“They have a very specific idea of what they think women and men should be like. Machismo and double standards and all that. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, totally,” I lie. I hate feeling like there’s some monolithic Latine culture, because there isn’t and it’s reductive of me to pretend otherwise, but I foolishly wish I did know what Talia meant, given that I’ve hardly been around enough Latine families to know.
“Me wearing a suit to prom freaks some of them out, basically,” she explains.
“But, I don’t understand that,” I admit, hoping she doesn’t realize my contradiction. “You get great grades and stay out of trouble. Why does it matter how you dress to a school dance?”
“Thanks.” She smiles. “But it’s more than just the suit. It’s also my boots.” She wiggles her feet beneath the table, nudging mine and sending a shot of adrenaline through me. “And my plaid shirts and cargo pants, and only hanging out with boys. And honestly, my mom being half Black probably plays a part in all their criticisms too.” She rolls her eyes, but it’s obvious she’s downplaying the hurt. “They’re not all like Dani though, I promise. Most of my dad’s family is great, but Dani and her mom and some of my dad’s other sisters are a little more vocal about their opinions. The day I come home with a tattoo will probably be the final straw, but at least by then I’ll hopefully be settled at UPenn.”
“Does this hypothetical tattoo have a design yet?” I ask, to avoid thinking about her being all the way in Pennsylvania in the fall.
“Don’t laugh,” she says, her shoulders rising as she tucks her head down. It’s like watching a turtle pop in and out of its shell with her; one second she’s implying her cousin is a bitch and telling me about her sexist and racist family members, then suddenly she’s afraid of me again.
“I won’t.”
“The quadratic formula,” she says without blinking. I crack a smile. “You promised!”
“I said I wouldn’t laugh, and technically I haven’t,” I say, but I can’t deny my growing giggle. “Would you mind telling me why the hell you’re getting the quadratic formula, of all things, literally stabbed into your flesh?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’d get a tattoo of first, since you’re so high and mighty about it.”
“Way to avoid the question,” I say. I wait a moment, letting the chatter of the other patrons fill the space between us. “Probably a little garden of my favorite types of roses, maybe with a quote from Hamlet. But I don’t think I’ll ever get a tattoo. Needles freak me out.” I shudder.
“Can I actually ask you something I’ve been wondering about?” She’s playing with the half-empty saltshaker.
“Okay.” I swallow the lump in my throat, thinking of Linds’s party immediately.
“So your name is Ophelia,” she says slowly.
Relief. “So I’ve heard.”
She smiles. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear an outfit that doesn’t involve some type of florals,” she says, then cocks her head and looks up, thoughtful. “Correction—I know I’ve never seen you wear an outfit that didn’t involve florals.”
“I’m still not hearing a question,” I reply evenly, but it takes effort to control my voice when her playful eyes turn back to me.
“And you’re obsessed with roses,” she notes.
“I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed.”
“Okay, how about super talented at rose gardening for someone our age?” she says. “I mean, isn’t that a little funny? It’s like someone being named, I don’t know, Prospero, and being super into books and amateur magic.”
“That was the best example you could come up with?”
“I got a C minus on my Tempest essay last year,” she laughs. “But seriously, Ophelia with the floral print and the rose garden? It can’t just be a coincidence, right?”
“Okay, well, technically Ophelia didn’t have any roses in the play unless you count rosemary … which literally no one should. So do you want the long version or the short version?”
“How about whatever version you can tell me on the walk back to the car? I promised my dad I’d be home in time to set out chicken to thaw.” She stands up from the table, and we gather our trash. I feel my face warm when Julio shouts a goodbye as we leave.
“I’ve told you my mom is an English professor before, right?” I ask, and she nods. We walk down an empty sidewalk, warm spring breeze tickling our bare arms. “Well, she loves Shakespeare. Like, I mean, loves Shakespeare, especially the women in his plays. She says they inspired her to pursue becoming a professor in the field. Anyways, Ophelia is one of her favorites. She’s written, like, hundreds of papers analyzing her role in Hamlet and how she’s been represented in various interpretations of the play. I definitely had a leg up in our Shakespeare unit last year.” Talia laughs. “She told my dad when they first started dating that it was one of her life goals to have a daughter named Ophelia, Miranda, or Viola one day.”
“Aw, so you’re her dream come true?”
“I guess.” I shrug bashfully. “She hadn’t decided on my name when I was born, but someone accidentally delivered a bouquet of daisies to her hospital room, and she swore I smiled when I saw them. Which Sammie says is impossible because my eyes were probably still closed. But she swears on her life I did. So she named me Ophelia and thought it was cute to dress me in floral prints when I was little because, you know, she was an English grad student at the time and lived for that sweet, sweet symbolism.
“But for me, dressing in florals eventually became less about my name and more about me just liking flowers. My parents let me start dabbling with gardening when I was in elementary school, and I started my rose garden a few years after that, with their help. I mean, I mostly used the internet and old gardening books from thrift stores, but they always supported my love of roses, even if it kills my mom that I’m not going to follow in her footsteps and study English in college.”
“But why roses, then?” Talia asks. “Why not rosemary or … whatever flowers Ophelia actually had in the play.”
“Rosemary, pansies, fennel, columbine, rue, and daisies,” I reply automatically. “Like I said, my mom wrote a lot of papers on Ophelia.” Talia snorts as she unlocks her car for us. We both slip inside. “As for me, I just always liked roses. I’ve got a soft spot for them. Like, they’re a huge symbol of romance, and a contradictory cliché because they’re seen as a special sign of affection but also as this overrated capitalist representation of love. People love to hate them and hate that they secretly love them. I respect them for that. Takes guts.”
“That’s really cool,” she says, so softly I almost don’t hear her over the rumbling engine. I feel suddenly exposed in the confined space.
“They’re also not as difficult to grow as everyone assumes they are,” I joke, trying to relieve the flutter in my chest. “But don’t tell Sammie or Lindsay I said that. They’re generally unimpressed with it, but I’ve still got them convinced I’m some type of gardening prodigy. Agatha sees through the bullshit though, as per usual.”