Chapter 1: The Letter

I was on my seventh take when Abuela called for me.

My phone was propped against the textbooks, camera flipped so I could watch myself. I’d been doing this for half an hour. Thirty-two minutes, actually—I’d been watching the timer in the corner, watching myself fail the same eight-count over and over.

The problem was my hips. They didn’t move like Maya’s. Hers rolled, liquid and easy, like her body knew something mine didn’t. Mine just looked wrong. Stiff. Like I was performing “sexy” instead of being it.

I hit record again.

Snap on one. Shoulders back on two. Turn and—

My crop top rode up and I yanked it back down. It never stayed in place—too tight across my chest, too short for my torso. I’d bought it because Maya had one, but on her it looked casual and cute. On me it pulled at the seams and showed too much and made everything obvious.

I tried the move again. Hip snap, shoulders back, turn—

The fabric rode up again. I could see it on the phone screen. My bra showing at the edges. Everything on display.

I yanked it down too hard. My elbow hit the phone. The whole thing clattered to the floor.

“Fuck.”

The word came out louder than I meant. I scrambled to pick up the phone, checking for cracks. The screen was fine but the video was ruined. Obviously.

Delete.

My reflection stared back from the black screen. The eyebrows I’d overplucked last week—too thin now on the left side. The pimple I’d covered with concealer this morning visible now that my foundation had sweated off. Hair frizzing despite the gel I’d used, despite the twenty minutes with the flat iron.

Brandon Martinez was never going to notice me.

Maya’s video already had two hundred and seven likes. I’d checked three times in the last hour. Watched the number climb. Watched the comments pile up. Watched Brandon’s username appear in the likes and then in the comments—”🔥🔥🔥”—three fire emojis that meant everything and nothing.

I hadn’t posted mine. Couldn’t. It looked wrong every time. I looked wrong every time.

My phone buzzed.

Maya: did you post yet???

Maya: esme i swear to god

Maya: brandon literally just asked me about you

I pressed my palm against my belly. Swallowed.

Me: what did he say

Maya: POST THE VIDEO FIRST

Me: WHAT DID HE SAY

Maya: he asked if you were gonna be at Jessica’s party friday

Maya: which means he wants you there

Maya: which means you need to POST so he sees you can actually move

I stared at the screen. At the cursor blinking. At the evidence of my thirty-two minutes of failure sitting in my camera roll, unposted, unwatched, safe.

Brandon Martinez wanted to know if I’d be at Jessica’s party.

Brandon Martinez, who sat two rows behind me in English and had shoulders that made his t-shirts pull tight and a smile that did something to my insides every time he used it near me. Who’d never said more than “can I borrow a pencil” in two years of being in the same school.

He’d asked about me.

“¡Esme!”

Abuela’s voice cut through the apartment. Sharp. The way it got when she’d called more than once and I hadn’t heard.

I shoved my phone in my pocket. The screen was still warm against my thigh as I left my room.

Abuela was at the kitchen table. Both hands wrapped around her coffee mug. She did that a lot lately—held onto things like she was afraid they’d disappear if she let go. Her eyes were aimed vaguely in my direction but not quite at me. That milky cloudiness at the edges. Legally blind, the doctor had said last year. I still wasn’t totally sure what that meant except she couldn’t read anymore, couldn’t watch her telenovelas, had to hold things an inch from her face just to make out shapes.

The envelope sat next to the mug. White. Official-looking. Wrong against the faded floral tablecloth.

“What’s up?”

She turned toward my voice but missed by about six inches. “I need you to read me something, mija.”

I crossed to the table. The linoleum was sticky under my socks. Nobody’d mopped in a week. Mom was working doubles. I was supposed to do it but I kept forgetting.