I stare without expression at the Magic Bullet spinning wildly on top of the shiny green kitchen tile, whipping fresh berries into a rich, creamy shade of pink. Mom chops up onion and bell pepper as if she's racing against the clock on the final round of a Master Chef episode.

"Want to come along with me to Costco after breakfast?" she asks.

I lock away the segment of my brain that's spinning faster than the blades of mom's blender, grounding my attention in my current reality.

"Eh, not really," I reply. "I'm going to stay here and get the rough draft of my research paper written."

After we polish off mass quantities of omelettes, toast and fruit smoothies, Dad heads out to water his garden, and Mom leaves to run Saturday morning errands.

The sun is blazing across our expansive backyard, and I stare motionless out the window for five minutes; images of lush, rippling grass and luxuriant fruit trees sear into my eye balls, and a billowing sensation between elation and nausea expands throughout my body.

My brain replays every comment Alex made to me yesterday. It's impossible to ignore the notion that something is happening between us, but the logical part of my brain explains away every interaction with a secondary possibility that seems just as plausible as romantic chemistry.

He liked my dress, not necessarily me in the dress. Alex is Costa Rican; he probably appreciated the Latin American style and flair.

He also said he enjoys my company now that I've come out of my shell a tiny bit, but that could mean so many things. Maybe he is proud of himself as a coach for drawing out his most introverted player, who was previously too shy to even answer a question. Perhaps he merely likes hanging out with me as a friend, now that we've established we are indeed close in age.

Even if the latter were the case, I'd still be feeling the same flutter of butterflies over the notion that a cool guy like Alex wants to be my friend.

What I can't shake from my mind are his knees against mine at the restaurant last night. The way he swung his leg against mine as we burst into shared laughter over klutzy volleyball maneuvers. Again, though, Latinos can be very touchy—as in, physically affectionate. Not that I am.

After indulging my daydreams for twenty minutes or so, I lock my beehive of overanalyzed thoughts into a box at the back of my brain and power on my laptop. Then I spread my materials across the kitchen table—my history textbook, the three articles I've printed and stacks of color-coded index cards.

I hear my phone buzzing somewhere in the house, but I resist the urge to leap up and instead stay focused on my research paper. When Mom arrives over two hours later with sacks of groceries, I'm still going strong. My stamina for schoolwork is something of an anomaly.

"Take a break, m'hija," Mom coos in an affectionate tone as she hauls the bags and boxes into the kitchen to put away perishables.

"I'm almost done with this part," I respond without glancing up. I've been telling myself the same thing for the past forty-five minutes.

"There!" I declare, clicking the save button and snapping the laptop shut in a flurry.

I help Mom put away the groceries, then meander outside to soak up a few minutes of sun. Dad and I chat about my research paper; he always feigns genuine interest when I prattle on and on about my school projects.

After blabbing Dad's ear off, I wander through the yard touching things. Running my palms over the feathery bottlebrush, snapping leaves off fresh mint plants and crushing them between my fingers, plucking honeysuckle flowers and sucking out the drops of sweet nectar.

My legs burn deliciously in the springtime sunrays, tanning a light honey shade. After a while, I remember the prior buzzing of my phone, and curiosity propels me back inside.

There are three notifications on my screen.

The first is from Raquel, asking if I want to go with her to the movie theater tomorrow. Another is from Sasha, inviting me to church again.

The final text, which I open last, is from Alex. By the time I allow myself to click into it, my hands and feet are pouring sweat.

It's a picture of tamales—the kind wrapped in palm leaves. The Costa Rican kind.

I'm confused.

Tamales?

I don't know what else to write.

"Nati, dad and I are heading to the hardware store to get supplies for the deck," Mom says. My eyes dart to her, alarmed, and I hold my phone down awkwardly as my feet create a literal puddle of water on the hardwood floor.

"Are you okay?" she asks me, tilting her head.

"Yeah!" I reply with a voice that's squeaky and breathless. I feel my phone vibrate in my clutches, and my heart races.

"Okay. I'll cook when we get back, but there is some leftover pasta from last night when you get hungry."

"Sounds good, thanks Mom."

As soon as she has left the room, I swipe open my screen.

Homemade!

He adds a yummy face emoji.

You made tamales? 

The blood is draining from random parts of my body; everything is numb and zinging at the same time.

Yep! With my mom.

Plus a star-eyed emoji. I practically fall in love with him in this moment over the fact that he texts with emojis.

Okay, fine. Full disclosure—my mom made them. 

I snicker out loud.

"Who are you texting?" Mom inquires.

I jump out of my skin while attempting to look casual.

"Raquel. She wants to go to the movies tomorrow. Is that okay?"

"Of course, sweetie." Mom kisses me on the cheek, then shuffles through the living room, grabbing keys, sunglasses and shoes. Dad pads through, giving me a sweet wave.

"Bye, Nati!" my parents call out as they make their way out the front door, locking it out of habit.

"See you guys soon!" I return. My phone has been tossed aside, and I begin stroking a few chords on the piano. I continue playing until I hear the car pull out of the driveway and accelerate down Cherry Avenue.

Snatching up my phone, I send Alex a laughing-with-tears emoji in response to his confession.

They look delicious!

My mind pressurizes, on the brink of explosion wondering what he will say next.

They are.

What are you up to right now, are you home? Did you know I really do live close to you?

I sink down onto the piano bench to avoid passing out.

What? I type, feeling like a moron.

Want to try one? he responds instantaneously.

Leaping up, I sprint to the kitchen, pour myself a colossal glass of water and begin gulping. I promptly choke, spitting mouthfuls of liquid down the front of my shirt. Classy. Hacking my lungs out, I return to the piano bench to stare at the most recent text message.

Um...

Because I have no idea what to say, but I don't want him to abandon the conversation due to my lack of response.

I can just toss them into your yard through the window if it's too awkward with your parents. Drive-by tamales.

I laugh way too hard, all my emotion tumbling out in dramatic, undignified giggles. Before thinking, the adrenaline of my outburst prompts me to boldly respond:

My parents aren't home.

I grab my forehead, my nails digging into my scalp, feeling I've just said something I shouldn't have.

Well, then there's no excuse. I'll be there in five minutes.