brown face turning red with indignation.
“Guess what! Your horn’s in the garage!” I call back over my shoulder less than a minute later. You know, after I find his case open on top of my hood and the tuba sitting bell side down on the concrete. The former marching band member still lurking inside of me, shudders at the sight.
“Sorry,” A has the good grace to mumble when he comes slinking out to the garage.
But unfortunately his apology isn’t enough to get us to the school bus in time.
It drives away, even though I’m pretty sure Mr. Greiner saw us running to catch it. He’s the same driver who drove the bus when I was a student at Guac High. Guac High is what the locals call Guadalajara Senior High School. It doesn’t make much sense if you’re not a small town Missouri resident who’s only ever seen Mexico on a map, but due to our Spanish-language name, we’re weirdly obsessed with guacamole. We call ourselves Guacs not Guadalajarians, which is short for Guacamoles. And yeah sure guacamole can’t be pluralized, but none of us care. We also tack Guac to the front of all of our institutions, and our high school mascot is an avocado.
Unfortunately, Mr. Greiner doesn’t have nearly the same sense of humor as the rest of the town. And it doesn’t matter how many parents complain, he never waits for the kids who aren’t standing right there when he pulls up to the curb.
The twins and I end up coughing on fumes as he speeds away.
“Sorry,” they both say this time.
I sigh and pull my sweater a little tighter around my scrubs. “C’mon, I’ll drive you.”
When we get back to the house, I notice that the flag on the mailbox is down. So we’ve had letters sitting in there since last night. It’s A’s chore to bring in the mail. But he forgets more often than he remembers. I grab the pile of letters on our way to the garage and shake it at him.
“Sorry,” he says for the third time in the same morning.
I’m about to chastise him about this ongoing issue again but I stop when I see the letter on top of the pile. It’s the only one that’s not a bill. And the address is handwritten…to me. From an R. Smith from Pinewood, South Dakota.
Smith. That’s my mother’s maiden name, but also pretty common. And South Dakota? Who do I know in South Dakota?
Maybe it’s one of the other Queen America contestants. Though, I barely remember saying more than a few words to Princess South Dakota five years ago when I competed in the national pageant. Or maybe it’s one of the nurses I used to work with at Raines Jewish before I moved back home to Guadalajara?
Or maybe it’s a certain exchange fellow whose name also began with R? The one who’d once admitted that he had twelve names, not the usual three. He had claimed it was a long boring story and he would prefer if I just called him Rhys.
A memory of him hits me without warning. Us tearing each other’s clothes off in the on-call room. Too desperate to make it all the way to the bed. Him pushing down my scrubs and taking me right against the door….
“I thought you said we were going to be late!”
I glance up to see A at the back door of my Honda Civic, waiting for me to unlock the car.
And even though it’s only in the very low forties temperature wise, it feels like my body’s burning up with fever for reasons that have nothing to do with the virus currently sweeping the nation. God, what is wrong with me? It’s been three years already. Why can’t I just forget him?
I shake my head at A and stick the mail pile into my purse.
“See this is why I have to move with you guys to Pittsburgh,” I say to A. “How were you planning on surviving on your own at college when you can’t even remember to bring in the mail?”
He shrugs and I sigh.
My friends Billie and Gina hadn’t been so sure about my decision to move to Pittsburgh with the twins, but mornings like this prove my decision to go with them is totally right. A and E need me, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to be there for them.
It’s just too bad nobody’s answered any of the rental ads for the back house I’ve