The Resolutions

By Mia Garcia

A heart-expanding novel about four Latinx teens who make New Year’s resolutions for one another—and the whirlwind of a year that follows. Fans of Erika L. Sánchez and Emery Lord will fall for this story of friendship, identity, and the struggle of finding yourself when all you want is to start over.

From hiking trips to four-person birthday parties to never-ending group texts, Jess, Lee, Ryan, and Nora have always been inseparable. But now with senior year on the horizon, they’ve been growing apart. And so, as always, Jess makes a plan.

Reinstating their usual tradition of making resolutions together on New Year’s Eve, Jess adds a new twist: instead of making their own resolutions, the four friends assign them to one another—dares like kiss someone you know is wrong for you, find your calling outside your mom’s Puerto Rican restaurant, finally learn Spanish, and say yes to everything.

But as the year unfolds, Jess, Lee, Ryan, and Nora each test the bonds that hold them together. And amid first loves, heartbreaks, and life-changing decisions, beginning again is never as simple as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Nov 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780062656896

Mia Garcia

Mia García was born and raised in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but now lives in New York under a pile of to-be-read books. Mia earned her MFA from the New School. You can find her at www.mgarciabooks.com or on Twitter @MGarciaWrites.

Book preview

New Year’s Eve

Nora

THE ORIGINAL RECIPE called for three dollops of Nutella in the batter, but Nora placed five. With a knife she swirled the chocolate into the brownie batter, making complicated patterns that would mostly disappear as the mixture baked and rose. But still she felt quite calm doing it. When it was nice and swirled she placed the pan and its peanut butter counterpart in the oven, set the timer on her phone, and wrote out the adjusted recipe in her notebook.

Already her mind wondered what other alterations she could make. What would the brownies taste like with swirls of guayaba? Or a gooey layer of dulce de leche? Her mouth watered, and she sighed as she closed her overflowing recipe notebook and placed it back on the cookbook section of their bookshelf. She loved how baking made her mind tumble with new ideas. How even as she whisked flour, sugar, and chocolate her mind offered her a dozen other options and variations to try.

Too bad they rarely found a home outside of her circle of friends and the odd customer. But that was the way it had to be; Nora understood that. She and her mother spent years cultivating the classic Puerto Rican cuisine they served at their small restaurant (could they call it that when they only had one tiny table?), La Islita del Caribe, and many of her recipes simply did not fit the bill. Though they still brightened her heart, and that was good enough for her. She wouldn’t have notebooks filled with recipes if they didn’t.

She ran her finger across the spines on the shelf. They contained various histories of Puerto Rico (where her mother was born) and Cuba (where her father’s parents were born), biographies about fancy superstars like Rita Moreno, and some of her mother’s favorite books. The baking and cooking section was by far the largest and featured two copies of her mother’s favorite Puerto Rican cookbook. Its classic recipes were the basis for their first menu. She still remembered her seven-year-old self stretching until she could see over the counter as she helped her mother serve out containers filled with arroz relleno to their first customers.

As Nora grew so did her role in La Islita, until she was head of the dessert menu. Though she’d love to add her newer recipes, Nora was proud of her work and the trust her mother placed in her. Eventually Nora would run La Islita herself, but that was far off in the future, regardless of how many times her mother reminded her of it.

Dropping all the dishes in the sink, she filled it with water and let them soak while she decided whether or not to make a third dessert for Jess’s New Year’s Eve party. Could it still be called a party when it was just Jess, Lee, Ryan, and Nora? Either way, Nora couldn’t wait to see her friends. Between school and work at La Islita she rarely had time to just sit and hang out. She missed Lee dragging her to whichever latest sci-fi or superhero movie was out that week. Or just talking with Jess and Ryan over a hot cup of café she hadn’t made herself.

She eyed the oven and the two baking sets of brownies trying to remember last year’s sugar consumption.

Though Ryan was in charge of the candy for the party, Nora was in the charge of the dessert—and the two should never be confused. Pulling out the notebook again she flipped through the recipes, not finding anything she could whip up with what was left in the fridge. She eyed her mom’s recent yard sale purchase and leafed through a cookbook that looked like it was from the nineties, landing on a recipe for vanilla meringues. It was kind of perfect since they reminded her of the lemon meringues her abu used to bring with her whenever she visited. Though the ones pictured in the book were perfectly shaped, while her grandmother’s were dyed a wicked green color and were shaped by however they landed when the spoon slapped down on the metal sheet.

The recipe called for four egg whites that have been separated from the yolk for at least twenty-four hours. Who had time for that? Nora was pretty sure her grandmother didn’t keep random egg whites in her fridge for no damn reason, so fresh ones it would be. She filled a small bowl with warm water and set the eggs inside to lose some of the cold while she washed the dishes. There were only so many mixing bowls in the apartment.

The recipe called for regular sugar and powdered sugar. Got to love a recipe that calls for two types of sugar.

Her phone buzzed.

Ryan: As usual, I never learn from my mistakes and am helping Jess set up.

Jess: You love it.

Ryan: Do I?

Lee: Are you guys texting while in the same room?

Ryan: . . . No.

Jess: Yes.

Lee: Dorks.

Ryan: So, that’s TWIX for Nora, Peanut M&M’s for Jess, and a hot bag of dicks for Lee. Did I get that right?

Lee: HEY.

Nora: ☺

Lee: Rude.

Ryan: ☺

Lee: But for serious, you got my Starburst, right?

Ryan: I’m not an amateur.

Lee: I never doubted you.

Nora smiled and shook her head as she dipped her hands into the still-warm water. Finding the sponge hiding at the bottom she got to work dislodging the chocolaty sweetness from the bowls. She was lost in the task when the sound of jangling keys came from the door.

Nora! her mother called from the entrance, dragging out the O in her name.

¡Aqui! she answered, not that there were many places she could be in their tiny apartment.

Her mom tossed her keys into a small bowl by the door and struggled to pull off her snow boots. Why did I even put these on today? You’d think after years of living here I could figure out Denver weather, pero no.

Free of the bulky shoes, she came around the kitchen counter and gave Nora a big hug. She smelled of frying oil, cumin, and garlic; remnants of a long day at La Islita. Most days Nora smelled like café, vanilla, and sugar. Beth often said she could taste the sugar on her skin.

It’s easy, Nora said as her mother slumped on the couch. It snows for one day then it’s gone the next, and it’s always bike-riding weather por alguna razón.

Today sucked.

Did the order get out okay? Nora felt a pang of guilt for taking the day off.

Sí. I just don’t understand how some people always find something to complain about, coño. She peeked at Nora from the couch. Por favor dime we still have some of the café your tía sent from Puerto Rico.

We do. Nora pulled a glass container from the pantry and measured coffee grounds into the moka pot. What was it this time?

Why don’t we put olives in our piñon? We don’t, that’s why! My mother didn’t like them, I don’t like them, Dios. If you want one with olives make it yourself, Doña Claudia.

She’s a good customer though.

Yes, and she knows it, la vieja. Her mother shrugged the day off like a coat and slipped on a smile. We missed you at the store today.

I know. Nora pulled out a rag from a drawer and concentrated on drying the bowl, ignoring the guilt that threatened to mess with her stomach. She knew her mother hadn’t meant to tap into the guilt, but dammit if her heart didn’t fall for it each time.

It’s never the same without you, her mother said, staring at Nora for a beat longer than necessary.

What?

Her mother shrugged.

Nora wasn’t buying it. What’s that look for?

Just being sentimental. She tried to wave Nora away, but now she needed to know.

About?

You.

Me? What would make her sentimental about me?

Sí, tu. I’m proud of you, you know that?

Nora cringed, feeling a flush starting along her neck. Mami . . .

I know, I know! I was just thinking of how lucky I am to have you. Today was a very good day at La Islita, and it wouldn’t be where it is now without you. And you know what? She looked away from Nora, like she could see something Nora couldn’t. I see big things for us, Mija. Just you wait. It’s going to be our year. La Islita’s year. All because of you.

Nora shook her head. You’re just exaggerating.

I never exaggerate.

She did. She really did.

Nora pulled the now room-temperature eggs out of the bowl, setting them on top of the rag. She shook off the tendrils of guilt that still clung to her heart. Tendrils that told her she could’ve gotten up earlier and helped at the store while making the treats for tonight. She would’ve been tired, yes, but wasn’t she always tired?

¿Qué haces?

Meringues.

¿Ay, guárdame unos cuantos? She patted her stomach. I need a treat.

Claro.

You know. She looked pensive for a moment. We do need a new dessert for the spring catering menu. Meringues would be easy-ish, and your abuela would’ve loved to see them on the menu. ¿Qué crees?

Nora could see herself piping thousands of tiny little meringue kisses over and over again, waiting hours for a batch to dry out so she could pack them up for whatever wedding, cumpleaños, or party they were preparing for. Her back ached already.

I don’t know—they do take a lot of time in the oven to make them light as a feather.

Her mother shrugged. Piénsalo and let me know; you’re the boss.

Nora could hear the water start to steam, traveling up the pot, and she thought back to an article she’d read yesterday about how you could never really catch up on sleep, which somehow made her more tired.

Excited for tonight? Her mother pulled off the hair ties that held the tangle of black hair atop her head, letting the curtain of black cascade along her shoulders. Nora’s hair was almost as black as her mother’s, but instead of straight it was a mass of tight curls that she usually kept back in a professional bun.

Yes, it’s been so hard to get everyone together, especially Ryan. Nora didn’t fight the smile that crept on her lips.

Is he still . . . ? her mother asked as she came around the kitchen counter to help her.

Heartbroken?

Her mother nodded.

Yeah.

Bueno, maybe tonight will be good for him?

I hope so.

Nora slid two small bowls between them. This one for yolks and the other for egg whites. Don’t dump the whites into the mixing bowl until you make sure there are no yolk bits in them.

Her mother bumped her butt against hers. You trying to show me my own moves?

Technically these are Abu’s moves.

Oh I see. Her mother cracked an egg on the counter, dropping the contents on her cupped hand. Let me show you mine, then.

Nora reached for an egg, concentrating on the feel of the whites as they passed through her fingers, coating her skin, then dropping the yolk in the waiting bowl. She smiled as she watched her mother do the same. How many times had they stood like this, side by side, tinkering with recipes? Hundreds? How many were still to come? The thought made her stumble like a crack on the sidewalk, and she stopped, the egg yolk close to slipping between her fingers before she pushed past it and kept going.

Ryan

JESS WAS ON Ryan’s bed, and she wouldn’t leave. If he wanted her out he’d have to extract himself from the sheets that his sleeping self had wrapped so meticulously around his body and push her off from his side. That felt like a lot of work for this early in the morning . . . or was it afternoon? She bounced on his bed with such force she’d almost bounced him off it.

Jessica Marie Agüedo, don’t do this.

It’s not that he didn’t deserve it. He’d been a shit friend for the past several weeks, ever since he’d broken up with Jason. Again.

He felt Jess still and imagined her trying to figure out which part of the talking bedsheet blob was his face.

Whoa, full name! Well, fullish. You’re missing like three more last names. Anyway, you promised you’d help me prep for New Year’s.

That was Past-Ryan. Past-Ryan was still in a relationship and much happier. Not entirely true, a part of him whispered, but it was not the time to get into the nuances of Ryan and Jason’s failed attempt at saving their relationship after their first breakup when Jason left for college. Their reconciliation had lasted right until Thanksgiving, just in time to go to the TAA’s (Taiwanese Association of America) Thanksgiving celebration. Perfect. Past-Ryan says a lot of shit Present-Ryan regrets. Present-Ryan cannot be held accountable for Past-Ryan’s promises.

Present-Ryan could not actually be found, as his heart was shattered into a million pieces, and who are you without a heart?

Come on, she pleaded. You can’t stay in there all day.

What was left of the day, anyway. That sounds like a challenge.

He should get up. He should help his friend like he’d promised, but it was so damn hard to move, to think. He was stuck in place, and it was simply easier not to try.

Come on! No one else helps set up.

Have faith! You never know, just because no one ever has . . .

You miss us, I know it. Jess shifted and lay down next to the cocoon, poking the fabric with her finger.

He did miss them; of course he did. Jess, Nora, and Lee had been nothing but supportive since the breakup. Lee had even offered to kill Jason and hide the body if needed. Ryan had politely declined, unable to manage even a split second of anger to consider it. All he could manage was self-doubt. To be fair, he’d gotten rather good at self-doubt.

Jess’s finger poked through a fold in the fabric, searching for a shoulder to nudge.

Stop that, it’s creepy. Ryan closed his eyes and when he opened them again they focused on the thread inches from his face. Faded tones of blue weaving in and out of each other. How quickly would they come apart with one snip? He imagined pulling one thread until flecks of light dotted the blanket, then another, his hands working across, forming patterns. He could see them, pinpricks of light, Morse code across the fabric, until his mind stumbled, the threads snapping, leaving nothing but blinding light. Scrunching his eyes, he turned back to Jess.

We miss you. Jess paused. He heard her take a deep breath.

I’m here, he said, though he knew that’s not what she meant. Sort of.

Ryan curled into himself. He pulled the blankets closer to his body, the fabric felt itchy across his newly buzzed head. It seemed like a good idea at the time, now he had to stop his hand from reaching for the strands. Instead his fingers reached for a broken thread in the fabric and pulled.

He felt Jess shift closer to him, and he wondered if she was also remembering when they were kids and would hide beneath his bed to scribble all over the boards under his mattress. It felt good to have her near, and he thought maybe he should tell her, but she probably already knew.

You know, I have so much to do, and if you came with me you would be super busy.

I’m confused by this tactic. He pulled the blanket down just a bit, uncovering one eye, looking at Jess through the fuzz of his sheets. Hazy and softly colored Jess blended into the fabric like he’d taken a dry brush to an oil painting just as it dried.

I’ll make sure you’re so busy, you won’t have time to obsess over Jason.

I’m not obsessing. I don’t obsess. I’m sulking, I think . . . or . . . He sighed. If only words were like paint, maybe he’d be better at saying what he felt. If Ryan were a painting at this very moment he’d be a canvas covered in charcoal. The charcoal would rub off on your hands—even if you swore you never touched it. Etched into the center of the painting would be a speck of white that echoed like a light in the dark. And depending on which way you looked at it, it was either getting brighter or dimming.

For a moment he itched to pick up his old sketchbook to paint the thought out, but as quickly as the image came, it drowned under a wave of doubt and paralysis.

Well, sulking it is. But think about how much you won’t have to think about with all the shit I’m going to make you do!

He pressed his hands against his eyes, waiting for the little pricks of light to appear, but he knew there was a smile on Jess’s face just now. It’s comforting to know your friends so well.

I promise you, Jess’s voice was clear and warm and just what he needed. You won’t have any other thoughts aside from how annoying I am.

It was his turn to smile. You aren’t that annoying.

Is that a yes? she asked, hopeful.

He could say no. He could. Staying in place felt like a relief and exhausting at the same time, but Jess felt like a tether, a way out if only for this one moment. What would happen if he didn’t take it? Would he ever have it again? I need to shower.

Yes, you do.

Rude, he said, finally butting her off the bed, just a bit satisfied at the thump she made when she hit the ground.

I’ll wait for you downstairs. Ten minutes?

What? Thirty at least.

Fine.

Ryan untangled the fabric from his body. He pictured a majestic unveiling like a butterfly from that chrysalis thing, but in actuality it was a lot of muffled grunts, eventually falling off the bed. The sun greeted him with the same cheerfulness that Jess had—not caring whether he was ready or not. He dropped the tangled bundle on the floor, which fit in with the rest of the mess in his room.

How Jess had managed to stop herself from organizing it while he was cocooned, he had no idea. But then there in the corner of his room he spotted the pile of small boxes—gifts from his grandmother’s many travels (travels he’d one day be a part of when schedules and budgets aligned). Previously an unruly mountain—now sorted into three small piles and tucked against the wall. Could be worse.

Down the hall he could hear Jess chatting with his parents. Any delay now would come at a cost. He fished his towel from underneath a pile of possibly clean clothes and crossed the hall to the bathroom. He made the water scalding hot and hopped in. The water circled down the drain as he closed his eyes and imagined his sadness as tones of gray circling down and away. When he opened his eyes, he could still feel it clinging to his skin, which was just as well. Without his sadness, would there be anything left of him?

Lee

LEE HAD REACHED the end of the internet. She knew it was the end because it featured a rotating ice cream cone that did most of the work for you, and that surely signaled the end of humanity. How lazy did you have to be to need a rotating ice cream cone?

And the fact that she was on the verge of even considering buying the thing meant it was time to step away from her laptop. She still had several hours until she needed to be at Jess’s and the possibilities were endless: she could pretend to clean her room again, but since the accidental result of pretending to clean one’s room is actually cleaning your room, it was already annoyingly put together. She should finish the last volume in the graphic novel series she was reading, but that meant the series would come to an end and she wasn’t ready for that.

Her pile of unread film magazines on the floor next to her desk toppled over as if on cue. She was sorting them into keep and toss piles when there was a knock on the door.

Lee? her father called from the other side of the door.

I’m decent, she replied, eyeing her solar system jammies.

Her father popped his head in, an easy smile on his face for a man who looked like he could bench press a small car. Her dad had always been muscle on the outside and marshmallow on the inside, but not that many people saw past the six-foot-tall, giant-of-a-man part. Where her father was an open book, Lee kept her emotions close to the chest as much as possible. It was safer that way.

He settled by her desk, noticing the video she’d left up on her screen.

What’s this? Her father’s face was an inch from the screen. Lee made a mental note to remind him to make an appointment with an eye doctor. His eyesight was getting worse and worse.

The greatest invention in mankind’s history.

His smile took over his whole face. I thought that was penicillin?

Common mistake.

That so? Her father chuckled before his eyes started to wander around her room as the pause in conversation extended.

Lee sighed, knowing what was coming next. When things got uncomfortable between them it was always about her mother. Paula Maria Perez-Carter. Careful how you pronounced Paula, of course, making sure to stretch out the u until it carried with it her bilingual tongue and brown skin that absorbed the sun deep into her heart. Her mother’s memory carried a weight, even three years after her death. It was unfair to her memory, but it was the truth.

What’s up?

I wanted to make sure you were okay missing those school days for the trip to Virginia for your mother’s birthday?

I don’t think you ever have to ask if I’m okay with missing school, Lee said. It’s always okay.

Just making sure. In case you might have any plans. You never know.

Lee shook her head. Her mother’s birthday would be forever marked in her calendar along with the day of her death. But their trip to Virginia in April would be to celebrate her birthday as they had every year, come rain or shine, as her mother would’ve wanted it.

What she wouldn’t have wanted was the ripple effect of the trip. Each year leading up to it her father would run around finding ways to keep busy until April, to keep his mind from wandering over to how much he missed her. Last year it was starting a community garden in the middle of winter. This year it was tackling the guest room—or what was supposed to be the guest room—but was really a room for what Lee called the too hard stuff. Anything that was too hard to get rid of: certain items of clothing, jewelry that Lee didn’t want to go through, medical bills, photos, all connected to Lee’s mom.

No plans. Are we staying with Auntie Rose? She smiled, slipping her hand into his; brown skin against brown skin.

I don’t think we can get out of that one. Her dad smiled, placing his other hand over hers.

Lee always thought her hands were big like her father’s until moments like this when she felt five again, holding his hand as they crossed the street.

Lee was somewhere in the middle: short like her mom but strong like her father. Blunt like her, and soft like him. Though she hid that softness as much as she could.

He pushed himself off the desk, and within two steps he was at the door, taking up the whole frame. It always made Lee smile, like they were living in a dollhouse her dad had outgrown. When you heading out?

Probably around eight. You have your office shenanigans?

Shenanigans require a degree of fun that my coworkers know nothing about.

Sounds like a rager,