LITMIR.BIZ

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simply wave hello at them, used to the sight. “Parents are just cool with that?” Emma asks.

      “Whoever’s hosting usually has parents out of town or something. I haven’t been to one in a while.” I think out loud. “That might just be a thing that’s specific to my school, though. My school is kind of its own world: lots of rich kids, embassy kids, people who move every two years and have lived all over the world. I’m never really sure if my experiences are typically Mexican or not.”

      “Sounds like maybe not,” Emma says. “But what the hell do I know?”

      We break through into another clearing, with another insane view.

      “So, what else do you do?” Emma says. “Like, for fun?”

      “I mostly just go to movies, I guess,” I say, with a chuckle wrought mostly from nerves. Then I add, “I like cooking.”

      “Really? How come?”

      I’ve answered this question in my own head for years now, as if waiting to defend myself from someone’s accusations. Maybe the way Dad treated Felix’s love of travel helped prompt the preparation. “I love food and the joys it brings people. Cooking, to me, is an easy way to provide joy to myself and to others.”

      Emma cocks her eyebrow. “Good answer,” she says.

      “My brother may have helped me phrase it. He was much better with words than I am.” I duck away from some low-hanging branches. “What about you?” I ask, thankful but not wanting to just keep coming back to my dead brother. “What do you do for fun?”

      “I walk with ghosts through the woods,” she says with a smile, and I laugh more than I probably should.

      * * *

      When we get to the lake, Emma’s friends have started a bonfire. Embers float up into the night sky, and I swear to god they just keep going up and up until they stick to the night sky. There’s about ten people huddled around the pit, most holding beers. I recognize a couple from the restaurant, servers and bussers who have shed their black shirts and now look younger than I would have guessed. The cook with the tattooed sleeves is here too, his perpetual cigarette tucked between two knuckles. Emma calls out a hello as they approach and then introduces me to the group.

      Someone asks where I’m from, and the usual onslaught of follow-up questions ensues. The tattooed cook, Matt, brings up one of those questions I’m shocked I’ve been asked more than once in my life: “Did you ride a donkey to school every day?” He laughs, proud of himself, until I say that, sure, all twenty-five million Mexico City residents ride around on donkeys. The city built a second-story highway just to deal with all the donkey traffic. The group laughs, someone calls Matt a dumbass.

      Emma and I both accept beers and then take a seat on a blanket. We rest our backs against the cooler, which is heavy with ice and bottles. Emma gets pulled into a conversation pretty quickly, and I want to just sit back and listen to her, watch the embers float and wait for the island to keep doing impossible things. But a girl sitting to my left ropes me into a conversation. Her name’s Brandy and she very quickly tells me that she’s looking forward to leaving to go to college, all the new experiences that await her. I feel like a dick for not really caring about what she’s saying, for just wanting to be alone with Emma again.

      “But this place is great,” I say, struggling to engage.

      “For a while. You left Mexico, though. So you were probably kind of sick of it, right? But if I went I’d probably be amazed by everything there.” Brandy narrows her eyes, maybe a little drunk, maybe just a little like Felix, able to slip into earnestness without being self-conscious about it. “It’s beautiful here. I know that. But I’m kind of blind to it now. I can’t wait to get out.”

      I don’t get the chance to think too long about what she said, because a few of Emma’s other friends join in on the conversation. They’re curious just because I’m not from here.

      They want to know about drug lords, whether Mexicans eat burritos or if that’s just Americans, all the differences between here and there, but only weird surface questions that won’t actually tell them anything. In between their questions, or when Emma moves to throw another log on the fire, tosses someone else a beer, I look at her. I look at this strange place I’m in, the strangers around me, how it feels like I’ve been plopped in the middle of all of it. I find myself thinking: What a world.

      Someone asks me what brought me to the island, and I feel a tightness in my chest. I look down at the beer in my hand, peel at the label. Matt barks a laugh at my awkwardness until someone smacks him and tells him to shut up again. Sound gets sucked out of the evening, and all of a sudden it’s just me, feeling like a moron in front of some strangers. I’m afraid I’m about to freak out like in the restaurant again.

      Emma breaks the silence with a sigh and then stands up, patting me on the shoulder as she does, rescuing me. “Wanna take a walk?”

      I try to contain my smile, nod. I expect Brandy or a few others to follow along, but it’s just me and her walking away from the bonfire. When we’re only a few steps away, the stars, which have been hiding behind the glare of the flames, reemerge overhead. It feels like Emma’s just flicking switches around me, making things beautiful.

      “Sorry about my friends,” Emma says. “You were getting pounced.”

      We walk along the edge of the lake, tiny waves lapping at our feet, though the lake as a whole seems perfectly still. “I don’t mind. It’s just weird being the center of attention.”

      “Usually when people pay attention to me,” Emma says, “I’m certain they’re after something. Like they’re going to ask me for a donation or to sign a petition at any moment.”

      “Oh, that reminds me,” I say, pretending to reach into my pocket for a pen. “I have this petition I need six thousand signatures for...”

      “Shut up,” Emma says, smacking my arm. We fall quiet, and I can make out the sounds of wildlife in the surrounding trees. Bugs, an owl, the scattering feet of critters in the leaves. “I mean it, though. I can’t meet new people without giving a little side-eye to their intentions.” I don’t ask if I’m an exception. Emma goes on. “It’s gonna sound like such a whiny thing to say, but I’m sure it’s my parents’ fault. You can’t leave a kid so alone that she makes up imaginary friends for herself and not cause some long-lasting trust issues.” She says this jokingly, but I can tell there’s something tugging at her voice.

      She kicks at a pebble, and we both watch it bounce toward the lake and then skip across the surface. Like, the entire surface. Hundreds of skips, the ripples visible in the moonlight. I’d say I’m losing my mind but, well, that ship’s probably sailed. At least this insanity is aesthetically pleasing.

      “You think parents know?” I ask. “When they’ve messed their kids up in certain ways?”

      “Oh, I’ve written several manifestos to my parents about All the Ways They Messed Up.”

      I chuckle. I don’t know where she’s taking me, but I don’t want this walk to stop. I want to circle the lake all night. “What’s number one on the list?”

      Emma thinks for a second. “Well, my mom never taught me her secret to make the perfect grilled cheese.”

      I gasp. “You poor thing.”

      “That’s not even a joke. I’m exaggerating a little about her messing me up, of course. I think I turned out okay, mostly.” We’ve made it far enough away from the bonfire so that the voices don’t carry over, and it feels like it’s just the two of us again. Emma’s face is lit up by the moon, tiny replicas in her glasses at certain angles. “But she seriously makes the greatest grilled cheese of all time, and she’s never told me her secret. I can just picture myself in college, during the prime grilled cheese days of my life, each one a slight disappointment.”

      “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

      The

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