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V OICES HUMMED NEAR the girl, rising and falling in idle discussion. She hunkered down on her bench in the solitary corner she’d claimed in the garden, cringing when her own name drifted to her ears.
“. . . where’s Esperanza’s daughter?”
“Wyatt? Oh, she’s probably skulking about somewhere.” The voice dropped to a whisper, and Wyatt could only make out those familiar words she’d heard applied to her too many times in her life. “. . . strange . . . bizarre . . .”
The voices drifted away behind the vast hedges, and relief washed through Wyatt in a great wave. She’d already “made an effort,” as her mother called it. She’d stood among the crowd and endured the conversations for several minutes. But soon, the press of noises, the wafts of perfume, and the casual brushings of shoulders against hers had mounted into a cacophonic onslaught to her senses, and she couldn’t bear to remain in the middle of so many people. She walked away, determined to escape the entire family, Garzas and Enslows alike.
She’d found shelter in the cool, dark corner of the grounds where drooping, green leaves shaded a stone bench near her mother’s stables. The occasional stray voices were her only company, and she might’ve passed the rest of the reunion mercifully alone if her cousin hadn’t remembered this spot from when they were both kids.
But inevitably, footsteps crunched their way over the gravel pathway, and a shadow blotted out the rays of sunlight piercing through the overhead leaves.
Wyatt braced herself, and raised her eyes to meet her cousin’s. She mentally reminded herself of what she was supposed to do during interpersonal interactions: Make eye contact. Return polite, superficial remarks with polite, superficial remarks. Say please. Say thank you. Compliment her hairstyle or clothing.
“Your hair is very well combed,” Wyatt said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Wyatt mumbled.
“So you’re Wyatt, huh?” Marissa said.
Wyatt frowned, recalling her aunt introducing them earlier in the day, and the way she’d said, “This is your cousin, Wyatt. Remember her? She’s thirteen, just like you!” Those were the exact words, so Marissa already knew the answer. That meant she was feigning ignorance, and this question was superfluous, and therefore Wyatt didn’t understand why Marissa was bothering to ask it. There had to be a reason she was asking it, though, and some correct answer Wyatt was missing here.
She shifted uneasily on the bench, wrought with uncertainty. “Yes. What do you want?”
“I’m just here to talk. We haven’t seen each other since we were little. Excuse me for being friendly.”
“You’re excused,” Wyatt said.
To Wyatt’s horror, Marissa seated herself onto the stone bench right next to her, so close the warmth of her arm seeped into hers. Wyatt scooted to the very edge of the bench, the scent of Marissa’s raspberry body spray stinging her nostrils. She couldn’t hold Marissa’s eyes at this close distance, so her gaze dropped down—to the other girl’s blouse.
Then she saw it: Marissa had mustard smeared on her shirt.
“I’m so bored,” Marissa complained, propping her palms on the bench, swinging a foot. “We’re the only people here who aren’t older than fifty or younger than five. They’re all talking about dead people I’ve never met.”
Wyatt didn’t answer her. She was still staring, transfixed, at the mustard smear. It was about three quarters of an inch long and shaped like the state of Oklahoma rotated clockwise at a sixty-degree angle—a bright, stark yellow against the white fabric of Marissa’s blouse.
“You don’t talk much,” Marissa went on. “That’s weird, because people talk about you a ton. Mom said you got a gold medal in a Math Olympics thing. Aunt Esperanza told her it’s a huge deal. Like, you could go to any university tomorrow for free if you wanted.”
“Olympi- ad ,” Wyatt
V OICES HUMMED NEAR the girl, rising and falling in idle discussion. She hunkered down on her bench in the solitary corner she’d claimed in the garden, cringing when her own name drifted to her ears.
“. . . where’s Esperanza’s daughter?”
“Wyatt? Oh, she’s probably skulking about somewhere.” The voice dropped to a whisper, and Wyatt could only make out those familiar words she’d heard applied to her too many times in her life. “. . . strange . . . bizarre . . .”
The voices drifted away behind the vast hedges, and relief washed through Wyatt in a great wave. She’d already “made an effort,” as her mother called it. She’d stood among the crowd and endured the conversations for several minutes. But soon, the press of noises, the wafts of perfume, and the casual brushings of shoulders against hers had mounted into a cacophonic onslaught to her senses, and she couldn’t bear to remain in the middle of so many people. She walked away, determined to escape the entire family, Garzas and Enslows alike.
She’d found shelter in the cool, dark corner of the grounds where drooping, green leaves shaded a stone bench near her mother’s stables. The occasional stray voices were her only company, and she might’ve passed the rest of the reunion mercifully alone if her cousin hadn’t remembered this spot from when they were both kids.
But inevitably, footsteps crunched their way over the gravel pathway, and a shadow blotted out the rays of sunlight piercing through the overhead leaves.
Wyatt braced herself, and raised her eyes to meet her cousin’s. She mentally reminded herself of what she was supposed to do during interpersonal interactions: Make eye contact. Return polite, superficial remarks with polite, superficial remarks. Say please. Say thank you. Compliment her hairstyle or clothing.
“Your hair is very well combed,” Wyatt said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Wyatt mumbled.
“So you’re Wyatt, huh?” Marissa said.
Wyatt frowned, recalling her aunt introducing them earlier in the day, and the way she’d said, “This is your cousin, Wyatt. Remember her? She’s thirteen, just like you!” Those were the exact words, so Marissa already knew the answer. That meant she was feigning ignorance, and this question was superfluous, and therefore Wyatt didn’t understand why Marissa was bothering to ask it. There had to be a reason she was asking it, though, and some correct answer Wyatt was missing here.
She shifted uneasily on the bench, wrought with uncertainty. “Yes. What do you want?”
“I’m just here to talk. We haven’t seen each other since we were little. Excuse me for being friendly.”
“You’re excused,” Wyatt said.
To Wyatt’s horror, Marissa seated herself onto the stone bench right next to her, so close the warmth of her arm seeped into hers. Wyatt scooted to the very edge of the bench, the scent of Marissa’s raspberry body spray stinging her nostrils. She couldn’t hold Marissa’s eyes at this close distance, so her gaze dropped down—to the other girl’s blouse.
Then she saw it: Marissa had mustard smeared on her shirt.
“I’m so bored,” Marissa complained, propping her palms on the bench, swinging a foot. “We’re the only people here who aren’t older than fifty or younger than five. They’re all talking about dead people I’ve never met.”
Wyatt didn’t answer her. She was still staring, transfixed, at the mustard smear. It was about three quarters of an inch long and shaped like the state of Oklahoma rotated clockwise at a sixty-degree angle—a bright, stark yellow against the white fabric of Marissa’s blouse.
“You don’t talk much,” Marissa went on. “That’s weird, because people talk about you a ton. Mom said you got a gold medal in a Math Olympics thing. Aunt Esperanza told her it’s a huge deal. Like, you could go to any university tomorrow for free if you wanted.”
“Olympi- ad ,” Wyatt
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