Delia's Heart (Delia 2) - Page 9

“You must be careful about the messages you telegraph to them, Delia.”

“Messages?”

“In your eyes, in your smile. The secrets in your heart can be revealed very quickly. Be careful,” she said, and then told me a saying her mother had. “Mujer que no tiene tacha chapalea el agua no se moja.” It meant, a woman who’s innocent can splash around in the water and not get wet.

“Be careful where you splash,” she added with a twinkle in her eyes.

So, although I felt a smile trying to come out to answer Christian Taylor’s smile, I recalled my mother’s advice and looked away quickly. I concentrated on my French to avoid thinking about him, and not once during the remainder of the class did I look his way.

However, now I really was caught in a paradox. Seemingly, no matter what I did, Christian saw it as encouraging. It continued. The more I ignored him, the more he pursued. Perhaps it had become a matter of pride for him. After all, what other girl in this school would turn down his attention?

Tía Isabela wasn’t wrong about the friends I had made and the friends Sophia already had. At lunchtime, we sat far apart from each other in the cafeteria. Otherwise, it would truly be like trying to mix oil and water. I had quickly learned that in one way or another over the years, Sophia had alienated, insulted, or somehow embarrassed most of the girls I found as friends. They were all somewhat suspicious of me in the beginning, because Sophia was my cousin, and I lived in her hacienda, but eventually it was easy for them to see how different we were. Also, the fact that Sophia was so obvious about her dislike and jealousy of me pleased them.

Sophia did little to help me adjust when I first entered the private school. I didn’t know it at the time, but that turned out to be a blessing. When Edward and Jesse arranged for me to return from Mexico, he and my aunt, with Sophia sitting in and sulking, discussed why I should now attend the private school. They were worried about my continuous exposure to other Mexican teenagers at the public school who knew about Ignacio and his friends and my involvement with them. Edward thought some would blame me, and in the end, it would only bring more trouble to the family. My aunt, to my surprise, agreed quickly and was willing to spend the thousands of dollars for my private-school tuition. Of course, Sophia was not happy about it.

The private school had a far better language tutor than Mr. Baker could ever have been, and with my previous experience in the public school’s ESL class, I made very quick progress. There were a few other Mexican students, one being the daughter of a family who owned a chain of Mexican restaurants. I didn’t immediately make friends with her. I could sense she was being snobby. She spoke fluent Spanish but usually avoided it. I thought she had begun to see me as some sort of competition. Her name was Estefani, but she insisted on being called just Fani. She was tall, nearly five-eleven, with a runway model’s figure. Her father was from a wealthy Mexican family in Houston, Texas, and her family was very close to the family of the most influential Indian families in the desert.

The Indians here owned a great deal of land and made money on the land leases. They also ran casinos and were very wealthy. All of the politicians courted their favor, so Fani was at grand events and parties and often had her picture in the local paper and magazines. The friendliest thing she said to me that first year was, “Maybe I can get you a job as a waitress at our Palm Desert restaurant. We’re always looking for authentic Mexicans.”

“What’s an authentic Mexican?” I asked. She just smiled. I knew what she meant was someone not as fluent in English and dirt poor.

I avoided her, which pleased Sophia, because Fani’s friendship was something most of the girls craved, even Sophia. With Fani, Sophia could admit to her mother being Mexican without feeling inferior.

“We’re alike,” she would tell Fani. “We come from aristocratic Mexican family lines.”

Sophia concocted some fantastic tale about her mother’s family being descendants of wealthy Mexican businessmen and politicians. I was the only poor relative they had.

If the girls she told these things to could see where my aunt really had lived, the house she had lived in, they would probably laugh in Sophia’s face, but because no one knew the truth about Tía Isabela, Sophia could make up anything she liked. As long as I didn’t contradict her, of course.

That first year, she was quick to lay down that rule. She did it as we walked into the building, seizing my wrist and tugging me back.

“Don’t you dare tell these girls how poor my mother’s family was. Whatever I say, you just nod, and if you’re not sure, you don’t say anything, understand? I’m warning you,” she threatened. “I don’t like you being here, and I don’t want you to embarrass me.”

I pulled my wrist out of her grip, but said nothing.

Those early days were very difficult for me, and on more than one occasion, I considered quitting, but gradually, I made more friends and became more and more comfortable, especially with my teachers. Before the first year ended, I was on the honor roll and cited at a school function as the transfer student who had made the most improvement of anyone with language disadvantages. They meant in the history of the school, too. My aunt accepted the congratulations as if it had all been her idea. Sophia was burning up with so much jealousy one of my friends, Parker Morgan, suggested we spray her with one of the school’s fire extinguishers.

On this particular day, Parker, Katelynn Nickles, Colleen McDermott, and I had just begun eating our lunch and talking excitedly about Danielle Johnson’s party, when Christian approached with his tray of food and asked if he could sit with us. Since he had not shown interest in any of the other three, they all looked at me as if it was to be my decision. Whether I liked it or not, I had to be the one to say yes or no.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Only you will be bored. We were just talking about dresses and shoes.”

“Oh, I’m very interested in dresses and shoes,” he said, slipping into the seat beside me. “I’m something of an expert on them. Just ask me anything.”

He smiled at me and started to eat.

“Oh? What do you think of kimono-sleeve dresses?” I asked, looking at the other girls.

He pretended to give it serious thought, which only titillated the other three.

“Well…if I were a girl,” he said, “I’d worry about the elbows. Most girls don’t know it,” he continued, leaning in as if he were going to impart a great secret, “but boys get turned on by elbows.”

Everyone laughed. I couldn’t help being amused, either. He turned those devastatingly beautiful eyes on me. I felt like someone trying to climb out of a grease pit. The more effort I made to ignore and avoid him, the more I went in the opposite direction.

“Anything you wear is going to look good on you, Delia. Don’t worry about it.”

I saw how my girlfriends’ eyes widened with surprise and jealousy. They exchanged quick glances. I blushed and ate my sandwich. Across the cafeteria, Sophia stared with a look of absolute amazement on her face. She whispered something to Alisha, and then all of them turned our way.

Edward hadn’t been wrong about why I should attend the private school instead of public school when I had returned from running away. Although the students here knew what had happened to Bradley and what had happened to Edward, of course, they didn’t know much about my involvement and certainly nothing about my flight through the desert with Ignacio. One of the conditions my aunt had set down for my attending the private school was that I was never, ever to talk about the events with anyone at the school.

Tags: V.C. Andrews Delia Horror
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