"Do you mind if Jazmín spends the night here this weekend?" I ask Mom, loudly crunching tortilla chips. She has just whipped up a batch of homemade salsa in the food processor, throwing in an extra jalapeno for me without removing the seeds. It's perfect, and I suck in air to cool off my mouth as I reach for more chips.

"Of course not. Call her after dinner."

The only people I usually invite over to the house are my cousins. Jazmin is two years younger than I am, but we've grown up together as best friends. Throughout the summer months, we spend more days together than apart, and during the school year, we get together at least every other weekend. She's my safe haven, one of the only people with whom I can really let loose.

"Nati, I was voted in as president for the community Equity Committee, but we're meeting now on Friday evenings. It's downtown, so I won't be able to pick you up from volleyball. Do you think one of your teammates can give you a ride on those days?"

"Congratulations, Mom! Yeah, I'm sure I can get a ride with someone."

"Is that your phone?" Dad asks me.

After a beat, I register the buzzing sound coming from the living room, where I dumped my backpack next to the couch earlier. Compared to most teenagers, I barely pay attention to my cell phone.

I rush over and dig it out of the front zipper of my backpack, not intending to actually answer the call. Speaking on the phone is a horrifying proposition.

It's Kelsey, our volleyball team captain. Why doesn't she just send a text? I mutter to myself rhetorically, irritated.

"Hello?" My voice is immediately three octaves higher than it was twelve seconds ago when chatting with my mother.

"Hey, Nati!" Kelsey's voice exudes rainbows and confidence. "Tomorrow we're all wearing skirts to school for game day." Moment of silence. "So wear a skirt," she adds, just to be crystal clear.

"I don't think I have any skirts," I venture, without thinking.

"You don't own any skirts?" she replies, incredulous.

"I don't think so," I answer, feeling my face burning up. It's not that I've never owned or worn a skirt; it's just that I don't happen to have any currently in my wardrobe. I wear mostly jeans to school.

"Okay, well, it doesn't matter. I was just letting you know most of the girls are going to be dressing up," Kelsey explains in a nonjudgmental voice. She wraps up the phone call, and I return to the kitchen table as Mom is serving dinner, my freshly-showered armpits drenched in sweat.

I briefly summarize the phone call, shrugging at the minor discomfort of the situation. After we eat, I assist Dad with the dishes, practice the piano for thirty minutes and hop in bed early to finish reading the novel I've selected for my Advanced English book club: The Hate U Give.

After I've let my extremely compartmentalized brain detach from its rigid routine, the myriad squares of daily duties melt into one singular image that repeats itself over and over until I fall asleep: Alex, hands in his pockets, his head nonchalantly twisting back towards me. Gorgeous. I'm sure he didn't really say that. In fact, now that I think about it, he probably said "genius." I chuckle at myself. Gorgeous... It would be cool if someone called me that, though. Gorgeous...

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, there's a single ray of spring sunshine casting a golden shadow into my bedroom. Opening my eyes all the way, the first thing I see are two unfamiliar garments of clothing placed over my desk chair, the labels still attached. I leap out of bed and snatch them up. Oh my God.

My mom went out after dinner the night before and purchased me an outfit to wear for my volleyball game day. It's a fitted khaki skirt and simple black top, which both fit perfectly. When I glance in the mirror, a rare sensation of pleasure at how I look manifests as fluttering in my chest. For a split second, I can imagine a boy looking at me–maybe just my body–and finding me attractive.

"Thank you, Mom!" In the kitchen, I melt into my mom's chest as I grasp her warm, squishy body in a tight hug. "I can't believe you bought me new clothes."

"If everyone on your team is wearing the same thing, I didn't want you to be excluded. I know all too well how that feels."

Mom grew up without many financial resources, and she has told me about wearing the same outfit for an entire week, as well as the bullying that accompanied it. Being dark-skinned was another strike against her, as she experienced both overt racism and subtle microaggressions throughout her school years.

Being mixed race, and attending a somewhat diverse school in a newer generation, this is something I haven't had to deal with directly. Although I still overhear students at school making ignorant and hurtful comments about Mexicans more often than I'd like to admit.

"You look gorgeous!" Mom gushes, eyeing me up and down. There's that damn word again. I smile inwardly and wink to myself.

When I arrive to biology, my lab group is flicking some kind of fidget toy back and forth over their desks. I remove my bulky jacket, place it on the back of my chair, and rummage through my backpack for my bio notebook.

"Wow," comments Gabriel, raising his eyebrows at me. "Nice."

I'm not sure what he's referring to, until Sydney and Britney join in and focus the comments more explicitly for me.

"Ooh, la la," sing-songs Sydney. "What is this new outfit we have here?" She flashes me a thumbs up, and I blush, hurrying to plant my behind in my desk chair in order to feel less exposed.

"You look gorgeous," Britney adds. What? my brain screams.

Gabriel, presumably noting my blank expression, makes eye contact and nods. I'm fairly certain he's gay, but stupidly, I still feel some kind of tickling sensation all up and down my skin at the fact that a boy is telling me I look good.

By this point, I'm pretty uncomfortable with all the attention; I chalk it up to the fact that I'm wearing something unexpected, rather than the notion that I myself am suddenly more beautiful. My clothes are new, but I'm the same.

Later, in Spanish class, I notice James watching me as I cross the room to take my seat in front of him. By this point in the day, I regret wearing a skirt to school, as doing anything different in high school automatically catches people's attention. Drama-seeking adolescents have nothing better to do than point out what's new or strange, with no sense of tact or sensitivity for people with more introverted personalities.

"Hello," I greet James in my highest speaking octave. Ugh, why am I such an idiot? I would give anything to be able to utter a breezy "hello," instead of one that sounds like a beginner on bagpipe or the highest note on a harmonica. What is so damn difficult for me about the words "hi" and "hey?" They will not escape my lips. It's freaking "hello," every... single... time.

"Hola, Nati," James greets me with pink cheeks. See, that's a breezy greeting. "You look different today." There's a hint of a smile hanging on his lips.

"We had to dress up for our volleyball game," I reply, as if I need to give an explanation for my stylish wardrobe.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," he clarifies. "It's... good."

I'm fighting a blush so hard, but it's a worthless battle.

Sometimes, in the middle of saying or doing something that's not the least bit embarrassing, I will randomly think about the fact that I'm currently not blushing... and it will cause me to blush.

The way James throws constant compliments my way, the thought sometimes flashes through my mind that he could have a crush on me. But the reality of our circumstances simply doesn't support this theory. He's popular; I'm not. He's cute; I'm not. He's breezy; I'm not. James could have his pick of any girl at our school. I know he admires me for my academic talents, and we have had enough classes together by this point that he sort of looks out for me, as would a friend or brother.

Besides, those slow-burning, covert crushes revealed through tiny, imperceptible clues only occur in romance novels. In real life, when a boy likes you, he does something about it–beyond dropping subtle compliments over the course of three years.

* * *

Our varsity volleyball match takes place last that evening, after the younger teams have played. Game nights take an eternity, and depending on the mood I'm in and how much homework I have, they can either be entertaining or excruciating to sit through. We are required to attend at least the JV matches in order to support our teammates, and showing up for the freshman matches is encouraged as well. My teammates and I rotate turns being line refs each week.

Since we aren't playing until later, we remain in our "street clothes" for the first set of matches. Besides, tonight is a home game, and every other girl besides me is dying to show off their short skirts to the boys who are in attendance. They giggle and flirt and make every excuse to cross the gym repeatedly, perfecting their red-carpet, runway struts. Some of us attempt to complete our homework in the bleachers instead of parading around in the fashion show.

After holding it for as long as I can, in order to avoid walking past a crowd of people in a snug-fitting skirt and platformed sandals (which I'll likely trip in), I eventually head to the restroom. As I'm exiting the gym, I notice Alex moving in my direction, having just arrived for our match. He's wearing grey Adidas sports pants, grey tennis shoes and his long-sleeve, navy blue "Genius" shirt.

Alex smiles and lifts his arm up to wave when he sees me, his olive-toned face vibrant. He picks up his pace in order to intercept my path.

"Nati!" he calls, greeting me with a slow high five during which the sensation of his palm against mine sends heat undulating down my arm.

"Wow," he comments, gesturing to my outfit and not stepping away after the high five. It feels as though we are very close to each other, and then I realize he is about to hug me. My brain is working in slow-motion, and I attempt to place my arms around him in the most natural manner I can muster, with the appropriate amount of pressure and for the correct number of seconds.

"You look great!" he exclaims. My body explodes into tingles at the compliment.

"Thank you," I respond, though it comes out practically as breath instead of voice.

"I didn't know we were supposed to dress up," Alex comments playfully.

"You're the coach; you can wear whatever you want, I think." I'm shocked at myself for saying... words. The adrenaline from that hug has majorly shaken me up–in a good way?

"That's a relief, because I wore the same thing as yesterday." He shrugs with mild sarcasm, tilting his chin down to indicate his shirt. I'm fairly certain he's been wearing it all week. I offer him my best attempt at a smile, and it's as if our eyes catch together for a moment. I break the connection immediately, not used to this sort of direct contact with other people. His eyes are every possible eye color all speckled together–green, gold, hazel, brown, grey, blue.

"Except now my shirt has your tears on it," he says softly, with a hint of humor, grasping one of his sleeves in his fingertips and raising his arm up. Oh my God. Alex gives me a small wink, then turns suddenly and heads toward the gym.

I faint inside, then speed-walk to the restrooms, a small part of me wondering if I might actually wet myself on the way there because I was too embarrassed to cross the gym in front of people earlier. The irony isn't lost on me. As earth-shattering as the hug from Alex was, peeing myself in front of the whole school would not be worth it.