Page 96 of Kingmakers, Graduation

“How long did that take you?” I ask her. “To really feel like both.”

“It’s bonding to your partner that does it. When you’re truly partners, you become as one person. Your goals are the same. Your desires are the same. Everything you do is for both of you—you’re not selfish anymore.”

I can’t picture that, either.

I don’t know if I could ever be that way. Iamselfish. It’s always been about what I want.

“I’m not as good as you,” I say to Aida. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

She laughs. “I’m notgood.But I am happy. And I hope you’ll be that.”

“I hope so too.”

“Sabrina … you have so much fire in you. Give that passion to someone, really give it to them, holding nothing back, and see what happens.”

“Like you did with Uncle Cal?”

“That’s right. I gave it all to him … after a little resistance.”

I laugh, quietly so I don’t wake anyone up. “Gallos don’t do anything the easy way.”

“No,” Aida says. “But it always works out in the end.”

That’s why everyone loves Aida. Because she never gives up hope. She could have her neck under a guillotine and she’d still laugh and say,I’ll figure something out.

Maybe she’s right. If the blade comes down on your neck, crying about it won’t change a thing. Maybe it’s better to die happy, believing life is good and will go on forever.

“Thanks, Auntie,” I say. “I love you. And I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But not as much as your mom—make sure to call her.”

“I will,” I promise.

I end the call and throw the remains of my burger in the trash.

As I’m about to head back upstairs, I hear music coming from the other side of the house. It’s light and soft, so faint that at first I think I’m imagining it.

I pad down the hallway, passing the closed doors belonging to Andrei and Hakim.

The last room is Vlad’s. His door is slightly ajar. At first I think he’s listening to music, but then a note fumbles and I realize he must be playing himself.

Peeking in the room, I see Vlad cross-legged on the bed, holding a tiny ukulele in his massive hands. Even a normal guitar would look small compared to him. The ukulele is comically undersized, like a toy. And yet he’s making lovely music with those sausage-sized fingers.

After a moment I recognize the song—one of my mom’s favorites,La Vie En Rose.

I can’t help lingering just outside the door, listening. It brings back my parents’ kitchen so vividly: my grandpa Axel sitting in his favorite hideous green chair in the corner, his head nodding because he could never sit in the sunshine without falling asleep. My mother making empanadillas. She’s so good with her hands, everything she touches comes out just right. My brother Damien stealing one from the first batch, sitting down to eat it while he reads. Unlike me, he can read for hours and hours, oblivious to all distractions.

And then my dad. Coming into the kitchen not for the food, but for my mother. Lifting her hair off the back of her neck so he can kiss her there. And then, when that’s not enough, turning her around, kissing her again, not minding that her floury hands are getting all over his clothes.

Then dancing with her to this song. When he dances, he doesn’t limp. He shows that grace, that lightness that must have accompanied every movement when he was young. When he holds my mother in his arms, you’d never know he’s in pain.

It’s not a glamorous kitchen, like one out of a magazine. My parents’ house is small, comfortable, messy at times. My mother doesn’t care to decorate, and my father doesn’t care to spend money on anything without wheels. The rugs are from Puerto Rico, the tileson the floor in the same cheerful prints, laid by my grandpa when his knees were still good.

My eyes are hot, my throat tight.

I’m very alone in the dark hallway, even with Vlad on the other side of the door.

I shift in place, forgetting about the floorboards. Vlad hears the creak and stops playing.

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