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again. “I’ve been obsessing all night over something too.”
    â€œ You ’ve been obsessing?” Funny, he’s seemed nothing but confident this entire night. “Over what, pray tell?”
    He looks at the peephole. Then his hand reaches up to cover it. He leans in and brings his lips close to mine. “Over this.”
    I melt into a major-league kiss, soft and warm, butcommanding. Robi wishes he could’ve kissed like this. And then a thought hits me—I won’t be keeping my own promise to stay away from guys this summer.
    Nope. I’m a goner.

Five
    I hardly saw Andrew the day after our date, except when walking by his field, when he’d tip his baseball cap in my direction, but I haven’t stopped thinking about the kiss at my front door. It was different, controlled, like he’s used to it. Unlike weakling me.
    Mom hasn’t mentioned my date anymore since that night, maybe by the grace of God or because my dad’s last déjala did it. Now it’s Saturday, and rather than stir up another windstorm with her, I’m home, helping prepare for tomorrow’s big feast—our annual Fourth of July barbecue, which the entire family (all forty of us) feels the need to celebrate at our house. We’re the only ones with a pool, so hey! Everybody head over to the Díazes’! They’ll cook for us! They’ll clean after us! They’ll serve us beer!
    But a Fourth of July barbecue, Cuban-style, is not what youmight think. Burgers and hot dogs? Hell no! What you want is a massive pig, roasted in a hole in the ground. Coleslaw? Corn on the cob? Nope. Bocaditos, croquetas, and chicharrones . Vanilla Coke? Wrong again. Why drink that crap when you can have an ice-cold Malta Hatuey?
    And the two best parts of all this? One, that my parents don’t know I invited Andrew, and two, that he’s bringing a Key lime pie to rival my mom’s.
    â€œ Isa, córtame los limones, por favor.” Mami hands me the local, small limes for her reigning winner of all pies. I grab a knife and start slicing them in half. Any moment now I’m going to hear the other side of the Key lime story—the Cuban side.
    â€œDid you know…” she begins, gently pressing the graham cracker mixture into the pie mold. “That these limones were not called Kee line in Cuba?”
    I don’t answer her. I don’t answer because she’s not really talking to me. She’s talking to an invisible interviewer who has approached her for critical information about Cuba’s produce.
    Under the faucet she washes her hands free of cracker crumbs. It’s interesting that she can wave her hands wildly when she talks and still be able to wash them. “You see, in Cuba, these limones were not special Kee line limones , they were just plain limones . We use them for cooking, for marinating…”
    Sigh. For making limonada…
    â€œFor making limonada ,” she adds. “They grew everywhere, in everybody’s backyards. But here, everybody makes sush a big deal about them, like they’re so special.”
    â€œThey are special, Mami. The regular limes here are the big green ones. These are super bitter.”
    â€œAnd that’s the other thing. In Cuba, this Kee line was not considered a line . It was a limón .”
    As fascinating as I really do find this, I keep quiet, or she’ll go on about the way things used to be back you-know-where. And if I hear my mom say Kee line one more time, I’m going to leave the juicing to her and go watch my brother work on his hair.
    At the other end of the house, I hear a blow dryer. Odd, considering the only two women in the house are in the kitchen. And my dad doesn’t have hair. So that only leaves Wonder Boy.
    Mami reaches past me to open the pantry, stopping momentarily to caress my shoulder. “ ¿Eh, Isa? ”
    â€œ ¿Sí, Mami? ”
    â€œI saw the papelito