Page 62 of Sombra
“Yeah,” she whispers.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it’s not my business to step in where your heart is concerned. It’s your heart. Noone else’s.”
No one else’s. “It’s not just that, it’s everything. School is hard. I don’t understand Spanish very well. I want to be a good student, and I’m just not.”
“Well, that’s fixable. Just keep practicing.”
I want to bring up my sexy practice partner, but he’s painful, too. Better just to leave that distraction back in his orchard and make friends with my bullet.
When I’m done talking to her, I call Shane. But of course he doesn’t answer. I don’t leave a message, though. I’ve said all I want to say.
I have one more place I can try. I call my parents. My dad answers the phone, and he’s finally figured out how to make the camera so I can see him.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Hey, pumpkin! How are classes?
“They’re really hard, but I can tellthat once I get the hang of this, I’m going to be able to do it forever.”
He grins. “That’s my girl.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“At the office late. She’ll be home soon. How’s life on the farm?”
“Really pretty.” I pause. I want to tell him about the people here, but that runs into thin ice. So I settle on telling him about the history of the Alhambra and some of the other thingsI’ve seen in Granada. When I’m done, I ask, “Have you heard from Shane?”
“No, I haven’t seen him or his parents. He might be out of town.”
Shane never goes out of town.
“Okay. He just hasn’t answered my emails in a while.”
“I’ll see what his mom says.”
If Shane could make this easier on me, it would be good, m’kay?
“Corta la zanahoria.”
This afternoon I slice carrots into coins on a cutting board. Tavo’s mom and I work in the expansive kitchen making paella, which is a saffron rice dish made with different meat or seafood. We’re using rabbit, chicken, and shrimp. I’ve never had rabbit before, but I’m willing to try. She and I are also makingzanahoria al-andaluz, a marinated carrot dish that has garlic and cumin.
The windows are cracked, letting in a cool fall breeze that has an even colder edge to it. The door opens, and Tavo walks in, wearing a Pearl Jam T-shirt and jeans with a belt. His usual leather cuff and bracelets are on one hand, and he’s got the most delicious scruff going on his jaw. He smells clean like he’s just got out of the shower.Coming up right beside me, almost too close, he asks, “Everything going okay?”
“Yes,” I say, quieter than I intend.
He watches me cut for a moment. “I think you need to hold the knife like this.” He stands behind me, his breath on the back of my neck, his hands over mine. Positioning my fingers farther down the knife, he arranges my hand so that my third finger hooks in the cut outpart below the blade, my index finger on top. It feels better that way. I don’t want him to move away, but he does, loping over and getting garlic for the dish.
His mom’s cell phone rings. “¿Diga?” She listens intently, rattles off some words I don’t understand, and then says, “I need to go talk to Señor Molinero. Can you two work on this until I come back?”
“Por supuesto, Madre,”says Tavo. She gives him a look I can’t interpret, wipes off her hands on a towel, and goes out the door.
As I chop carrots, Tavo peels garlic and sings in a low voice while he does it. It’s mesmerizing, his voice is so seductive and calming. When he finishes, he washes his hands and comes over to me.
“You’re holding the knife better.”
“Thanks. At home, my mom just uses foodfrom her company, and my dad has no interest. So we don’t cook much from scratch.”
