“What?” I absorb his rage, shaking. “But, no, you can’t do that.”
“Pen…” Angel tries to pull me from the doorway.
“Dad, please. Mom…”
She bites her lip, staring down at her hands.
“Please, Dad. I’m sorry.” You’re unraveling. Everything’s unraveling. “Please. Just let me ex—”
My father lifts a hand. “Take your sister.”
But Angel doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t have to. I tuck the apron under my arm, deflated and on fire, and then I march through the kitchen for the last time.
Angel tries to catch up to me. “Pen, are you okay…?”
I brush past him and find Chloe by the hostess stand, assigning sections and rolling silverware. When she sees me, the fork she’s holding clamors to the table.
“What happened?”
I stop. Numb.
She spins me so that we’re shielded by a wall, sensing my tears before I do.
I bite them back.
“Pen?”
If I open my mouth, I’ll break. I try to breathe instead. In and out. But all I want is to crawl into the corner. To walk straight into traffic. To stop this feeling even if it stops me.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I can’t let them see the cracks. Widening. Splintering into a million pieces. I can’t let them see me in pieces.
“Pen, you’re scaring me.”
Not as much as I’m scaring myself.
“He said…” I try to steady my voice. “He said tonight’s my last night.”
Chloe slumps down in a chair. “Maybe…” She shakes her head. “Maybe he just needs to cool down. Maybe later you might catch him in a good mood and…”
“My dad’s not like that. He’s not fickle, and he’s never in a good mood.”
“He’ll change his mind.”
“He won’t.”
She grips my shoulders, cheeks red too. “He will.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
The squeak of rubber soles pulls my gaze. “Hey, Pen…” Struggles.
Chloe crinkles her eyes into her get the hell away from me stare and says, “She’s a little busy.”
“Sorry, Pen.” He shudders. “I just thought you’d want to know that the new guy’s supposed to start tonight and we can’t find any more TACOS T-shirts in the back.”
I bury my face in my hands. “He can have mine.”
His eyes widen. “Whoa, you’re quitting?”
“No.” Chloe pushes out of her chair. “Pen is not quitting, and you better not say anything to anyone, you got it?”
He nods.
“Pen is still your boss.”
He nods again, taking a slow step back.
“Who’s your boss?”
“Pen is…”
She stares down at him.
“And you,” he adds.
“Good. Now run along.”
He kneads his hands. “But the shirts…?”
“Check in the freezer,” I say. “Second shelf to the right.”
Struggles runs for the kitchen.
“The freezer?” Chloe asks.
“Three summers ago the air-conditioning went out. We put the shirts in the freezer and then slipped them on in the afternoons to stay cool.”
“Let me guess, Angel’s idea?” Chloe rolls her eyes, but there’s just a hint of admiration in her voice. She’s been in love with my older brother since we were thirteen and he was a sophomore.
“Who else?” I force myself to stand, zipping on my signature scowl before word of my firing makes it around to the other employees. “How’s my face?”
She pinches both of my cheeks. “You’ve got a nice blush. Don’t worry, looks very natural. Although, you might want to touch up the lip.”
“Again?” I reach for my tube of Brava lipstick.
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps chewing on them.”
I purse my lips, checking my reflection in one of the windows until the girl staring back is more bitch than breakable. Then I tie my hair into a high ponytail behind my red bandana as any trace of my almost-tears evaporates.
Chloe finds my reflection too. “We’re going to make this okay,” she says again.
I lean against her, hoping she’s right.
Chloe leads the way back through the kitchen, waving me forward when she sees that the office is empty. My parents’ car isn’t parked out back anymore, and I’m relieved. Unfortunately, that doesn’t save me from being interrogated.
“What the hell was that about?” Angel says.
I don’t answer him, just turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction.
“Hey.” He grabs me by the wrist, pulling me back into the office/storage closet before slamming the door closed. Then he paces. “Pen.” He says my name slow, careful. “What’s going on?”
“I told you. I’m not going to school.”
“Yeah, but why the hell not?”
“You know the answer to that.”
He hangs his head back, sighing, because he does. “But you should know by now, Pen. Dad doesn’t care about what we want.”
I take a step closer, searching him for wounds the same way Chloe searched me. “You didn’t have to listen to him, you know. You could have listened to your heart instead.”
He rolls his eyes before lowering his voice. “Dad sees the way the army screwed up Tío Ramón, and he thinks the same thing will happen to me. I can’t convince him otherwise, and I can’t leave home with him hating me.”
“So you hate him instead.”
He shakes his head. “I hate this place.” He points between my ribs. “The place that you love but that he is never in a million years going to let you have. You making a different choice doesn’t have to mean he wins.”
I look him in the eyes. “But it means I lose.”
“You lost because you lied.” He exhales. “Why did you have to lie about it, Pen?”
I know he really wants to say to me. Why did you lie about it to me?
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough, Pen.”
He’s past being confused and has run through angry straight to hurt.
“They wanted it for me,” I say. “They wanted it for me so much.”
“I know.”
“So I lied. I didn’t want to hurt them.” I look up at him. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“And now?” Angel searches my eyes, earnest, almost afraid. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone… but now?”
“I guess I couldn’t take it anymore.”
The words dredge up memories like shards of glass. That’s how I remember the last time it happened—in fragments. I know Angel remembers it too, the shades drawn, my closed bedroom door, the invisible bruises left behind by their voices and the bedsheets and the sun. Back when everything used to hurt. Breathing. Being.
But I’ve been on medication for almost two years now, the darkness barely lapping at me, waves always receding just in time. Until today. But, unlike with Chloe, I don’t let Angel see that I’m breaking. He wants me to be fine, and as he searches my eyes, I let him find what he needs, his fear evaporating.
He looks down, eyes settling on his new name tag instead. “You couldn’t take it anymore… because he made me manager… and not you.”
My cheeks burn.
“Shit, Pen.” He exhales, gripping his scalp. “What am I going to do around here without you? Huh? Why did you have to get yourself fired? From our father’s restaurant.”
“I think you know that’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
I love my father’s restaurant. Even though beneath his owner’s smile I can see that he’s grown to hate it. And even more that he hates me being here, following in his footsteps. But I can’t help it. I love my father’s name on the sign and the murals on the wall that my grandfather painted before he died. I love being swaddled in the scents of my childhood. I love the scars and calluses and burn marks. My friends. My
home. That’s what it is to me. Everything.
“Maybe…” I sigh, eyes pleading. “Maybe you could talk to him.”
“Me.” His voice is sharp, amused. “Yeah, right.”
“Think about it. Inventory’s coming up. Payroll. Another audit from the IRS. Dad made you manager, but we both know who really keeps everything together when he’s not here.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. You think I can’t take care of things?”
I cross my arms. “Can you?”
He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Fine, I’ll talk to him.”
3
Xander
THE MOUTHWASH SLOSHES BETWEEN my cheeks until my eyes burn. I spit it out, flecks of blood swirling near the bottom of the sink. I’ve been grinding my teeth in my sleep again.
“Xan?”
I hear the squeak of the bottom stair and race down before my abuelo can attempt the second one.
“I’m coming.” I round the corner. “I’m right here.”
“Oh good.” He stops to cough into his handkerchief. “I didn’t want you to be late.”
“It’s just down the street. Nacho’s. You remember.”
I lead him back to his armchair, pulling the coffee table with the remote and his glass of tea within reach.
“Nacho’s. I remember that boy, Ignacio. Used to run a real Mexican restaurant. But that was before…” He stops to cough again. “Before he turned it into a strip joint.”
I hand him the remote. “It’s not a strip joint, Abuelo. It’s a bar.” I spot the tacos de papa still sitting at the kitchen table. “Have you eaten?”
“It’s four in the afternoon. I wasn’t hungry.”
“I know, but you will be later and I won’t be here.”
“For Christ’s sake. I’m not an invalid. I’ll fix myself a sandwich or something.”
“I’ll get out the—”
He shoos me away. “I can get the bread. Now you go. You don’t want to be late for your first day.”
I put the tacos in the fridge before pulling the bread down onto the counter.
“I’ll be back late,” I remind him.
He lifts a finger and I draw closer. Then he pats the top of my head. “You’ll do good.”
The keys jangle in my back pocket. I could have taken the car, but the restaurant is only a few blocks away and I like the sun. It sizzles up from the sidewalk, heat waves flexing like snakes and reminding me of the way I used to chase their tails all the way to the mercado. Back when I still lived with my mother in Mexico. When she used to make menudo every weekend and I was the only one who could pick out the best meat. I’d sit at the kitchen table, picking the hair off the tripe while she started the broth. It would simmer all night, and I’d wake up to the smell of onions and freshly sliced lemons.
One day when I was nine, I set out to finally catch a handful of the sun. I wanted to hold the glimmer in the palm of my hand. So I ran. Shoes kicking up dirt, sweat dripping down my back. I’d stopped to catch my breath, hands slumping to my knees. Up ahead, blurry behind the sun, I could see two men walking. That day I limped home with a bloody nose and my pockets empty.
My mother looked me up and down like she was seeing me for the first time. A few days later, she began to pack my things, her eyes never settling on my face as she said, “If I knew how to be your mother, I would. But I don’t want my heart outside my chest. Outside where anyone can stomp on it.” She turned her back on me. “You’re going to live with your abuelo.” Then, under her breath, “Because his own son didn’t ruin him enough the first time.”
It’s been almost ten years since she found another family, but I’ll never stop wondering what would have happened if I’d made it to the mercado that day.
Light reflects off the tinted windows of the restaurant, reminding me that I’m a thousand miles away. When I step into the breezeway, there’s already a line, people holding drinks and watching the big TV screens behind the bar while they wait for a table.
Nacho’s is somewhere between a dive and a taqueria. One side of the restaurant is covered in a traditional mural, vaqueros on horseback and folklórico dancers leaning over the patrons as they eat. But on the other side, the wall lining the bar is covered in old photographs, posters of local bands, and vintage ticket stubs.
It’s become somewhat of an attraction for the college crowd lately, but the people in my neighborhood have been tithing to the taco gods as long as I’ve lived here. You’ve got the flu? Order Nacho’s famous caldo de res. You need some money? Ask him if you can wash dishes. You’re missing home? Order his bread pudding. And if you’re trying to start over, ask him for a job.
No one knows how he keeps the lights on with so many handouts, but as that neon sign buzzes late into the night, you can’t help but sense something supernatural about the place.
I sense it now, the smells of my childhood waking my lungs.
When I finally manage to push my way toward the hostess stand, I’m greeted by a girl with dirty-blond hair and thick hipster glasses.
“How many?” she asks.
“I don’t need a table. Tonight’s my first night.”
“Ahh…” She narrows her eyes. “New guy. Follow me.”
She leads me past the bar and beneath a sign that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY. We pass a row of lockers, a few employees changing out of their shirts. The tile grows slick, and a small lanky kid almost slips trying to push past me. I brace myself against the wall.
“Careful.” The girl in the glasses looks back. “You don’t want to trip on your first day.”
She stops in front of a tall guy with arms like licorice. He’s beating his tongs on the edge of his grill, bright yellow headphones tucked in his ears.
“Angel.” She clears her throat, nudging him. “Angel!”
He smiles, goofy and so wide that his headphones fall out. “New guy, right?”
“Yeah.” I reach out a hand. “Xander. Xander Amaro…”
“Xander…” He lets the first letter buzz against his teeth. “Hey! Everybody!” He beats against his grill until the kitchen is quiet. Then he hangs an arm around my shoulder. “Everyone, this is Xander. He’s the new guy.”
At least ten pairs of eyes are glued to my face. They blink, a few people cross their arms. And then they all erupt into laughter.
I turn to Angel. “What’d I do?”
He smiles. “Nothing yet.” He gives the girl with glasses a nod. “I can take it from here, Chloe.”
She calls back, “I sure hope so.”
Angel wriggles his eyebrows. “Let’s get you a shirt, shall we?”
I follow Angel through the kitchen, people parting like a wave. The lanky kid who almost busted earlier licks his lips, braces sparkling. The girl with the frizzy topknot next to him… growls. Or at least I’m pretty sure it’s a growl.
Angel bends down to dig in a box full of NACHO’S TACOS T-shirts before pulling one out and handing it to me. It’s frozen, the sleeves unfolding with a crack.
He cocks his head. “Qué raro.”
“Is there a bathroom?” I ask. “Somewhere I can change?”
“Aw, new guy’s a little shy.…” I hear over my shoulder.
I know they’re just busting my balls, but the word shy makes me bristle.
It’s what my mother’s friends used to call me when I’d choose to help them in the kitchen instead of wrestling with their sons over a busted soccer ball. It’s what my American teachers used to say about me when I wouldn’t speak, couldn’t because I was too busy chasing words like flies, trying to make sense of the voices buzzing around me. I always felt like I was surrounded by a pack of wolves, jaws ready to snap the second I did something wrong.
I scan the faces around me and I know that on my first day with a new pack of wolves, I can’t cower and retreat. I can’t let them eat me alive.
So in the midst of kissing sounds and baby voices, Angel trying to nudge me out of the flames, I make the decision to plant myse
lf. Then I strip out of my shirt, in front of everyone, letting them take a long, hard look.
The sounds evaporate, and for a second I wonder if the eyes have too, but then I hear something glass slip off the counter, cracking just as I yank the NACHO’S TACOS shirt down over my head.
I face Angel. “Now, about that bathroom.”
He points to a door up ahead.
It’s heavy and strangely narrow. I yank it open, hinges squealing, and suddenly my toes are hanging over nothing. I catch hold of the doorframe before I slip off the edge and fall headfirst into the dumpster. A hand grabs the collar of my shirt, yanking me back inside.
I spin. “What the hell?”
The girl with the frizzy topknot yells, “I guess you won’t be needing that bathroom after all,” and everyone starts laughing again, this time doubled over, hands slapping knees.
“Sorry, man.” Angel lets go of my shirt. “But you know how this goes.” He turns me in the other direction. “And the real bathroom’s that way.”
I keep glancing back the entire way. Even when I reach a door marked with the words EMPLOYEE BATHROOM, I kick it open with my foot first just to be sure.
When I see the stalls, I step inside, but I’m not alone. A girl stands over the sink, long ponytail slipping over her shoulder, flyaways held back by a red bandana she’s folded into a headband.
“Sorry…” I reach for the door again.
She looks up, nose freckled and eyes wet. Lips as red as her bandana as she says, “You look like you almost died.”
For some reason, my tongue is dry and three inches thicker. She presses a finger to the corner of her eye, mascara smearing. She sniffs.
“I… think I almost just did,” I finally manage to say.
“Did they try to get you to fall in the dumpster?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry, the hazing doesn’t last long. Usually, just until the next new person starts.”
“When will that be?”
“Who knows?” She shrugs, chewing on her lip. “Actually, probably tomorrow.” She heads for the door.
Just as I’m washing my hands, it pushes open again.
“Oh good,” Angel says. “We thought you’d run away or something.”
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 3
