Page 324 of As the Rain Falls
“All the time.” She readjusts her glasses and waves at me to send the ball again.
I do it, watching her peel off her sweater, revealing pale skin and scars along her arms.
“Lucia and I had plans to go to the same university together.” She catches the balls, rolls it between her hands. “She’d go first, get apartment, set everything up.”
“What did she want to major in?” I tighten the pink elastic keeping my ponytail tied together.
“Art or astronomy. She couldn’t pick between the two.”
“And you?”
She hesitates, then smiles.
“I’ve always wanted to work at a hair salon like Mateo’s mom does,” her voice is softer now, almost sheepish. “I still want to, to be honest. I know I don’t look cool right now, but…”
“You look great.” I shake my head. “You always do.”
“But I don’t look like myself,” she insists, spinning the ball one last time before sending it back to me. “I’m not dressing up, not doing my hair, or putting on makeup like I used to.”
“Why not?” I clear my throat, catching the ball. “Is it because of Lucia?”
Her head dips, a shadow passing over her face. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer with words, just a shake of my head.
“Mateo says it’s stupid.” She continues, “Lucia used to dress me up. Tell me what to wear and how to wear it.”
I smile. “Like a big sister?”
She lets out a short snort, but there’s hardly any humor in it.
“Like I was her doll.”
“Oh.”
“Lucia had this… way of making me forget she was really only one year older than me.”
“Sometimes,” I start to speak, treading carefully. “When you talk about her, I can’t tell if you were friends or if you hated each other.”
Angelina is quiet for a beat before admitting.
“I like to think it was both.”
I try to spin the ball on my finger and fail. She giggles, asking me to throw it back.
“Of course, I loved her. She was my best friend, and I don’t say that lightly, Cassie. There’s not a thing I wouldn’t have done for Lucia.” She catches the ball, staring at it intently. “But sometimes, I hated her so badly too.”
“Friendships with girls hard,” I sympathize.
“So hard,” Angelina exhales. “It’s, like, so deeply personal. I try so hard not to, but I feel this way about every single girl I meet.”
“And it’s not romantic?” I wonder.
Angelina unties her hair, letting her brown strands fall around her face. “I thought about that. Can something be romantic but also not be? I don’t know. I don’t feel that way about girls. I never have.”
Then she smirks, eyes glinting with mischief, her very own trademark.
“I like boys.”
