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Nat’s only memories of me from the past year are a mess of chains and anchors dragging her down.
    We’ve always been seen as one entity—“Annat” was our shared nickname in middle school—but Nat is the one with social status. Joe once asked why I wasn’t more popular, or why I never got asked to dances or on dates or whatever. I shrugged my shoulders and said I didn’t try to fit in, or more accurately, didn’t even know how to be normal enough to know what fitting in means.
    â€œYou know what? Don’t change,” he’d said. “Don’t ever change one bit. If you weren’t different, you wouldn’t be able to write like you do.”
    I bear-hugged Joe. My biggest supporter. My other best friend. My bruncle. What a stupid term.
    â€“––––
    â€œHello?” A guy in a pastel pink polo shirt and aviator sunglasses is waving his arm in front of my face. I jump a little, hitting a serving spoon resting inside a pan full of scallops and other fishy-smelling stuff. Some sauce goes flying, and after an all-too-brief moment of airtime suspension, lands Jackson Pollock-style onto the white silk dress Mrs. Fala is wearing.
    Mrs. Fala, who is hosting this party as a fundraiser for the Kristin Fala Fund, a charity set up in memory of her daughter. It pays for a drug counselor at our high school.
    I’m stuck to my spot next to the table. Mrs. Fala’s face is melting a little, her layers of makeup beading with sweat, her mascara clumping with blinked-away tears. Nat must have seen it happen. She’s rushing over with a bottle of club soda and a white cloth. When Mrs. Fala swats her away, Nat hesitates only a second before leading our now-humiliated hostess into the house. Squaring my shoulders, I walk slow and steady toward the kitchen’s sliding glass door.
    The second I enter the house, though, I start shaking. I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling out what’s left of my shoddy ponytail. Thirty minutes into the job and my future is bleaker than ever. Either I have to face that crowd and Mrs. Fala again, take my chances finding another job in the next three hours, or go home and pack my bags to spend the rest of my summer repeating phrases like “I am worthy” in Hell. Every scenario is full of gag-worthy, monumental suck.
    â€œStep out here. No one will see you.”
    The boy with a deep dimple and arched eyebrow leans in from a side screen door. The boy who makes sparks. He flicks his shaved head for me to join him.
    I slide out to the nook where the Falas hide their garbage cans, partitioned off the side lawn by a wall of white lattice.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œFine. I’m fine.”
    His voice flushes my whole body pink. His brown eyes are like a doe’s. His slow blinks untwist and re-knot my stomach. I start to crack my knuckles, then stop, folding my hands together to keep from fidgeting. Patti Smith cool. Patti Smith strong. Patti Smith, Patti Smith, Patti Smith.
    â€œFine seems to be the palabra of the day around here.” He pulls a green-and-white pack of Kool cigarettes from his back pocket.
    I reply something stupid like,“I take French not Spanish,” and he shakes his head a little, unlit cigarette dangling between his lips.
    â€œIt means ‘word,’” he laughs, flipping open his lighter and taking a puff. His eyes never leave mine. “I’m Mateo.”
    Mateo. I turn the name over in my mind, deciding it’s poetry against the tongue.
    â€œAnna,” I say. My eyes burn. “Thanks for the momentary hiding spot. I just splattered your scallop sauce all over Mrs. Fala’s dress.”
    â€œBouillabaisse. Probably won’t come out.” He shrugs, taking a long drag. The tip of his cigarette turns orange and shoots close to the filter. “Want a hit for nerves?”
    â€œNot exactly the party to sound like a pusher, you know.”
    In an