June

I hadn't seen Nathan since Christmas, and I was increasingly worried about him. Sam told me to leave it alone — it'd blow over soon enough, he said. What was happening to Nathan? Why was he locking himself away in his room? Had my mom somehow offended him? She could be judgmental, after all, especially towards white people with money. Maybe she'd said something hurtful while I wasn't paying attention.

Two full weeks at their place had sounded like the best vacation ever, but now with the giant shadow of Nathan's absence looming over us all day, it became depressing fast. I wanted to know what was wrong with him. Perhaps I could help; perhaps I could cheer him up like I always did if he came home from a difficult exam at college. Sam continued to tell me to leave him alone and that Nathan was 'just a little weird'.

On the day before New Year's, I had enough of it. It could've been such a fun holiday, without the snow I had to fight my way through back in New York, and the sun still greeting me every day... Instead, there was this nagging feeling in my stomach. I didn't like it, I much rather had the tingly stuff that sometimes happened when Nathan smiled. Determinedly, I walked into the kitchen, where Sam was making us tea, and pierced my eyes into his. "Sam," I said, "I want to know what's wrong with Nathan, and I want to know now."

Sam sighed. "Fine. But you didn't get it from me." I was wise enough to not mention to him that there really wasn't anyone else who could tell me. He bit his lip, then frowned. "It's this girl," he said, and for some reason, my stomach lurched, and definitely not in a nice way. "They were friends, like you and me. Lena was her name. She was batshit, mental institution kind of crazy."

"Was?"

Sam started to pour two cups of tea, a waft of steam whirling up from the surface. "Yeah, she killed herself, two years ago, during New Year's Eve. I guess he's reminded of her when the day comes closer."

I couldn't understand how he could explain this so calmly. This was horrifying! No wonder Nathan didn't want to see anyone... Imagine if Sam would take his own life, and I'd have to go on without him, knowing I hadn't been able to save him... Immediately, I felt terrible for being pissed at Nathan for ruining the festive atmosphere. I waited till Sam had put the cups of tea down, then hit him as hard as I could, which wasn't very hard at all. "Sam! How could you not have told me? How can you just... just... That is horrible, just... horrible. Es horrible! Pobre hombre!"

"Yeah, well, the girl was insane, June," Sam said. "I was scared of her, really, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. She was a psycho. I never knew what she was going to be like. She was either crying all the time or making up these crazy plans."

"Stop using those words!"

"What words?"

"Crazy, insane, psycho... That's really offensive."

"How is that offensive?"

"What do you think? It's like saying the r-word."

"What r-word?"

I sighed deeply. I really did not like to say it out loud. "Retard," I whispered, thinking of how dad had taken Valentina and me aside when we were kids and explained to us why it was hurtful to use. Even Vale, who cursed a lot, never said it again.

He screwed up his nose. "You said 'retard' on your first day here."

Yes, and that'd been hard enough. I'd figured being bold would be the sole way to earn some respect, if that was even possible. "Only to diss Matt Granton. I would never, ever use it of my own accord. You're practically insulting people with intellectual disabilities when you do."

"Fine. I won't use that word again. Happy now?"

"Yes. Now tell me about the plans Lena used to make."

For a second, he was quiet. "I don't know. She just liked to do these really crazy things— alright, reckless things," he added when I gave him a look. "Like this time when I was eleven, and she and Nathan smuggled me out of school to go camping in some National Forest. I missed four days of school! And it wasn't Nathan's idea, I can tell you that." He frowned, then said, with an exasperated sigh: "I just don't understand why he liked her so much."

He didn't have to understand. I was sure lots of people didn't understand why Sam liked me either; that didn't mean our friendship was worthless. Sometimes, it wasn't even a question of liking someone, sometimes, you might not like a person, but you loved them, like abuela did her second son, uncle Antonio. "It doesn't make a difference if you liked her or not. He liked her. And she took her own life. That's bad enough, isn't it?"

Sam didn't say anything. He was kicking the leg of one of the kitchen chairs, not with force, merely in a rhythm. It annoyed me kicking was his way of blowing off steam, whether Nathan was the target or furniture. "I just want my brother back," he said then, kind of sulkily, like a toddler about to cry. "I don't like it when he does this. It's what she did. What if he becomes like her? — No, June, don't — hug — me — I — don't — want—"

He didn't have a choice. Sometimes, hugging was the only solution, my dad had taught me. It didn't always work, and Sam hated it when I applied the technique, but for me, it could make the worst situation seem a little less inescapable. Sam probably hadn't been hugged for years before I stepped into his life. Judging by the picture in his room, his grandma had died well before he lost most of his baby teeth. And well, the awkward squashings of his mom couldn't be called a hug at all.

Finally, he stopped struggling. Only then did I let him go. He was red in the face, though I didn't know if it was from embarrassment or trying not to cry. "You said you weren't going to do that again," he said, and I giggled.

"Just like I said Nathan's Christmas present was a love letter. And that my uncle Miguel was in a gang and killed people. And that I liked your new shirt."

"You don't like my new shirt?!"

I laughed — he seemed genuinely offended. "No, I don't. It's boring."

"I don't like your sweater."

"Which one?"

"The grey one."

"I've got three grey ones."

"Yeah, well, one of those."

"Oh, alright. Now I'm really sad because my best friend doesn't like one of my sweaters!"

"Stop that! You lie about everything, don't you?" Oh, it was so easy to mess with him. "Tell me the truth, what was on that card?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." I beckoned him to come closer, then said: "A secret." I burst out in a fit of giggles, but he didn't find it as funny.

"You suck."

"I know."

After my giggles had subsided, I remembered what we'd been talking about. "Sam," I said seriously, and he looked up, almost hopefully, as if I was going to take all of his worries away. "My abuela, on the day her husband died, she always goes to the graveyard and stays there alone, crying from sunrise to sundown. It's what she needs, it's good for her." At least, that's what my dad had told me many times, asking me if I ever had a cry and not felt better afterward. He was right: sometimes, the sadness needed to be let out, and sometimes, the only way to achieve that was to cry until you were too tired to think anymore. "And when she returns home, we are there to remind her of the good things. So, that's what we need to do for Nathan. Just be there for him when he's ready, like he's always there for us."

Sam didn't respond. He scratched his head, thinking, then said: "Wait, I don't understand. There's nothing good about crying, right? And who says Nathan's crying?" His eyes widened, as if the possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. "You think he's crying?"

Sigh. Boys. "Never mind. You know what, I know what to do. You have money to pay for a cab, right?"

That evening, it was Sam who burned his hand while he drained the water for me. It wasn't my intention to lure Nathan out of his room; I didn't even think it was possible. I just wanted to create a plate for him and set it in front of his door, so he could eat if he wanted to — so he knew there were people who cared, even though he might feel like the loneliest person on earth right now. Because Sam might not fully understand, but he did care.

So, when I heard footsteps later while I was setting the table, I thought it was Sam returning from the bathroom. I was examining the mat under one of the pans; it was one of those artsy ones, and they gave off a distinctive stench whenever you put something hot on it. Incredibly useless things. Was everything in this kitchen for show? "I really think we need to buy different table mats. It smells like they're melting."

Silence. The lack of an answer wasn't alarming to me. This was Sam, after all, and Sam did not care about items like table mats. At all. "We can go get some next week," he said then, but it wasn't Sam's voice. It was deeper and much more unexpected.

Nathan.

He was in an oversized hoodie, hands hidden in his sleeves. Although his hair was a mess, there were no signs of crying.

For a second, I didn't know what to do. What did he want? Why did he come down? Was he eating with us? Despite not knowing his intentions, I offered him a small smile. "Sounds good."

To my relief, he took a seat at the table, sinking back into the chair. I wasn't sure if he was aware of what was going on; he was staring off in the distance, eyes empty, head resting on his fists. When Sam came in, he wanted to shout — I quickly shot him a warning look, and he shut his mouth immediately. "Can you get another spoon, Sam?"

I almost went to sit down when I changed my mind. Resolutely, I walked around the table, gingerly wrapping my arms around Nathan, just for a moment. "I'm really glad you're here," I said softly, before letting go. He responded with a sort of grunt, then proceeded to fill his plate with vegetables.

And for once, Sam did not comment on my habit to hug people.