A New Reflection

31. Cold Tortilla and Cowboy Hat

"Who the hell is Tony?" I ask Isla, standing in the open doorway of her room on my way back from breakfast. She has music blasting as she shuffles about folding clothes and organizing stacks of books, stopping every few seconds to spritz herself with body spray, dab various creams onto different parts of her body and check herself out in the mirror.

This is what I have never understood about other girls. I watch her busy herself with all of these actions, marveling at her confidence, wondering where she learned to use all these products and pondering what the ultimate goal is of such complex pomp and fanfare. Isla purses her lips once more, holding up a purple hand-held mirror. She is adorable.

"What?" she asks, breaking concentration from her own reflection and glancing over at me. "Who?"

I suppress my smile between my lips, attempting not to snicker. I'm not laughing at her; I find her so perfectly endearing in her uniqueness.

"Tony," I repeat. "Joshua's friend, apparently."

"Oh, isn't that the tall guy with the black hair?" Her description isn't exactly the most specific, but it works.

"Oh!" I slap my hand to my forehead, realizing Tony is the same friend with whom Joshua was eating breakfast and bantering about League of Legends this morning.

"Why?" Isla asks.

I briefly summarize my irritating encounter with Joshua and his cryptic comment about asking Tony for more information on why he cannot get "involved" with me.

"Strange. They work together," Isla offers, shrugging. "Maybe they are in the CIA or something," she jokes.

"Whatever, I don't care. Moving on," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Probably for the best."

"I sort of like his roommate, anyway," I blurt out without thinking.

"What?!" Her face explodes in shock as the lipstick she's holding slips from her fingers and hurtles across the room, banging against the wall. We both swivel our heads toward the unexpected flying object and burst out laughing. "Josué?"

"Yeah, he's cute. And random, and weird. I guess that's my type," I babble, breaking into embarrassed giggles. "Because that's how I am too. I mean, the weird and random part. Not trying to call myself cute," I clarify.

Isla approaches me with an intensity gleaming out of her ocean blue eyes. She raises her arms way above her head to reach my tall shoulders and grasps me firmly with both hands.

"You. Are. Beautiful."

I blush and resist the overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around her in a tight hug. My memories shoot like lightening to Alex's text last spring calling me hermosa, and the word he uttered in our first intimate moment by the side of the gym echoes through my head: gorgeous. I didn't believe any of it at the time. Now I do. And I believe Isla.

* * *

"I cannot believe you are making me do this right now," I glower at Isla, not meaning the words I'm saying. "You are a terrible, terrible influence."

We wobble within the space of the two-inch bike lane of the pitch black road, walking it like a tight rope, prickly bushes poking and grabbing at us every few steps.

"Relax, chica. You are going to have the time of your life."

"It's freezing," I whine.

We finally arrive at a quaint blue house that appears to be made of bits of carboard and wood blocks patched together with superglue. A hodgepodge of plants all tangled and melted together cover the entire front porch, and there is barely space to walk to the door. Isla rings the doorbell with an authoritative finger, and a long fern branch slaps me in the face as I move next to her. I glare at it with perplexed eyebrows, rubbing my cheek, and Isla bursts out in cackling laughter.