mom shrugs. “She hated it here. One time, she broke one of her pots throwing it too hard. She wouldn’t talk to my dad until he bought her a new one.”
“That is so toxic,” Sierra mutters, and we all laugh.
A few minutes later, Sierra announces that she’s thinking of going into pediatrics, not surgery. I think that’s due to my influence, that me taking control of my own life has encouraged her to choose a path she’s passionate about instead of the one she thinks is most impressive or will make our parents proudest—but I’m sure if I ever had the audacity to suggest such a thing, she’d deny it.
The rest of the break passes smoothly.
I see our family doctor and request the antidepressant I was on before I died in my first life. I even ask my mom to make the appointment for me, relishing this last act of dependence.
I talk my mom and sister into getting manicures with me. My cuticles are an absolute wreck, and only the scathing judgment of a nail technician will make me get my shit together.
Things are weirdly good in the Vasquez household. I hope they stay that way.
I text Helen and Madison, and I even agree to get dinner with a couple friends from high school I’d completely forgotten about. The dinner is awkward and stilted and reminds me why we lost touch in the first place, and I know I probably won’t see them again.
I do my best to throw myself back into a normal rhythm once I return to LA, even though I’m not sure what my new normal looks like.
I drive to work at the shelter even though my entire reason for obtaining this job no longer applies. It’s officially 2013, which means I missed intercepting Ruthie when she was brought in. She must have come and left before I started working here.
I knew it was a long shot, but I still want to cry, knowing I missed her.
I just wantedonething to go right in this second life. Is that too much to ask for?
I’m going to quit today. Put in my two weeks’ notice. It’s an okay job, but what’s the point if there’s no chance of me finding Ruthie?
