At the mention of Tony, who I’m assuming is another brother and who I’m sure is not taking us anywhere, her mom’s face relaxes. “Okay, mija. There’s money on the mantel. I’m meeting Papa for dinner, and the boys are at Abuela’s. Nice meeting you, Tam.”

With her mother gone, Lourdes slumps. I wait for her to say something about the kiss, but she doesn’t. I look in the mirror, unbutton my shirt, and put on the Las Pochas tee. It’s big but cute somehow as it slips off my shoulder and shows a little of my black bra. “Here,” Lourdes says, grabbing a fine-tooth comb with a skinny handle. She teases my fine, straight hair until the top is puffy and pulls it back tight into a high ponytail like hers.

“I’ve only seen, like, chola girls with this hair.” I’m thinking of a small group of sleek black-jacketed girls in my middle school people called “lowriders,” with their thin-plucked brows and high-teased bangs.

“Ha!” Lourdes says. “What do you think a chola is, Tam? It’s a Mexican girl from California. It’s us, honey! Just add a little punk.” Her fun, zany, TV-girl voice is back. I wonder if it’s been there all along just to hide the girl behind that kiss.

“If you say so.” I close my eyes while she sprays the Aqua Net. “We’d better just stay away from anything flammable.”

“Guess you can’t watch me drum, then.” Lourdes grins and pounds down the stairs, and I follow.

“Are we taking the bus?” I ask. Lourdes just twinkles her gorgeous eyes at me and sends me to the porch.

“Don’t worry, princess,” she says, waving a fan of cash my way and plopping down beside me on the front steps. “Mami left us this! Your coach will arrive shortly.”

We sit together and wait, quiet in a way that feels sweet, the energy of the kiss returning with the rising moon, our pinkies almost touching on the cool stone step.

Then a taxi screeches up. Lourdes rises and bows and opens the door for me. We laugh and talk the entire ride. I think it’s going to be super glamorous pulling up to the club in a cab, but Lourdes has it stop a few blocks away, and I get it—glamorous, maybe, but not punk rock.