Page 5 of Best I Never Had

I gesture toward the cutouts of the cartoon-style images of cells. Carefully drawn by Mr. Khan, each print is cut out into two-inch by two-inch pieces of paper with no indication of it being a skin cell, a bone cell, or a muscle cell. Natalia peers up at me with dark eyes that look like they belong to a sweet, timid puppy dog.

“Sure,” Natalia answers a little nervously, though she appears less skeptical than last week when I worked through our lab assignment like a bumbling idiot. I spent the weekend reading through this week’s chapter ahead of time. If not to prove that I know what I’m doing, then at least for the sake of my steady grade point average.

“Thanks.”

We bothsit on our stools, with Natalia having to take a small hop before somewhat awkwardly climbing onto the seats that are too high. I can feel her eyes on me as she silently studies which images my hand lands on and where I place it to correspond with the correct labels. My brow furrows as I reconsider my offer to take over the assignment while wondering if maybe I looked over the wrong chapters at home once again.

From my periphery, I can see Natalia’s hand where she has a pencil twirling between her index and middle finger. She’s sitting close enough that I get a whiff of the subtle vanilla scent lingering around her. It’s not the cheap, artificial kind of vanilla. It’s more like the kind ofsweetness that’s warm and inviting. It reminds me of how my entire house smells when my mom bakes a fresh batch of her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, wrapping me in comfort and affection. That’s what Natalia smells like. Like coming to a warm home after a long day at school in the dead of winter where everything bites from the coldness.

“You know, I remember you from Mrs. Knight’s class,” I say abruptly in an attempt to break the silence between us.

When she tears her eyes away from the laser focus she had on the cell images, she looks surprised. As if there’s no explanation as to why I would remember her. Even though we’ve been going to the same schools since we were thirteen, passing by each other in the hallways, and always managing to see each other’s faces throughout every school year since.

“US History? At Madison?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “Eighth grade, third period.”

I turn away from the counter, facing her completely as she tilts her head. She has her hair curled today, different from when she had it straightened last week, and the curls bounce as they drape over her shoulder. A breadth of a smile starts to appear as her eyes widen, the first time I’ve seen her face show anything but timid insecurity. I didn’t notice before, most likely because I’venever paid attention to the way her smile lights up her whole face, but the tip of her nose dips for a second when she does.

“I remember you always coming in with a mustard-colored backpack that had an angry penguin hanging from the zipper.”

“Badtz Maru,” she says quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s the name of the penguin.”

“Oh.” I chuckle lightly, turning back to our assignment, determined to prove to her that I’m not some average jock who skates through classes based on my field position on the varsity football team. I actually want to do well in this class.

“I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

“I know who you are.”

Her smile grows even wider, and her eyes light up in a way that makes me think that maybe there’s more to Natalia Marquez than what’s on the outside.

past

“Everything go okay with the delivery?”

Uncle Pat greets me as soon as I walk into Pour Toujours, his restaurant and where I’ve been a sous chef for thepast four and a halfmonths. I don’t usually make pastry deliveries, so he walked me through each sandwich shop and coffee house that I had to stop by for our weekly orders.

“Uh, yeah.” I bite back the smile that creeps onto my face, thinking about how I ran into Natalia Marquez just a couple of hours ago.

“Andy will be back next week, so you shouldn’t have to continue these deliveries,” he explains apologetically, referring to our usual delivery man who was out with the flu. Pat leans back in the dining chair he’s sitting in, situated behind a clothed table nearest to the hostess counter. A tall glass of soda water with a lime wedge floating on the top along with a spread of menus and napkin cloth samples sit in front of him.

I wave him off. “It’s fine. I really don’t mind.”

I turn to walk into the kitchen to prepare for our dinner rush. But Pat clears his throat, his usual signal that there’s more to the conversation he wants to add. Sure enough, when I look at him, his solemn expression confirms it.

“I talked to your dad this morning.”

I nod, my eyes narrowing on the menu between his fingers as his thumb runs over the neat calligraphy print on the high-end paper stock.

“He just wanted to say hi and make sure you were doing okay.”

I purse my lips together, forming a judgmental smirk. “The phone rings both ways, Pat.”

“He knows,” he says with an understanding tone.

---