A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,21

palm. “Lila, I’m terribly sorry.” He shakes his head. “It’s really not as, I dunno, conspiratorial as it might sound. Mrs. Wallace happened to mention you and your stay. It went on from there.”

I’m sure it did. Her, choosing what I need instead of letting me choose what I need—right out of Mami’s parenting manual—despite twenty years in England. Another thought tumbles in, making me want to hide behind the fountain statue. I glance up to my third-story window. Juliet, my ass. “Guess I made it easy.”

He gasps, hands waving like a referee. “No.” He cringes. “Shit, I know what it looks like, but Mrs. Wallace had nothing to do with me calling you down to join us tonight.”

My brows rise.

“I promise. That was spur of the moment.” He sobers. “I’m many things, but I’m not a liar.”

I give him a resigned nod. There’s nothing here to make me doubt his sincerity. It’s as warm as his sweater. And it’s not his fault he was trapped by a well-meaning but meddling Venezuelan.

But still, I decide what my days and nights look like here. “About Cate’s scheme, we’re good. And this has nothing to do with you or your friends. They seem cool. But as for fulfilling some proposal from your friend’s mom, don’t worry about it. I can read a map. I’ll find the sights I want.”

Air leaks from his chest. “Fair enough. But you don’t need an invitation to hang with us here. Or anywhere.”

“Fair enough.”

We join the others and I have to admit, I don’t have a terrible time.

Sometime later I break from the laughter, from the silver flask Gordon passes around, to head up. I slide out of Orion’s sweater, feeling the whole of the temperature setting—Not-Miami-Degrees Celsius. I think of how we freeze foods to use later. To preserve them so they don’t rot away. Maybe this is what my family wanted. To freeze a flame-star heart, a burn-planet body, while it heals.

8

I pedal two blocks toward town on one of the green Owl and Crow Pashley bicycles before I give up and circle back, my face in snarls. I haven’t worn any of Pilar’s sweaters yet. And I don’t even acknowledge the black warm-up jacket I transfer from my closet to my freezing body. ¡Carajo! I refuse to discuss this with myself.

As Polly takes Sundays off after baking extra morning and teatime food on Saturdays, I ran earlier during normal baking time. And now I’m biking during normal running time. The St. Cross streets are damp and sleepy; dog bark choruses and the peal of church bells weave into my path. Air flaps across my face—clean and sweet—and in minutes, I reach the city center and lock the bike near the High Street pedestrian mall.

I stroll the commerce-lined lane, letting Winchester blink me into Sunday. I don’t believe in magic or legend. But for a few moments, this little town becomes big enough to make me forget where I came from and why. It’s alien—the not-me who feels lightweight and not as desperately hungry for yesterday.

This magic is temporary, though. Soon the spell breaks and I’m the me who always remembers too much. I’m heavy and grounded by the time I reach Farley’s Records. A bell announces my entrance into a wood-paneled space clouded with the ripe tang of patchouli and old paper. Customers mill around wooden display cases, records packed tight, or browse along walled cubbies filled with more vintage finds.

I do some milling of my own, sifting through punk and jazz legends and British bands I’ve never heard of. I have no clue what to maybe get for Pilar. I’m about to abandon this joint for the market when an ancient brown album cover snags my attention. Orquestra Epoca. Salsa music! My insides are already dancing. I flip it around and let lifelong memories of the first listed tune, “Trampas,” fill my homesick spaces with percussion and piano and brass riffs.

After a few moments, I open my eyes and notice a black, patch-covered bomber jacket and a blond curly bob. Orion’s sister Flora is a Farley’s customer too. I’m mostly blocked behind one of the display cases. Flora’s checking out a used CD when a tall man—older teen, really—turns into her view. Asymmetrical black hair drops over half his face. He’s in peg leg jeans and a moss-green leather jacket. From my spot, I can’t hear their conversation. Their faces tense until Flora slaps the jewel case back into its place, shooting through