Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(46)

This is met with silence. Then, her mother shifts tactics. “It could have been you. If the community hadn’t come together when your father lost his job and paid the filing fee for your citizenship, it could have been you. That is why you should come. Because it’s not just about Jimmy. It’s about all of us.”

This I did not know. Tina shuts her eyes and sets her fingers on her forehead. “Mom.”

“Was that a guilt trip? Sorry. Didn’t mean it.” Her mother sounds singularly unapologetic.

I’ll figure it out, I type. I can get you down there. Without too many awkward questions. That’s my job, right?

“It couldn’t have been me,” Tina says sarcastically. “Because—this may surprise you, Mom—I would never be found with fifteen pounds of meth in my backseat.”

“True,” her mother says. “If you ever transported methamphetamines, you would hide it under the car. Harder to find, less likely the pigs will see it if they pull you over in a traffic stop.”

Tina lets out a little snort. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“And don’t use dryer sheets, either. They confuse drug dogs, but it’s still a bad idea. All the judges say the smell gives the cops probable cause to search. Better to not raise suspicion.”

“Great.” Tina rolls her eyes. “No dryer sheets for me.”

“Just making sure. In case you decide to quit school and turn to a life of crime.”

Her mother actually sounds excited by the prospect, and based on what I’ve heard of her thus far, I suspect that she really is.

Tina rolls her eyes. “Great. When I become a drug mule, I promise that you’ll be the first person I consult.” But she’s smiling ruefully.

“So you’ll come,” her mother says excitedly. “We’ll plan your future as criminal mastermind.”

“I’ll see.”

“You’ll come.”

Tina sighs. “Fine. I’ll come.”

“Bring your boyfriend.”

“Mom. He’s not my—”

“Ah, ah. Not what Zhen says. How many times have you gone to him after work now? And so late at night, too. I don’t know what to think about you seeing your boyfriend so late.”

“That’s irrelevant. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” her mother says with a hint of overly-saccharine politeness. “I see. Then bring your very good friend who is a boy but not your boyfriend who you see late at night.”

Tina glances over at me. I give her a thumbs up.

“Fine,” she says. “I will. But only if you promise not to call him—”

“Oh, would you look at the time. Too bad. I gotta go. Bye, Tina. See you in a week.”

The call ends. Tina looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, God.” She doesn’t say anything else.

I glance over at her. “It’s hilarious that your mom calls the police pigs. Seriously, where did she pick that one up?”

“She’s down with all the idioms for the police,” Tina says. “If it’s immigration or crime, my mom is all over it. But just watch what it’s like when my dad and I try to explain Beyoncé to her.”

“I like your mom,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

“That,” she says succinctly, “is because you’re not related to her.”

“Probably.”

She sighs, shakes her head at her laptop, and stands up. “Well. I’m going to start dinner.” She looks over at me. “Are you sure you won’t let me feed you?”

“That would be cheating,” I say glibly.

“Because I think you’re losing weight, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

I am saved from answering this by the sound of the Imperial March emanating from my watch. I swallow, check to make sure that Maria isn’t in the room, and then very carefully, I hit accept.

“Blake.” My dad is sitting at his desk, which is unusual. Usually he stands, paces even, like he can’t bear to be still for even the duration of a video conversation. Today, he looks…tired. More than tired. I’ve seen him tired before, and usually, he can hide it. This? He has dark circles under his eyes.

“Dude.” He lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days.”

“I’ve been answering your emails.”

“And I’ve been telling you we need to talk.” He glares at me.

“Okay. So.” I don’t look at Tina. “Talk.”

“So. We have to talk over the Adam/Blake scenarios for the Fernanda launch. I actually liked your number three.”

I try not to glance at Tina. Like is not the word I would use to describe how I feel about her third scenario. It’s the closest I can come to the truth at present. In her draft, Tina’s written us with our usual banter, our typical friendliness—except with just a little added distance, a little formality. It’s obvious from the script that I’m trying too hard.

“Blake,” my father is supposed to say at some point. “What’s going on with you?”

“This is the first project I’ve taken on by myself,” I will confess. “I just want you to be proud of me.”