A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,18
or going out—it’s my choice. On my terms. No one is trying to force me into more than I’m ready to give. And tonight, I won’t lie to myself, either. That bright wave of laughter felt the kind of good that baking does. I hold out my hands, conceding.
Orion grins.
I nearly collide with Gordon in our hallway.
He looks up from his phone. “Sorry.” Another sorry abuser. “Just going down to meet some mates.”
“Me too, actually.” By the time we reach the second floor, I’ve filled Gordon in on my meager Orion history and hangout invitation.
“He told you the one about your north facing bed, then?” He spits out a laugh. “Ridiculous bloke. He’s really into superstitions. Keeps a storehouse of them in his head.”
The number four is considered unlucky in China. Now it makes sense.
“Interesting,” I say, following him down to the foyer. We choose the kitchen side door since it’s closer to the courtyard. Dim fluorescent lights are always on, and tonight Polly’s bowl of farmer’s market strawberries waits for her, or me, to make a compote for filled butter biscuits tomorrow morning. It’s been three days since I worked through midnight, fixing my epic pound cake fail. And just as many days since Polly had to admit my redone cake was more than good and that I was somewhat worthy of a spot in her kitchen.
On one condition: “We will be making the recipes out of my folder. And only those recipes,” Polly said. If I wanted to work with flour and sugar, I had to comply. But Lila Reyes from Miami was not without ideas. And tricks.
Tonight, I cross through the Owl and Crow side lot with Gordon. A wooden plaque designates the neighboring stone building as one of many Church of England Parishes. Nothing states a group of teens may absolutely and especially not hang out in its walled courtyard after hours.
Orion slaps Gordon on the shoulder, then points at one of my cap sleeves. “You might want to run back up for a jumper.”
“A what?”
“Sorry. A sweater.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. Truth is, my toes are icicles frozen onto flip-flops and the hair on my arms is standing military tall. Still, no. I mentally channel Miami summer nights. Warm pavement under bare feet and musky breezes still heavy with the heat of the day.
Orion shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He swivels around and tells the other three, “This is Lila. She’s from Miami and spending her summer at the Crow. After almost two weeks of sharing a washroom with Gordon, she’s likely well versed on his cologne abuse.”
A few yards away, Gordon texts with one hand and flips off Orion with the other.
Friends are spaced like triangle points. Immediately, a black guy one head taller than Orion steps up and swallows my vision. He pokes out a hand. “Remy.”
“Lila.”
Remy’s smile is seasoned with big, jovial kindness, and the rest of him is decked out in rolled-sleeve plaid, trim jeans, and Euro-style sneakers.
“Hold on, people. I saw her at the window.” The nasally voice comes from a wooden bench. On it, a girl lies on the seat and loops black denim legs over the back, dangling fuchsia Converse high-tops. “Almost got it.” Upside-down bench girl arranged her curved body into a gray stretchy top and suede fringe vest, accented with a huge turquoise pendant necklace. I could never pull off this look, but it totally works for her, strong against ivory pale skin and white-blond hair.
She shuts a purple notebook, then stands in a one-shot maneuver. “Sorry. I have to get my ideas down or it’s like they never were,” she says and flutters pages. “I’m Jules. Never Juliana.”
Orion’s speed drill catch-up reveals she and Remy are a couple, Remy’s family owns the best pub in town, and Jules is a songwriter.
Orion adds, “One thing, mind what you say because it might appear in one of her lyrics.”
“He’s not exaggerating,” Remy says.
The slight tug of apprehension surprises me. I try to cover it with a quick smile. “I’ll remember.”
“No matter what, it can’t top me mistaking Lila’s batter bowl for Polly’s and helping myself to a sample,” Orion says, taking a few seconds to detail the whole story, waving his own flag of embarrassment, all by himself. I don’t know if this kind of easy, self-deprecating honesty is a British thing or an Orion Maxwell thing.
When he’s done, Remy nudges a snickering Jules. “Think you can work Ri’s moment of glory into a song?”