Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa by MICOL OSTOW

tell?”
    â€œHer light is off.” She points toward Rosa’s bedroom window, which is indeed dark. “She doesn’t usually wait up, but you never know.”
    I can not get over how different Lucy’s life is from my own. I’ve never, ever had a curfew, which may explain why I can’t fathom the idea that she is willing to risk sneaking out, and being caught, night after night.
    She pulls into the driveway and kills the ignition. Now I panic, praying that the noise from the car doesn’t wake Rosa.
    â€œWe’re going in the back,” Lucy whispers. “That way we don’t have to walk past her bedroom.”
    She leads me through the fence and into the backyard. We tiptoe to the door off the kitchen. Lucy’s got this down to a science, I see. She slides the key into the door and rattles it just so, pushes the door open just enough to squeeze herself in. After I’m through, she gently guides it back into the door frame. I’m impressed; this is some serious stealth. She takes off her shoes and motions for me to do the same. At this moment I allow myself the thought that Lucy and I are partners in crime, accomplices—especially what with how we’ve gotten away with it. But then Lucy turns to me shortly and mouths simply, “Good night,” and pads off to her room.
    I sigh. I make my way carefully to my bedroom—Lucy’s bedroom, of course. I would love to talk to my mother about this, to whine about curfews just to hear what she has to say on the subject, but she’s out cold when I get to the room, sleeping in a tight coil against the wall, leaving space for me even from the deep recesses of REM stage. I sigh and feel around in the semi-dark for my pajamas.
    The real truth is that if Mom were in any shape to talk about things like curfews and clubbing, then we wouldn’t even be here to begin with.

Five
    Y ou guys—do you think we should spend one day at Yellowstone or two?”
    It’s Adrienne, hunched over a road map in concentration. We’re sitting in a generic motel room, standard orange pattern bedspread and sailboat seascape paintings in place. Adrienne sits cross-legged on the one bed; Isabelle is upright next to her, legs stretched out in front.
    â€œTwo, for sure,” Isabelle says. ‟I mean, Yellowstone?”
    I shake my head. We want to hike most of the trails as much as we can, and we want to spend some time at the geysers too. Even allotting two days, I’m thinking we’ll be rushed. But I don’t say anything. I never say anything in situations like these. Why is that?
    I open my mouth. “I just think—” I stop.
    Words that had formed so clearly in my mind are now stuck, a mental hiccup. I can’t remember at all what I was going to say.
    Â 
    I sit straight up, heart thudding dully in my chest. The sheets are twisted underneath me, my shorts ridden up and sticky with sweat. What? I reach my left arm across my body to grab at my alarm clock and am surprised when my fingertips scrape against the wall instead. I run my fingers through my hair.
    It was a dream, of course. Isabelle and Adrienne are back in Westchester. They leave—for Yellowstone, among other places—sometime this week. I think Wednesday. I idly wonder how much time they ultimately decided to allot to that leg of the adventure.
    Me, I’m still in Puerto Rico—tropical temperatures, spotty air-conditioning. Tía Rosa’s house is equipped with the modern amenities, but climate control in Lucy’s room comes in the form of a ceiling fan that traces lazy circles above me, stirring the humidity rather than alleviating it. God, if I’m hating this room as much as I am, with the heat and the two to a bed, I can only imagine what it’s like for Lucy, stuffed in across the hall with her three sisters.
    The fact that I’m in bed alone means, obviously, that my mother has already woken. I trade