by Nina Moreno
I slid his to-do list closer to him. “Because we’re all busy. You have to do all of that, and I’ve got to finish one more scholarship application, write a paper for my humanities class, and help plan a small wedding.”
“What happened to Rosa the dreamer?”
I tapped my journal. “She’s in here.”
Junior walked over to us, sighing louder with every pen and piece of paper I pulled out of my bag. “How many times I gotta tell you all those book smarts don’t help in the real world?” he said. “You need some life skills, little sis. How to make real deals. You need some street smarts.”
Benny laughed. “The hell do you know about any streets?”
“I’m from Miami. Three-oh-five till I die.”
“You were born in Palm Bay, bro.”
The door to the inside of the store flew open, and Ana exploded into the break room. She pointed her drumstick in Benny’s face. “You have to give me a ride to jazz band. Mom’s busy now, thanks to Rosa.”
I clicked my pen. “If you mean thanks to Rosa for saving the day, you’re welcome.”
“I got things to do today,” Benny said with a resentful wave of his list. “I don’t have time to take you to go bang on your shitty drums.”
“Hey!” Ana’s stick flew back up. “Those drums cost more than your shitty car.” Ana was a year older, but her brother was the one with the car, since she’d spent her savings on a drum set instead. Her parents were still pissed about that.
“Watch your mouths, coño!” Mrs. Peña demanded as she entered the break room, her phone up to her ear. She was frazzled, but she always operated that way. She shared my affinity for organization and vintage tropical aesthetics, and she ran the bodega like someone who knew all about making real deals. In her hands, this could work. God, I hoped it would work. It was starting to feel like everything hinged on this one weekend.
“Mrs. Peña, I wrote up some ideas last night—”
Junior interrupted. “Your head is gonna get as big as that nerdy book bag you carry everywhere, Rosa.”
I scowled at him. I loved my backpack. When I grew up I wanted to be my backpack. It was sturdy, with a colorful, busy fabric. Mimi had sewn it before I started high school, enchanting it with powerful words so it would always carry whatever I needed and never get lost.
“Don’t be a dick, Junior,” Ana said. She only let her family tease me up to a point.
Mrs. Peña pulled her phone away from her ear. “¡Oye! I have ears! ¡Carajo!”
“Ma,” Ana deadpanned. “Everyone here speaks Spanish. We know you curse as much as us, if not worse.”
Her mother ignored her and looked at Benny. “Please take your sister to jazz band.”
Benny sighed loudly and made a big show of getting to his feet, but he kissed his mom’s head on his way out the door. “Let’s go, bongo girl.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” Ana said as she followed.
Mrs. Peña sat down and continued talking on the phone. She quickly scribbled something down on her clipboard. I pushed my notebook closer to her. In a break in the conversation, she looked at me, and said, “I’m on hold. Go ahead.”
I hurried to say, “I listed all the businesses on the square and the neighboring ones between it and the harbor—”
Mrs. Peña smacked her forehead. “I forgot! I have a bread delivery I’m supposed to make. I was going to ask one of the kids.”
“I can do it!” I offered and jumped to my feet. They never let me do deliveries, and I needed in on the tips. Benny had flashed some serious dollars last week before blowing it all on a video game.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Peña asked me.
“Totally. You look at those lists and tell me everything you think when I get back. Don’t worry, I got this.” I swept out of the room before she could change her mind.
In the kitchen, Mr. Peña sliced pork, preparing for the upcoming lunch hour. Garlic, peppers, onions, and bacon hissed together in the big pot that would soon hold arroz congrí, according to the menu board.
“Good morning, sir. How are you?” I stepped up close beside Mr. Peña. Ana’s dad wasn’t a talker. The deli was his kingdom and his food the gift he bestowed on the rest of us—as long as we didn’t bother him.
“Rosa?” he asked, looking past me to see if anyone else was coming.
“Yes, me. I’m on delivery duty today.” I saluted him, my eyes closing at the smell of roasted pork. “Sorry, I can’t think past the smell of the lechón. Whenever Mimi cooks it, I become this hungry, growling zombie and—”
“Rosa,” he interrupted, and his knife came to a quick stop. My waving, storytelling hands stopped, too. Mimi teased that they were the most Cuban thing about me. “Take that bread to the marina’s restaurant. Please go now.”
My dreams of making it rain instantly dried up.
I’d never been to the marina. No one in my family had been in years. I never went farther than the bookshop, and that was the second business on the boardwalk. But even then I always stuck to the right side, away from the railing on the left and the beach beyond it. When I was ten, my friend Mike jumped from it and broke his ankle. I’d cried harder than him.
Mr. Peña looked at me, waiting. He was probably the one person in town who wouldn’t stop to consider old stories and superstitions, because he was too busy. He gestured to the pile of freshly baked loaves tucked into their paper sleeves. How was I going to help save the harbor if I was too scared to go there? It wasn’t like I planned on jumping off the boardwalk. I could do this. I had to do this if I wanted out of the kids’ table. I scooped the bread into my arms, pressed my nose to the bouquet, and inhaled deeply. A happy sigh floated from me. I could do this. It was just a delivery.
Mr. Peña cleared his throat.
“I’m going.” I shuffled around him, arms full of my bounty, and headed out the back door.
“You know how to ride the bike, right?” Doubt crept into his voice.
“Of course I do,” I called just before the door closed behind me.
Of course I didn’t know how to ride the delivery bike, because no one ever let me do deliveries, but that wasn’t going to stop me now. The giant basket in the back was a concern, but I dropped the bread into it, dusted my hands, and surveyed the dragon I was going to slay.
“Listen, we can do this.” I pointed east to the sea. “You help me, I don’t crash you. Teamwork.”
“Who are you talking to?” Junior came around the corner, startling me.
I glanced around for an excuse, but I was alone and my phone was back in my bag. “Myself.” That didn’t make me sound any better. “Mostly the bicycle. A pep talk before I ride it.”
His brows shot up, and he stopped chewing on the toothpick between his teeth. “You’re doing the delivery?”
“I know how to ride a bike,” I argued.
“Not what I asked, but I gotta say, Rosa, your defensiveness worries me.”
“Just get out of here. And don’t tell your uncle I was talking to the bike.”
I climbed onto the seat and carefully situated my skirt around me. Not the best outfit for today’s venture, but with enough care no one would see anything good. Mike rode a skateboard, and after watching him, I became so fascinated he built me a longboard for my fifteenth birthday. I covered it in college and bookish stickers and used it to get around town most days, so a bike shouldn’t be any different.
With a murmured prayer, I kicked off the curb and set off.
“Whoa.” The handlebars grew wild in my hands. “Do not. Do not.” The wheels dipped into a curve in the road, my stomach falling from the near fall. “What did I just tell you?” I pleaded. After a few shaky readjustments, the wind, wheels, and I aligned. Finding my balance was exhilarating. I cycled past the post office and library, and wished for a friendly little bell to announce my victory. Or better, a guttural air horn, because I’d just become queen of a freaking dragon.
It got dicey again over the cobblestones. Th
is part of downtown was not as cute on a bicycle with this much junk in its trunk. At the boardwalk, people watched me heading their way with growing concern. Frankie stopped sweeping the barbershop’s entryway. Simon looked up from his paper. His dog, Shepard, watched me stoically. Clara dropped the books she was organizing in the small cart outside her bookshop.
I couldn’t let go of the handlebars to wave and coolly reassure them, so instead, I shouted, “I’m good! This is fine!” When I reached the last of the wooden planks, where the boardwalk ended at the marina, I slammed on the brakes and jumped off, grateful to be alive.
I bent at the waist and let out a heavy breath. “I did it. Victory is mine.”
“What?”
I straightened. An older man in brown rain boots and a green vest decorated with fishing hooks stopped in front of me, wearing a look of concern. “You okay, miss?”
I tried to catch my breath. “I brought bread.”
“That’s…nice.”
“Not for me.” I squeezed the pinch in my side. “Not actually sure who it’s for. I don’t ever do deliveries and they didn’t give me specifics beyond ‘Take this to the marina,’ when I’ve never even been to the end of the boardwalk.” I glanced toward the bookshop, trying to estimate the exact distance. The man was still standing in front of me. “There’s a restaurant here, right?”
“The Starfish.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he searched my face. His frown deepened. “You’re Liliana’s girl.” He didn’t say it nicely. I sighed. This was partly why I didn’t come here. Still, I didn’t expect to get heat from the first person I saw.
“Rosa Santos,” I said, because I had a name. He backed up a step. One hand went to the stair’s handrail while the other jerked up in a gesture I didn’t recognize. He turned away and took off toward the docks. “Rude,” I muttered, then flinched when a bird cried out above me. I tracked its path before it disappeared into the gray sky. My gaze fell to the horizon, and the world quieted as I faced the sea.
It wasn’t that I’d never seen it before. It was always there, somewhere in the distance doing its thing. But after finally making it to the end of the boardwalk and the marina where my dad once worked, it was like finding the heartbeat of Port Coral. The lifeblood of our palm trees, sandy sidewalks, and sun-bleached houses. The start of every breeze that rustled Mimi’s lemon trees.
To my right was a two-story building that looked like an overgrown shack painted in varying shades of blue. The wide wraparound porch confidently stood above the water on stilts. A few smaller buildings continued past it, safe on the harbor’s shore. Rows of boats waited out in the water. People walked along the docks without fear. I watched from my perch on the edge of the boardwalk, above sea level. Beside me, stairs led down to the hustle and bustle, but I was locked in place.
There was a reason this was my first time here. The last time my family stood on those docks, my teenage mother was pregnant with me, screaming at the sea for stealing her love. My father didn’t have a tombstone. Only the tiny altar I’d created in my room.
I gripped the railing in front of me. Santos women never went to the sea. But we were also stubborn. Mimi avoided the ocean, never returning to the waters she once loved, yet she settled in a sleepy coastal town, because perhaps my abuela couldn’t bear to stray too far from her lost husband or island. Mom was always leaving this town, yet she painted snapshots of it everywhere she went. And now here I stood, stuck.
A strong gust of air swept over me, sending strands of hair into my face. I couldn’t do this. If I went down there, people would notice me like that fisherman had. I would stir old painful stories that would get back to Mimi. I needed people to take me seriously and I needed to tell Mimi about my study-abroad plans, and this was not the way to do that. I spun around to leave and slammed into a solid wall.
Unfortunately, the wall was a person.
“I’m so sorry!” I didn’t mean to shout in Alex’s face or grab his shirt, but unfortunately I did both. The memory of Mike’s broken ankle flashed through my mind. I tightened my grip, and Alex’s dark brows inched up a little. Forget broken bones, this embarrassment was going to kill me.
Alex looked concerned, but he said nothing. He held a small plant in one hand, my upper arm in the other. The unexpectedness of the potted plant struck me. Mint? He let go of me, and I released his shirt. “It’s my first time coming here,” I explained. Above us, seagulls cawed again, startling me. “That wasn’t a call to attack, right?”
He checked the sky.
Another horn blared. A bell rang and someone down on the docks called out about the fresh catch. The sharp lines of Alex’s face, shadowed by the beard, were distracting. His thumb and forefinger idly rubbed one of the mint leaves. The green scent reached me, and I leaned closer before I could stop myself.
Alex looked down at me. “Why are you here?” he asked with that same rough edge in his voice as last night. Hearing it bothered me more than the rude old fisherman.
“It’s not like I can’t come here,” I said.
“I didn’t mean—” He stopped and tried again. “You graduate next month, right?”
Before I could ask him how he knew that, I remembered everyone knew that. I wondered if he followed the viejitos’ blogs, too.
“Yes,” I said, and a miracle happened: He didn’t ask me where I was going. The cool sea breeze moved between us, making the tiny sprigs of his mint plant flutter in his hand.
Not being asked where I was going was so novel and refreshing that I couldn’t help but blurt, “I’m going to Havana.” It was exhilarating to say it so definitively, and almost worth the panic my bold confession induced in me. “For a semester of study abroad,” I hurried to add.
Alex appeared mildly impressed.
“I technically haven’t—Oh my god, the bread!” I yelped and rushed back to the bike where the loaves were still thankfully in the basket. I hugged them to my chest. Alex still stood by the stairs. “Do you know who gets bread delivered here?”
He pointed at the open door a few feet away. “The Starfish. Ask for Maria.”
It would be right behind me. “Sorry again for barreling into you. Maybe I’ll see you at tomorrow night’s meeting.”
“There’s another meeting?”
He sounded so aggrieved, I grinned. “Of course there is. Welcome back.” I headed inside the building with my bread.
The restaurant was painted in soft, washed-out blues, and the tables were made of distressed wood. A chalkboard menu advertised the day’s fresh catch, and the wide windows were open to the salty, cool air. Behind the bar stood a short dark woman with an easy smile for the patron seated in front of her. When she noticed me, though, her smile froze. Mrs. Aquino. We’d never spoken beyond quick hellos.
“I believe this is for you,” I said and handed the bread over. She ripped me off a receipt, while not-so-subtly studying me. I sighed. “Yes, I’m at the marina. Big news. It’ll be the viejitos’ top story, I’m sure.”
Her laugh was sudden and pleased. “You’re as sarcastic as your dad.”
The simple acknowledgment knocked me off my axis. It was offered easily, like maybe my dad still existed here. When I was younger, and it was just Mom and me, living miles from Port Coral, Mom spoke about my father easily, too. Ricky Garcia was a foster kid who loved comics and fishing, and was short like me. But the older I got, the less Mom told me. Stories didn’t roll off her tongue but were instead carefully bargained from a collection she safeguarded.
I wanted to ask this woman about him but couldn’t find my voice.
“He was a good guy. You look like him.” Mrs. Aquino now looked lost for words, too. She handed me two bakery boxes. “Pastelitos for the bread. Let Mrs. Peña know our baker is happy to make plenty for the festival.”
I took the boxes and was almost to the door when I stopped and turned back. “My…father, he had a boat slip, right?” I knew he’d worked and kept his small boat here.
Mrs. Aquino
nodded. “The last one on C dock. It’s still his.” My surprise must have been obvious, because she smiled. “Sailors are a superstitious lot.”
I knew a thing or two about that.
Outside, the harbor continued to move with life and energy. I spotted Alex on a boat where he carried a rope, and I wondered what he did with his mint plant. He dropped the rope on top of a box, and when he looked up again, he glanced my way. I realized I hadn’t told him not to tell anyone about Havana. The gray sky rumbled and the first drops of rain fell. I scurried to my bike and raced the rain all the way to work.
Back at the bodega, I grabbed my apron and headed to the registers, disappointed that Ana was at jazz band. Paula, another one of Ana’s cousins, was at the other register.
“What’s up, nerd?” she said with a friendly grin. Paula was twenty and only worked here part-time while going to school to become a veterinarian. She treated me like a little sister but didn’t baby me, so I mostly didn’t mind it from her. “Where have you been?”
“I was running a delivery.” I considered texting Ana, but she was probably in the midst of kicking over a conga.
Paula had the radio turned low on a reggaeton song. She unwrapped one of the tamarind lollipops and popped it into her mouth. Her short curls bounced a little as she considered me. “Where was the delivery?”
“The marina,” I answered without thinking.
Paula’s smile grew. She slipped the candy from her mouth and pointed at me with it. “You were at the harbor?” It sounded like an accusation.
“And it didn’t sink into the Gulf. I can’t believe it either. Do you know the Aquino family?” Ana had said they were older than us.
She shrugged. “I went to school with Emily. I heard she works for some big resort now. And I know Alex came home.” She smirked at whatever she saw on my face. I crossed and uncrossed my arms before retying my apron. “Wow. So Rosa was trolling the docks for dudes. Never thought I’d see the day.”
