Darkest Fear

As always, with love to my children, and to Paul, the bearer of unconditional things.

“HD,” I SAID, GREETING MY
best friend, Jennifer. I slid into the desk-chair combo in front of her, feeling the backs of my legs stick to the plastic seat. May in Florida.

“HD,” she said back, and we gave the lackluster grins appropriate for fifth-period AP US History. Fifth period = the dead zone. It was right after lunch, incredibly hot, and too bright outside, and despite the air-conditioned classroom almost every student in here was about to nod off. I felt like I was moving through muggy air so thick that I had to go slowly and with purpose or I would subside into place, coming to a slow halt, maybe by my locker or something. I bet Ms. Harlow was hating it.

“You did the homework?” I asked, unwilling to lean against my seat because my damp shirt would stick to it. Florida. The state that antiperspirants—and deodorants, if we're being honest—were created for.

Jennifer nodded and offered me a piece of gum. I took it, crunching through the outer shell to taste the burst of icy mint on
my tongue, so bright and sharp it was almost painful. Maybe chewing would help me stay awake.

So—HD is not short for Jennifer, obviously, or for my name, Vivi. It is short for Heartbreaking Disappointment, and we'd been calling each other that since eighth grade, which was when it became so horribly clear that was what we were to our parents.

• • •

“Everyone take out your notebooks,” Ms. Harlow said. “I know you're all excited about finals next week, so let's start reviewing topics that will be on your exam.”

Last high school finals,
I told myself.
Next week is the last time you'll ever have to take a high school test, ever. Soon you'll be free, free, free . . .

“Ready for tonight?” Jennifer whispered as we opened notebooks and fished in our backpacks for pens. In the seat in front of me, Annamaria Hernandez flipped her long cheerleader hair, and it almost hit my forehead. Even today, even during fifth period, Annamaria looked pert. Her skin was smooth and dry, her hair was unfazed by the 100 percent humidity—even her clothes seemed crisp and clean. My Piggly Wiggly T-shirt had, let's face it, never, ever been crisp, even before it had been washed so many times it was starting to shred. My skin was shiny and damp, and I didn't know what my hair was like because I'd gathered it into a big lump on the back of my head and stuck a pencil through it to keep it there.

Answering Jennifer, I nodded briefly. She had already wished me happy birthday first thing this morning, and she and some of my other friends had decorated my locker. I wished they hadn't
duct-taped condoms to the locker door, but those had all been stolen by second period, so it was okay.

“What's on the menu?” she asked, pitching her voice below teacher-hearing range. Ms. Harlow was on the other side of the classroom, answering Bud Baldwin's question about how long the exam would be. (His name really was Bud. He was Buddy all through lower and middle school, but had finally drawn the line in high school.)

I glanced over—now he was asking exactly what material would be covered.
Probably everything we've been taught in this class, Buddy; that's why they call it a final.

Keeping my voice low, I said, “Shrimp empanadas, egg rolls, fish tacos, coleslaw, and corn bread.” Every year my parents took me on a picnic for my birthday. It was kind of corny, but it was a tradition, and they were very big on tradition. To use almost criminal understatement. Lately we'd been fighting almost constantly, and I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd ditched any birthday festivities at all. But my mom had asked what I wanted like nothing was wrong, and I'd told her. Like nothing was wrong.

“Yeah, that won't make you sick,” Jennifer murmured, and I smiled.

“Girls?” said Ms. Harlow. “Pay attention here.”

I sat up straighter and tried for at least the illusion of alertness. Next week was the last week. Just one more week.

• • •

Some kids were embarrassed to be seen in public with their parents and tried to walk ten feet behind them, or ignored them when they talked. I didn't do that. In public my parents were fine—not really
old like Chris Gater's folks, who'd both been almost fifty when he was born. Or oddly young like Tara Hanson's mom, who was now literally thirty-four. Which was just bizarre.

No, on the surface my parents were super nice, friendly, attractive, had okay jobs. Yes, they were Brazilian, which could have been weird except this was Florida and there were tons of various ethnicities here. Their accents didn't stick out like they might somewhere else. In public, on paper, Mami and Papi were great. It was all the hidden, underneath stuff that made my head explode.

After school Jennifer gave me a ride home, as usual, in the Volkswagen bug she'd inherited when her older sister had gone to college. She pulled into my driveway, and for a minute I just sat there, trying to feel eighteen.

“Hey, you can get married now, right?” Jennifer asked brightly.

No. Not ever. Never.
“Yep. Course, I need a fiancé first. Or a boyfriend. Or more than three dates in the last two years.”

“That's your own fault,” Jennifer said. “Guys ask you out but you never go.”

And I could never tell her why. I sighed and rolled down the window—the car was instantly stifling without the AC on. It wasn't like we had to slog through three or four months of summer but then in September we would have a real autumn. There was no autumn in Florida. There were nine months of summer and three months of yucky chill.

“You can sign up for the armed forces,” Jennifer went on. “And vote.”

“Yep.” I looked out the window at my house.

“You don't want to go in. It's been bad?”

I let out a breath. “Yeah. I mean, it's not like they're evil. Just determined. Last night they actually said they'd move back to Brazil in order to fully immerse me . . . in their culture. I was like, I'm going to college in three months.”

“Crap,” Jennifer said, frowning. “I've never understood exactly what the issue is. Like, how do they want you to conform? Be more Brazilian? Speak Portuguese at home? Or be more girly?”

I rolled my eyes. My clothes choices did make my stylish mother crazy, but it was such a tiny chunk of the glacier that it hardly mattered. It was another thing I couldn't explain to Jennifer. I couldn't explain it to anyone. With any luck I would go to my grave without anyone knowing.

Jennifer patted my knee, her short blue nails glittering in the sun. “It'll be okay, you li'l Heartbreakin', Disappointin' thing. You'll have a nice picnic, and then it's the weekend. And three months from now you'll be headed to Seattle.”

I nodded, trying to let that make me happy, like it usually did. “True. Three months. Then it'll be cool, gray weather all the time. Mountains. Three thousand miles from here.” Of course I would still be me, which was a problem, but there I'd have better luck pretending I wasn't.

Jennifer made a sad face. “You should come with me to New York.”

“You should come with me to Seattle.” Jennifer and I had been best friends since third grade, and I'd thought we'd stay that way
our whole lives. As I got older, though, I realized that I'd be forced to leave Jennifer behind at some point. Because best friends knew each other deep down, shared almost everything with each other. And I was already keeping an enormous secret from her. And always would.

I had to get as far away from here as possible. And she had to go to Columbia in New York City because it was the only school her parents would pay for. The reality of not seeing each other almost every day was starting to sink in, one gray inch at a time. Most of me was already dreading the end of the summer, when we would split up, but a tiny part was relieved, also. Because then I would be free—free to keep my secret. Right now that carried so much weight that it made even losing Jennifer almost seem like a reasonable price.

The front door opened and my mom came out.

Jennifer sighed. “Your mom is so gorgeous. Despite the crazy-making.” She said this every couple of months, in case I had forgotten. And it was true. My mom's shiny black hair swung in loose waves below her shoulders; her skin was smooth, tan, and clear, with some laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her unusual golden eyes were large and almond-shaped, making her look exotic and foreign. Ha ha. Today she was wearing tailored black shorts and a fuchsia sleeveless polo top. Gold bracelets jingled on her toned arms, and black Tory Burch thongs showed off her pedicure.

Smiling, my mom came to the car. “Zhennifer!”

“Hi, Ms. Neves,” Jennifer said. While totally loyal to me, she
couldn't help adoring my mom. “Vivi was telling me about this year's menu, the Pepto-Bismol special.”

My mom smiled, her teeth white against her tan skin. She was forty-six but looked much younger without working at it. Strangers turned to look at her almost everywhere we went—partly because she was beautiful and partly because she was intensely alive, incredibly charismatic, open, genuine, generous. I'd never seen anyone more feminine, but it was a strong, womanly thing unrelated to pink ruffles or being dainty. Everyone loved her. And I did too, I did. But it was all so much harder than anyone realized.

“I know, can you imagine?” my mom said. “And then coconut cake. Tomorrow you come to bring us chicken soup, okay?”

Jennifer laughed. “I will. You guys'll need it.” Turning to me, she said, “Did you make the cake or did you let your mom attempt it?”

“I made it,” I said, getting out of the car and taking my backpack from the backseat. I'd made all of our birthday cakes for years, trying more ambitious recipes and decorations each time. My mom was definitely a good cook and could make a perfectly decent cake, but I made great cakes.

“She didn't trust me to make it,” said my mom, pretending to look exasperated.

“It was complicated,” I said. “Thanks for the ride, H. See you tomorrow.”

Jennifer started the car and nodded. “Pick you up at four. Then movie at seven.” As she pulled out of the driveway, my mom came over and kissed my forehead, then lightly put her fingers where she
had kissed, like she always did, as though to make it stick. She had to go up on her toes these days—at five foot ten, I was a good six inches taller than her. I stood there stiffly, though my deepest core longed to melt into her arms, to just be able to love her. But how could I? It would be the last wall breaking down, the last wall that kept me being myself and not just a clone of her and my dad. That would be terrible. Terrifying. Literally my worst fear.

“My darling,” she said, her eyes shining with love but shaded by caution and crushed hope. “My darling. Eighteen.” Her hands were on my shoulders; the sun glittered on the diamonds in her wedding ring.

I nodded. We'd done this already this morning. “Yep,” I said. “You're home early.” My mom taught French and Spanish at a high school in the next county. Her students loved her.

“I had to get home and make your picnic, right?” she said, putting an arm around me as we walked toward the house. “Papi should be home any minute. Where's the big beach blanket? I couldn't find it.”

“I think it's in the luggage closet,” I said, and entered the cool, dry air of our house.