Favorite Friend

Tennis Court

Item number two hundred and thirty-two on the list of things I like about Aaron Jacobs: the way he squints when the sun blinds him.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, but he refuses to close them, just keeps staring at the sky like it holds the answers to all the questions in the universe. If it does, I'm too stupid to decipher them. All I see is an endless stretch of blue with some clouds that are too lazy to move and are just sort of hanging around above us, aimless. I can't blame them, to be honest; the heat is brutal in San Aburrido this time of year, so lazing around is really all you can do during the day.

"Hey, look," Aaron says. He's lying on his back next to where I'm sitting on the bleachers, one arm lifted to point at the sky. "That one kinda looks like Frida."

"Uh-huh."

"Feli," he laughs. "You're not even looking."

I tear my eyes away from his face and look at the cloud he feels resembles my family's cat. "That's supposed to be her?" I snort, squinting up at the shapeless white blob.

"Yeah. There's the ears and the tail... Look, you can even see the little chunk of her ear that got bitten off by Mrs. Robinson's cat last summer."

I shake my head, laughing as I look down at him again and put a hand on his forehead. "I think you have heatstroke."

Aaron slaps my fingers away with a grin.

"And put some respect on her name," I add. "It's Frida Kahlo, not Frida."

"Shit, sorry," he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. "Don't tell your abuela I said that."

"She'd call you a blasphemer and refuse to ever feed you again."

"Good God. I would never again get to taste her chile, her menudo, her flan..."

"Tragic," I chuckle. Item number two hundred and thirty-three: the way he can say some Spanish words without the trace of an accent by now.

Aaron grins and directs his gaze at the sky again. In the sunlight, his brown eyes look like honey. Beads of sweat glitter against his dark skin; on his forehead, right above his upper lip, and on his collarbone, just barely visible when the collar of his patterned button-down shirt slips down a little. I swallow and look down at the playing field instead.

The old tennis court hasn't been in use since the 90s, or that's what I've been told. The bleachers and the field markings, though faded, are still there, but the asphalt is cracked in places and the net is long gone. Now it's just a random hangout spot for people like us who have nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon.

Below us, in the shade of the trees that grow along the sidelines of the court, sits another group of teenagers. They're a clique from our high school, three boys and two girls who dress like they're living in a big city and not San Aburrido, this tiny suburb somewhere in Arizona, a few hours away from any place worth mentioning.

We call them the White Teeth Teens. Aaron's dad came up with the name, I think. He's a dentist and talked about how those kids have the cleanest teeth in the whole town. We found it funny, so it stuck. The title fits them because everything about them is shiny; their fancy cars, their jewelry, the girls' lip gloss, their teeth when they laugh with their mouths wide open. I wonder what that's like, to always have fun and never worry about anything.

"Dude, can you imagine what things will be like a year from now?" Aaron suddenly asks, ripping me out of my thoughts.

Despite the scorching heat, I feel a cold shiver running down my spine at the question. With my tongue frozen to the roof of my mouth, I shake my head. The icy pit in my stomach has become a familiar feeling ever since that afternoon a few months ago when Aaron sprinted into our garden waving an envelope from UCLA. He got in on a scholarship because he's crazy good at track. I got into the University of Arizona like I got through the last two years of school; reluctantly and by the skin of my teeth.