a disobedient child.
Breathe.
And then sheâs gone.
11
faith
D iegoâs face is busted. Purples and browns and pinks and blues all blur into one another, creating a painting of abstract lifeâan image of anger, of survival in a bleak, hostile world.
One quick peek at him in the courtyard gave me one huge glimpse into Diegoâs life outside school. Iâm not sure if I should ask if heâs okay or ignore the bruises. Which is worse, acting like I care or acting like I donât?
Tough. I realize in that moment that I honestly want to know if heâs all right.
Iâm not sure what to expect from Diego today. He acted like I didnât exist when I sat near him in psychology yesterday, and then he gave me the cold shoulder the rest of the day. Now his face is a mess; plus Iâm more than a little embarrassed about calling him hot. But at the same time, Iâm not. It felt good to step out of my own skin. Even if it was only for a moment.
Ever-changing like a chameleon, blending in all the same.
I do, however, know exactly what to expect from Jason. My boyfriend is annoyed that I complimented another guy, especially in front of his friends. I donât understand the big deal. Itâs not like he doesnât find other girls attractive. I donât get bent out of shape.
People like me cannot allow the mask to slip. I wonât let it happen again.
I wait for Diego in front of the guidance office, occasionally scanning the halls for his arrival. Then I see him. Heâs wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that sets off his smoky-amber skin.
Simple.
Striking.
He is fluidity in every move. He is a boy with eyes like hope, with scars that tell stories, with muscles born of a hard life. Itâs plain to see, so long as you care to look.
I decide not to comment on his face. If he wants to talk about it, heâll tell me. Plus, I donât like the cocky expression heâs sporting, like he knows that I think heâs hot and now heâs going to use it against me.
Maybe I should tell him that heâs only hot on the outside, when he doesnât talk.
He stops in front of me, grinning. His eyes glint like the edge of a knife. For a moment, it feels as though they can cut right through me.
âHow was your meal last night?â he asks.
I worried he would bring that up. Still, I canât help the heat that colors my cheeks, as though my traitorous blood wants Diego to know that his words hit their mark.
âIt was great,â I say casually and turn before he has a chance to see me blushing.
Diego is feeling brave today. He doesnât trail me like yesterday. Instead, he keeps pace beside me, smiling devilishly.
âAnd howâs that boyfriend of yours?â he asks.
I stop. Shoot him a hardened glance. Heâs well aware that Jason heard my comment.
âHeâs fine, Diego. Why donât you ask what you really want to instead of beating around the bush?â
He laughs. âYou surprise me sometimes, Faith.â
There it is again. My name. He says it differently than most people. I donât know if itâs his accent or the way my name tastes in his mouth; either way, it catches me off guard.
I donât want to ask why I surprise him. I turn around and continue walking.
âRed is a good color on you,â he comments.
Iâm not sure if he means my blouse or my face. I keep walking, wanting to be done with him for now.
And suddenly, I realize something.
I donât trust myself around him.
Not even my fake self. No, scratch that; especially my fake self. Fake Faith doesnât stand a chance around Diego. Heâs slowly unraveling the tight wire I use to secure the real me. Heâs trying to free her and he doesnât even know it.
Or does he?
Every time he speaks his mind, I want to do the same. And the dangerous part is that I just might. I wish I could dress how I want and date who I want. Why do some
Breathe.
And then sheâs gone.
11
faith
D iegoâs face is busted. Purples and browns and pinks and blues all blur into one another, creating a painting of abstract lifeâan image of anger, of survival in a bleak, hostile world.
One quick peek at him in the courtyard gave me one huge glimpse into Diegoâs life outside school. Iâm not sure if I should ask if heâs okay or ignore the bruises. Which is worse, acting like I care or acting like I donât?
Tough. I realize in that moment that I honestly want to know if heâs all right.
Iâm not sure what to expect from Diego today. He acted like I didnât exist when I sat near him in psychology yesterday, and then he gave me the cold shoulder the rest of the day. Now his face is a mess; plus Iâm more than a little embarrassed about calling him hot. But at the same time, Iâm not. It felt good to step out of my own skin. Even if it was only for a moment.
Ever-changing like a chameleon, blending in all the same.
I do, however, know exactly what to expect from Jason. My boyfriend is annoyed that I complimented another guy, especially in front of his friends. I donât understand the big deal. Itâs not like he doesnât find other girls attractive. I donât get bent out of shape.
People like me cannot allow the mask to slip. I wonât let it happen again.
I wait for Diego in front of the guidance office, occasionally scanning the halls for his arrival. Then I see him. Heâs wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that sets off his smoky-amber skin.
Simple.
Striking.
He is fluidity in every move. He is a boy with eyes like hope, with scars that tell stories, with muscles born of a hard life. Itâs plain to see, so long as you care to look.
I decide not to comment on his face. If he wants to talk about it, heâll tell me. Plus, I donât like the cocky expression heâs sporting, like he knows that I think heâs hot and now heâs going to use it against me.
Maybe I should tell him that heâs only hot on the outside, when he doesnât talk.
He stops in front of me, grinning. His eyes glint like the edge of a knife. For a moment, it feels as though they can cut right through me.
âHow was your meal last night?â he asks.
I worried he would bring that up. Still, I canât help the heat that colors my cheeks, as though my traitorous blood wants Diego to know that his words hit their mark.
âIt was great,â I say casually and turn before he has a chance to see me blushing.
Diego is feeling brave today. He doesnât trail me like yesterday. Instead, he keeps pace beside me, smiling devilishly.
âAnd howâs that boyfriend of yours?â he asks.
I stop. Shoot him a hardened glance. Heâs well aware that Jason heard my comment.
âHeâs fine, Diego. Why donât you ask what you really want to instead of beating around the bush?â
He laughs. âYou surprise me sometimes, Faith.â
There it is again. My name. He says it differently than most people. I donât know if itâs his accent or the way my name tastes in his mouth; either way, it catches me off guard.
I donât want to ask why I surprise him. I turn around and continue walking.
âRed is a good color on you,â he comments.
Iâm not sure if he means my blouse or my face. I keep walking, wanting to be done with him for now.
And suddenly, I realize something.
I donât trust myself around him.
Not even my fake self. No, scratch that; especially my fake self. Fake Faith doesnât stand a chance around Diego. Heâs slowly unraveling the tight wire I use to secure the real me. Heâs trying to free her and he doesnât even know it.
Or does he?
Every time he speaks his mind, I want to do the same. And the dangerous part is that I just might. I wish I could dress how I want and date who I want. Why do some
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