“Yes,” she says. “I do have one of those. Once a year. Just like everyone else.”

“Let me throw you a party,” I beg.

She stands outside the open passenger door and shakes her head. “No can do. At my dad’s this weekend.”

“Oh. Well, maybe we can do something next weekend.”

She studies me for a moment. “I think I’d rather just keep things simple, if that’s okay, but thanks for the ride, Millie.”

That night, after Malik and I proofread each other’s AP Psych essays, I open up my notebook to dig into my journalism-camp personal statement again. For background noise, I turn on The Princess Diaries. I never get tired of the way Julie Andrews says Genovia.

“Genovia.” I let each syllable drag, trying to pronounce it as regally as she does.

What would Julie Andrews write? Just as I pick up my pen, ready to channel the one and only Ms. Andrews, my phone buzzes.

CALLIE: I guess y’all could come over to my dad’s.

CALLIE: It’s far.

CALLIE: Probably not even worth the drive.

I laugh to myself. Surely by now Callie has to know that an out-of-town drive is no match for my determination. Especially in the face of an impending birthday.

MILLIE: You’re talking to the girl who once road tripped hours on a school night for a Dolly Parton drag show. Your dad’s house is barely an hour away. We’ll be there.

CALLIE: Wow. Dolly. Parton. Drag. Show. Those are four words I never expected you to say in one sentence.

MILLIE: Don’t tell my mom, but it was more life-affirming than any sermon I’ve ever heard.

CALLIE: Millie, Millie, Millie. Always breaking your mama’s rules.

I drop my phone onto my desk and gasp. “That’s it!” It’s a true eureka moment.

I take my GIRL BOSS pencil and begin to write.

Sometimes we have to break the rules to get what we want. But now I think it’s time we change them.

Callie

Twenty-Six

My abuela’s house is a tiny three-bedroom bungalow on acres of land. Soon after my parents divorced, my abuelo died on a Sunday afternoon while taking a nap in front of the TV. I don’t remember him as well as Claudia does. My great-grandmother, who was still alive at the time, said at the funeral that he left this world much more peacefully than he entered it. And I guess if you’re going to die (because we all have to eventually), that’s a good way to go.

After he died, though, Abuela couldn’t let go of this house she’d spent almost her entire married life in, so rather than forcing her into something she didn’t want to do, my dad moved back home to take care of the house and the property—and Abuela too, even if she swears she doesn’t need it.

My dad grabs my bag from out of the truck bed, and I follow him inside through the kitchen door on the side of the house.

“She’s here!” my dad calls as he walks in.

Abuela pushes past him and proceeds to squeeze my cheeks and then almost every other part of my body that’s squeezable. Sometimes I think my abuela’s memory is all in her hands, and if she can’t touch it, she’ll never truly know it. “Please tell me why the hell you haven’t called to update me on your life. Everything I hear is secondhand information. Callie broke up with her boyfriend. Callie has a new job. Callie has new friends.”

I look up at her. “Because I’m an awful person? And really with the guilt trip?”

Abuela waves me off and then hugs me. “Well, if you’ve got any awful in you, it’s from your grandfather’s side of the family.”

I chuckle. I think she and my great-grandmother were the original frenemies.

It’s easy to just melt into Abuela’s embrace. She’s a towering woman with broad shoulders and hands so big she can balance a pizza in each of them. Mama calls her the Mexican-American reincarnation of Katharine Hepburn, and it’s true. Her deep, lightly accented voice commands attention. Her style is definitively utilitarian while still looking put together and somehow ethereal. And even though her once caramel-colored hair is grayer than it used to be, her shoulder-length natural waves still perfectly frame her long, narrow face.

My dad, though, carries my grandfather’s genes, with slightly darker hair and skin and a shorter, stout physique. He’s living proof that you don’t have to be tall to get the girl. What he’s lacking in height he makes up for in game. He’s a total flirt. You should see him with the lady at the grocery-store customer service desk. It’s pretty amusing until I remember he’s my dad.

I look over Abuela’s shoulder to see a frying pan of migas, my favorite, and her Texas-shaped waffle maker warming on the counter. Breakfast for dinner is almost as good as dessert for dinner. “Oh my God. Feed me before I waste away.”

“That’s the plan,” she says.

After I get settled in my room, me, my dad, and Abuela all eat at the little table in the kitchen that only seats just the three of us. Abuela has a big, long table out on her screened-in porch off the back of the house, but I like when we eat in here, in her cramped little kitchen. I like the coziness of it. There’s just something about being in a small space with people you actually like.

My dad circles the table, holding the skillet with a pot holder, and serves us all generous helpings. There are lots of different ways to serve migas, but Abuela’s specialty is the Tex-Mex variety, with blue-corn tortilla chips, eggs, cheese, pico, jalapeños, and ground sausage alongside Texas-shaped waffles.

My abuela pats her mouth with her napkin before answering. “Last weekend, I was down at Aurelia’s to help her with research for her latest article about the women of the Alamo. Looks like she’s hitting a few dead ends, but . . .” She turns to my father. “She did say her daughter’s divorce was finalized last month.”

Dad shakes his head and waves a finger in her face. “Stick to the politics and history, Ma. Matchmaking is definitely not in your wheelhouse.” He looks at me. “She tried to set me up with Cindy.”

I gag. “Isn’t Cindy your second cousin?”

“I forgot!” says Abuela, her hand over her mouth. “Okay? It was an accident!” She waves a forkful of waffle at Dad. “You have to admit, if you weren’t related, it would’ve been a good match.”

Abuela hasn’t always been just a mother or a grandmother. Up until two years ago, she taught political science and Texas history full-time at University of Texas of the Permian Basin, or UTPB. Now she’s dedicating her days to academic publishing with her best friend Aurelia, which is really just a cover for them to try to set their kids up together.

“What are you filling your time with these days?” she asks me. “Now that you’re not busy with the dance team.”

My shoulders slump, and before I can even say anything, my dad comes to the rescue. “It’s a celebratory weekend, Ma. Let’s not—”

“Let the girl talk,” she says.

“Well, I’m sort of just working for free right now,” I say.

She nods. “Well, that won’t last forever.”

“I’m off the dance team for good.” I let out a deep sigh that blows the loose fallen hairs from my ponytail off my face. “I guess I could get a job and start saving for a car.”

Dad nods. “I like that idea.”

Abuela tsks. “A short-term goal,” she says. “What do you want to do?” Her voice overemphasizes every word, and I am easily reminded that she was used to talking to directionless young people every day from her time as a professor.

“I don’t know,” I finally tell her. “I’m working off my debt at this gym, and . . . and it’s like the thing that everyone knew me for is gone.”

“That’s not entirely true,” says Dad. “Your attitude is pretty notorious.”

Abuela points her knife at him jokingly.

I think back to the last two months and all that’s happened. I feel like a giant onion, and every day I’m peeling back a new layer of myself. Dance team and Bryce defined the old Callie. Bryce is definitely out of the picture, but what about dance? Am I done? For good?