Sal and Gabi Break the Universe

by Carlos Hernandez

  Everyone laughed, except Dad: The Final Frontier, who opened her mouth to indicate laughter, like a muppet. Yeah. Her tongue really didn’t move at all. Creepy.

  We hadn’t been working ten minutes when Lightning Dad joined us. He still had on a really expensive weatherman suit from his morning shift. He also had a thermos full of homemade espresso, which pulled everyone but Dad: The Final Frontier and me off the robe. The human adults stood around drinking espresso in tiny paper cups and catching up Lightning Dad, while the diabetic boy and the robot kept on working. It is so hard to find good help these days.

  When the coffee break was over, finally, the adults resumed their sewing. All except Lightning Dad, that is. He took a moment to give my shoulder a strong thank-you grip. “This is a wonderful thing you are doing for us, Sal.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Making us do your homework for you!” And before I could defend myself, he added, “Kidding, kidding! This is just what the doctor ordered. Well, not really, but they should have. I mean, here we are, in a hospital full of doctors, and not one of them recommended to us that we should distract ourselves by helping with our kids’ homework. What were they thinking? Well, it’s a good thing you’re here, son, to take care of us. Thank you.”

  “Um, you’re welcome?”

  He put on the sincere face that must have charmed the AhoraMismo viewers at the end of every weather report. “Seriously, though, Sal, we appreciate the way you’re giving of your time and your heart to bring us comfort in our time of need. We won’t forget that. You’re one of us, now, kid.”

  “You mean”—I brought both hands to my cheeks—“I’m a Gabi dad now, too?”

  “You’ll need a dad name,” said Grizzly Dad’ums, never looking up from his sewing.

  “He’ll be Magic Dad, naturally,” said Dad: The Final Frontier.

  “I was going to vote for Hou-Dad-ni,” said Daditarian.

  “How about Ta-Da-d?” chimed in American Stepmom.

  “All good suggestions,” said Lightning Dad. “So, Sal, which will it be?”

  “My name shall be…um, drumroll, please?” Everyone put down their needles to drum on their legs or the floor. “My name shall be…Presti-Dad-gitation!”

  They cheered like Robin Hood’s Merry Men. I bowed and got back to work.

  Dada-ist, who was sketching us working from a nearby table, shook his head and said, “How do you even know a word like ‘prestidigitation’? I could barely spell my name at your age.”

  “You can barely spell your name now,” said Dada-dada-dada-dada Dadman! A crumpled ball of expensive art paper bounced off his head.

  “He reads a lot,” said Papi.

  “Just like Gabi!” said Ms. Reál. “You are two of a kind.”

  “Two. Of. A. Kind,” said Grizzly Dad’ums, paying careful attention to the loop he was finishing. The tiny little needle in his bear-size fingers looked funny to me. “Yep. That would explain why Gabi has been talking about you nonstop this week. ‘Sal did this!’ and ‘Sal did that!’ day after day.”

  “She has?” Aventura asked, still sewing, but looking over her shoulder at Gabi. And then, when she saw every dad looking at her, she added, “What? Did I sound jealous or something? ’Cause I’m not jealous. Nee nee nee. Nee nee nee.”

  She kept on nee nee nee–ing for a while.

  “My point,” said Grizzly Dad’ums, “is that Gabi’s like her mother. Great judge of character. She can make a friend for life in ten minutes. But only if the other person wants to be friends, too.” He snuck a glance at me. “So, Sal, you know…Do you want to be friends with Gabi?”

  Papi snickered.

  “They are clearly friends,” said Dad: The Final Frontier. “Even I can tell that, and I often have difficulty gauging interpersonal human relations.”

  “You’re having difficulties right now,” Grizzly Dad’ums said, shooting Dad: The Final Frontier a look she was guaranteed to miss.

  “Look who’s talking,” said Ms. Reál. “Stop terrorizing poor Sal, José.”

  “What? Can’t a guy ask a friendly question about friendship between a boy who may be a friend and a girl who may be a friend, thereby making them boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  Ah. Got it. Adults were as gossipy as middle schoolers. Well, then, I would deal with them the same way I dealt with annoying kids. Shock and awe.

  “If you’re asking if Gabi is my girlfriend, don’t worry. I’m only thirteen. I’m not a sexual being yet.”

  Grizzly Dad’ums pricked his finger and sucked it. The sewing machine went quiet. Dad: The Final Frontier cocked her head like a confused but well-meaning Labrador. The other dads shut their mouths so quickly I heard their teeth clack. Papi took a break from stitching to rub his eyes.

  And American Stepmom, quickly, and mostly under her breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, said, “Well, there you go. I told Sal, ‘Sal, you don’t have to be a sexual being until you’re ready, don’t feel rushed just because some of your peers seem interested in the opposite sex or the same sex or sex in general, you do you, son, on your own schedule,’ and I guess he heard me, because here he is, repeating my words, yep, good listener, that kid, and impeccable timing, don’t you think?”

  Once she finished, the only sound in the cafeteria was Gabi singing along to her headphones.

  Lightning Dad knelt next to me and patted my shoulder. “Don’t let the awkward silence fool you. Everybody here is behind you. You get to be whoever you want to be in your own time. You do you, just like your mom said.” Then, as he took his place on the robe, he smacked Grizzly Dad’ums upside the head.

  “What’d I do?” asked Grizzly Dad’ums, knowing exactly what he’d done, the sandwich.

  “Yes, what did he do?” asked Dad: The Final Frontier.

  YASMANY STUMBLED INTO the cafeteria a few minutes before noon, barely awake. He could only open one eye at a time, and only a thin little crack, before switching to the other or closing them both for a second. He was barefoot, still in the Heat tank top and pajama bottoms. He rubbed his face with his hand as he approached us.

  The room had filled up with the lunch crowd of doctors and hospital staff and the families of patients. You could feel eyes locking on Yasmany—not that he noticed.

  “Good morning, Yasmany!” we all said from our seats on the cloak.

  Aventura turned around and bubbled with surprise. “Yasmany’s here, too? I mean, is there anyone from Culeco not here?”

  Ms. Reál swooped in, enveloping Yasmany in a hug, covering the top of his head with kisses. That made him laugh sleepily and say, “Stahp!” Ms. Reál then guided him toward the lunch buffet.

  While the rest of us worked, Yasmany ate a heap of empanadas and drank a bucket-size chocolate milk at the table where Dada-ist was sketching us. Yasmany didn’t have much to say. One Gabi dad or another would occasionally mess with him, cracking a joke about his old-man jammies, or taking the long way to cut out a new loop so they could pass by and try to noogie him. Yasmany would laugh, and insult them back in a low, shy voice, and slap away any noogie attempts, promising them big payback later.

  But mostly he just seemed quietly glad to be here. I got the feeling that Yasmany didn’t have a life where he could wake up slowly, eat slowly, drink slowly, and just enjoy hanging out. Every once in a while, he’d turn his head suddenly and look over his shoulder, as if he kept expecting something to happen. Or someone to happen. And every time he didn’t see anyone coming for him, he relaxed a little more.

  After a while, he came over and crouched next to me. “I need your phone, chacho.”

  “Why?”

  “My mom bricked my phone last night. I need to make a call.”

  I held out my phone. “To your mom?”

  He looked at me like a roach was crawling out of my nose. “No, you sandwich. I ain’t never calling her again. I need to talk to Principal Torres. Unlock it.”

  I typed in my passcode, and he went off with it to sit
next to Gabi and make his call. Gabi, who hadn’t even realized he was here until now, took out her earbuds and greeted him. When Yasmany made his call, they both talked to Principal Torres.

  After the call was over, Yasmany walked the phone back to me. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a little thick and formal. I don’t think he was very used to saying those words.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied. Also thick and formal. “You gonna be okay?”

  He very kindly didn’t notice me wiping my eyes. “Gonna try, chacho. Gonna try.”

  Suddenly I didn’t care how big a sandwich it made me. I launched myself at him and hugged him.

  And holy moly. Yasmany had abs like a brick wall. I mean, seriously, it was like hugging a crustacean. Dude had an exoskeleton.

  Really glad we never ended up fighting.

  Three seconds later, he hugged back. Three seconds is about how long it takes for machismo cacaseca to wear off. And he definitely could have used more practice hugging people. Like, even Dad: The Final Frontier could have given him pointers. But he tried. He patted my back and said, “Okay, chacho. You’re a good little dude. Okay. Okay.”

  He went back over to Gabi, who’d already returned to writing our script. But when he sat down, she pulled a bud out of her ear and stuck it in his. His head moved just an itty-bitty bit to the beat of the music, just like Gabi’s was. Maybe an hour later, four people entered the cafeteria. I knew two of them: Principal Torres and Cari-Dad. One of the others was a police officer. And the other, well, he had on a knit vest over a shirt and tie. There are only two kinds of people who would wear a knit vest over a shirt and tie in Miami weather. One was an earnest teacher with great fashion sense, like Daniel Miranda Rivero. The other was a social worker.

  Principal Torres waved to Yasmany. He brightened when he saw her and nodded, then whacked Gabi’s arm. She pulled the earbuds out of both ears; they spoke. Then Gabi hugged him and proceeded to bonk him on the head four times as she delivered a bunch of orders, pointing a serious finger at him. He just nodded, laughed at her, and cracked some kind of joke that made her laugh. Then he jogged over to Principal Torres and, maybe encouraged by all the practice Gabi and I had given him, hugged her.

  Ms. Reál walked over to consult with Cari-Dad, the police officer, and Vest Man. Principal Torres crouched and talked to Yasmany eye-to-eye. He did a better job of listening than I had ever seen him do. Then Principal Torres guided Yasmany to Ms. Reál and the other adults standing there, and they all talked softly for a while.

  Some of the diners were staring. That happens whenever a policeman is in the room, I know. But I still wished they would mind their own business.

  After a little bit, Ms. Reál and Cari-Dad joined us around the cloak, and Principal Torres and Yasmany came over to talk to us. “Well,” said Principal Torres, “I’m going to take Yasmany off your hands now. His aunt is making lunch for us even as we speak.”

  “But you’re coming, too, right?” said Yasmany, looking at no one.

  “You bet I am. I’m going to sit right next to you until you finish the paper on diabetes you owe me!”

  “Aw man,” Yasmany said sleepily. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “You’ll do it today!” Gabi yelled from across the cafeteria.

  “Anyway,” said Principal Torres, “you have something to say, Yasmany?”

  “Thank you, everybody,” said Yasmany.

  “You’re welcome, Yasmany!” everybody said back. And then we all burst out laughing.

  “And thank you from me, too,” said Principal Torres. “Yasmany is lucky to have so many people caring for him. You are all such wonderful people.”

  Principal Torres was looking at me for that last sentence. Not gonna lie—I blushed.

  She waved good-bye, and Yasmany waved good-bye, and the policeman and Vest Man waved good-bye, and we waved good-bye back, and they turned to leave. But Yasmany broke off from Principal Torres and crouched next to me. “Hey, yeah, um, do you know where Nurse Sotolongo is? I want to say thank you and good-bye.”

  I gave him the Ooh, too bad! shrug. “Sorry, man. Her shift ended at ten. She’s home and asleep. She won’t be back until the night shift tonight.”

  Yasmany popped to his feet. “Why didn’t you wake me, man? Now I missed my chance to be a gentleman to her.”

  My dream, someday, is to be that deep guy who always says the right thing to everybody. I have my beard planned out and everything. So I stood slowly and, my voice dripping with wisdom, clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Being patient is the most important part of being a gentleman.”

  “You are a submarine sandwich,” he said, and walked out of the cafeteria.

  As he and the adults with him left, Gabi came up behind me. “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  I turned to her. “What’s the bad news?”

  “My little brother is sick, and Yasmany isn’t going to his own home, and the world is full of horrible things happening.”

  But she was smiling and waggling her eyebrows.

  “Okay. So what’s the good news?”

  “My brother is stable, and Yasmany has a whole bunch of people including my family helping him, and I finished the script. It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself!”

  I gave her a cacaseca smirk and took her tablet out of her hands and read the script right where I stood.

  She was wrong. Her script wasn’t pretty good. It was freaking amazing.

  SOME PEOPLE JUST got it. Nurse Sotolongo was a natural.

  It was Sunday morning. Nurse Sotolongo stood smiling at the front of the cafeteria, which we had turned into our stage, wearing a black one-piece bathing suit, fishnet stockings, super-tall high heels she had brought from home, and a top hat she had borrowed from me. She twirled a white-tipped cane (also mine) as she pranced around a wooden easel that held up the poster Dada-ist had created for the show. It looked like one of those old-timey vaudeville signs, with skulls and tombstones and scythes and other Halloweeny symbols drawn all over it, and it read: DEATH ALWAYS WINS: A COMEDY!

  The show was about to begin.

  We had thought we’d perform our practice run of the play in the waiting room the Reáls had taken over to an audience of padres, Gabi dads, and Ms. Reál. But once rumor got around the hospital about it (thanks to Nurse Sotolongo), doctors and nurse practitioners and physician’s assistants and custodians and admins and basically everyone who worked there (and wasn’t otherwise occupied) wanted to see it, too. Minutes before showtime, the cafeteria was packed, standing-room only, and they shut down the registers so no as not to disturb the performance. The room sounded as happy as a barnyard.

  The janitorial staff had rearranged the whole cafeteria to make it look like a dinner theater, with a big, broad space against the windows of the north wall to serve as our stage. They had pulled the floor-to-ceiling curtains over the windows, which made the room darker and different and perfect. Nurse Sotolongo strutted to center stage and, in a booming ringmaster’s voice, brandishing her cane like the torch of freedom, started the show:

  “Welcome, gentles, one and all,

  to this, our theater’s curtain call!

  If you have to pee, there’s time—

  at least until I end this rhyme!

  Go now, and make your number one,

  or wait until the show is done!

  And if you have to number two,

  you’ll miss the play. But God bless you!”

  Gabi and I stood stage left, peeking out from behind the curtain. Gabi jumped up and down and whisper-cheered to me, “They love it! Yes! I was so scared to start with a poop joke. But thanks to you, now I’ll always start with a poop joke.”

  “I don’t think you always want to start with—”

  She cut me off. “Oh! Sal, go, that’s your cue! Go! Go!”

  Gabi moved behind me so no one would spot her when I threw back the curtain and jumped forward.

  What the audience saw was a black six-foot-ta
ll robe that had a bleached-bone bauta mask for a face, holding a black-and-bloodred fake spear, lurch over to Nurse Sotolongo in three giant strides. I mean, she was twenty feet away from me, easy; I pretty much half flew over to her.

  The audience gasped. Mrs. Waked had said that one of the keys to a good Everyman play was strong visuals. My Death-comes-at-you-fast costume seemed to deliver on that count.

  Nurse Sotolongo’s grin grew wicked as she proclaimed:

  “A guest has joined us, dearest friends!

  The one you’ll meet when your life ends!

  It comes alike for rich or poor,

  for every gender, weight, height, or

  whatever your ethnicity:

  It’s equal opportunity!

  As you exhale your final breath,

  you’ll say its name. Its name is Death!”

  I wore a modulator over my mouth from an old Halloween costume that made me sound like Optimus Prime with a head cold. I pointed my spear at audience members one at a time as I spoke my lines:

  “My name is Death, and mortals be

  indifferent to mortality!

  But I will teach you to respect

  how all your lives will soon be wrecked!

  A single touch from my black dart

  will stop at once your beating heart!

  How long have you? A month? A year?

  You do not know! So live in fear!

  Yes, fear me always, last and first!

  For soon I come to do my worst!”

  The audience applauded and laughed, even while they booed and called out Spanglish insults to Death. I let them go on for a while, nodding grimly at their comments.

  Then, in a gazelle burst of speed, I sprang over to Nurse Sotolongo and ever so gently touched her with my spear. And she died. With a whole lot of leg kicking and thrashing and excellent overacting.

  The audience shrieked and gasped! They clutched their faces and protected their hearts!

  I leaped into their midst. As I stalked around them, creaking and bouncing, staring at them from creepy stooped angles, they begged me to go away. I goat-hopped back to center stage and shouted: