Page 37 of Castle of the Cursed
My mood improves in the librería, when Felipe offers me a mug of steaming hot chocolate topped with frothy cream.
“Your aunt is gone,” he says by way of greeting. “She left a note about going to a medical conference in Madrid.”
“I know.” I blow on the drink, warming my hands against the mug. The first sip scorches my tongue, activating every nerve ending down to my toes.
“Seems kind of last-minute. And she bailed on my appointment to draw blood.” When I don’t say anything, he asks, “When did she tell you she was leaving?”
“She didn’t. I found out from the same note.”
His brow rises as I sip some more hot chocolate, the foaminess tickling my top lip. “That’s odd,” he says.
“That’s Beatríz. Or haven’t you noticed she’s not exactly chatty?”
“Not even with you?”
I shrug, and today I’m the one leading the way to the attic, cradling my hot chocolate. Strange, how this space is where I feel safest in Oscuro. It’s the only place where I don’t worry about being hunted, or drugged, or judged.
“Thank you,” I say to Felipe when we’re both upstairs. “For tutoring me. I like coming here.”
“Every teacher likes an eager student,” he says, flashing his crooked grin.
I feel myself grinning back, even though just days ago the reflex seemed like an obsolete function.
It’s been years since I made a friend. When the partings became too painful and the pen pals too plentiful, it got easier to avoid socializing at all. It worried Dad more than Mom. I heard them argue about it once, and Mom said, She can make friends when she grows up.
I thought she was calling me immature, so it surprised me that Dad didn’t defend me. But now I think of the gravity with which she said grows up, and I wonder if she meant it literally.
“I wish what happened hadn’t happened,” says Felipe, his smile slackening into a more intimate expression, “but I’m happy you’re here, too.”
It’s refreshing not to have to doubt he means what he says. Felipe’s face is easier to translate than Spanish, which is what makes him so easy to be around.
“Where did you grow up?” he asks me, his voice as soft as his gaze.
“The United States.”
“Which state?”
“All of them,” I say, sitting down on the aged leather couch. I realize my mistake at once as it nestles every part of my body. I doubt I’ll ever get back up.
Felipe drops onto the cushion next to me. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t mind,” I say with a shrug. “I grew up on the road. My parents and I lived everywhere, from condos in big cities to cabins in the wild.”
“Your parents didn’t work?”
“Mom was a journalist and Dad a private detective.”
“And school?”
“I was homeschooled.” I’m struck by the irony of the term, since I’ve never had a home. “That means my parents taught me,” I clarify when I see his confusion.
“What about friends?”
“I stopped making friends because I got tired of leaving them behind.” I sound almost angry, and I flash to the four girls on the subway and the longing I felt when I saw what they shared. A chance to grow up together.
Instead, they died right in front of me.
“Toda mi vida,” says Felipe, “tuve la atención completa de mis padres.” I look at him, and he says, “Now you say it.”
