Page 33 of Better Than Gelato
“You don’t have to use air quotes for best friends. The sooner you admit that’s what we are, the better off you’ll be.” Paolo smirks.
“So, you don’t think it’s too fast?” I ask. “Or lame that I’m dating an American? Or that we’ll break up and bring a bunch of drama to the group? Or that we look like Barbie and Ken when we stand next to each other?” I rub a smudge on my window.
“I do not think any of those things.” He pauses. “Do you?”
I sigh dramatically. “I don’t know. Maybe. Isa told me I look like Barbie. And Jake does have some classic Ken features…But that’s not my biggest worry. There are just a dozen ways this could go badly. What if I change my mind in two weeks and break his heart? And lose all my new friends in the process?”
“Julieta, you are worrying about problems that do not exist,” Paolo says. “That may never exist. You like him, he likes you. Take your ridiculously good fortune and enjoy it. Not all of us are that lucky.”
I’m quiet a minute.
“You might be right,” I finally say.
“I’m Paolo. I’m always right.” And he looks at me with such confidence I believe him.
ChapterSeven
One minute Isa is fine sitting on the couch, digging through her backpack, looking for markers. The next minute her face is a thunder cloud, and I know we’re seconds away from a category five storm. I’ve survived the last three weeks with this child by looking for the signs. So as soon as I see her expression, I lunge for my phone and play the first song I find.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her body language is tense, like she’s ready to spring, but there’s confusion there too, and I’m hoping to capitalize on her bewilderment to buy me some time.
“Music,” I blurt.
Isa narrows her eyes.
“It’s Thursday.” I shrug like I’m easygoing and chill, and not desperately trying to avoid whatever new hell she’s about to unleash. “I’m ready for a Thursday dance party.”
I turn the volume up as loud as it’ll go. The living room fills with Justin Timberlake’s voice singing “Can’t Stop the Feeling.”
“I know this song,” she says. “It’s fromTrolls.”
“Yeah, it's great for dancing.”
I stand up and start dancing and after a second, Isa joins me. The living room is about ten square feet, but the limited space doesn’t curb Isa’s enthusiasm. Her long skinny limbs look like they’re ready to fly off her body as she flings them about with abandon.Is this what six-year-olds look like when they dance? It’s amazing and terrifying.
The next song is Pharell’s “Happy.” I clap my hands, and Isa’s arm flailing gets even crazier.
“Can we do a dance party every Thursday?” she asks when the song ends.
“Absolutely,” I say. Then I continue in my most casual, doesn’t-even-matter voice, “So, do you have any homework or anything to do for school?”
The thundercloud returns. “A stupid worksheet about stupid numbers that my stupid teacher is making us do.”
“Cool. How about you pick the next song to listen to while you do it? I bet you can finish before the song’s over.”
The grumpy expression stays, but Isa chooses a song on my phone and then fishes her homework sheet out of her backpack. She finishes well before the song ends.
As a reward, I pull up Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” and scoop Isa into my arms. She’s way too big to carry, but that’s what makes it fun. I spin her and dip her and replace the chorus with “Sweet Isabella.” I bang my shins on the coffee table twice, but it makes Isa giggle even more, so I decide it’s worth it. We’re mid-dip when Sofia walks in.
Isa leaps out of my arms and gives Sofia a hug. “We’re having a dance party!”
“Well, that sounds lovely,” she says. She’s smiling, and I realize how rarely I see her smile. She always looks tense.
After dinner, Isa and I do the dishes and Sofia wipes the table.
“Isa,” she says, then stops. “Tomorrow is Friday.” She stops again, her lips pinched in dread. She swallows. “Do you have any homework to do?”
“Oh, I already did that earlier,” Isa says.
