Mrs. Delgado was hot. That was still a fact, like gravity or the price of gas. But the story wasn't about that. The story was about a sixteen-year-old kid who stopped seeing a "hot mom" and started seeing Elena—the woman who could beat you at Scrabble, who cried at dog commercials, and who, when Leo finally went to college, would be the one left behind, drinking her iced coffee alone in a quiet kitchen.
Mrs. Delgado laughed, stood up, and ruffled Leo's wet hair. "Shower. Then take out the trash."
Leo came back downstairs, hair dripping, wrapped in a towel. "What'd I miss?"
Let me be clear: I wasn't a creepy kid. I just had eyes. And Mrs. Delgado, Elena, was the kind of person who made you understand why Renaissance painters loved natural light. My frnd hot mom
"Now."
I laughed, nervous. "He's lying. I blue-shell him constantly."
She sat on the armchair across from me, tucking one leg under her. The rain hammered against the small basement window. The room felt smaller, quieter. But the story wasn't about that
"Your mom says I'm a gift," I said, deadpan.
Leo threw a pillow at my head. "Don't let it go to your head, nerd."
The Summer of Seeing Clearly
"You're a good friend to him, you know," she said, looking at me directly. Not at my acne, not at my too-big t-shirt, but at me . "He's been happier this year. Quieter at home, but happier. That's because of you."
"Sorry about the AC," she said, handing me a glass. "Leo says you're the only one who doesn't cheat at Mario Kart. High praise."
As she walked back upstairs, Leo rolled his eyes at me. "See? Total dictator." Delgado laughed, stood up, and ruffled Leo's wet hair
The summer I turned sixteen, my best friend, Leo, got air conditioning. That was the official reason I biked to his house every scorching afternoon. The unofficial reason was his mom, Mrs. Delgado.
Leo and I were in the basement, playing a video game where we blew up aliens. Upstairs, Mrs. Delgado was on a Zoom call for her landscape architecture job. Her voice drifted down, calm and professional.