3. VANESSA
TWO WEEKS LATER
I haven’t seen or heard from Paris in two weeks.
He and Cory didn’t attend service the Sunday following the wine incident, so I had to bear all the judgmental glances alone.
I’m glad that the gossip in my school lasted only a couple of days, and it wasn’t bad.
Mostly the girls wanted to know what kissing Paris Andino was like. Yeah, he’s popular in my school too.
Maybe the kiss didn’t mean anything to him, or I sucked at it.
Schoolwork and soccer practice keep me busy though, and the days begin to blend together.
I can’t say that I don’t think about him, and on occasion, my mother will bring up Paris’s mother during dinner by calling her that “horrible woman,” and one of those instances is now.
“I saw her at the supermarket today. She has an assistant to help her with groceries. An assistant!” She gestures wildly with her hands.
“Maybe she was buying a lot of things, honey,” Dad replies calmly.
It’s an English-only day in our house, which means Mom’s tirade won’t be as colorful as it would if she were speaking Portuguese.
My parents moved from Rio de Janeiro to California just after they got married, because Dad received an amazing job offer.
Heather and I were born in California, and we went through a phase growing up when we refused to speak Portuguese even though we have other family members living nearby.
I guess a lot of bilingual kids go through that.
But now that we speak both languages fluently, my parents decided it would be good for Mom to practice her English more, since she’s less exposed to it—most of her friends speak either Portuguese or Spanish.
“She has two sons. Why can’t they help her? It’s in poor taste, I tell you.”
“I heard they’re still grounded,” Heather pipes up.
I whip around to her. “Who told you that?”
“Tara Carmichael. Her parents are friends with one of the Andinos’ neighbors. The Andinos were at the party but without Paris and Cory.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to go to the party.”
“Well, the hosts’ daughter, some girl named Lydia, goes to All Saints as well, and she confirmed that Paris is only allowed to leave the house to for school and football.”
Mom snorts. “That’s the least punishment that pervert should get for trying to corrupt Vanessa.”
My face heats in a flash. I drop my gaze to my plate and cease asking questions about Paris. But Heather seems determined to keep talking about him.
While Mom continues to talk about her day, Heather leans close and whispers in my ear. “You have competition, sis. Tara told me this Lydia chick all but implied she’s Paris’s girlfriend.”
I clutch the fork and knife tighter. “Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Right. Well, it’s good if you don’t. He’s cute and all, but he isn’t the last cookie in the package.”
The food tastes like ashes now, and I can barely swallow.
Not much later, the doorbell rings several times in a row, and when we don’t get the door yet, the knocking comes.
“Oh my God. What now?” Mom gets up in a huff and strides toward the front of the house.
Since I’ve lost my appetite, I follow her to see what the commotion’s about.
Aunt Marietta storms in like a freaking hurricane, carrying several shopping bags.
She’s my mother’s cousin, but Heather and I call her aunt.
I’m not sure why she brought all the bags into the house instead of leaving them in her car, until I realize she probably came by taxi so she could drink during her shopping spree.
“What are you doing here, Marietta?” Mom asks.
“ Prima, babado fortíssimo pra te contar ,” she starts in Portuguese.
Mom doesn’t really care for her, and with a scowl firmly in place, she replies, “In English, please.”
“Fine! Well, I was doing some shopping downtown when I heard the most awful news. One of the Andino boys is dead.”
My blood freezes in my veins, and it feels like I’m falling into the hole that opened underneath my feet.
“Oh my God. Which one?” Mom asks, pressing a hand against her chest. Like she cares.
“I think the oldest. Dreadful thing. Apparently he killed himself and the younger one found the body.” She makes the sign of the cross as if she were a religious person. I feel like yelling at her, demanding more information, but I can’t find my voice.
Heather pulls me into a side hug. I didn’t notice her walking over.
“That’s terrible news,” Dad says.
“I need to see Paris,” I blurt out.
Everyone looks at me as if I just sprouted a second head.
“You’re not leaving this house, young lady,” Mom retorts.
“Mom, please. Now is not the time for pettiness,” I beg.
She widens her eyes. “I’m not being petty. It’s not appropriate, Vanessa.”
“Your mother is right, honey. We don’t know when this happened, and I’m pretty sure everyone is still in shock. You should wait until tomorrow.”
My vision is blurry with unshed tears. I turn around and run upstairs before they can see me cry my eyes out.
I dive onto my bed and hide my face under a pillow.
My heart is breaking for Paris and his family.
I didn’t spend as much time with Cory as I did with Paris, but he was always nice to me.
Why would he kill himself? He was always in a good mood, always had a smile on his face.
Heather comes in and sits on the edge of my mattress. “It’s going to okay, Nessa.”
She never calls me by that nickname unless I’m hurt, like when I get injured playing soccer. I’d trade physical pain for this agony burning in my chest any time.
“He lost his brother, Heather. How can that be okay?”
“It won’t be for a long time, but eventually, it will get better.”
I turn around, wiping the moisture from my cheeks. “I need to see Paris tonight.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you should wait until tomorrow, like Dad said.”
Determined now, I sit up. “No. I’m going tonight. Will you cover for me?”
“How do you plan to get there?”
“By bike. It’s not that far.”
“Do you remember the way?”
I went to Paris’s house once last year, before our folks became mortal enemies.
I nod. “I think so.”
She studies me for a couple seconds before she replies, “Okay.”
I don’t waste a minute. I put on a hoodie and then a pair of sneakers before Heather and I tiptoe down the stairs.
Aunt Marietta is still talking nonstop. Everyone is in the living room, leaving the path to the garage door clear.
It’s torture, walking slowly to avoid making noise, but eventually I get to the garage.
“I’ll tell everyone you’re not feeling well,” Heather says before I take off.
“Thank you. I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do. I hope you get to see Paris. If you do, tell him I’m sorry too.”
Her words make me choke, and almost reignite the tears. But I can’t cry, not now when I need clear vision.
I pedal as fast as I can, hoping not to get lost. I remember a few landmarks that help guide me, but it’s already dark, and I’m afraid I might miss a turn.
I sharpen my focus, and just when I think I’ve gone too far, I see a familiar car signal to turn right.
It’s Father Medina’s car. He must be going to Paris’s house.
It turns out he was heading to the same destination, because when I get there, he’s already parked and left the car. But I recognize the neighborhood and the house’s brick exterior and red door.
My heart is about to leap out of my throat and my breaths come in bursts. I remove my helmet and stride toward Paris’s front door. I’m shaking, suddenly afraid that my presence will only make things worse.
I finally gather the courage to ring the doorbell, and then I wait on pins and needles. I expect Paris’s mother to answer the door, or perhaps her assistant, but instead it’s a girl my age.
“Whatever you’re selling, now is not a good time,” she says with an air of arrogance.
Who the hell is she?
“I’m not selling anything. I’m Paris’s friend. I came to see him.”
Her eyes narrow as if what I said offended her. “Well, he can’t see anyone right now.”
“You don’t know that,” I retort, not willing to be sent away by this annoying stranger.
“Lydia, who is it?” a female voice asks from inside the house.
Hell, this is the neighbor who claims she’s Paris’s girlfriend.
Maybe she is. Why else would she be here?
She looks over her shoulder, and replies, “Some girl who wants to see Paris. I told her he can’t see anyone right now.”
A woman in her fifties bearing a strong resemblance to Paris’s mother joins the obnoxious girl blocking my way. Her eyes are red and puffy. “I’m sorry, dear, but he’s not in any shape to see anyone at the moment. I’ll tell him you stopped by, okay? What’s your name?”
“It’s Vanessa Castro. When do you think I can talk to him?”
Her face crumples, and I think she’s on the verge of crying. “It’s hard to say. Why don’t you call the house first before dropping by?”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
She shuts the door in my face before I have a chance to step back.
Now I’m heartbroken and jealous as hell.
With heavy feet and an even heavier heart, I trudge back to my bike.
A sense of numbness washes over me. I ignore the thunder and lightning that sparks in the sky, and the rain that drenches me in a matter of seconds.
I take a sharp curve going too fast and lose control.
The last things I remember are approaching headlights and the sound of tires screeching.