My stomach grumbles. I was so darn ready to get to the fun and dancing—and to avoid Mom—I skipped dinner.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say. “Had to wait for Mom to go watch her novela in her room. She’s been lecturing about not crossing the border.” I peer behind Aida at her house.

  “Dad’s not home yet,” Aida says as if reading my mind. “And Mom don’t care,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “See! I don’t know why all the fuss,” I harp.

  All teens go across to party. Yesterday, Mom also tried to scare me with doom talk about feminicidio after she overheard me on the phone making plans to go across the border. “You think you know everything,” she said in a quiet, spooky way. I’m not a smart aleck, I don’t think I know it all. But I do know about feminicidio. A few years ago, a bunch of women disappeared in Mexico and turned up raped, beaten, and dead. But it’s 1998 now. Besides, they go after the local women because they know their routes and habits and then leave their bodies out in the desert. I know that’s really horrible stuff, but just because Mom never did anything fun when she was young doesn’t mean the world is out to get me because I do. Just because she found her eerie religion and lives in a phony reality doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get to be a normal teen.

  Zulema’s tricolor hair from faded color treatments blows against the headrest, the tips bleach blond. She’s the lightest of us because her dad’s Anglo and her mom’s a light-skinned Chicana. Zulema probably made Aida turn the car on and leave it running to blast the air conditioner at full power so her three layers of makeup don’t melt off. It’s technically night already—eight p.m.—but in the El Paso summer, it’s still 95 degrees and the sun is brightly lit over our desert. It’s not called the Sun City for nothing.

  Zulema shifts her face to sweet-devil after her initial mad-dog stare. “Just kidding, flaca.” I despise it when she calls me skinny and she knows it. She continues in a sneering tone, “You look all right—never as good as me, though. I don’t have sticks for legs.” She pauses for one beat. “You finish all your homework before Mommy gets mad?”

  I’ve hardly ever had a conversation with Zulema, so I’m still not sure why she hates my guts. I wish she hadn’t found out I’m into school. I breathe in and bite my tongue, then turn to Belen.

  Belen shifts her weight to the other hip. Her skin-tight cloth pants leave nothing to the imagination. I flick my head her way. “Wasup?”

  Belen makes snapping, slurping sounds as she chews her gum. “’Sup,” she replies and gives me her signature glittery-eye-shadow wink.

  I definitely put Belen in the Peculiar Department. She was with Aida last time I saw them, at a classmate’s keg party. My drunk boyfriend was being a jerk, so I broke things off, and Belen saw the whole thing. “Heh heh,” she snickered, yelling “¡Sás!” as she put a palm in front of her and slammed her other palm into it. “You tell him, girl.”

  Aida was refilling at the keg, stumbling and slurring. “Hellllo there, my fellow benchwarmer—I mean teammate.”

  Aside from being in the same art class, the main thing Aida and I have in common is that we both suck at basketball. Not many tried out, so coach got stuck with us. I’m usually set up as point guard or shooting guard since I’m five foot nothing, but I can’t dribble or catch for shit. I’m good at three-pointers, though. Aida dribbles her way out of anything, but for some reason can’t make a free throw to save her life.

  I ended up laughing the night away at Aida’s antics and overly dramatic reactions to everything. Meanwhile, Belen, less drunk, came and went, announcing odd scraps of information no one cared about. Like, “Dudes, the neighbors have some kind of giant rodent looking out the window.”

  Zulema arrived an hour later and immediately cut me with her stare. “Who’s this?” But drunk Aida walked away. All night I continued running into the three girls—kept laughing it up with Aida and Belen, and getting dissed by Zulema.

  Aida and her smart-mouthed cronies together are something else, but I like Aida and I haven’t gone out in a while.

  Aida rummages through her purse and whips out her fake ID. “Ha! I just turned eighteen so I don’t need this shit in Juárez no more.” She chucks it out with a satisfied grin. “This is it, girls, you all ready?” she hollers and wiggles her shoulders. “We’re gonna party it up with older guys at the disco,” which she pronounces “theesco.” Aida is the only person I’ve heard call the nightclub such an old-fashioned word—disco, short for discoteca. I could never figure out if Aida is Mexican American like me. She’s about three shades darker than me, with superbly full eyebrows and large eyes. We pronounce her name in English, though, so who knows. Not that it matters what anyone is, but sometimes I’m just curious. Of course, I’d never ask her about any of this. That’d be weird.

  Aida prompts a flurry of checking for fake IDs from the rest of us since we’re seventeen and do need fake IDs to get into the clubs and drink in Juárez. Inside the Sentra, Zulema slips her hand into her bra, pulls out her fake out-of-state ID, and quickly bra-pockets it again. She adjusts herself, pushing up her big boobs so they show even more over the neckline of her low-cut top, and then continues messing with her eyeliner in the mirror. Even Belen, who pretends to be too cool for worrying, slips her hand into her back pocket for a quick check. The bouncers rarely check our IDs, but if they’ve gotten raided recently, they’re going to be uptight about it.

  “Woo-hoo,” Aida snickers at Zulema. “Mirá, mirá. Look who’s getting all ready to roll in the sack with Mauro.”

  “Hmph.” Zulema shrugs. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

  Aida’s and Belen’s eyes light up. I suppose they envy Zulema for sleeping with a nineteen-year-old. I don’t really care, especially since the guys are fresas, preppy kids from rich Mexican families. The word fresa literally means “strawberry,” though, and I never understood why people call them that. These guys know English because they learn it in fancy schmancy schools in Mexico, but I know they won’t really speak it around us even though their English can be better than that of some native El Pasoans. I don’t hate fresas or anything, but some of them annoy the heck out of me when they flash their wealth around.

  Aida, the only one of us with a car, slides into the driver’s seat. Zulema immediately swings her legs inside the car and slams the door shut. Belen and I file into the back like kids about to be taken to the amusement park. On my seat is a bigger-than-any-size-I’ve-had-at-my-house rectangular Tupperware container with a red lid. I put it on my lap, wondering why she has this in her car.

  “Be careful with my Tupperware,” Aida snaps as the wheels crunch the dirt at the end of her driveway.

  We drive by hordes of kids running around front yards and across streets, yelping out jolly laughter, falling over, and blasting each other with garden hoses or water balloons. It’s El Día de San Juan! Of course, I forgot that was today. Aida’s radio is playing rancheritas, Mexican folk music. “Can we change the station, Aida?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Look for something fun for us, Rosa.” Aida pops her head back and forth as if she’s already listening to the awesome dance music I have yet to find. I lean forward from the back, sticking my head in between the two front seats, and reach for the dial.

  I have just touched the dial when, out of nowhere, Zulema cusses loudly right next to my ear, making me jump. “Hey, pendeja! Where are you going, Aida? You’re driving to the pay bridge. We’re not taking that one, remember? It’s faster to Alejandro’s house if we take the free bridge.”

  Aida makes a know-it-all face. “Well, if either of you was listening to me when I three-way called your asses last night, you would know I have to stop for some pan dulce from Bowie Bakery for my grandma first.” She’s talking about the three of them. I wasn’t a part of last night’s party line, but I’m new to their clique, so it’s no biggie that I wasn’t in the know.

  Our group makes a collective mmm sound. No one can object to pit stops for the delicious sweet bread from the most famous bakery in El Paso, especially if she’s taking it to her dear abuela.

  In my mind, I give Aida a point. So I still don’t know if she really wants me as a friend, but she goes out of her way for her grandma. That puts her in the Considerate Department.

  “Yo, is your dad at your grandma’s? Don’t want to have any run-ins with the law,” Belen proclaims with a raised, over-plucked, and penciled-in eyebrow.

  “Ay, ay, Belen. You’re so ghetto,” Aida shoots back. “Stop acting like you’re some kind of gangster. We all know the only thing you’ve done is gotten kicked out of school for absenteeism.”

  Aida and Zulema burst into laughter, but I only chuckle slightly, because Belen’s right next to me.

  “Pfft, whatevs.” Belen crosses her arms and leans back, pouting her heavily lipsticked, red lips.

  At Bowie Bakery, Aida jumps out of the car with the huge container and hands it to the lady behind the counter to fill with pan dulce. Even though Aida’s the only one buying, we all go in and stand by the glass displays to gawk at the pastries, mouths watering as an infusion of smells fill the air—cinnamon, powdered sugar, freshly baked bread, and . . . fulfillment. When we walk back to the car, Aida plops the plastic bin on top of her trunk and opens it. “Surprise, bitches. You all get to pick one!”

  Aida can be dramatic sometimes, but she instantly racks up major points in the Cool Department.

  Belen immediately reaches for a roll with a reddish filling oozing out and sprinkled with coconut shreds. Aida slaps her hand. “Oh, not that one, that’s my grandma’s favorite.” Belen quickly moves on to a second choice. Zulema picks out one of the smallest items, a cinnamon-and-sugar-sprinkled bizcocho cookie. I pick out a marranito—ginger and molasses hard bread with a glossy glaze, shaped like a pig. Aida grabs a fluffy concha—a conch shell–shaped bread covered in soft cookie crumb topping—and hands it to Zulema to hold for her.

  “Don’t you manhandle my concha, Zulema,” Aida warns as she seals the Tupperware, opens the trunk, and puts the container of sweets inside. Zulema holds the concha delicately with two fingers in one hand as she bites into her bizcocho from the other hand. The extra-soft cookie sprinkles onto her blouse.

  Aida’s eyes bug out. “You all are gonna clean up your crumbs if you get ’em in my car. My dad’s moto busted yesterday, and he’s already borrowed my car once. Don’t wanna hear him give me crap about how badly I take care of the car he’s still paying off.”

  When we arrive at Aida’s grandma’s place, she zips into the house with the Tupperware and zips back out with it still half-full of pan dulce.

  Ten minutes later, we approach the bridge, beaming eagerly as the USA flag waves goodbye to all of us border crossers while the eagle on the Mexican flag welcomes us.

  It’s finally dark. The sun is well hidden below the horizon by now, and I’m hoping it won’t take forever for the temperature to drop. Everyone on the streets or in their cars is preoccupied with their lives—parents crossing the street while holding their kids’ hands, people chatting, driving, trying to get home. It’s just another normal night, a nice time to be out. We turn down a narrow street and I hold on for my life as cars whiz by, inches from the side mirror. Exhaust fumes overwhelm the air. I roll up the window, but roll it back down minutes later when we pass a taquería so that the porky smell of carnitas can drift in. Belen and I ogle the people sitting on the sidewalk tables, laughing and munching on their tacos like they’re the best thing ever. I bet they are.

  After about thirty minutes of pothole hell on some of the roughest streets in Juárez, we finally drive into a neighborhood with perfectly smooth streets. It has large white adobe houses and professionally manicured lawns for as far as I can see.

  “Man, these guys live far,” I say.

  “I don’t see your imaginary car taking us elsewhere, Rosa,” Aida says, but flashes me a giant smile in the rearview mirror.

  “I just said they live far,” I defend myself.

  Finally, we pull in front of a house with an arched front door almost as wide as three of my front door put together. Zulema does one more check in the mirror before practically falling out of the car. Three guys saunter out of the house, and Zulema tosses herself into the arms of one of them, like in a movie.

  “Pshht,” Belen says while smirking, and Aida giggles as they follow Zulema out of the car.

  “I thought we were going straight to the club,” I whisper out the window to Aida and Belen.

  “Not yet,” Aida says.

  I wait there, hoping the guys will hop into their car and follow us to the club. After they all continue chatting long enough—and I feel stupid to still be sitting in the car like some ginormous, impatient jerk—I take a deep breath and go out to meet these “wonders” the girls gloated about on the drive here.

  The boys’ eyes immediately laser in on my legs. I feel a pang of self-consciousness but push it away and keep walking up like I didn’t even notice. I like wearing miniskirts and going out and feeling sexy. They can ogle all they want so long as they keep their hands to themselves.

  But I’m not prepared for the intense, sleepy-seductive eyes that Mauro, the guy Zulema is slobbering over (almost literally), directs my way. He keeps flicking his head to move his shoulder-length, brown hair out of his face. It’s captivating. So much so that I can make myself overlook the tight jeans, polo shirt, and overly cologned air around him. The girls jibber jabber like a flock of glamorous birds—vogue outfits, lips shining, skin glistening, bangles catching the moonlight. They go on about all the fun we’re going to have and all the booze were going to drink. The other two fresa boys, Beto and Alejandro, look smug, but Mauro’s eyes flit about aimlessly, only occasionally stopping for a few seconds on me.

  I fiddle with the collar of my blouse. Mom’s warnings slide back into my mind. Could these guys be the “bad” that could happen to me? My stomach knots up. I can’t even have fun comfortably anymore. Thanks, Mom.

  “Hey, muchachos, I got some pan dulce,” Aida announces louder than necessary.

  Alejandro perks up. “Haber, give it here.”

  Aida obliges. The boys dig their hands into the popped-open trunk.

  While the boys are busy munching on the bread, Aida pulls me aside ever so obviously and semi-whispers, “So what do you think, girl? You want Beto? Cuz I got me Alejandro. If you do, I’ll tell Belen you called dibs on Beto. Otherwise, you’re gonna have to wait to see if there are any cuties at the disco.”

  I want to ask Aida if she’s sure it’s safe to be with these guys, but I don’t want to be such a square. Instead I smile and say, “And mess up the A + A and B + B couples action?”

  Aida gets a blank look on her face.

  “You know, the first letters of your names.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Holy crap, I hadn’t even caught that,” she says, chuckling. “I sometimes forget you’re like a total nerd at school, not just a wannabe ballplayer like me.”

  I love Aida’s expression right now. She’s giddy and awestruck over the coincidence I caught. I relish this little back and forth we’re having. I’m hanging out, talking smack, and even being clever. I like being smart, but I don’t really want everyone knowing about it so much. People sometimes treat you differently once they realize you have any brains. Not Aida, though.

  I give her a playful smirk and turn slightly to observe Mauro standing stiff while Zulema holds on to him, arms around his neck and rubbing her boobs all over his chest. He catches my eye and stares. Zulema grabs his chin and turns it back to her.

  Aida shakes her head. “Oh, I see what’s up. No. Way. Bitch. Zulema would kill you. She’s been obsessed with Mauro for like a year now!”

  “What, are they like boyfriend-girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Nah. Though Zulema likes to pretend so. They’re just each other’s booty call.” Aida twiddles a strand of black, wavy hair in her finger. “Though Mauro’s not calling so much no more. Well . . . I guess if you can get him away from her . . .”

  Zulema’s a big jerk to me, and he’s clearly not that interested anymore. In that instant, it turns into a challenge. This guy’s got me good with me thinking of challenges and whatnot. And then there’s him being a fresa. There’s a first for everything, right?

  Alejandro invites us inside his freaking mansion and the girls happily follow. I tug at my necklace and lag behind.

  Inside, the boys break out the beer and music. The rowdiness begins and I try to relax but keep my eye on the boys and take small sips of my beer. Soon my shoulders start loosening. There’s no way these guys could be killers, I tell myself. Beto can’t even open a beer bottle, for goodness’ sake. My body sinks a little more into the velvet chair.

  They joke and chat while I sit quiet in my little corner, pathetic as hell. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I disappeared. I mean, who am I trying to fool? I’m probably the biggest fake of all, trying too hard to make friends. If I can’t dance, I might as well get back to my homework and college planning. But if I just left this world, my parents wouldn’t have to worry about how much of a black sheep I am, how much energy they have to spend trying to raise a difficult girl with a strong head and a mouth to match. I shake when I realize how morbid my thoughts have turned.

  Zulema’s whining tone snaps me back. “Why are you taking so long, Mauro?”

  “Relájate, aquí estoy.” Relax, I’m here. There’s exasperation in his voice.

  And it goes on all night, Zulema talking to Mauro in English and him answering in Spanish, even though Zulema speaks Spanish just fine. Belen pokes fun at Beto in a flirtatious, Belen type of way. Beto’s goofy grin says he’s eating it up. I’m becoming more convinced these guys just want to get lucky. Mauro is probably sick of Zulema and only agreed to let her keep coming around so he could help his boys out.