Because You're Different ✔

13. Sweet potatoes

"You're thinking about Lena."

I wasn't even going to ask how she knew. When it came to June, there wasn't a lot that should still surprise me, and yet, it did. She was standing in front of me in her apron, frowning, long curls tied back in a braid. If I thought I did some damage control the night of the party, I was fooling myself. Ever since, she'd been giggling less, instead having these serious episodes where she'd be in my father's study for hours on end, doing god knows what. She was turning fifteen in a few weeks, and I was more determined than ever to get her a meaningful present that would cheer her up.

"Yeah, I am," I said, closing the file and slumping back in the chair. I ran my hands through my hair, suddenly noticing how stiff my muscles were. I'd had lectures and seminars from nine am to four pm, then drove out to the detention center to check on Cleo; she'd cried the whole time, barely able to speak. On the drive home, I'd had only been able to think about June's grandparents, how they came into this country and made it their home, how June was an American, but still viewed by some as an immigrant, as someone who didn't belong here. If only Cleo had as large a family as June had... At least, she wouldn't have been alone.

"Is it the case?" she said. "The girl? Did you go to see her again today?"

"Yeah, I did. She's not doing so great... In fact, she's doing really bad."

She inspected my face, concern etched into every inch of her, and I felt the sudden need to hug her like she did the day before New Year's. "Are you afraid she might hurt herself again?"

Strictly speaking, I wasn't allowed to discuss details of a case, much less the personal circumstances. Be that as it may, I needed to tell someone about my days or I'd fall apart. And I was sure June would never pass on the information to anyone else. She didn't know Cleo's name anyhow. Even my parents, who took their jobs very seriously, talked over their cases together.

"I don't know. I think she's certainly desperate enough." I sighed, rubbing my face in the hope it would erase the image of Cleo bleeding from the wrists. "I just keep seeing Lena."

Her gaze softened. Determinedly, she walked towards me, took my files, and stored them into my bag, accidentally creasing the corners. "Come on," she said. "You need to distract yourself. Help me cook."

Astonished by the suggestion, I complied immediately. She never let us help her; she said it made her all the more nervous. It'd only been recently we'd even been allowed to watch her at work in the kitchen. "Here, you cut up the sweet potatoes — really, Nathan, no one has ever taught you how to cut something, have they? You need to..." The next five minutes, she tried to explain to me how to cut up a potato in the way other people would. She had her own particular way of doing it, but that was slower, of course. As I finally got the hang of it, she started to recount to me what she'd already done, and why, and what we were going to do next.

Was this the way her mother and abuela had taught her? She once mentioned her dad possessed endless patience. After tonight, I could say with certainty she did too.

Step by step, I felt myself relaxing, just chatting about the right amount of salt in a dish, or doing some pre-tasting. I was sure I was slowing her down more than I was helping her. She didn't mind, laughing brightly at my ignorance in the cooking department, and I think it was the little lights in her eyes that distracted me from everything that happened today.

This, this was the reason I didn't live at campus, June smiling at my crappy jokes and Sam arriving downstairs to ask when we were going to eat already. He deserved to be thrown in the pool for that, and naturally, when dinner was served, Sam was wearing different clothes than thirty minutes earlier, his previous outfit drying on a chair outside.