Page 8 of Race to Me

She pinches my face, laughing. “What? You’re blushing!”

“He’s cute ... but he’s also irresponsible, and impossible, and covered in grease.” I ramble.

Plus, I don’t know him, and I honestly don’t even know why I’m talking about him.

Her brows rise. “Grease?”

I wave her off, blushing. “Long story.”

“Niña Dulce!”Sweet girl.“You’re never one to judge someone. What’s gotten into you?”

I shake my head, grabbing a cookie from the jar. “I know,” A sigh escapes my lips, and I add, “But he really is impossible.”

Rita laughs, grabbing a cookie for herself. “I say it’s a crush.”

Ignoring her I stand. “Dinner was delicious. Thank you,” The accusing grin doesn’t leave her face. “I take it back. He’s not cute.” I lie, trying to make her innocent interrogation stop.

I’m so thankful for her; the one good thing my parents have done is to hire Mrs. Rita. She’s like the fun aunt I never had.

I retreat to my room, looking over the assignment in my hands. Foster’s fingers left black smudges, and the paper smells slightly of grease.

I set it on the desk in my room and get started, working long into the night.

Rita peeks her head in my door around eleven. “I’m going to bed, honey. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Rita!” I call out, wishing for her to always stay but at the same time wanting her to leave so she can spend time with her husband.

It’s people in Rita’s situation who make me look around at my big house and fancy things and be thankful, even if it comes at a cost. I’ve thought about leaving, but where would I go?

If I didn’t have her, I don’t know how I would stay sane.

Keeping this facade of the perfect family up is draining, especially when it only benefits my parents.

Having the perfect daughter and two parents who are happily married living in the perfect home.

I’m the broken daughter with two parents who only married for power and status, and we live in a glass castle that’s ready to shatter at a moment’s notice.

Sometimes ... I want to be the one who shatters it.

Four

“Still mad at me?” Foster slides into his seat next to me in biology class. His ripped black jeans catch my attention. A short sleeved black T-shirt shows off his tattoo; a snake coiling on his forearm, ready to strike.

I don’t look up from my work. “No,”

“Why do you look so angry?” he asks carefully, his head peeking to look past the hair that blankets my face.

My parents are coming home today.“I’m not. Want to see what I’ve done so far?”

A boyish smirk plays on his face when he says, “So far? I thought you’d be done by now. It’s been what,” He leans closer to me. “One whole night?”

I roll my eyes, secretly welcoming his sarcastic attitude. “Funny. Here.”

I hand him the first part of our project, a diagram of the male and female human bodies. He shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“So, I broke it into four parts,” I point to the pink ink on my notebook. “I figured I’ll handle human anatomy, and you can have ... reproduction.” I ignore his smirk.

“Why can’t we work on sex together?” Foster’s minty breath tingles my neck. He’s that close. I scoot away, swallowing the lump in my throat.

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