I wasn’t jealous at all.
“Hey, Fabián,” Yessenia said, pronouncing it Fa-vyán.
Fabián was in peak form today—his hair was slicked back with Suavecito gel, and he had on a vintage black bowling shirt, ripped jeans, and black cowboy boots. His eyes twinkled.
“Qué bella,” he said, kissing her hand like he was a prince or something. “Thanks for inviting me. This food looks amazing.”
Yessenia giggled like an actual schoolgirl. “Of course.” Did she not know Fabián was as gay as the day was long? Was she actually trying to flirt with him?
I gave Ruth a look. She slowly shook her head in response.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I see a tamal with my name on it.” Fabián spun away like a ballerina and headed toward a platter of tamales. We gave Yessenia a shrug as if to say Classic Fabián and went off to follow him. He’d already piled his plate high with every kind of tortilla, rice, bean, and meat combo known to man. I took a taco from his plate.
“Hey,” he said. “I was going to eat that. After I ate everything else.”
“I’ll get you an horchata,” I offered. Fabián glared at me, then nodded.
I left Ruth and Fabián and headed over to the corner by the piñata, where the beverage table was. Horchata was this creamy drink made from rice and spices, and almost every taco and pupusa restaurant in the DMV had their own homemade version. This horchata had the classic milky color with flecks of cinnamon. I added an extra cinnamon stick into Fabián’s and sprinkled some chocolate powder on top just to be nice.
“That’s my favorite way to drink horchata,” a voice said next to me. I turned, then froze. It was Matty Fumero himself, looking adorable in a gray suit and tie. His dimples were out in full force today, and his green eyes were so bright he could be cast as a teen love interest, or even a boy wizard. He radiated the nice, friendly vibes I remembered from orientation.
THIS IS IT, PARVIN! my brain screamed. IT’S WHAT YOU’VE BEEN TRAINING FOR.
I looked at the NT on my hand and replaced what I was going to respond with, which was Horchata is the most delicious drink in the world, and I’ll kill you if you say otherwise with “Ha-ha-ha-ha, right?” (Laugh at one of his “jokes,” check!)
Matty smiled. He smiled! “Yeah,” he replied.
Then I stood there awkwardly, not saying anything else. Part of me ached to fill the silence. The other part of me screamed to be patient and remember the steps I’d written down. According to my goals, I was right on track with having a real conversation that lasted longer than two minutes.
“So,” Matty said, still smiling for some reason.
I took a gulp of Fabián’s horchata just to have something to do. Oh god, there was so much cinnamon in it. It burned. I could feel it tickling my throat all the way down, threatening to make me cough. I almost spurted it in Matty’s face, but I kept my cool.
“This is some party, right?” Matty said finally.
“Yeah, it’s pretty amazing,” I replied, my eyes wide as I nodded back at him. I pretended to look around me, as if to emphasize, Wow, this party is amazing.
“Totally,” he said. The silence stretched on.
I pretended to take another sip this time, learning my lesson.
“I don’t know if you remember my name,” he finally continued. He held out his hand. “I’m Matty—I was your student ambassador for freshman orientation?”
Did I remember him? DID I REMEMBER HIM? “Parvin,” I replied coolly, giving him a floppy, girly handshake. My dad would have been so disappointed in that handshake, but who cared? Physical contact established! And this time, it wasn’t because he was helping me off the linoleum after Wesley dumped me.
“We have band together, right?” Matty asked. Did we have band together? Did a lioness stalk her prey on the Serengeti?
“Yeah, I’m in the woodwind section.” I faked another sip. “You’re in brass, right?” I added, guessing that was a safe, general question, even though I knew for a fact he was a trumpet player.
“Yep, I play trumpet.” Matty nodded back.
I flashed him another grin, as if that info was news to me. “That’s so cool.”
“Not as cool as the bassoon,” Matty said, laughing.
I laughed back. Was that a joke? Who cared. Chuckle-chuckle. Laugh-laugh.
Matty took a sip of his drink. “I wish my parents made this at home.”
Wait, I thought Matty was Mexican like Fabián? But then again, Fabián’s skin was way darker than Matty’s. If anything, Matty looked closer to Wesley’s and Teighan’s skin tone, with less American flag vibes.
“Do you not drink horchata with your family?” I asked.
Matty shook his head. “Nah, we’re from Argentina. We drink yerba mate.”
Argentina! I squirreled away that important piece of information for later, along with the realization that maybe everyone who spoke Spanish wasn’t Mexican. Was Matty what Argentinians looked like? And what was yerba mate?
“It’s this stewed tea thing,” he explained, reading my confused expression.
“Oh.” I nodded. “Cool.”
We stood there awkwardly. If I hadn’t been trying so hard to be quiet, I probably would have talked about how my dad sometimes made tea in a samovar, which was the most Stewed Tea Thing to have ever existed. But I didn’t.
“I should get this drink back to my friend.” I needed to end this conversation on a high note, before my big mouth inevitably ruined it. I had to stick to my rules. We’d definitely talked for longer than two minutes, though, and that was a win.
“Oh, totally,” Matty said. “Catch you later?”
“Totally,” I replied.
I gave him another smile and took the horchata back to where Fabián and Ruth had been watching us the whole time. I waggled my eyebrows, my back to Matty so he couldn’t see.
Awww, yeah, I mouthed. Ruth and Fabián looked impressed.
“Daaaaamn,” Fabián said for the second time today. “He looks good in a suit.”
I handed him his
