people have it so easy?
I glance at Diegoâs tattooed arms.
Then again, maybe some people have their own version of complicated.
On his lower bicep is an image of a girl on a motorcycle with something written in Spanish on the road beneath her. A five-inch gash on his arm makes her look as though sheâs been cut in half. The line of the scar is too clean to be an accident. Nothing but a purposeful slice makes a cut like that. I wonder what it was.
A piece of glass? A knife blade?
More tattoos and small scars snake down his armâtwo by his elbow, three on his wrist, several on his knuckles. And thatâs just the left arm. Where the wounds have healed, the images appear slightly blurred, the original ink forever distorted.
And then thereâs his neck. I try not to look at it but I canât help myself. His lightweight shirt is made of thin stretched cotton. The slight outline of his muscles is clearly visibleâespecially where his neck meets his strong shoulders. Above the neckline of his shirt a scar sweeps across his skin like a smile. The mark on his esophagus is red and angry.
Raw.
New.
Someone did that to him.
Why?
Diego clears his throat. âGet a good enough look?â he asks.
Iâm embarrassed. I shouldnât have stared at him.
âSorry,â I mumble. I blink several times, hoping that if I close my eyes hard enough, maybe the images of Diego will escape through my lashes into the swarm of bodies around us. My eyes are thieves, stealing glimpses, storing the evidence in my mind, making me guilty by association.
He grins. âThereâs more if youâre interested.â
I scowl. I cannot afford any more slip-ups. He has to stop provoking me. I need to get through the day. Then itâs over.
âGo to class,â I say, and turn to walk away.
Suddenly, Diego pulls me close. His body is pulsing, throbbing heat. I make a small whimpering noise. I donât mean to. Itâs just, God, why does he smell so good? Spicy almost.
His eyes are one thousand points of light blinding my caution.
He reaches around me. My chest presses against him. Iâm so aware of my body, of how itâs conspiring against me. My mind is urging me to step away, to snap out of it.
Abruptly, Diego releases me. In his fingers are stray hairs.
âShedding,â he says nonchalantly, letting my hair fall to the floor.
I try to sift through my confusion. Why did I not pull away from Diego when it seemed as if he was embracing me? But he wasnât embracing me. He was just ridding my shirt of hair.
Mistakes, mistakes. Too many mistakes.
âDidnât want to mess up your picture-perfect image.â
Diego winks, and walks toward the classroom door.
I canât let him get away with that. If anyone saw . . . If Jason hears . . . Iâll never live it down.
Witnesses, witnesses. Too many witnesses.
I part my lips to say something, anything, but embarrassment floods my mouth, chokes my words. The surge drowns any comeback I mightâve had.
And Iâm left alone, standing in a hall full of snickering students.
12
diego
B y the time I make it to lunch, even Javier has heard about my stunt.
âI heard you got close to a white chick,â my cousin says.
Yes, too close.
âSomething like that,â I say, grinning, acting as though it didnât affect me, too.
âFace it. Youâll never be good enough for that princesa ,â Ramon says.
Youâll never be good enough.
I feel myself crack, a sliver of ice punched deep by the force of his words. He really should not have said that.
Ramon is holding a tray of food. I shove him. People stop eating to look.
âHey, chill,â he says.
I knock his food to the ground. Spaghetti splatters. People are whispering.
âLet me tell you something,â I say. Might as well cut to the chase. âNobody speaks to me likeââ
Javier steps between us. âRelax,
I glance at Diegoâs tattooed arms.
Then again, maybe some people have their own version of complicated.
On his lower bicep is an image of a girl on a motorcycle with something written in Spanish on the road beneath her. A five-inch gash on his arm makes her look as though sheâs been cut in half. The line of the scar is too clean to be an accident. Nothing but a purposeful slice makes a cut like that. I wonder what it was.
A piece of glass? A knife blade?
More tattoos and small scars snake down his armâtwo by his elbow, three on his wrist, several on his knuckles. And thatâs just the left arm. Where the wounds have healed, the images appear slightly blurred, the original ink forever distorted.
And then thereâs his neck. I try not to look at it but I canât help myself. His lightweight shirt is made of thin stretched cotton. The slight outline of his muscles is clearly visibleâespecially where his neck meets his strong shoulders. Above the neckline of his shirt a scar sweeps across his skin like a smile. The mark on his esophagus is red and angry.
Raw.
New.
Someone did that to him.
Why?
Diego clears his throat. âGet a good enough look?â he asks.
Iâm embarrassed. I shouldnât have stared at him.
âSorry,â I mumble. I blink several times, hoping that if I close my eyes hard enough, maybe the images of Diego will escape through my lashes into the swarm of bodies around us. My eyes are thieves, stealing glimpses, storing the evidence in my mind, making me guilty by association.
He grins. âThereâs more if youâre interested.â
I scowl. I cannot afford any more slip-ups. He has to stop provoking me. I need to get through the day. Then itâs over.
âGo to class,â I say, and turn to walk away.
Suddenly, Diego pulls me close. His body is pulsing, throbbing heat. I make a small whimpering noise. I donât mean to. Itâs just, God, why does he smell so good? Spicy almost.
His eyes are one thousand points of light blinding my caution.
He reaches around me. My chest presses against him. Iâm so aware of my body, of how itâs conspiring against me. My mind is urging me to step away, to snap out of it.
Abruptly, Diego releases me. In his fingers are stray hairs.
âShedding,â he says nonchalantly, letting my hair fall to the floor.
I try to sift through my confusion. Why did I not pull away from Diego when it seemed as if he was embracing me? But he wasnât embracing me. He was just ridding my shirt of hair.
Mistakes, mistakes. Too many mistakes.
âDidnât want to mess up your picture-perfect image.â
Diego winks, and walks toward the classroom door.
I canât let him get away with that. If anyone saw . . . If Jason hears . . . Iâll never live it down.
Witnesses, witnesses. Too many witnesses.
I part my lips to say something, anything, but embarrassment floods my mouth, chokes my words. The surge drowns any comeback I mightâve had.
And Iâm left alone, standing in a hall full of snickering students.
12
diego
B y the time I make it to lunch, even Javier has heard about my stunt.
âI heard you got close to a white chick,â my cousin says.
Yes, too close.
âSomething like that,â I say, grinning, acting as though it didnât affect me, too.
âFace it. Youâll never be good enough for that princesa ,â Ramon says.
Youâll never be good enough.
I feel myself crack, a sliver of ice punched deep by the force of his words. He really should not have said that.
Ramon is holding a tray of food. I shove him. People stop eating to look.
âHey, chill,â he says.
I knock his food to the ground. Spaghetti splatters. People are whispering.
âLet me tell you something,â I say. Might as well cut to the chase. âNobody speaks to me likeââ
Javier steps between us. âRelax,
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