Sometimes I can make things happen with my mind. For example, when I want something to work out a certain way. It's like a premonition, or a manifestation. And so far in my eighteen years of life, things always seem to work out for me.

* * *

Church with my friends on Sunday is interesting. I sit in a rigid posture the entire service, silently judging everyone around me at the same time as I feel their judgment on me for not singing along to the worship music or tilting my head down during prayer. My mind wanders to Alex every twelve seconds.

After the service, my friends and I go out for smoothies at Jamba Juice. I'm thrilled to be out somewhere on a weekend, like a normal teenager; at the same time, I'm silently fretting about the probability that the core values of my friends are less aligned to mine than I'd hoped to believe. I'm well aware there are exceptions, but in my experience, "Christianity" often goes hand-in-hand with racism and homophobia.

My phone vibrates in my purse, which is slung around my shoulder and laying against my hip. Alex's name flashes across the screen as I dig it out, and an excitement akin to the sensation of nausea bubbles into my throat. This intense physical manifestation of emotion takes me by surprise.

You left your sweatshirt in my trunk, I'll bring it to you tomorrow at practice.

I can't help but notice the unimportant nature of this piece of information, and I imagine Alex thinking about me at home on a Sunday afternoon.

No worries, thanks Alex.

Sasha is staring at me, intrigued, when I glance up after slipping my phone back into my purse.

"Who're ya texting?" she asks me with a sly expression. I feel myself turn tomato-red in a matter of a millisecond, and everyone in the group turns their attention to me.

"Oh my goodness!" exclaims Ruby. "Do you have a special someone?"

"No," I insist, shaking my head.

"Nati, Nati, Nati," chides Crystal. A few more comments are made, which I can't even hear due to the whooshing sound rushing through my eardrums.

* * *

When Sasha drops me off at home, my mom and my Tía Leti are preparing homemade tamales. Our tiny kitchen is an absolute disaster, and they've got Mana—a Mexican band—blasting through the house.

"Sobrina hermosa!" Tia Leti greets me with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek, using the backs of her hand to embrace me in an attempt not to rub masa all over my shirt.

"It smells delicious," I tell them, my mouth watering. "Can I help make tamales?"

"Of course, m'hija."

My tía asks me about school, volleyball and my excursion to church. We chat freely for an hour while wrapping the masa and seasoned chicken in corn husks, and I catch her up on everything going on in my life—which is nothing too exciting.

"Shit, I'm out of tequila," Mom declares. My parents rarely drink, but when relatives visit, they'll usually have a glass of wine or a margarita.

"Let's make a store run," Tía Leti tells her sister.

"I'll go!" Mom replies quickly. "You stay and chat with Nati.

After mom leaves, logic battles against my fluttering heart as I hesitate between secrecy and spilling my insides.

"Tía Leti?" I venture.

"M'hija?"

Half-formed questions swirl around in my head, but each one catches in my throat and evaporates off my tongue before I vocalize it.

"Nada, Tía."

* * *

We win both our volleyball matches the following week, and I'm relatively pleased with how I play. It's dawning on me that there are only a few weeks left in the season, and this may be my final experience on an official team, after playing sports for six years straight. I don't plan to go out for any teams in college; sports require a great deal of dedication, and I want to leave space for other experiences. I'll be attending Lewis & Clark, a small liberal arts college in Oregon, next fall.

On Friday, I have a presentation in Spanish class. I'm well prepared, but the anxiousness is gurgling around in my stomach and tingling down my fingers all morning.

When I arrive to class and open my PowerPoint presentation, James is immediately by my side, peering at my computer. His shoulder practically touches mine.

"Which country are you presenting?"

"Costa Rica," I tell him. I'm wearing a simple blue dress, and my mom braided my hair this morning. I've become more adventurous over the past few weeks with my wardrobe.

During the presentation, my legs tremble imperceptibly, and my hands are drenched in sweat. I regret the dress, as I have no place to wipe them; I did not think this through. Although I know exactly what to say, and the content is well put together, my voice is shaky throughout.

James is leaning forward, his full attention focused on me, and his smile is incredibly encouraging. He nods as I struggle through the pronunciation of the harder words, confirming their comprehensibility, and this simple gesture bolsters me to keep focused and finish the speech.

"¡Buen trabajo!" he tells me as I sit down, with an extremely gringo accent, which is quite endearing.

"Gracias." I exhale a long line of air in relief and wipe my hands as discreetly as I can across the jean jacket I'm now clutching in my lap, which isn't exactly absorbent.

* * *

I'm half-hoping I'll bump into Alex on the way to practice like I did last week, because there's a tiny part of me that believes I look cute today. He's nowhere around, however, so I head into the locker room to change into my navy blue spandex shorts, sports bra and fitted, cream-colored tank top. I used to only wear baggy t-shirts and basketball shorts to practice. The first time I learned I'd have to wear spandex at games—my freshman year—I was horrified. You get used to new things, though.

When I arrive in the gym, all the girls are gathered around Alex, who is juggling. He drops one of the balls a couple times, picks it back up and continues. I'm intrigued by his uninhibited manner, and I suddenly can't wait for practice to be over so he can drive me home.

"Alright, children!" Steve addresses us pointedly, glaring with an element of humor in Alex's direction. "Let's put away the juggling balls and get out the volleyballs. Everybody take three warmup laps around the gym, then get with a partner to stretch."

We all take off before he's pronounced the final word; everyone seems to be in goofy spirits after the random juggling session.

"No cutting corners!" Steve's voice booms through the gym.

During the first drill, Ariya is waddling around like a duck during Steve's instructions, while everyone else busts up. I can't contain my laughter, even though I can see the vein on the side of our coach's forehead pulsing dangerously.

"Knock it off," he says in a low, even voice. She is bold, however, and does it one more time behind his back. Beck's facial expression gives her away, and without even turning around to confirm, Steve slams the volleyball he's holding into the floor.

"On the line, now!" he growls through gritted teeth. I can barely handle it when people are upset, and I feel his vicarious wrath burn into me on an emotional level even though I had nothing to do with the shenanigans. Soon, we're all feeling his wrath physically as he has us run multiple suicides, which nowadays are called "lines" to be more PC.

I'm beyond exhausted by the time practice is over, and I head to the restroom to rinse off my salt-crusted face. My braids are falling out and look ridiculous, so I take them out, which leaves my long chocolatey hair slightly crimped. I don't mind how it looks, but I cringe at my face in the mirror, which is bright-red, puffy and asymmetrical.

When I return to the gym, Alex is just about ready to go. The JV girls are warming up, and it appears Steve has left already. We head out to the car.

"How was your day?" Alex asks me as I click my seatbelt.

"It was... good," I reply.

"Oh, hang on," Alex interjects. He reaches across my lap to open the glove box and removes two granola bars. I distinctly feel the back of his hand brush the top of my leg in the process, and I'm immediately short of breath.

"Here you go!" he says, handing one to me. "You're probably starving after that practice."

The way he emphasizes the word "that" makes me think he's poking a bit of fun at Steve's grumpy mood and all the extra running he forced us to do.

"Thank you," I reply, trying not to touch his fingers as I receive the snack. We pull out of the school parking lot and accelerate up the hills of Olive Street.

"Actually..." Alex hesitates. "What time do your parents get home?"

"Around 6:30," I say, my heart pounding.

"I'm famished. Do you want to grab food with me—non-granola bar food? I could stop by Dairy Queen on the way to your house."

My head is swimming. All these idiomatic expressions I've grown up hearing are manifesting in literal, physical form since I've started carpooling with Alex. "My head is swimming"... Millions of thoughts are circling in a whirlpool, and I'm doggy paddling, trying to make sense of this moment before I drown.

"Uh..." My throat is like sandpaper.

"Relax," he says, tapping his hand against my arm. "It's just food. We'll drive through."

It's like he's giving me no choice, but I don't feel as though he's forcing me to do something uncomfortable. It's like he's forcing me to be comfortable.

"It's just, I don't carry money to school," I explain, as if that's the only reason for my reservations.

"Come on, Nati," he chides me with a small chuckle. "I can buy you a burger. It's no big deal."

"Okay," I squeak with extreme awkwardness.

Soon, he pulls into Dairy Queen, and there are a couple of cars ahead of us in the drive-thru.

"Okay, what do you want to order?" Alex asks me, and I panic because I don't do well with making day-to-day decisions or speaking up about what I want.

"Um, I'm not sure," I say.

"Well, what do you want to eat?" he presses, and I'm not sure if he's trying to draw me out or if he's becoming impatient with all my passivity.

"What are you getting?" I ask, my chest growing tight. Fuck me, if I start crying right now, I swear to God...

"I'm getting a cheeseburger, fries and Blizzard," he declares loudly, as if he's explaining a very obvious math equation. Then he turns in his seat, and his eyes blaze into mine. "And you can order the same thing, or you can order anything on the menu that you feel like eating." His face is hanging between amusement and exasperation.

"Okay, fine! I'll have the same thing. With a small M&M Blizzard." I breathe in cool air, and it rushes through me as if my lungs have just been cleared of strangling cobwebs.

"Thank God!" he exclaims, chuckling. Then he gently swats my leg with his hand, shaking his head. I'm acutely aware of the fact that his hand has made contact with my leg twice in the past ten minutes.

After we exit the drive-thru, Alex parks so we can eat. I'm starving, and the food is delicious. I give my very best effort not to drip sauce and ice cream all over myself, and for the most part I'm successful. Alex scarfs down his food in the way he does everything else—utterly unconcerned about what anyone else might think.

"Why were you juggling?" I ask, surprising myself by initiating a question.

"Because I can," he answers, and I'm not able to interpret the tone; all I know is I am melting further for him every time he speaks. He licks the long river of ketchup-mayonnaise sauce that's dripping down the side of his hand.

"School was good?" Alex asks, continuing a conversation from twenty minutes ago.

"Oh. Yeah, it was fine. I had to give a presentation in Spanish class." I grimace.

"What was it on?"

Oops, I set myself up for that one.

"Um, we had to choose a Spanish-speaking country and research it," I explain. "Mine was actually Costa Rica."

"Oh, really?" he asks, his face lighting up as though he's poking fun at me. "What made you choose Costa Rica?" He winks at me, and I blush furiously.

"I've always wanted to travel there; it looks so beautiful," I stammer.

"I went just once, with my mom, when I was ten. It was incredible. Have you been to Mexico? What region is your mom from?"

"My mom grew up here, but my grandparents are from Oaxaca," I tell him. "And yes, I've been three times to Mexico. I love it there."

We talk about our favorite foods from our respective countries of heritage, and before I know it, it's 6:00pm. My parents are never home before 6:30, but I'm starting to get antsy.

"I better take you home," Alex sighs, looking at the time. "Though I could easily stay here longer and talk about Mexican food."

Oh my God. What is happening?