Sweet Water(13)

The engineer, always the fixer.

I can’t stand that about him right now. This is not a quick fix.

This is a young girl’s life.

A young girl who’s never liked me.





CHAPTER 4

Before

When I meet Yazmin for the first time, my only thought is—those eyes.

They’re large and dark, her black eye makeup drawn around the lids with swooping lines at the corners. Cat eyes, they call them, the kind that could shock a drunk person sober. Her sheet of black-brown hair is so shiny, it’s nearly aqueous.

Finn’s first girlfriend, and she’s a knockout.

“Mom, this is Yazmin. The one I’ve been . . . um . . . telling you about.” My younger son has always been on the immature side, and I giggle a little when he tries to introduce her as his own.

“Why, hello. The famous Yaz.” I drape the tea towel I’ve been holding over my shoulder and lean in for a hug, but she leans away. “Oh,” I say, obviously overstepping my boundary. It happens sometimes. I don’t always know what’s appropriate contact, the unfortunate consequence of growing up without other women in my house.

Finn makes an awkward sound in his throat.

“Hello,” Yazmin says. I settle for an awkward handshake, but she doesn’t seem to like that either. Her hand quickly slips away, and her fingernails lightly graze my hand. I notice her nails are very long. Too long, with little jewels glued to the tips and tiny specks of paint outside the cuticle lines.

I pedal backward over the Persian runner in our foyer and take in the sight of her from the top of her pretty head to the—bottom of her white stockings?

“Oh my, where’re your shoes?” I ask.

Finn looks down, confused, and then kicks his own shoes onto the doormat.

“I took them off before I came in,” she says in a low voice, but I catch her Pittsburgh accent sneaking through—“took ’em off.” Yazmin shakes a large chunk of her hair in her face, and I wonder why she’s trying to hide from me.

“Well, now, that’s silly. You could have at least waited until you got inside.”

She stares at me, seeming uncertain of what to say next, and I think she’d better brush up on her communication skills if she’s ever going to really run for office. Yazmin is newer to the Academy, but she’s gained quite a reputation for being a strong female presence, running first term for student body treasurer and winning the seat. “Well, okay . . . please come in, make yourself at home.” I make a welcoming gesture with my hand, hoping she’ll loosen up.

She steps into the foyer slowly, almost tiptoeing.

Finn said that Yazmin, an ace at math, wanted to go into finance. She thought a treasurer seat would help with college admittance.

Smart girl.

Finn went to her house to help make campaign signs, but this is the first time she’s come to ours, and only after I threatened Finn with a mandatory family dinner if she didn’t. Finn let me know that Yazmin was passionate about the immigration situation in our country. Her grandfather had immigrated, and she thought everyone else should have that right too. It’s probably one of the reasons she gelled with Finn, a boy after my own heart. Our house is divided that way. Martin and Spencer—right wing, like the rest of the Ellsworths. Finn and myself—left.

“Congrats on your first elected seat.” I try to make conversation and want to mention my thoughts, that I’m on her side, but the air in the room has gone stiff and sour since I attempted an embrace.

“Thank you.” Yazmin gives me a small, crooked smile. Her body language isn’t exactly the kind that speaks of trying to impress the parents, and I immediately gather Yazmin isn’t here to impress anyone—least of all me.

Her gaze drifts to the inside of my house instead. Stonehenge has been described by guests as an altar to Jesus himself, a sacred space, but when Yaz’s large eyes gravitate to the high ceiling held up with thick, lovely wooden beams, she looks displeased, like I’ve sprinkled salt on her tongue.

She walks farther into the great room for inspection, leaving Finn trailing behind her. She grabs her long black hair and shakes it uneasily down the back of her white blouse. The kids are both still in their uniforms from the Academy. Finn casually mentioned that Yazmin is there on scholarship. I intended to tell her I went to school on scholarship too, common ground, but something tells me she wouldn’t be interested.

“Finn said this room was used for baptisms,” she says.

“That’s right. Celebrations of all sorts.” I watch her carefully.

“Is that incense?” she asks.

“I have a candle warmer. The scent is called Damascus Rose,” I reply.

“I’m having a hard time breathing.” Yazmin’s eyes are watering.

“If I could turn it off, I would, but the high ceilings lock in smells in this house,” I explain, but I feel she’s being dramatic. It’s just a candle.

She whispers something in Finn’s ear, avoiding my eyes.

“Mom, we’re going to grab a bite somewhere else.”

The look of relief that washes over Yazmin’s face flattens me.

“The kitchen doesn’t look so cathedral. Maybe you can hang out in there? I just whipped up some strawberry-pretzel Jell-O salad, your favorite, Finny. And there aren’t any candles burning in that room. Do you like iced tea, Yazmin? I have hot tea and coffee too.”