Watch Us Rise(14)

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”

“Nothing to be sorry about. They’re cool with me, they just couldn’t work it out with each other. And my mom hates the city—can’t stand the noise and all the people—anyway she likes all that space. She’s always telling me I need to spend more time in nature. Always telling me what to do—kinda reminds me of you,” he says.

“So you mean she’s awesome,” I say. James starts to laugh and nods his head. “I think our moms used to be on some Parent-Teacher Association together before your mom moved. My mom thinks your mom is really cool.”

“Yeah, your mom’s Italian, right? I feel like they were probably swapping recipes for sauce or something.”

“You’re probably right.” I start to laugh. “But yeah, she’s Italian, and I gotta say, she’s a pretty amazing cook.”

“Ah, that’s cool. Maybe you’ll invite me over to eat sometime?”

I smile to myself, imagining James sitting around the table with my family—how awkward it would be.

“Uh, yeah, maybe,” is what I say.

“And what about your dad?”

“Irish. All the way. And my dad’s actually a pretty good cook too. And they’re both way too religious for me, but that’s a whole other story,” I finish.

“Ah, I didn’t know all that,” James says.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say. “Could I get a small mango?” I ask the man scooping ice into small paper cups.

James pulls a five-dollar bill out of his back pocket and orders a coconut. “I got this.”

“No, no, you don’t have to . . .”

“You can just get it next time,” he says.

“Ah, there’s gonna be a next time?” I ask, feeling confident.

“Yeah, I mean next week when we run again.” He looks at me. “What did you mean?”

“What? Um, no, yeah, that’s what I meant,” I stumble through.

James looks right at me. We sit at the edge of the playground and eat our coco helado while watching people walk by. In my head, I can’t believe I’m actually sitting next to a crush I’ve had for almost two years—and mostly can’t believe we got the chance to talk—more than I’ve ever talked to him. I also can’t really believe that our legs are touching, and that I haven’t passed out from the electricity. I have no idea if he’s even feeling anything at all. I have no idea what’s in his head, and I want to so badly.

“Race you back?” he asks, and we both throw our cups out and run.





On my way home from school, I send Jasmine a slew of texts:

First of all, my legs are insanely sore, because I ran (walked) two miles.

And do you know who I ran/walked with?

JAMES BRADFORD

That’s right. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am in love with him. Who knows!?

Where are you? We gotta talk.

Come to my apartment on your way home from after-school.

I have plans. Big, big plans.



She texts that she’s on her way but says nothing about my confession, and this is exactly why I didn’t tell her. I didn’t want her to judge me for falling for some jock like James.

My dad is home early from teaching, and I can already smell roast chicken in the oven when I walk in. “Smells so good,” I call out, unraveling myself from my jacket and book bag. “Jasmine’s coming over.”

“And hello to you too,” my dad says, coming over to watch all my things pile up in the closet. “Is Jasmine staying for dinner?”

“No clue. We have work to do, though.”

“Work? Ah, I see, I will stay out of your way,” he says, starting to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Chelsea, nothing. You are so sensitive, you know that? I was just thinking that it’s nice that you are so focused . . . ?all the time.”

“Yeah, we have to be, and sensitive is a good thing. It means I feel things.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. You go. Work. I will stay out of it. Don’t bother your sister, though. She had a rough practice.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s in the shower,” my dad says.

“Are you kidding? Living with one bathroom is the worst situation of my life, ahhhh.”

“Really? It’s the worst situation of your life?” my dad asks.

“You know what I mean.”

“Listen, kid, when you grow up and get your own apartment in New York City, you can get all the bathrooms you want.”

“Ha-ha,” I say, heading for the remote control and the couch. I watch two terrible episodes of the Real Housewives of L.A. Mia joins me for the second, and we laugh at the fights the women get into, and then hate ourselves for getting caught up in the ridiculous drama. Jasmine shows up just as we’re about to start our third episode.

“Tell me you’re not watching this trash,” she says, always taking the high road.

“It’s research,” I say. “It’s so I can make sure we rage against the system so that no one ever has to see a Botoxed face ever again.”

Jasmine laughs, teasing me. “But you do see that you’re watching it, so that’s sort of like telling the network you love it, and you always say that you have to consume the world the way an activist does, and that we need to support the kind of projects that show women in powerful positions, and . . .”