On Saturday afternoon, I tell Amá I’m going to the library, but I walk to Angie’s house instead. I’ve called her a million times and she hasn’t called me back. It’s pissing me off. I’m not sure what I’m going to say, but I need to talk to her. I keep thinking of Olga’s underwear, the hotel key, and that strange smirk on her face when she died. For weeks, I’ve had this feeling that won’t leave me alone, like tiny needles in the back of my head. Maybe Angie can tell me something about my sister that I don’t know.

It’s beginning to get chilly now. The air smells like leaves and the promise of rain. I hate this time of year. When it begins to get dark earlier in the day, I start feeling more depressed than usual. All I ever want to do is take a scalding shower and read in bed until I fall asleep. The long, dark days feel like endless black ribbon. This year will be even worse now that Olga is gone.

Angie and Olga met when they were in kindergarten, so I’ve known Angie my whole life. I used to admire her because she’s so stylish and pretty, with her wild, curly hair and wide green eyes that look forever surprised. In high school, she drew pictures of exotic landscapes that Olga taped to her walls. Though she is poor, like us, she has a sharp fashion sense, matching unusual colors and patterns in ways that somehow make sense. She makes outfits from the flea market look good on her. She smells like vanilla, and her laugh reminds me of wind chimes. I always thought Angie would grow up to be something awesome, like a designer or an artist, but it turned out she was another Mexican daughter who didn’t want to leave home. She works downtown and still lives with her parents.

Angie’s mom, Doña Ramona, answers the door and gives me a wet kiss on the cheek. Although I’ve known her forever, I still get startled, because she looks old enough to be Angie’s grandma. I’m guessing that on top of having Angie late in life, she also had some tough times. “Está acabada,” Amá always says, a word that makes me think of an old, dirty dish sponge. Every time I see Doña Ramona, I swear to God, she’s wearing an apron. She probably goes to church in it.

The house smells like roasted chiles, and it’s so warm that my glasses fog. My eyes begin to water, and I cough uncontrollably. It happens every time Amá is making a certain kind of salsa.

“Ay, mija, que delicada,” Doña Ramona says, slapping me on the back. “Let me call Angie and bring you a glass of water.” Everyone likes to remind me how sensitive I am, as if I didn’t know. “How are you feeling these days?” she yells from the kitchen. “Angie has taken this very hard, pobrecita.”

“I’m better, thank you.”

I think Angie’s family may be the last on earth to have plastic covers on their sofas. On top of that, there are porcelain dolls on doilies on nearly every surface of the house. Mexican ladies are always knitting doilies for everything—doilies for the TV, doilies for vases, doilies for useless knickknacks. Doilies as far as the eye can see! How pointless. This is what Amá would call “naco.” We may be poor, but at least we’re not this tacky.

When Angie finally comes out of her room, she’s wearing a ratty gray robe and her hair is matted and greasy. Her eyes are bright red, as if she’d been crying all night. It’s been several weeks now, and she still looks like a disaster. She doesn’t seem pleased to see me.

Angie hugs me and tells me to sit down. The plastic cover squeaks under me. Doña Ramona gives me a glass of water and shuffles back to the kitchen to continue her cooking.

“How have you been?” I ask, though she probably looks the way she feels.

“Jesus, Julia. How do you think?” she snaps. Angie is nice to me most of the time, but I guess Olga’s death has scrambled her up,

too. No one is the same anymore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just…I can’t sleep. Look at me. I look horrible,” she says.

Angie is right. The dark purple rings under her eyes make her look like someone punched her out. “Ojerosa,” Amá would say.

“No, you’re fine,” I lie. “Just as pretty as always.” I try smiling, but it’s so fake, it hurts my face.

Angie glares at me, and the silence grows like a web around us. I hear something in the kitchen crackling in grease, which almost sounds like rain. The clock ticks and ticks. At moments like this, the concept of time confuses me. A minute lasts an hour.

“Can we go to your room?” I finally whisper. “I want to ask you something in private.”

Angie looks confused, but says okay and leads me down the hall. I can tell Angie isn’t wearing a bra, and I try not to stare, but I can see her nipples through her robe, which reminds me of the

time I walked in on her touching Olga’s boobs when I was seven.

As soon as they saw me open the door, Olga pulled down her shirt and looked down at the floor. All I remember is that she seemed ashamed and that her boobs were small and pointy.

I sit on Angie’s unmade bed. It smells like she hasn’t washed her sheets in a few weeks, and the floor is covered with clothes. There are pictures of her and Olga all over her walls and dresser: at the park, in a photo booth, grade school, prom, graduation, dinners. She also has the program from the wake and funeral on her nightstand. It has an angel and some stupid prayer about heaven. I threw mine in the garbage because I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.

“You miss her, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, of course.” Angie stares at the picture of her and Olga in their graduation gowns. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

Angie sighs. “I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone these days.” “Well, I’m not exactly feeling social myself, but I’m her sister,

and the least you could’ve done is call me back.”

Angie stares at her pictures and says nothing. “Was it you that Olga was texting when she died?”

“Huh?”

“Was it you?”

“Look, I don’t know.” Angie rubs her eyes and yawns. “Why does that even matter? She’s gone.”

“Either it was you or it wasn’t. It’s not that complicated. She was hit at about 5:30. You would know by looking at your phone. It’s not like my sister had that many friends.”

“What exactly are you looking for, Julia?” “I just feel there’s something I don’t know.” “Like what?”

“I have no idea. That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I feel exasperated. Maybe this was a mistake. What can I tell Angie? That I went through Olga’s room and found slutty underwear and a hotel key? That I never had a real interest in her until she died because I’m a horrible and selfish human being?

Angie looks up at the ceiling, as if she’s trying not to cry. I’ve done that a million times. I’m the master of keeping my tears inside my ducts.

“I found some weird underwear and a hotel key,” I say. “The Continental.”

Angie tightens her robe and looks down at her chipped pink toenails. “And?”

“What do you mean, and? Call me crazy, but that’s pretty strange.”

“Julia, you’re always exaggerating. I don’t know what you mean by ‘weird’ underwear.”

“Weird as in ‘skanky.’ ” I’m starting to lose my patience. “And a hotel key? When did Olga ever go anywhere? Why would she have that?”

“How would I know?” Angie rolls her eyes, which pisses me off. “Because you were her best friend, duh.”

“You know, Julia, you’re always causing trouble, creating problems for your family. Now that she’s dead, all of a sudden you want to know everything about her? You hardly even spoke to her. Why didn’t you ask her anything when she was alive? Maybe you wouldn’t have to be here, asking me questions about her love life.”

“Love life? So you’re telling me she was dating someone?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“But you just said—”

“Julia, you need to get going. I have things to do.” Angie gets up and opens the door.

If I weren’t so dark, my face would be a dazzling red. It feels as if someone dumped a bucket of boiling water over my head. Angie doesn’t understand how hard it’s been for me to speak to anyone in my family. She hasn’t seen how the silence and tension have been smothering us for years. She doesn’t get that I feel like a three-headed alien in my own home. And why is Angie so defensive? Something isn’t right, but I don’t know what to say. What exactly should I demand? I just keep sitting in her grimy room, with the taste of chile lodged in my throat, while the guilt and anger spread through me like lava.

“Okay, this is pointless,” I say. “Thank you so much, Angie.

Thank you for being so nice and supportive.”

“Julia, stop. Look, I’m sorry. This has been hard for me. I feel like I’m falling apart.” Angie puts her head in her hands.

“You lost your best friend, but I lost my sister. You think I’m just some selfish, narcissistic kid, but my life fucking sucks right now. Every night I expect Olga to come home, and she doesn’t. I just stare at the door like a fool.”

Angie doesn’t respond. As I leave her room, Doña Ramona comes rushing toward me, her slippers flap-flap-flapping on the linoleum. That has to be one of the most irritating noises I’ve ever heard.

“Aren’t you going to eat, mija? Come, sit. I’m making sopes,” she insists.

“No gracias, señora. I’m not hungry.”

Her worn brown face crumples with worry. “What’s wrong, criatura? Are you crying?”

“No, the chiles are burning my eyes,” I lie.