Rules Of Attraction (18 page)

“I have to. I’ve got to find out what he wants.”

Alex gives a short laugh. “He wants to own you, Carlos. The

Guerreros obviously told him about you.”

I look my brother straight in the eye. “I’m not afraid of him.”

My brother jumped out of the Latino Blood and almost got killed.

He knows what it means to challenge the top when it comes to gangs.

“Don’t you dare do anythin’ without me. We’re brothers, Carlos. I’ll

always fight with you side by side, no questions asked.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

THIRTY :
Kiara

After school Tuck and I decided to take a jog before Tuck’s

Ultimate Frisbee practice. We talked the first half mile, but have been

running in silence ever since. Our feet slapping on the pavement is the

only sound. The heat of the day is gone, but today a chill lingers in the

air. I like jogging with Tuck. It’s a lonely sport, but having someone to

do it with makes it way more fun.

“How’s The Mexican?” Tuck asks, his voice echoing off the mountain

slope.

“Don’t call him that,” I say. “It’s racist.”

“Kiara, how is calling him Mexican racist? He is Mexican.”

“It’s the way you said it, not what you said.”

“Now you sound like your dad, all sensitive and PC.”

“What’s wrong with being sensitive?” I ask him. “What if Carlos

called you The Gay Guy?”

“I wouldn’t accuse him of being racist, that’s for sure,” Tuck says.

“Answer the question.”

Tuck chuckles. “So did he really call me The Gay Guy?”

“No. He thinks we’re a couple.”

“I bet he doesn’t even know any homos. That guy’s got a

testosterone shield a mile high.”

When we reach the entrance of the jogging path through Canyon

Park, I stop. “You never answered the question,” I say, out of breath.

I’m used to the run, but today my heart is racing faster than usual and

I’m suddenly anxious for no reason.

Tuck holds his hands up. “I wouldn’t care if he called me gay,

because I am gay. He’s Mexican, so what’s the big deal if I call him

Mexican?”

“Nothing. It’s calling him The Mexican that’s annoying.”

Tuck narrows his eyes at me. His face gets scrunched up, as if he’s

trying to figure out what my motivations are. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You like The Mexican. I should have seen it all along. That’s why

you started stuttering again . . . it’s all because of him!”

I roll my eyes and sneer. “I do not like him.” I start running down

the path, ignoring Tuck’s theory.

“I can’t believe you like him,” Tuck croons, poking me in the side

with his index finger. I jog faster.

“Slow down.” I hear Tuck panting behind me. “Okay, okay. I won’t

call him The Mexican. Or say that you like him.”

I slow down and wait for him to catch up. “He thinks you and I are

dating, and that’s just fine with me. Don’t let him know anything

different, okay?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I do.”

At the top of the mountain, we stop and admire the city of Boulder

below, then jog back home.

Alex and Carlos are standing next to my car in my driveway.

Carlos takes one look at us and throws his head back. “You guys are

wearin’ matchin’ outfits. I’m gonna be sick.” He points to us. “You see,

Alex. Along with everything else, I have to deal with this: matchin’

white people.”

“We’re not matching,” Tuck says defensively. He shrugs when he

checks out my T-shirt and realizes the truth. “Okay, we are.”

I hadn’t noticed. Obviously, Tuck hadn’t noticed, either. We’re both

wearing black T-shirts with big white letters that read ‘DON’T BE A

WIENER, CLIMB A 14’ER!’ We each bought one after we hiked to the

peak of Mount Princeton last year. Before Princeton, we’d never

climbed one of the ‘fourteeners,’ the nickname for the Colorado

mountains that top fourteen thousand feet.

Carlos is looking at me.

“What are you doing with my car?” I ask him, changing the subject.

He looks to Alex.

“We were just checkin’ it out,” Alex says. “Right, Carlos?”

Carlos backs away from my Monte Carlo. “Yeah. Right.” He almost

looks embarrassed as he clears his throat and shoves his hands in his

pockets.

“My mom said to take you grocery shopping. Let me just go get my

purse and keys and then if you want we could go.”

As I head to my room I wonder if I shouldn’t have left Carlos and

Tuck together. The two of them don’t mix well at all. I grab my purse

off my bed and am ready to run back outside, but Carlos is standing in

my doorway.

He rubs a hand over his head and sighs.

“Everything okay?” I ask, taking a step closer to him.

“Yeah, but can we just go alone? You and me, without Tuck.” He

shifts from one foot to the other as if he’s anxious.

“That’s fine.”

He doesn’t move. He looks as if he wants to say something more, so

I stay where I am. The more we stand here staring at each other, the

more nervous I get. It’s not that Carlos intimidates me; when he’s

around, the air just seems more electrified. Seeing him vulnerable like

this is another glimpse into the real Carlos, the one without the

protective wall. I held back so much when he threatened to kiss me at

The Dome on Wednesday, and now even though Tuck and Alex are

outside, I’m feeling an intense attraction to Carlos I’ve never

experienced before.

“You gonna change?” he asks, looking at my ‘DON’T BE A WIENER,

CLIMB A 14’ER!’ shirt with sweat spots on it from my jog. “That shirt

has got to go.”

“You’re too focused on looks.”

“Better than not bein’ focused on it at all.”

I slide my purse on my shoulder, then motion for him to move out

of the way. He moves aside. “Speakin’ of looks, you ever takin’ that

rubber-band thing out of your hair?”

“No.”

“’Cause it looks like a dog’s tail.”

“Good.” As I pass him, I whip my head and try to hit him with my

ponytail. He catches it just as it’s about to lash across his face.

Instead of pulling it, he lets my hair slide through his fingers. I look

back at him and find him smiling. “What?”

“Your hair is soft. I wasn’t expectin’ that.”

The fact that he actually paid attention to what my hair felt like as

it fell from his fingers makes me catch my breath. I swallow hard as he

reaches out and runs my hair through his fingers again. It feels

intimate.

He shakes his head. “One of these days, Kiara, we’re gonna get in

trouble. You know that, don’t you?”

I want to ask him to elaborate on what he means by trouble, but I

don’t. Instead, I say, “I don’t do trouble,” and walk away from him.

Outside, Tuck and Alex are waiting for us.

“What were you guys doing in there for so long?” Tuck asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Carlos fires back, then looks at me.

“Tell him he’s not comin’ with us.”

Tuck drapes his arm around my shoulders. “What is he talking

about, babycakes? I thought we were going to hang out at my house

and, well, you know.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down, then pats

me on the butt.

My best friend does such an over-the-top impression of a

boyfriend I don’t think he’s convincing at all, but Carlos seems to be

buying it, if the look of disgust on his face is any indication.

I lean close to Tuck’s ear. “Tone it down, babycakes.”

He leans close to my ear. “Okay, snookie-wookie.”

I push him away before I laugh.

“I’m out of here,” Tuck says, then jogs off.

Alex leaves right after him, so it’s just me and Carlos standing on

the driveway.

“I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out,” Carlos says. “You

and Tuck are just friends. I don’t even think you’re friends with

benefits.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I get in my car and avoid eye contact with him.

Carlos slides through the window.

“If he’s the champion kisser you claim he is, how come I’ve never

seen you guys lock lips?”

“We kiss all the time.” I clear my throat, then add, “We just . . . do

it in private.”

A smug expression crosses his face. “I don’t buy it for a second,

’cause if you were my girlfriend and a stud like me was livin’ in your

house, I’d kiss you in front of the guy every chance I got as a

reminder.”

“A reminder of w-w-what?”

“That you were mine.”

THIRTY-ONE :
Carlos

I push a cart through the grocery store, thankful for a chance to

shop for food I can actually identify. As I weave around the other

customers in the vegetable aisle, I pick up an avocado and toss it to

Kiara. “I bet you’ve never had real Mexican food before.”

“Sure I have,” she says as she catches it and places it in the cart.

“My mom makes tacos all the time.”

“What kind of meat is inside?” I ask, testing her. I bet Mrs. W.

doesn’t know the first thing about authentic tacos.

Kiara mumbles something I can’t make out.

“What? Can’t hear ya.”

“Tofu. I admit tofu tacos probably isn’t the most authentic

Mexican dish, but—”

“Tofu tacos are not Mexican. I think putting tofu on anything and

calling it Mexican is an insult to my people.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

She walks down the aisle, watching as I pick up tomatoes, onions,

cilantro, lime, poblano, and jalapeños. The fresh smell of each item

reminds me of mi'ama’s kitchen. I grab something we always had in our

kitchen back home. “This is a tomatillo.”

“What do you do with it?”

“I can make a mean salsa verde with it.”

“I like red salsa.”

“That’s only because you haven’t tasted mine.”

“We’ll see,” she says, unconvinced. I might have to make a special

extra-spicy batch for her so she’ll remember not to challenge me.

Kiara follows me around the grocery store. I buy all the

necessities— beans, rice, and masa flour, and different kinds of meat

(which Kiara insisted on being organic even though it cost almost double

what the non-organic meat was). Then we head back. In the Westfords’

kitchen, I pull out the groceries and volunteer to make dinner. Mrs. W.

is grateful because Brandon has a project for school. Supposedly he

tried to make a map on his body with permanent markers, and it’s not

coming off.

“I’ll help,” Kiara says as I set out bowls on the counter and place

pans on the stove. For once I think it’s a good thing Kiara is wearing a

T-shirt so I don’t have to make her pull up any sleeves.

“It’s gonna get messy,” I tell her after we wash our hands.

She shrugs. “That’s okay.”

I place the masa flour in a bowl, then add water.

“Ready?” I ask her.

She nods.

I dig in with my hands and knead the masa into the water. “Come

on, help me.”

Kiara stands next to me and dives in, squishing the now wet and

sticky dough between her fingers. Our hands touch a few times, and I

think one time I accidentally mistook her finger for dough.

I add more water and stand back, watching her.

“What consistency do you want?” she asks as her hands are busy

working in the dough.

“I’ll tell you when to stop.” I don’t know why I’m standing like an

idiot leaning against the counter watching her. Maybe it’s because this

girl doesn’t complain about doing anything. She’s not afraid to climb

mountains, fix cars, challenge jerks like me, or get her hands dirty in

the kitchen. Is there anything this girl can’t—or won’t— do?

I look into the bowl. The masa mixture definitely looks like a solid

mass of dough. “I think that’s good. Now roll it into balls and I’ll mash

them with this pan. Since I’m sure you don’t own a tortilla maker, we’ll

figure somethin’ out. Be careful, you wouldn’t want to mess up that

ridiculous shirt you’re wearin’.”

While I’m searching the cabinets to find plastic wrap to put in

between the pan and ball before I smash it into a tortilla shape, I feel

something hit my back. I look on the floor. One of the dough balls is

rolling away from me.

I look at Kiara. In her hand is another ball, aimed right at me.

“You didn’t just throw that at me, did you?” I ask, amusement laced

in my voice. She takes another dough ball in her other hand. “I did. It’s

punishment for calling my shirt ridiculous.” She smiles in triumph, then

whips the ball at me, but this time I catch it. In one movement I pick

up the one on the floor so now I’m holding two balls.

“Punishment, huh?” I say as I toss the one I caught up in the air

and catch it again. “And it’s got your name written all over it. Payback’s

a bitch, chica.”

“Really?” she asks.

“Yeah. Really.”

“You’re gonna have to catch me first.” Like a little kid, she sticks

her tongue out at me, then makes a dash for the backyard. I let her

get a head start while I grab the entire bowl of dough and go after

her. My arsenal just multiplied drastically.

“Don’t ruin my balls!” She laughs as the words leave her mouth. I

watch in amusement as she scrambles to take a side table off the patio

and use it as a shield.

“Better yours than mine, chica.” I toss the dough balls at her, one

by one, until I’ve got none left.