The Quince Project

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I flung the classroom door open. At the committee’s smattering of gasps at my sudden appearance, Callie turned from the whiteboard. “Ah, Cas, I’m glad you could join us.” She shot me a knowing look, as if she suspected what—er, who—had held me up.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Apologies for the holdup, everyone.” Sure, I was late, but after the interview a few days ago, it felt like I’d finally arrived. “Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry.”

Mumbles and giggles rippled through the room. “I trusted you’d take care of business.” I didn’t know if I completely believed the words coming out of my mouth. But the excitement on everyone’s faces made me think that I should.

“We’ve gotten through the first half of the final art fundraiser details,” Callie said, extending the red dry-erase marker to me.

I shook my head. If my job was to make the belle of the ball shine as brightly as possible, shouldn’t I make sure the committee members sparkled once in a while, too? “You stay up there. Finish the list,” I said, slipping into one of the empty desks.

Callie’s cheeks flushed. “Okay, then.” In beautiful cursive, she wrote Catering Artwork. “Cas’s sister, Po, chef of those yummy hot dogs from the dog wash, offered to cater the event for us. I have her proposed menu of finger foods. I’ll email it to you now, and we can vote on it.”

A cacophony of buzzes and pings chimed through the room. I didn’t need to pull out my phone to read the menu. Picadillo-stuffed tostones. Cuban sandwiches. Yucca fries.

Stomachs growled. Lips were licked. Not surprisingly, everyone voted yes for Po’s catering. And when Wesley suggested a popcorn stand, I said, “That’s a great idea.”

Wes folded his arms against his chest. Defenses still higher than the walls of a castle, eh? Not that I blamed him. “I’m serious, Wes. Do you have any more proposals?”

“Raspados,” he said, garnering more approvals. “What about having a shaved-ice stand?”

This topic pulled up memories of the Arctic Art Studio. I’d rather be kissing Javi among ice sculptures instead of planning to hand out scoops of shaved ice. I shook those thoughts from my mind. “Everyone in agreement?” I asked.

While the group voted on the art auction’s final touches, I texted Po about the committee green-lighting her menu—and checked if Mandy had done the same for the internship.

I pressed the screen. Nothing.

I was about to refresh the inbox when Callie moved to the next item on the agenda. “Lina won’t be able to finish the painting she’d pledged. No one has replied to my email regarding donating another art piece, either.”

My hands tingled. Leftover adrenaline still coursing from Mandy’s interview? Or were the sketches in the back of my planner goading me on?

“It is summer break,” Wes said. “Plus, the art auction is so soon.”

Callie’s arms flapped at her sides. “Someone here must know at least one design-inclined classmate interested in providing last-minute artwork. C’mon, people. Anyone?”

It’d been so long since I’d painted. Painful memories of that time crept in, followed by the trepidation of putting something imperfect on display.

Except—

Wasn’t this too perfect of an invite to decline? Before I lost my nerve, before this portal of possibility closed, I raised my hand. “I’ll do it.”

Callie stared at me. “You sure?”

No. I still preferred the straight lines of a planner. The easy-to-fill slots on a phone calendar. Hard-to-control paints that resulted in messiness still made me shudder. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me from trying this once.

“I’m sure.”

“Great. And FYI, just have fun with it,” Callie said. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Go with the flow. Just have fun. Two sides of the same nickel? Life lessons I needed to practice more, or a coin best left inside the ruins of an ancient kingdom?

I swallowed, exhilarated—and terrified—to find out.

Callie and I were almost through the main entrance door when she dragged me into the bathroom.

“If you needed a tampon, all you had to do was ask,” I said, reaching into my utility bag.

“No period, but since it’s the second time you’ve been late to something SBA related, I still consider this a red alert.” She twirled blonde locks around her finger. “Please tell me the lifeguard hottie held you up again.”

I tilted my head and gave an exaggerated chin scratch. “Maybe you’re the one who is really behind Hot Goss.”

Her chuckles grew wispy, like the Beast’s enchanted rose losing petals. “But seriously Cas. Tell me. I need to live vicariously through you right now.”

Before I protested with Trust me, you really don’t, I had a flashback to middle school art class. Callie telling me bits and pieces of going to therapy, solo and family. More memories rushed in, uninvited. Walking into a classroom early (unlike now). Finding Callie huddled in the corner of it, talking to one of her parents on the phone. The sleeves of her jewel-toned cardigan brushing away tears.

I shouldn’t blame myself too much for blocking out so much of that time period. For forgetting that once upon a time, Callie and I had a friendship outside of school.

Not wanting to lose out on that anymore, I reached for her shoulder. “Is everything okay at home?”

Her face clouded over. “My parents are finally divorcing.” She gripped the sides of a sink. “It sucks, but I don’t know. Part of me is super relieved.” She covered her face with her hands. “Jeez, that’s the most screwed-up thing to admit out loud. Forget I said it, okay?”

I patted her back, the way Mom used to do to me. “I know that feeling.”

Time stretched. “When my mom first got sick, my sole focus was her getting better.” I looked down at my backpack, picturing the day planner inside of it. My chest went tight. Wait…

Did my obsession with planning start before discovering Mandy’s grid?

The sicker Mom got, the more medicines were added to her treatment plan. More chemicals and compounds than those inside an AP chemistry textbook. I didn’t necessarily like keeping track of the meds.

But I loved drawing lines through long lists of unpronounceable names the second she took them. Loved filling in the lines inside the daily schedule.

They were eff-yous to every unknown hour—to each horrible what-if those sixty minutes could usher in. Tallies of small victories, or so I thought. Because in the end, a collection of wins did nothing to prevent us from losing the war.

“When it became clear ‘better’ wasn’t going to happen, the thing I dreaded most was the moment it would finally end.”

Now I held on to the sides of one of the sinks. “Po took me surfing once. Waves pummeled me from the top. Sand hit me on the bottom.”

Phantom saltwater burned my nose. Real tears stung my eyes.

“Occasionally I’d stand up and take a huge gulp of air.” I exhaled. “That’s how it felt right after. Not this overwhelming sadness like I’d expected, but being able to breathe again.”

Thankfully every sliding window lining the far side of the room was propped open, because the air soured. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? Me finally taking a breath the second after Mom’s last?”

The abhorrent confession continued to fill the bathroom. Proceeded to trample on my chest like a stampede of wildebeests.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” I was grateful for Callie’s words, unable to muster any of my own. “What I’m going through isn’t remotely the same, but, yeah. The back-and-forth, the emotional whiplash. It sucks. A huge part of me can’t wait until it’s over.” She blinked up at me. “So, no. What you said isn’t horrible. You felt that way because your mom wasn’t suffering. You, your dad, and Po didn’t have to watch her go through that anymore.”

My chest heaved in and out. And then, that overwhelming crushing sensation, that stampede of emotions, receded.

The sharp edges pressing into my chest retracted.

I wished it could’ve been Dad who had helped file them down. Wished Po had drizzled my skin with messy goops of Neosporin. Wrapped up the wounds with lopsided Band-Aids.

In the end, perhaps all that mattered was that the pain had been defanged.

That way, its venom couldn’t travel through my veins and poison me.

Relief settled over me like it did that horrible day.

Only this time, guilt didn’t join the party.

By the way Callie’s eyes started to brighten again, I suspected this convo had also helped take the sting off some of her conflicted emotions. “Jeez, here I thought I dragged you in for some guy gossip, not a share circle,” she said through a small laugh.

The energy inside the bathroom flipped.

“I can still tell you about the guy gossip.” A friendship-bricked road formed over the yearslong gap between us. I took a step onto it. “I’ll start at the beginning if you swear not to tell anyone.”

“Pinky promise.” She extended her finger.

We shook. I talked. Mom always said that’s how Cubans connected. A plate of food. Or dishing out chisme. Preferably eating and gossiping at the same time.

I told her about how Paulina assumed I was a Mandy Whitmore intern when we met. In hindsight, an assumption I should’ve tried harder to correct.

Except Paulina’s party wasn’t even what got my loafers through Mandy’s door. The happy accident at the Arctic Art Studio did.

Callie’s eyebrows rose higher with each revelation. At the “phallus in Wonderland” part, she laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. Happy ones.

“Well, I’m glad things are working out, and if”—she shook her head—“when you get this internship, Paulina will be none the wiser.”

“Great minds think alike.” There I went, sounding like Po again.

This time, I liked it.

We walked out of the bathroom. My heart a little lighter and loafers bouncier. When we strolled outside, past the bathroom windows, a toilet flushed.

My loafers halted midstride. I nearly fainted when Gianna—of all people, GIANNA—strutted out of the door and waved.

The blood in my veins froze colder than any sculpture housed inside the Arctic Art Studio.

What Paulina didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. But if Gianna had been in the stall eavesdropping on our conversation, Hot Goss certainly could.

Sunlight faded into shadows. I tried calling Po again, but my calls went straight to voicemail. I think Gianna overheard me talking to Callie about the whole faux-intern thing, I texted.

No reply. I told myself the silence was probably because “no news is good news.”

We watched her come out of the building with wired headphones on.The noise-canceling ones Dad used for gaming. So there’s a chance that she hadn’t heard anything.

Did someone swap out Matteo Beach’s regular sand for quicksand? Because my loafers sunk deeper and deeper with every step.

With a swoosh, another text flew from my phone.

There’s nothing on Hot Goss, either, so

Who was I trying to convince, Po or myself? The way my fingers stiffened after every text, probably the latter.

I shoved the phone into my utility bag before I spiraled further. I continued to limp toward the pier, to the Movies at the Beach where Javi waited.

The same food vendors lined the north side of the setup. Sweet and savory scents mixed with the salty air. Apparently, stomachs could growl through tons of churning.

I scuttled around the maze of chairs and beach towels. Headed toward the front corner of the screen. The glint of the Mickey appliqué on Javi’s sling bag eased the chill running up my spine.

His long limbs stretched over a different Guatemalan textile. Tonight’s blanket was more sarape style. Bright blue and green stripes. Yellow arrows embroidered between the bands of colors. The colors a perfect backdrop for Javi’s red uniform.

He must’ve sensed my eyes burning holes through his hair, because he propped onto his elbows. Tipped his chin over his shoulder. Our eyes met. His face brightened.

It lit me up in return, chasing more, but not all, of my worries into the shadows.

“Hey, Castle Towers.” Javi sprung to his feet, wrapping his arms around my waist. That they stayed there—instead of trekking up to wring my neck—had to be a good sign.

While locked in his bear hug, I snuck one more peek at Hot Goss.

Nada.

Relief laced with anxiety lowered me to the blanket. If I couldn’t shake off every trace of uncertainty, at the very least I could rid myself of the other chafing mess.

I slipped off my loafers, pouring sand out. The tiny grains, especially the quartz, sparkled. “How could something so small and pretty be this meddlesome?” I said, mostly referring to Gianna.

“I don’t like sand,” Javi said through a chuckle. “It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets everywhere.”

Yup. Exactly like chismosas.

When I didn’t join in his laughter, Javi added, “It’s an Anakin Skywalker quote from Episode II, by the way.”

I managed a weak smile. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Rough day?” He scooted in. The scent of his lavender shampoo paired so well with the ocean air.

“It’s getting better,” I said, sticking to some of the truth.

“We’ve got time before the movie starts.” He motioned to the blank screen and chattering crowd. “You want to talk about it?”

“Okay, but only the good parts.” I put my loafers back on. “As SBA event chair, I usually plan the summer art auction. But…” I tipped my chin up to the sky. Should I paint something like this for the auction?

Only a smattering of stars twinkled among the shadows. No Big Dipper or Little Cuchara to pierce through the darkness.

The blank pages in the back of my planner seemed small now compared to the vastness of the sky. All at once, my fingers itched for a bigger canvas.

“This year I also signed up to donate an art piece.”

“Wow, Cas.” Who needed a galaxy of stars when Javi’s smile lit up the entire shoreline? Its brilliance burned away more unease. “First the banners, now this. It’s awesome you’re putting your art out there again. It takes grit to do that.”

Huh. I supposed it did. It still felt a little dizzying to be under a spotlight. But I was starting to get used to it. And I couldn’t deny it felt pretty good.

“How should we kick off celebrating?”

His words rippled through me, sinking deeper and deeper. I’d been so focused on other people’s celebrations that I’d probably been missing out on lots of my own. “Let’s start with snacks.” Celebrations and food paired together like Timon and Pumbaa. “I’ll grab something from one of the vendors.”

“Nope. I got us covered.” He reached for a small cooler at the edge of the blanket. Slid it between us and rolled the top open. “Ta-da.”

Two Double-Double In-N-Out burgers bookended two orders of animal-style fries. The gooey sauce, melted cheese, and charred onions on top glimmered.

We clinked fries. Some people might have preferred them extra crispy. But “soggy” only meant they’d soaked up more of the toppings.

“And for the main course—” From a cardboard cupholder beside him, Javi presented two trenta-size Starbucks cups of water. The order on the side sticker read Extra Ice.

I cracked up. He joined in. Our laughter floated around us, mixing with the sounds of the crowd and the roar of the sea.

I leaned forward. “No, not the main course,” I said, claiming his lips with mine.

Exploring his mouth felt magical. Wait. Was this kiss really magic? Because like Pinocchio, every inch of me came to life.

If celebrating felt like this… I kissed him again, kicking our party into high gear.