school?” he shoots out, and off my confusion, he adds, “Did you fail Geometry?”
“No, never failed a class. Never skipped class. I tried hard.” I laugh at myself. “I was a try-hard.”
“How come?” he wonders. “Did your parents pressure you or was it self-motivated?”
I muse playfully, “Highland asking all the interesting questions.”
“Comes with the—”
“Job,” I finish, “I knew that day one, bro. But it’s also a little part of you at this point, isn’t it?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, slowly and languidly. “Yeah, I can’t turn it off.” He smiles more at me.
“It was self-motivated,” I answer him. “The studying, the extra insurance I make it in an Ivy League and get an academic scholarship. I didn’t think boxing would really pan out for me, and I wanted something more mentally stimulating.”
Jack frowns. “But you went pro?”
“And I quit at eighteen. I wasn’t very good. Not like my little brother.” I stare off at the ground. “Thinking back, I just wish my parents had pushed Quinn and Joana towards school. But my parents—my dad most especially—value physical prowess over mental aptitude. It was one of the reasons my brother randomly took up field hockey in high school just to get him off his back. My dad’s largely unimpressed by academic achievements, but if you have a nasty uppercut, he’d gift-bag you a dozen mortadella sandwiches, coxinhas, and invite you over for dinner like you’re family. And my mom’s coxinhas are heavenly.”
Jack lets out a breath, his smile flickering in and out. “I have so many questions. What’s a coxinha?”
His pronunciation of coxinha isn’t perfect in this cute way, and it makes me grin. “It’s fried dough in a teardrop shape with shredded chicken inside. Quinn likes it with jackfruit instead of chicken. He’s—”
“Vegetarian,” Jack finishes. “I remember.” Right. “Mortadella? Isn’t that Italian sausage?”
“It is, but I grew up eating a lot of mortadella sandwiches in Philly. You take the meat—lots and lots of meat, add provolone, mayo, Dijon, all on sourdough.” Damn, my stomach is practically growling—I need to stop painting portraits of food. “They’re popular in São Paulo.” I think Jack knows it’s where my family is from, based on my tattoo.
The motto of São Paulo is inscribed in Latin across my collarbone. I am not led, I lead.
“Did your parents eat them in Brazil?” Jack asks.
“No, they immigrated to America when they were both babies. Their families made them mortadella sandwiches growing up too.”
Jack looks confused. “I thought your grandparents still lived in Brazil. So…how’d your mom and dad come over here alone as babies?”
“They didn’t. My dad’s parents are still in Philly, and my mom’s uncle was already here. Her aunt was bringing her over to live with them.” I watch him nod, but I can tell something else is on his mind. “So my mom’s parents are the ones still in Brazil, along with her two brothers and more cousins.” I want to ask about his family.
But he lets out, “Back to what you said before about physical prowess…”
“Yeah?” I cock my head, wondering where this is going.
“I don’t have a nasty uppercut.” He tries to smile, but it levels-out again. Is he nervous? “To tell you the truth, I don’t have any kind of uppercut. I’ve never been in a fight or punched anyone before…” He trails off at the sight of my grin. He smiles back. “You knew.”
“I figured you’d hug it out before punching it out.” Not a surprise.
Jack massages his hand, still seeming uncertain or…again, nervous. Maybe, though, he’s still just in a war with fatigue. “So your parents don’t care that you went to Yale?”
“My mom brags to family and friends, but they bragged harder when I was a pro-boxer.” I add, “And they let my brother skip school all the fucking time for fights.” I shrug. “My siblings never really cared about an education the way that I did. So I went to Yale, and they both ended up in the ring.”
Jack leans forward again, arms on his thighs. He always sits like a jock holding a football between his spread knees. Only instead of a football, he’s usually gripping a camera.
You’re way too into him, Oliveira.
Yeah.
I should go to bed too, but this feels like the most comfortable place to be. Awake, talking to him.
“I don’t understand why Quinn followed you,” Jack says. “To security, I mean. If he was so good at boxing, why not stay?”
I shake my head. “All he’s ever really said is that