Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,45

cups and sending their contents splashing. He shoved John, not on the shoulder or on the chest, but on the face—like, he put his entire hand on John’s face and pushed it backwards, chin to sky. John stumbled but recovered, and then quickly landed a punch on Peter’s left eye.

Hector and Calvin were sprinting across the street—to do what, Jessica had no idea. This amazing fight didn’t need to end, and Peter didn’t need any help. A line of blood was trailing down the side of Peter’s face—just like that line of sweat from a few days ago in the parking lot—but Jessica didn’t have the urge to go up and wipe it away. She liked it. Liked the way it started at his brow and traced his cheekbone. She also liked it when Peter grabbed John by the front of his shirt and punched him in the nose. The resulting crunch was loud and oddly inhuman, like a grunt a dog makes when it launches itself into a bowl of food. John landed hard against one of the folding tables. Plates and serving bowls flew, and the table itself crashed to the ground.

It took a moment, but when John stood, he was covered in a swirl of food and blood. His white T-shirt was smeared with red but also something brown—chocolate cake, maybe—and a deviled egg was stuck, yolk-side, to his upper arm. John lumbered toward Peter, fists clenched. The blood on Peter’s face had reached his chin. Then it dripped—so perfectly—right onto the toe of Peter’s off-white sneaker. Peter didn’t notice. He didn’t blink, didn’t back down, as John lunged.

Peter ducked. He elbowed John in the stomach, and when John doubled over, Peter punched him underhand. Again, blood sprayed, Corvette red, into the grass and onto Peter’s sneakers. John straightened, and Jessica noticed the skin around his eyes was already turning colors.

And what was Jessica doing all this time? She was just standing there. She wasn’t trying to pull John away or yelling for them to stop or anything. Ice and iced tea had sprayed onto her at some point, but she’d made no effort to wipe it off. Her hand had moved from her mouth, her fingers splayed across her nose and her eyes. She was doing that thing, faking horror, watching while pretending not to be watching. But if someone were to take a closer look, they’d see her cheekbones hiking up and gentle crinkles around the corners of her eyes, like she was smiling and trying to cover up her glee. Like she was laughing.

And where was Rafe? He was still behind the grill, watching. Norma was huddled up against him. A spatula hung from one hand. Jessica glanced his way and thought he looked kind of limp, kind of frightened, like the last thing he’d ever want to do was leap into the fray and break up a fight between two young men. That’s the kind of man Rafe Torres was—the kind who would cling to a spatula in a time of crisis. Even Hector and Calvin had finally decided to step in and were now attempting to pry John and Peter away from each other.

Jessica couldn’t hold it in anymore. She laughed. The sound burst out of her, and it sounded harsh and mean, like a row of grackles squawking on a telephone wire. She didn’t think she’d ever laughed like that before. Clearly, she was losing her mind. She laughed and laughed.

Calvin and Hector were pulling John away from Peter, and John kept yelling, “I will fucking kill you!” which somehow made Jessica laugh harder. There were tears in her eyes. Her vision blurred. She started hiccupping. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, and eventually landed on her knees in the grass. The sun was still shining on this bright, cloudless day. It was hot, but the grass was cool, and the ground beneath was soft.

Jessica collapsed onto her side, and it was like she was a tiny bug peering through the tall blades of grass. She felt as if she could laugh there forever.

Rosa

Almost exactly two years ago, Rosa and Ana had been sitting together on their back porch, doing nothing special, just drinking iced tea on a warm summer night. Even if they never had anything to talk about, since