Page 25 of The Seemingly Impossible Love Life of Amanda Dean

“Tell me about the inspiration for this one,” Clarissa said, but Mandy couldn’t speak. Anything she said about this piece wasn’t for her, it would’ve been for Isa, and Mandy wasn’t sure she was ready to say all those things. To hear what Isa would say—or, worse, wouldn’t say—in response.

Mandy’s eyes burned. No, she couldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of Ms. Clarissa Belmont-Yang and certainly not in front of Isa. Instead, Mandy grabbed a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and downed it like a penguin stuck in the desert. But really, she was stuck somewhere between her past and her possible future, unable to move in any direction.

Clarissa’s lips quirked up on one side. “I understand.” And maybe she did—although likely she didn’t. “Aziz,” she called, and like any good gallery owner, he appeared. “I’ll take this one.”

Before Aziz could respond, Isa said, “I’m sorry, this one is already spoken for.”

The words barely registered as Aziz put the bright redSoldsign next to the painting’s name.

“I should’ve been quicker. Congratulations,” Clarissa said to Isa, although her words sounded more bitter than congratulatory, and then she turned toward Aziz. “I’m going to need your help over here.” And just as quickly as Ms. Clarissa Belmont-Yang was there, she was gone, and it was Mandy and Isa standing in front of a painting—their painting—in an impenetrable silence.

Chapter Fourteen

July 2004

Sleepovers at Isa’s housewere the best. So far this summer they had already racked up a number of them—alternating whose house they stayed at. And while Mandy loved her giant bed, the trundle that pulled out from under Isa’s was pretty comfortable. But the absolute best part of sleepovers at Isa’s was that Abuela made breakfast.

Mandy lay in bed staring at the plastic stars she and Isa had put on her ceiling ages ago as the savory smell of what was most likely eggs and chorizo wafted in from the crack under Isa’s door.

Abuela always made chorizo when Mandy stayed over, knowing it was her favorite. And the tortillas Abuela made from scratch were better than any other tortillas ever.

Isa was still curled up in bed fast asleep. They had stayed up late the night before watching movies and eating way too many M&M’s and Sour Patch Kids. Mandy would normally still be asleep too if it weren’t for two things. One being that V wasgetting back today from her vacation, and it had been almost a month since Mandy had seen her. And two, the delicious smells had her stomach rumbling.

Without waking up Isa, Mandy crept out of the room, down the hall—past the painting of Jesus that Mandy was convinced always watched her anytime she walked by—and then into the dining room, where she avoided stubbing her toe (for once) on the small table full of pictures of Isa’s relatives, and finally into the kitchen.

“Morning, Abuela,” Mandy said as she walked over to Isa’s grandmother and gave her a big side squeeze.

“Good morning, mija. Orange juice is on the table.” Abuela motioned with the spatula.

Mandy spun around, and there on the table in the dining room was a glass pitcher full of juice—likely fresh squeezed from the oranges on their tree out back. She poured herself a glass and went back to help Abuela. Mandy’s kitchen was huge—designed by Mom not long after Mandy was born so she could watch Mandy from any angle. It had two separate sinks, and two ovens, and even an extra refrigerator so Mom had places to put trays of food for Dad’s work parties. Isa’s kitchen was much smaller. It was just one long line, with counters and cabinets on one side and a fridge, oven, and small pantry on the other. Pots hung from a rack over their stove, and on the warm golden-painted wall that held their cordless telephone hung a sign that readen esta casa cocinamos con amor. Mandy always liked that sign, and all the food in this house was definitely made with love.

“What can I do?” Mandy asked as she sipped her juice. Yep, fresh squeezed and delicious.

“Get the cotija from the fridge.” This time Abuela didn’t point. She was too busy making sure her eggs didn’t stick, moving them around in the large cast-iron skillet.

“Is this salsa like last time?” Mandy asked as she got the cheese and salsa out of the refrigerator and put them on the table, where a plate was already waiting for them.

“I didn’t make it as spicy. I promise. But we will get you there.” Abuela liked that Mandy could handle the heat, but last time Abuela went a little too heavy with the fire-roasted habaneros.

All the food at Isa’s house had so much more flavor than what Mom made at home—then again, Mom was no cook. Abuela never used a recipe—she measured things with her heart, and even her “oopses” turned out delicious. Mandy liked to watch, hoping a little culinary magic would rub off on her. The times she attempted to make things like chorizo and eggs at home turned out well, but they weren’t the same. And since Mandy didn’t have grandparents of her own who lived nearby, Abuela was also like her abuela.

“What do you two have planned for today?” Abuela asked as she scooped the chorizo and eggs onto a dish and met Mandy in the dining room.

Mandy shrugged, then wasted no time digging in to the breakfast, adding the egg mixture to a tortilla with a big spoonful of salsa. “Not sure.”

Abuela beamed across the table. She loved to feed people just as much as she loved to cook, maybe even more, and Mandy loved to eat, so ever since the first day she had come over way back in kindergarten, the two of them had bonded.

“V is coming back today, so I’ll see her later.”

Abuela’s smile faded. “You’re too good for her.”

Mandy had been nervous to tell Abuela that she had a girlfriend. Most older people didn’t get it; as her own grandmother said at first, “Oh, it’s just a phase.” But Abuela surprised Mandy, insisting she meet this girl. “You should love whoever you want,” she told Mandy, and kissed her cheeks. “You should be happy.”

Later Abuela would tell Mandy about a brother she had who liked other boys, and although he never told the rest of the family, Abuela knew—and she knew how sad he was all the time hiding who he really was.

“You two just got off on the wrong foot,” Mandy tried to reason. But reasoning with Abuela wasn’t easy, and normally should be avoided at all costs.

“She only has two wrong feet,” Abuela muttered before ripping off a piece of tortilla and popping it into her mouth.

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