Maybe I need to give Cesar some space. I need to deal with my own shit and let him deal with his. He’s right about that, and if he wants me to leave him alone so bad, I will. But he’s wrong about our dad.
Bo’s dad is calling me. Early. It’s Sunday and I’m not really trying to be awake yet. I know I gave Bo’s parents my number, but I never expected them to actually call. I answer because I still want to make a better impression on them—can’t leave them thinking I’m a drunken mess.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Yamilet?”
“Yeah, hi, Mr. Taylor,” I say, trying to match his upbeat tone.
“Please, call me Rick.”
“Okay, what’s up?”
“I have a problem I think you can help solve.” He sounds like an infomercial, and it’s hard not to laugh.
“Yeah?”
“I’m making some pies.”
“Okay . . .”
“And there’s no way Emma, Bo, and I will be able to eat them all on our own. We need your help, Yamilet.” His tone is urgent, like he’s dispatching me on an important mission.
“Dad! Stop calling my friends!” Bo shouts in the background.
“She’s my friend too. Right, Yamilet?” I can hear the grin on his face, and I laugh. There are sounds of a struggle on the line, and then Bo’s voice instead of her dad’s. Her voice alone gives me butterflies.
“Sorry about my dad. He’s just . . . like that. He gets bored and starts baking way too much sometimes. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. But there will be pie. A lot of it. If you do want to.”
“What kind of pie?”
Bo echoes my question to her dad, and he shouts out the answer loud enough for me to hear.
“Pumpkin, apple, cherry! You like something else, I’ll make it!”
I laugh again. “That sounds awesome. I’ll see if I can get a ride.”
“Great! Cesar can come, too, if he wants!”
“I think he’s busy.” Lie. I’ve been avoiding him since our fight.
Amber is out of town for break, so it’s just me and David going to Bo’s. I’m relieved Hunter wasn’t invited, too, because then I’d surely have to invite Cesar. Sometimes I forget Hunter isn’t as close to Bo as me, David, and Amber. Today, I’m grateful for it.
My house is on the way to Bo’s from David’s place, so I get up the nerve to ask him for a ride. I feel okay about David knowing where I live, since I know he won’t judge. It’s not that I think Bo would judge me, it’s just . . . different. David lives on the Navajo res. There aren’t many Bo-sized houses there.
David honks when his old blue pickup truck pulls up outside my house. I hop into the passenger seat and close the door. It’s a lighter door than I expected, so it shuts a little hard. David gasps.
“Be careful with Tootsie! She’s too old to be getting her doors slammed.” Apparently, his truck’s name is Tootsie.
“Sorry . . . why Tootsie?”
“She just looks like a Tootsie, don’t you think?” He smiles, patting the steering wheel endearingly.
“You know what, yeah, she does.” I can’t explain it, but it somehow makes sense.
We spend the ride listening to metalcore. Well, I’m more listening to David screaming and drumming on the steering wheel than the actual music. I have no idea how people get their voices to do that, but it’s pretty impressive.