Page 37 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
“What’s a choco pie?” I ask, inspecting the package.
“Chocolate on the outside, cake and marshmallow on the inside. My mom always used to pack them in our lunches in middle school. Made us into sugar fiends.” He pauses, pulling yet another one out of his pocket. “I didn’t poison them, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He unwraps his and takes a bite to demonstrate the point.
While I wouldn’t put it past the Seo-Cookes to find a way to sneak sand or mud or crickets into a prepackaged snackcake, the reassurance does make me feel better. I unwrap it and take a tentative first bite. In the blink of an eye, our first year at the lake comes rushing back. The first time I ever came to visit this place, sitting pretzel-style on the carpet while Maya and I ate enough snack cakes—choco pies—that we stayed up all night. The box that showed up on our doorstep, with a handwritten note from Mrs. Seo. The box we threw into the trash.
He’s right—it’s not poisoned, and it tastes just as amazing as I remember.
“Do you carry these around all the time?” I ask, covering my mouth as I chew through the chocolate and marshmallow.
He nods, jutting his chin toward the staircase. “I have to because Stella’s a monster. She always steals a stack for herself if I leave the box out in the open but refuses to buy her own.”
That I can sympathize with. If I leave a bag of chips unattended for more than fifteen minutes, my roommate always finds a way to swipe it. Not everything about college is supposed to be communal, especially when it’s the only thing keeping me going after ten hours of staring at my tablet.
“Your nose looks better,” Julian says.
On instinct, my fingers reach up to trace the scabbed edges of my piercing. It’s the first time I’ve been able to touch my nose without wincing in weeks. I’m finally giving off less of a Rudolph vibe, and more of the cool, aloof artist vibe I was going for. “I used the tea tree oil.”
He smirks but doesn’t linger on the subject. “You cameprepared.” He points to the canvas bag slung over my shoulder that’s so heavy I have to hoist it onto my knee to readjust the strap.
While my bagisfull of every artistic medium I could find—you never know what type of inspiration is going to hit—it’s more notably stuffed with plastic baggies full of salami. Courtesy of Maya, who tasked me with getting back at the Seo-Cookes now that the prank ball is back in our court. “Art stuff.”
“Cool.” Julian takes my sneakers, tucking them onto a gilded rack beside the door before guiding me down the hall. Our footsteps echo against the high ceilings, ringing back to us as we cross the dining room (very big) to get to the living room (even bigger). The space seems to be designed around aesthetic rather than comfort, plucked straight from a Pinterest board. There’s not even a proper couch, only high-back wing chairs that make my lower back ache just from looking at them. Most of the Seo-Cookes’ possessions make us bitter, but I’m not jealous of their choice in décor. Our cabin is far from perfect, but at least it feels like a home. Everything here feels like it should be roped off and guarded by someone with an earpiece and a Taser.
I settle down in the comfiest-looking chair, which is unusually low to the ground. And that’s coming from me, someone who’s already low to the ground. Julian leaves me to unpack, backing away slowly toward what I assume is the kitchen. “Want anything to drink? Water, coffee, soda?”
I shake my head. While the choco pies weren’t poisoned, I should still be wary of any food or drink I don’t see come from a spout. I double-check that there aren’t any meddling siblingsor dads lurking in the farther corners of this massive room before I let myself relax a bit. Not let my guard down, just relax.
A buzzing sound catches Julian’s attention. Another call from his mom. He excuses himself before stepping into the hall.
“Hi, Umma…Yeah, everything’s fine,” I can hear him say before he switches to what I assume is Korean. His voice gets quieter and quieter, until a door closes, and it fades completely.
So much for eavesdropping.
Left to my own devices, I take in my temporary workspace. The room is as stiff as a library. It’s a miracle a house with this many people living in it can be anything but pure chaos 24/7. Our house hasn’t been this quiet since before we were born. Life in the Báez household means ignoring arguments that don’t involve you, and the sound of the microwave beeping. Our family consumes an unholy amount of pizza rolls.
While I’d love to go find what I need and head home as soon as possible, I’m not just here for snooping. Coming here to be productive wasn’t a lie, and I intend to follow through on that performance. A space where I don’t have to concentrate through the sound of a buzz saw, or worry about upsetting Maya, is an asset I can’t afford to lose.
While Maya’s rule that I can’t use the sketch of her ruined my initial plan, it did spark a new idea. This sketch of the cabin probably won’t be my final submission piece, but it feels like a step in the right direction. The pieces I’ve created while at CalArts are about precision, butmywork is about memories. Sentimentality. If I can’t draw Maya, Ican draw our cabin. The other piece of myself I’m worried I’ll lose.
“Is that your house?” Julian asks, close enough that his breath tickles the back of my neck.
My sketchbook falls to the ground after I let out a yelp. “I’m begging you to stop sneaking up on me before you give me a heart attack.”
Julian laughs, picking up the sketchbook before I can reach for it. “Stella once said I should wear a cowbell around the house.”
“I hate to say it, but she’s right.” I reach for my sketchbook. It doesn’t feel safe in anyone’s hands but mine.
But Julian’s too entranced to notice me. He stares down at my sketchbook in what I won’t let myself think is awe. He lifts his hand to trace the page with his fingertips, as if he’s searching for something.
“Is this your mom?” he asks, and I know instantly what page he’s looking at.
It’s the last portrait I did of Mami, a few pages behind the sketch of Maya. It’s how I like to imagine her now—eternally twenty-seven, her favorite age, wearing the white cotton sundress she wore to her wedding because she refused to wear Abuela’s powder-puff gown. Roses bloom from her fingertips, her curls full, dark, and free. Her skin glistens like copper embers as the sun sets over La Poza del Obispo in her hometown of Arecibo, the tide licking her bare toes. If I close my eyes, I can hear the distant sound of salsa music blasting from the radio while she took us by the hand and showed us how to swim in the sea.
My throat goes dry when Julian doesn’t stop ogling. Allowing someone like him, someone who can use the things I love against me, see my most intimate works, my heart on the page, feels like pulling myself open at the seams.
“She’s beautiful,” Julian whispers, eyes fixed on the portrait even after he hands my sketchbook to me.
“She was,” I reply, voice slightly hoarse.
