Page 7 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Javi

Eleven Years and Seven Months Before the Wedding

What am I doing here?

Spending a Wednesday evening at some Latin American student group meeting just isn’t my vibe.

At all. I mean, I love my people, but we are not the same.

Puerto Ricans from New York. Cubans from Miami.

Chicanos from East L.A. Not the same. Which isn’t a bad thing.

It’s just a thing some of us forget. And sometimes we simply don’t mesh the way other folks might expect us to.

Plus, a rolling stone gathers no moss and all that.

So joining a student group is not on my to-do list. Still, I talked a lot of shit the other day, and I need to back it up.

One meeting. That’s what I’ll give her. And they’d better give us pizza like they promised.

To my surprise, Marisol Campos is nowhere to be found. (Not that I was looking.) Instead, a short redhead commands the room, introducing herself as if she alone is responsible for the group. That can’t be right. Marisol doesn’t strike me as a foot soldier.

“As your president,” this Katy Maldonado person says, “I’m here to bring your vision for LASA to fruition.

We already have a holiday ice cream social on the schedule, but we need to make an impact.

Think bigger. Get noticed. So if you have ideas about what we should be focusing on this semester, I’d love to hear them. ”

A guy up front timidly raises his hand.

“Yes?” Katy says, looking at him expectantly.

“Um, I thought there was going to be pizza.”

She stares at him for a few seconds, barely holding in a sneer. “Right. I’ve got someone on that. Should be here any minute.” She claps once, then circles the room. “Anyone? Thoughts? Suggestions?”

Everyone stares at the floor. This isn’t what we signed up for.

I, for one, assumed we’d be working with a template of some kind, not inventing their entire programming.

Thankfully, a commotion at the door saves us from answering, and soon after, Marisol charges inside, a stack of pizza boxes in her arms and a plastic grocery bag dangling from the fingers of her right hand.

Before I can even stand, three guys swoop in to help. Worse, they’re fawning over her as if she kneaded the dough herself. It’s embarrassing to watch.

“Marisol will set up the pizzas in the back while we continue discussing your ideas,” Katy announces, her tone underscoring that she doesn’t appreciate the interruption.

First, we weren’t discussing any ideas, Katy .

And second, why are you acting as though Marisol’s your lackey?

Third, why am I suddenly protective of the girl who’s done nothing but annoy me since I met her?

I track Marisol’s movements as she crosses to the rear of the room and instructs her admirers on where to place the boxes.

They return to their chairs like they’re coming back from the battlefield, leaving Marisol to set up the food alone.

It’s not fair for one person to do all the work, so I quietly join her, stacking the napkins and plastic cups while she removes the top half of each box.

Our gazes meet, and then she mouths, Thank you .

I understand why people gravitate to her.

She’s sure of herself. Funny. Impossible to ignore.

And it doesn’t hurt that her lips are lush and glossy all the time.

Or that her dark brown eyes can captivate you with a single glance.

Marisol shines just by existing. In other words, she’s heartbreak in human form .

Which is why I like bumping heads with her.

Our friction reminds me not to get sucked into her orbit.

“Pizza’s ready!” Marisol says, startling me out of my thoughts.

People jump up from their seats, but Katy stops them with an outstretched arm. “Hang on, hang on, let’s hold off until we’ve finished our discussion.”

“No one has good ideas when their stomach’s grumbling, Kay,” Marisol counters. “Let’s feed them. Besides, we can talk as we eat.”

With thirty sets of eyes staring her down, Katy relents, and then everyone swarms the table.

“So, where were we?” Marisol asks, holding a slice of pepperoni pizza. The New Yorker in me shudders when she doesn’t even fold it before she takes a bite.

“I was trying to make a plan for this semester,” Katy says.

“Well, to start, we need a fundraiser to support our community service banquet in the spring,” Marisol says.

“It’s our opportunity to celebrate the high school students who participate in our tutoring program, and we’re hoping to award a few scholarships.

The school gives us some funds, but we need to bridge the gap to the tune of two thousand dollars.

If we don’t, we’ll be serving everyone tater tots and giving the kids gift certificates to McDonald’s.

Maybe we can toss around ideas about that? ”

In less than two minutes, Marisol has given us the focus we needed. And she’s championing a cause with substance. Not that I’m trying to hype her up—or embarrassed about the snarky comments I made during the club fair.

“A bake sale?” someone suggests from the back.

“We won’t earn enough money to make a dent in our budget,” Katy says. “And I don’t want LASA to be responsible for any food safety issues.”

“What about a kissing booth?” a guy asks, after which he cocks his brow and smooches his lips, unintentionally emphasizing how bad his idea is.

Katy scrunches up her face in disgust. “Not on my watch. That’s gross and unsanitary.”

“A car wash?” another person proposes. “We could play Latin music and make it a party.”

“Not enough people have a car on campus, though,” the person next to me says.

“Ooh!” Marisol exclaims. “Let’s skip the car wash and just throw a party in Camden Hall. We can charge admission.”

Katy blows out a breath and rolls her eyes, her reaction probably as much about the messenger as it is about the message. “But then we’d have to pay for the room rental, a DJ, refreshments, maybe security too. I’m not sure we would even turn a profit.”

I should remain quiet. The last thing I want is to make myself the subject of attention.

But the thing I hate the most is wasting time, and we’re spinning our wheels here, so I reluctantly add my two cents.

“Okay, this might seem a little unconventional, but a student association at Rice sponsored a date auction a few weeks ago. Video of the event made the rounds on Instagram. One person bid five hundred dollars for a date.”

“I saw that!” someone adds.

“Holy shit,” another person says.

“So LASA could do the same thing,” I continue. “You’d have to work out all the specifics—maybe make the winning bidders choose from certain preapproved dates like dinner, bowling, whatever—and then all you’d need to do is design a flyer, advertise the auction, and reserve a place to hold it.”

Katy nods enthusiastically. “Meaning, most of what we raise would be profit!”

“We’d need people to volunteer to go on these dates, though,” Marisol says. “Do we have enough members who’d be willing to do that?”

“The people going on the dates don’t have to be members,” I point out. “They just need to be willing to offer their time for the cause.”

Marisol’s eyebrows snap together. “Yeah, I get that, but it would seem odd if LASA members aren’t up there too.”

“Sure, of course,” I say, shrugging. “Whoever wants to do it is welcome to.”

“Would you do it, Javier?” she asks, a sly grin on her face. “To support the incredible high schoolers hoping to get accepted to Belmont someday?”

“Oh my God, yes!” Katy says. “I’d try to win a date with you myself!”

Shit. This is what I was afraid of. I never should have said anything. Now they’re all staring at me. Worse, the attention I’m getting here is only a fraction of what I’d experience if I had to smile at an audience as people bid on a date with me. “Um, sorry, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Marisol asks, needling me for fun. “It’s just a simple date.”

I stare down at my clammy hands. Think, Javi, think. “Because I have a girlfriend,” I blurt out, raising my head and peering at Marisol so she doesn’t detect the lie. “I don’t think she’d be cool with it.”

A staring standoff ensues between Marisol and me. After a long, uncomfortable moment, she narrows her eyes. “What’s your girlfriend’s name? Is she a student here?”

I struggle for a name, my gaze darting all over the room until it lands on the two-liter bottle of Fanta on the back table. Too obvious. “No, she doesn’t go here, and her name’s… Fantasia .”

Marisol’s eyes widen. “Like the singer?”

“Who?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.

“You know, the woman who won American Idol ,” she prods.

“Sure, sure, yeah, like her.”

Marisol pokes the inside of her cheek, then says, “She wouldn’t even let you do it for a fundraiser? Goodness, tell your girlfriend to lighten up.”

This figment of my imagination is serving her purpose right now, so I’m not telling her shit. “Sorry, everyone. You’ll have to look somewhere else.”

The guy next to me says, “Marisol, you should do it. We’d make the money we need in ten minutes.”

As people murmur their agreement, Marisol stacks her hands on top of each other, props them under her chin, and bats her eyelashes. “Oh, you better believe I’m doing it! Who’s joining me?”

A girl in the back row shoots up her hand. “My boyfriend’s on the lacrosse team. I’ll get him to ask a few of his teammates.”

“Perfect,” Marisol says. “This is going to be lit!”

A couple of guys bump fists and give each other dap. One of them jokes that he’s going to work overtime to win a date with Marisol. Something about that bothers me, even though there’s no reason it should.

“What an excellent idea!” Katy exclaims, staring at me all starry-eyed. “Would you be willing to help us organize it?”

“Um, I hadn’t really planned on—”

“Great,” Katy says, bulldozing right over my attempt to say no. “Thanks so much for volunteering. Marisol is the head of our fundraising committee, so you’ll report directly to her. How does that sound?”