A New Reflection

11. Analyzing

I stare without expression at the magic bullet spinning wildly on top of the shiny green kitchen tile, whipping fresh berries into a rich, creamy shade of pink. Mom chops up onion and bell pepper as if she's racing against the clock on the final round of a Master Chef episode.

"Want to come along with me to Costco after breakfast?" she asks.

I lock away the segment of my brain that's spinning faster than the blades of mom's blender, grounding my attention in my current reality.

"Eh, not really," I reply. "I'm going to stay here and get the rough draft of my research paper written."

After we polish off mass quantities of omelettes, toast and fruit smoothies, Dad heads out to water his garden, and Mom leaves to run Saturday morning errands.

The sun is blazing across our expansive backyard, and I stare motionless out the window for five minutes; images of lush, rippling grass and luxuriant fruit trees sear into my eye balls, and a billowing sensation between elation and nausea expands throughout my body.

My brain replays every comment Alex made to me yesterday. It's impossible to ignore the notion that something is happening between us, but the logical part of my brain explains away every interaction with a secondary possibility that seems just as plausible as romantic chemistry.

He liked my dress, not necessarily me in the dress. Alex is Costa Rican; he probably appreciated the Latin American style and flair.

He also said he enjoys my company now that I've come out of my shell a tiny bit, but that could mean so many things. Maybe he is proud of himself as a coach for drawing out his most introverted player, who was previously too shy to even answer a question. Perhaps he merely likes hanging out with me as a friend, now that we've established we are indeed close in age.

Even if the latter were the case, I'd still be feeling the same flutter of butterflies over the notion that a cool guy like Alex wants to be my friend.

What I can't shake from my mind are his knees against mine at the restaurant last night. The way he swung his leg against mine as we burst into shared laughter over klutzy volleyball maneuvers. Again, though, Latinos can be very touchy—as in, physically affectionate. Not that I am.

After indulging my daydreams for twenty minutes or so, I lock my beehive of overanalyzed thoughts into a box at the back of my brain and power on my laptop. Then I spread my materials across the kitchen table—my history textbook, the three articles I've printed and stacks of color-coded index cards.

I hear my phone buzzing somewhere in the house, but I resist the urge to leap up and instead stay focused on my research paper. When Mom arrives over two hours later with sacks of groceries, I'm still going strong. My stamina for schoolwork is something of an anomaly.

"Take a break, m'hija," Mom coos in an affectionate tone as she hauls the bags and boxes into the kitchen to put away perishables.

"I'm almost done with this part," I respond without glancing up. I've been telling myself the same thing for the past forty-five minutes.

"There!" I declare, clicking the save button and snapping the laptop shut in a flurry.

I help Mom put away the groceries, then meander outside to soak up a few minutes of sun. Dad and I chat about my research paper; he always feigns genuine interest when I prattle on and on about my school projects.

After blabbing Dad's ear off, I wander through the yard touching things. Running my palms over the feathery bottlebrush, snapping leaves off fresh mint plants and crushing them between my fingers, plucking honeysuckle flowers and sucking out the drops of sweet nectar.