16. Pinky Promises
Sixteen
Pinky Promises
Y oung Mila sat on the grass, her legs crossed beneath her as she twirled a forkful of spaghetti. She glanced up at Rafael, her mouth full, before leaning forward a bit too much and almost dropping her plate.
“Steven did something today,” she said suddenly. “He tried to kiss me in class.”
Rafael, who was sitting across from her on the porch steps, made a face, his mouth still half-full of spaghetti. “That’s yucky,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “You shouldn’t do that.”
Mila raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”
He paused, a smug grin spreading across his face. “It’s because I’m four whole years older than you, Mila. You’re seven, I’m eleven. I know much more than you.”
“Nu uh!” she retorted, shaking her head fiercely. She stuck out her tongue and narrowed her eyes at him.
He raised a finger, trying to look all wise. “I do! I know all sorts of stuff you don’t.”
She poked her tongue back out at him. “Nu uh!”
Rafael rolled his eyes. “Okay, but if it isn’t so yucky, maybe I should kiss Rita in my class.”
Mila’s eyes went wide, and she puffed out her cheeks. “Who is Rita?” She asked, a pout tugging at her lips.
“I’m not gonna tell you,” Rafael said, shrugging dramatically, and leaning back, taking another bite of spaghetti.
Mila scrunched her face up, not liking that answer at all. “Well, fine,” she huffed. “I won’t kiss Steven if you won’t kiss her.”
Rafael looked at her, his face serious for a second, before his lips curled into a small, mischievous grin. “Pinky promise?”
She extended her pinky, a huge smile on her baby face. “Pinky promise.”
“You’re a big dork,” he teased, his mouth covered in pasta sauce.