Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa Read Online Free PDF Page B

Fried foods the likes of which would make Isabelle faint dead away into her Atkins-friendly fro-yo. Sharing a bedroom with my mother. Sharing a twin bed with my mother. Et cetera.
    â€œWow,” Adrienne breathes after my small explosion has subsided.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThat sucks.” At least she sounds sympathetic. “It’s like . . .”
    â€œLike Fried Green Tomatoes . Except with tomatillos,” I say.
    It’s an Isabelle line. Adrienne laughs.
    â€œThis means there’s no way you’ll be able to come on the trip.”
    â€œLooks that way. Unless you guys wanted to postpone it.”
    I’m joking, but not.
    â€œI wish we could”—God bless the girl; she actually sounds sincere—“but there’s not even a guarantee that you’ll be back in six weeks. And we have to leave for orientation in August.”
    â€œI know, Ade, I know. I was kidding. I’d never ask you to put your trip off just for me. It’s just . . .” I stop before I can lay on an unintentional guilt trip.
    â€œWe’ll miss you tons,” she says, demonstrating exactly what it is that I love about her. “We’ll send you a million postcards. It’ll be just like you were there.”
    Well, not quite, I think, but I’m digging on the sentiment at least.
    â€œI left a message for Isabelle,” I say. “But you know, if you talk to her first, you can tell her. Let her know how bummed I am.”
    â€œDefinitely,” Ade assures me. “I think she’s out shopping with her mom. I’m sure she’ll call you later.” She laughs again. “At least your cell works down there.”
    This is true. Unlimited calling. Small miracles and whatever. I contemplate reminding her that Puerto Rico is technically a part of the United States but decide against it because she’s being so supportive.
    â€œDid you talk to Noah yet?”
    I shake my head, then realize that she can’t exactly see this over the phone line. “No. He’s not answering. Don’t—I mean, you can tell him, but—”
    â€œI won’t say anything until you guys talk. You probably want to break it to him yourself.”
    â€œGood call,” I agree, grateful for her newfound psychic powers.
    Or was Adrienne always like this? I can’t remember, but suddenly, more than anything, I wish it weren’t going to be six whole weeks—at least—before I can see her in person again. I have a vision of her, camped out Indian style on the hood of my car, grande latte in hand and sunglasses pushed to the top of her forehead.
    This is as close as I’ve come to homesickness in a while. And I’ve been in Puerto Rico—what? Four days?
    â€œ. . . know what you guys are going to do?”
    She’s asked me a question while I’ve been out in la-la land. Did you guys talk at all? Do you know what you guys are going to do?
    She means me and Noah. Like, what we’re going to do over the summer. Which strikes me as funny. We didn’t know what we were going to do even before any of this happened.
    Before my grandmother and Puerto Rico.
    Now . . .
    â€œUm, not really. Not yet. I won’t be home until August,” I say. “And he’s going to Northeastern next year. . .”
    . . . which is miles away from Brown. The unspoken portion of my thought lingers in my brain unpleasantly, causing my stomach to dip and flutter.
    â€œIt’ll work out,” Adrienne says. “One way or the other.” Which is true enough but not exactly comforting.
    â€œÂ¡Emily! ¡Necesitamos poner la mesa para la cena!” Tía Rosa’s voice breaks through the evening air with enough force to shatter glass. I flinch.
    â€œOne sec,” I call out.
    â€œWho is that?” Adrienne asks, dubious.
    â€œMy aunt. She wants me . . .” I think back to her words for a moment. “She wants me to help set