I called Diego days ago, and now he was responding.

At least he responded.

I hadn't heard from Santiago yet.

It was Saturday, and Estella and I had made plans to study for French, so I rolled out of bed and got ready to head out.

Right when I swung my backpack onto my shoulder and headed for the door, I received a text.

She sounded like a mother, but at least, she cared.

I jogged down the stairs but stopped at the sight of my father. He was on the couch watching soccer, and his eyes gravitated towards me. "Iago."

I cautiously approached him. "Papa?"

"A dónde vas?"

Did we always have to do this?

"Just going to a friend's house," I said without thinking.

Were Estella and I friends?

"Oh." A crease formed in his forehead. "Don't tell me it's those pijos."

I shook my head. "Another friend."

For now, she was a "friend."

My father's expression relaxed, and he smiled. It was rare to see my father smile, so when it happened, it was a good day. "Have fun. I'm making croquettes tonight, so don't be out too late."

He was cooking?

He was acting like a normal father?

It was a good day.

The tension eased out of me. "I won't."

"Hasta luego." He waved as I walked out.

I hurried into Verda and got settled in. I brought her to life and blasted my favorite System of a Down playlist as I started my journey to the Gillon house. This was a great start to the day.

"Jax!" Estella greeted while opening the door. "Come in." She stepped aside and motioned for me to enter, which I did.

I stepped into the cool, sweet-scented home and checked the place out. It was a nice house with moderate decoration and pictures of Estella and a man I assumed to be her dad scattered all over the place.

She didn't live in the heart of Central Creek like Brice and Oliver, but she was a fair distance away from South Creek. This was the perfect place to be.

        It wasn't too ignorant and vain, but it nourished a secure lifestyle.

"Follow me." She led the way, and I followed suit to a second living room that had darker colored furniture, which resulted in a dimmer atmosphere. I preferred it to the beige and vivid appearance of the living room near the front door. "Sit." She motioned to a couch as she sat on the floor in front of a glass table.

"Do you not want to sit next to me?" I asked while taking a seat on the couch. "Are you afraid of me?" I dug out my French supplies.

"I prefer the floor," she said, "but you're my guest. It won't be very polite to ask you to sit on the floor just because I want to."

She had a point. "So I'm a guest?" She nodded, and I grabbed the back of the couch and leaned back. "Get me a drink then."

She arched one brow and lowered the other with a look of disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"I'm your guest. Southern hospitality."

"We're not even in the south," she pointed out.

"So?" I said. "I'm your guest. You should be meeting my needs."

"With that logic, if some perv showed up and wanted me to meet his 'needs,' I'll be obligated to."

I suppressed a chuckle. "My mind wasn't going there. I know you're thirsty and all, but at least get me a drink before taking advantage of me."

Her eyes went round. "Shut up! I wasn't even having sexual thoughts like that."

"I just want a drink."

"You say I'm thirsty?" She rose to her feet. "You're the one always hustling for drinks."

She huffed as she ran upstairs. I could hear cupboards and a fridge opening, and a couple minutes later, she returned with a glass of water.

She brought the glass out to me. "I'll start you with this. When you want something else, just tell me."

I glimpsed between her face and the glass before settling on her. "I was joking." Her face went blank. "I didn't really want a drink. I was just messing with you."

"You've got to be—"

"I'm not that rude," I interrupted her. "Plus, if I really wanted a drink, I would have asked in a nicer way. I'm not a sexist misogynistic pig." I curled my lips into my mouth to resist the urge to laugh.

"Why didn't you tell me that before I got the drink?" She slammed the glass into one of the drink holders that were within the couch, and she returned to her spot on the carpet. "What a waste of my time."

"You shouldn't have been so quick to give in."

"I can't even with you." She shook her head while staring at me. "You do the most, Jax."

"I'm glad you finally have the right name down."

She had been calling me Jax ever since we exchanged numbers, which I was grateful for. I went by Jax, not Iago.

"That's what you go by," she said, "even though you're being Iago at the moment."

I tilted my head to the side, not knowing what she was talking about. "What?"

"When you're being annoying, you're Iago," she said. "You've been good lately, but you're being Iago right now."

"So," I started, "when I'm good, I'm Jax. And when I'm bad, I'm Iago?"

She nodded. "Iago is the name of the antagonist of Shakespeare's Othello. It only makes sense for your rude alter-ego to be Iago."

I had never even read Othello.

"Who thinks of this?"

"Me, obviously," she answered. "Whether I call you Jax or Iago is all on you. If you don't want me to call you Iago, then be good."

I busted into laughter. That was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard, but her serious expression remained intact, making me laugh even harder.

"Wow," I said when my laughter died down. "You're an interesting person, Estella."

She grinned. "Thanks."

"That could either be an insult or a compliment," I said, and her grin disappeared. "Interesting could be a nicer way of saying something is weird, or it could genuinely mean something is intriguing. You never know."

"So what am I?" She crawled towards me and stopped beside my leg. "Weird?" She sat up on her knees to move near me. "Or intriguing?" She moved close, waiting for my answer as we stared at each other.

She was really close.

I wasn't sure if I liked it.

But I didn't hate it either.

"I don't know." I put some distance between us, and she sat back on her legs, but she stayed next to my leg. "I need time to figure it out."

"Once you do, let me know." Her grin returned, and she crawled back to her original spot. I watched her as she took her stuff out, and her gaze locked on mine. "Actually, I change my mind. Come sit in front of me."

She tapped a pencil on the table, and I pretended to think it over. "I don't know. This is a pretty safe distance from you."

"Stop joking around," she said with a groan.

"Who says I'm joking?" I smirked, and she inhaled. "I am, don't worry." I grabbed my backpack and moved to sit in front of her. "Might as well get started on studying."

That was why I was here, after all.

We looked at each other, and she said, "What first?"

"Let's go over verbs," I suggested, and she nodded, so we began.

We went over our verbs, refreshed on the cultural stuff Madame LeBlanc had taught us, and we quizzed each other on masculine and feminine nouns and pronouns. Estella even sang some of the songs Madame LeBlanc taught us to help us learn different aspects of the language. I refused to participate, of course, but she sang loud and proud.

Maybe she was weird.

We studied for an hour until we both placed our pencils down. She wiped at her forehead and leaned back on the foot of the couch behind her. "My brain needs a break."

"I can go on a little longer."

I needed to ace this test.

"That's not good." She 'tsked'. "The human mind works optimally for an hour or so. After that, you can keep working, but it's not as efficient as when you work for an hour or less."

I snorted. "Well, tell that to our school."

We had to stay engage way beyond an hour, but if that was what it took, I would do it.

"True." She pressed her thumb and index finger on her chin and mouth. "But we're not at school. We're at the Gillons' house."

"Where are the other Gillons, by the way?"

I had been curious about her parent's whereabouts from the moment I stepped foot into the house, so this was the perfect opportunity to bring it up.

Did they know a boy was coming over?

Not that anything was going to happen, of course.

"Daddy is working," she said. "He's a real estate agent."

I bobbed my head and waited for her to say something about her mom.

She didn't.

So, I didn't push it.

"No siblings?" I asked instead.

"Nope. Just me and Daddy."

I glanced around the room and caught a glimpse of a picture hanging on the shelf above the fireplace. It was a portrait of a light-skinned woman with frizzy hair and honey brown eyes. She was thin but had one of the largest smiles.

Due to the resemblance, I assumed that was her mother, although Estella had a rounder, more babyish face.

I pointed at the portrait. "Your mom?"

She peeked over at the picture and smiled. "Yeah. She took that when I was five."

I bobbed my head again, but my gaze moved to her. Her smile remained intact with no hint of sadness or malice. Estella returned her attention to me, and her demeanor remained the same.

She wasn't going to tell me more.

I kind of liked that.

I hated people who were so quick to spread their business around. Someone needed to earn your trust before they had the right to your personal affairs. Not a lot of people deserved that trust.

"What about you?" she asked. "What do your parents do?"

I tensed up, but relaxed soon after, not wanting to come across as suspicious. "I should be the one doing the interrogating here, not you."

"And why is that?" She placed both arms onto the table and leaned forward.

"I'm at your house," I replied. "If there's anyone in danger, it's me. You and your dad could be serial killers, for all I know."

"Yes, I'm definitely a serial killer," she played along with a blank stare. "Because I could so kill someone with my bright smile and short stature."

"You could," I said, having to stifle a laugh. "Your presumed innocence could be the bait."

She bit her lip with a mischievous look. "What makes you think I'm innocent?" She leaned in close once more, even closer this time.

I blinked at her proximity. "You look innocent."

"Looks can be deceiving." She sat up on her knees again to move in some more.

She was being really close today.

"Unless you prove me wrong," I said, "I'm going to assume you're innocent."

"Oh really? Daddy doesn't know you're here." She moved her fingers in walking motions along my arm.

This was a wrong day to wear a muscle tee. "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh." Her fingers moved down my arm. "He doesn't like boys coming over when he's not here."

"You have to do better than that to get rid of your 'innocent' title." I grabbed her hand and pushed it off of me.

She'd felt enough.

"I guess I'll have to show you one day then," she said with a smile.

"What?" My eyes widened, and she smacked my arm.

"Not like that, you perv."

"So, now I'm the perv?"

"You're being one with those thoughts," she retorted.

"Everyone has thoughts," I said. "The pervs just openly express them."

She chuckled. "The irony."

"What does that mean?" I placed my arms on the table, too, and leaned in as we watched each other.

"You're not open about anything," she said. "I know nothing about you."

"Why do you want to know things about me?"

"That's how people interact," she said. "They share resources, experiences, and words. We're creatures who are required to share."

I wasn't required to do shit. If I didn't want to share, I wasn't going to share.

"Why don't you share then, Miss We're-Required-to-Share." I leaned back with both hands now on the floor. "I'm waiting. Share," I challenged her, and she narrowed her eyes at me.

"I've already shared plenty," she said. "Now, it's your turn. To start things simple, let's talk about friends."

Friends?

Why would she want to talk about my friends if she wanted information on me?

"Who are your closest friends?" she asked, but I wasn't buying this.

"You already know the answer, Estella. It's Brice, Oliver and Tyler."

"You could have other friends."

"I don't like other people enough to tolerate them." Her mouth dropped, and I shrugged.

"Not even me?" she asked while pointing at herself.

"Especially not you." She gasped, and I almost cracked up. "I'm joking. You're not so bad."

"Stop that." She smacked my arm again.

"How can I tolerate you when you keep hitting me?"

"How can I tolerate you when you keep messing with me?" she countered.

Touché.

She scrutinized me with her lips pursed. "You being friends with them is so bizarre. They don't seem like people you would associate yourself with."

I couldn't envision myself associating with anyone, but I managed. "If it wasn't for Brice, I wouldn't associate myself with them."

"How did you guys become friends?" Her eyes gleamed of curiosity, and I eyed her.

Why did she care so much?

"Hip-hop company."

"That makes sense."

"I joined company my freshman year, and the only freshmen there were me, Brice, Oliver and two other guys. I didn't talk to anyone at first, and I just focused on doing my thing. Then one day, Brice started talking to me, and of course, Oliver follows wherever there is a Brice." She snickered. "Then he started talking to me, too. We all talked frequently after that, and one day, Brice invited me to go over to Oliver's house, and that was when I met Tyler. After that, the four of us continued to spend time together, and now we're here."

Tyler and Brice had known each other since elementary school. Their fathers were close friends and introduced them to each other. Brice and Oliver started talking in middle school, and Brice introduced Tyler to Oliver. Then I came along freshman year.

If it wasn't for Brice, none of us would have associated with each other.

I wasn't the epitome of what a friend was supposed to be, but I was a "friend" to those three guys. They didn't irritate me—not like other people.

"That's cute," Estella said while cupping her face into her hands.

I didn't know how, but okay.

"What about you?" I asked. "Who are those two girls you're always running around with?"

"Sadaf and Mi Yun?"

"Sure." I was going along with it.

"We met at freshman year's band camp," she told me. "Sadaf and I are in the flute section, and Mi Yun is in the clarinet section. Those two sections tend to be close to each other in the band setup, and we sometimes get paired off together in sectionals, so the three of us saw each other often. Before we knew it, we started talking, and we've been the best of friends since." Her face lit up. "I love those girls. They make band and marching band even more enjoyable."

I didn't understand how someone could enjoy marching band, but to each their own. "That's cute," I imitated her, but she didn't react. "So, there you have it." I stood up, and she followed in my steps. "We shared. Happy?"

She moved over to me with a smile. "Happy."

I shook my head at her, and she grabbed my arm. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry." She held onto my arm and led me to the stairs. "I'm not trying to steal a hand-grab. I'm taking you to the kitchen." Her grip tightened on my arm. "You are my guest."

She led me to the kitchen and every time I tried moving out of her grasp, she grabbed me again. She was using my own game against me by trying to annoy me.

Okay.

It made it more interesting.

I allowed her to lead me to the snacks, and we munched on chips and soda. Well, I had soda while she drank juice. Surprisingly, it wasn't apple juice but cranberry juice.

We didn't continue studying for French after we finished eating, but Estella made me watch her favorite movie: The Shawshank Redemption. I had seen it before, and it was pretty good, but my favorite movie was, hands down, Fight Club. She had never seen it before, so I promised to bring it over for us to watch sometime in the future.

That meant we had to see each other again outside of school.

I wasn't ecstatic about it, but I wasn't dreading it either.

Around eight, I left the Gillons' house and made my way to the dark streets of South Creek. I hoped my father was still in a good mood. Maybe we would all have a good night. When I arrived, he was seated on the couch with a smile.

"Iago," he greeted me with his arms up, "how were things with your friend?"

"Good." I made my way over to the dining room table where a plate covered in aluminum foil resided.

"Those are your croquettes," my father said.

"Gracias." I grabbed the plate and heated it up in the microwave. Then I sat at the dining table to eat because I didn't know when I would have another chance to be around him like this.

We didn't speak, but only a couple yards separated us, instead of a couple rooms.

I began on my croquettes, and it was warm, soft but crunchy, and delicious. My father was a decent cook, and I looked forward to the rare moments he made food.

When I took my last bite, my phone rang, and it was Santiago. I picked up. "Hola?"

"Hola, Jax!" my brother's brash voice greeted. "Cómo estás?"

"Bien," I answered. "Y tú?"

"Bien. Sorry I missed your call," he said, finally addressing the issue. "Been spending some time with Inés lately. Working at the firm. Surviving, hermanito."

"Good for you."

He was too busy "surviving" to pick up my calls.

"But trust me, this coming summer, you can come to Maine and spend it with me and Diego. How does that sound?"

He said that last year. It never happened.

"Sounds great," I still said.

"Awesome. Talk to you later, Jax."

He hung up, and I pocketed my phone and got up to wash my plate while my father made his way over to me.

"Which one of your brothers was that?" he asked.

"Santiago." I scrubbed at the plate.

"Ahh," he said with a nod. "I should have known. Diego hates talking on the phone."

He was more of a texting sort of guy.

"You seemed happier when you returned," he said.

I was.

I wasn't so sure now.

My parents thought it would have been cute to name me and my brothers Santiago, Diego and Iago because they were similar.

Los Tres Mosqueteros, they said.

Too bad it was only two of us who were close.

"This is what happens when you stay away from pijos." My father sent me a sharp look with his index finger pointed at me. "You don't need to be reminded of your shortcomings." I continued scrubbing the plate even though it was spotless. "Well, buenas noches, Iago." My father smiled before walking away. "I'm sleeping on the couch," he shouted to me. "Tell your mother she can watch her telenovelas tonight."

I finally put the plate away and grabbed my things to go upstairs.

"Buenas noches," I muttered to my father as I jogged up.

I entered my parents' room and spotted my mother lying on their bed with her eyes glued to the TV screen. She was already watching a telenovela.

"Papa wanted me to let you know he's sleeping on the couch tonight," I told her.

"Mmm." Her eyes remained on the screen, and she reached for her glass of Sherry.

I peeked over at the screen to see overly attractive people yelling at each other in Spanish. Someone cheated, and they weren't even denying it.

I wanted to ask what telenovela it was just so my mother would have to talk to me, but I didn't care enough.

"Goodnight," I said, and she nodded, still not looking at me as I closed the door to my parents' room.

I made my way over to my room and got ready for bed, even though it was only almost nine. I was exhausted, and I wanted to sleep and not think about anything, so I got comfortable in my bed and checked on Instagram to see a picture of Ximena at some party.

Typical.

Why was everyone so fucking predictable?

It was nauseating.

I quickly exited out of Instagram, not even wanting to scroll through her other posts. I placed my phone on my drawer, but it beeped as soon as I closed my eyes, so I checked it to see a text.

I smiled, feeling a little less tired as I returned my phone to the drawer and laid back down.

Estella was weird, and I didn't know how intriguing she was, but at least she wasn't predictable.

Most of all, she wasn't nauseating.

She was a tolerable "friend"—for now.

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* The more I write this, the more I get into the groove of this story and it's characters. What do you guys think so far?