Ask for Pain

(Julia Fullerton-Batten -- Getty - )

THE NEXT TIME JAVI AND I WERE TOGETHER, I told him what was coming. I expected him to laugh, but he didn't; he frowned and hooked his arms around his knees.

"She seems like a nice girl," he said. "Awkward stage, though, right?"

"I don't know about stage," I said. "She's been that way since I met her."

"You hate her guts, don't you."

"What makes you say that?"

"When you talk about her, you look like you want to kill someone."

I shrugged.

"You shouldn't hate her. She's going to be your sister."

"Step," I said. "Stepsister."

He shook his head slowly, that dark hair brushing his shoulders, and said, "You've got some anger in you, mahal."

WE WERE TOGETHER AGAIN A FEW NIGHTS LATER when we heard footsteps coming across the grass. We'd become adept at listening; everything depended on it. The footsteps stilled, and we heard Della asking for Javi at Mr. Penaflorida's cottage. Mr. Penaflorida told her she could leave a note. Then Javi said, "Wait here," and left me sitting in the dark.

He went to meet her at the door of the garage. I crouched behind a mower and watched. She wasn't wearing her uniform; from where I knelt I could see she'd put on a knee-length yellow dress, the one she was supposed to wear to the rehearsal dinner. She spoke in low anxious tones, rushing through what she had to say. In her hands was a cake on a plate. I recognized it as one of the five cakes my mother had taught her to bake. It was chocolate, dusted with powdered sugar; I knew it was flavored with cardamom and a hint of cayenne pepper. I waited for Javi to speak, to say the words that would make Della turn away in pain and shame. Instead he bent toward her and spoke in a low intimate tone. He touched her hair, smoothed it behind her ear. Then, as she stood there holding that cake, he leaned in and kissed her quickly on the mouth. He took the plate from her and told her he hoped he'd see her around. A moment later she was gone, her feet swift and light over the grass.

When he came back inside, he sat down in front of me and put the plate on the floor, cut a slice of cake with his pocketknife and ate it. I watched the pleasure of it come over him, the unexpected heat of the pepper. He raised his eyes to mine and I read the challenge there. I knew he'd meant to shock me awake, to show me that what I felt for Della was small and tight and wrong. I knew that as well as he did, but I wasn't ready to hear it. I got up and left him sitting there on the floor of the garage with that fragrant cake in front of him, Della's cayenne and cardamom on his tongue.

FIVE DAYS LATER, Della and I found ourselves in that flowery room in St. Helena, on the eve of our parents' wedding. Nothing could change the fact that for the past three months I'd been spending every free moment of my life with Javi Penaflorida. Nothing could take the power of it away from me; the fact that he'd kissed her would only make it worse for her. She moved away from the window, and I took a breath. I was going to tell her. But when she looked at me she seemed lit from inside, as if the brilliance of the afternoon had filled her and was coming through her skin. She saw me staring at her, tilted her head and said, "What?"

And as she spoke, the light beneath her skin dimmed by a milliwatt, by a fraction of a shade. It was enough to let me know what would happen if I told her. I thought of Javi and I turned away from her. I couldn't speak. I didn't tell her. Not that day, not ever.

JAVI AND I NEVER SAW EACH OTHER AFTER THAT SCHOOL YEAR, though he called and called all summer. I didn't return his calls; I didn't respond to his e-mails. I resented him until it exhausted me. Even after I'd stopped hating my stepsister, even after I started thinking of her more as sister then as step, I still couldn't forgive him. The thought kept coming to me that my father would have approved of what he'd done, would have wanted me to see how small and empty I'd become, even if it hurt. The idea only made me angrier.

He called and called, and after a while he stopped.

I hope you read this, mahal. I know now what I lost, and what you gave me.

Julie Orringer is the author of the short story collection How to Breathe Underwater. She can be reached at 20071@washpost.com.