Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  “What do you mean?” She doesn’t look up.

  “Did something happen at the restaurant? I mean, you and Angel, you’re not, like…” I can’t even get the words out.

  “No.” She sighs.

  “Well, good.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” I choose my next words carefully. “I meant good for you. Angel’s not… He’s just sort of a flake. You know that.”

  “He’s not always like that.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “He’s my brother. I think I would know.”

  “So, what if he’s changed?”

  “Has he?” I ask.

  “He could.” Her smile is faint. Hopeful.

  “And Maureen could call any minute to offer me the job even though I probably almost burned down her bakery and everyone in it.”

  Chloe lets out an annoyed huff. “You’ll find another job.”

  “And you’ll find another boyfriend.”

  I grab my bag and head for the door when the pipes start wheezing again. They choke out a sneeze, water rushing between the walls.

  Chloe looks up. “What’s wrong with your apartment?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s constipated.”

  10

  Xander

  WHEN I SHOW UP to the address Lucas gave me, the driveway is full of cars. I pull on my Nacho’s shirt as I head up the sidewalk and notice the garage door is cracked a few feet, lights blinking across the concrete, something cracking like pool balls.

  “Xan the man!” Angel grabs my shoulders and gives me the once-over. “Oh shit. Did you think you were working tonight?” He laughs. “Let me get you a beer.”

  The cold bottle stings my hand, and when he isn’t looking I set it on a table next to the couch. There’s a couple sitting on the lopsided arm, shoving their tongues down each other’s throats. They finally come up for air and I recognize Mari and one of the Medrano brothers.

  Angel beckons me into the garage. It’s lit by a cheap disco ball, and there’s a pool table in the center where Lucas leans over, squaring up a shot. He spots me, or more specifically my shirt, and scratches.

  “What the hell?” He guffaws. “You live in this thing or something?”

  “I thought you were calling me in for another catering.”

  Angel rolls his eyes. “You didn’t tell him it was a party?”

  “I didn’t think I had to.” Lucas claps the chalk from his hands before gesturing around the room. “Xander, welcome to the annual Nacho’s Tacos Purge.”

  My brow furrows. “Nacho’s. Tacos. Purge?”

  Angel slams another beer into my chest. “Yes. You see, tonight is about us sticking it to the man.”

  “And puking out twelve months’ worth of tacos,” Lucas adds.

  “Sticking it to the man,” I repeat, wary. “You mean your dad?”

  “Details.” Angel waves a hand before leading me from room to room where every Nacho’s Tacos employee is either taking a shot or a toke, or eating a plate full of spaghetti.

  “What’s with the spaghetti?” I ask.

  “It’s the most anti-taco food there is,” Angel says, matter-of-fact.

  “So, if everyone from work is here, who’s running the restaurant?”

  “We close once a year for pest control or some shit. Anyway, the point is that tonight we’re free and there isn’t a goddamn taco in sight.”

  The garage door screeches open, landing against the ceiling with a crash. Everyone crouches down, waving at the smoke to see who’s just walked in.

  Pen.

  “Shit. What the hell is wrong with you?” Angel rushes over, yanking the garage door closed again, Chloe barely ducking inside in time.

  “What?” Pen plants her hands on her hips. “There’s puke all over your sidewalk. I’m not stepping in that.”

  I’ve never seen Pen out of her Rosie the Retributioner getup. Even the day we helped her move into her apartment she was wearing an old Nacho’s T-shirt and her hair was pulled back in her signature red bandana. But tonight she’s wearing these black shorts that climb above her waist and a dark blue tank top. A strand of her hair is caught under her bright pink bra strap. It’s out of a ponytail for once, hanging long down her back.

  She flips it over her shoulder, eyeing my shirt. “Angel didn’t mention this was a party, did he?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She purses her lips. They’re darker this time, almost purple. “Want to grab me a drink?”

  “What do you like?” I ask.

  “Something sweet.”

  I feel her eyes on me all the way down the hall. When I finally find the kitchen, I pluck a drink from the ice-filled sink and pop the top against the counter.

  Just then people pass me in a rush, Angel dragging a cooler through the back door. Everyone files out after him, the backyard small and mostly covered in concrete. Angel unstacks chairs while Lucas tries to get a fire to catch in a few of the aluminum trash cans near the fence.

  Pen reaches for her drink.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The Purge Olympics. It’s a drinking game. Except there aren’t really any rules or a way to win or…”

  “Any point at all?”

  “Other than to get shit-faced while attempting to humiliate each other?” She shrugs. “Not really.”

  “Okay, everybody take your positions!”

  “Is it some kind of race?” I ask.

  Chloe steps between Pen and me. “A race, a relay, a trivia contest.”

  “A little bit of truth or dare,” Pen adds. “Oh, and an endurance test.”

  People form a line at both ends of a small card table. Pen grabs my wrist and pulls me in line behind her.

  “Teams?” I ask.

  “For now.”

  Sang and one of the Medrano brothers square up first, a beer between them. Miguel wipes a hand across his brow, Sang shaking out his arms like he’s getting ready for a boxing match.

  Lucas plucks a slip of paper from a baseball cap before slamming it down on the table. “Lyrics to ‘Rocket Man.’ Go!”

  They both start screaming at the top of their lungs, fighting over each other and the chatter behind them. The first time Miguel flubs the words, everyone on our side of the table cheers. He flings up his hands, Sang pushing the beer in his direction. He downs it, slamming the bottle on the table. Then Lucas slides over another.

  Chelo and Struggles are up next. She growls at him and he shivers.

  Lucas slams down another slip of paper. “Spanish alphabet, backward, while standing on one leg. Go!”

  Struggles flaps his arms, barely able to keep upright. Chelo presses her hands together, in what I assume is some type of yoga pose, perfectly centered.

  When Chelo has already gotten through three letters and it becomes clear that Struggles is just repeating what she says, Lucas grabs him by the shirt and pours the drink down his throat. Struggles charges back to the end of the line, screaming like he’s won while the rest of his team tries to kick his legs out from under him.

  After two more rounds, it’s Pen’s turn. Java stands across from her.

  Lucas crosses his arms, a strange smirk slowly inching into his mustache as he reads the instructions on the piece of paper. “Two-parter,” he finally says. “Name every single employee at Nacho’s Tacos and who slept with who.”

  Pen steps back, her hands on her hips as if to say No way I’m losing this one. I can tell Java knows it too. But then why does she look so uncomfortable?

  Lucas pulls out a list, some kind of roster. “Chronological order will probably be easiest.”

  Pen and Java take turns ticking off names, people cheering and laughing every time they air someone’s dirty laundry. Others stand off to the side, shaking their heads or blushing or trying to call them both liars.

  “Java Juraeva,” Pen says.

  He clenches his fists on the other side of the table.

  “Slept with Sol
ana Reyes.”

  He throws up a hand. “That’s fucking cold, Pen.”

  Her face is still. “Twice.” She sighs. “Miguel Medrano.” Her voice drops. “Slept with Mari Gomez. Last weekend.”

  Mari jabs a finger at Pen, already plastered. “Yeah, and what about you?” She throws her empty beer can at Lucas. “This game fucking sucks.”

  “It’s the rules,” Lucas says, facing Pen. “And she’s right. You skipped yourself.”

  Pen glares at him. “You think I’m dumb enough to shit where I eat?”

  “Fine.” Java smirks. “I’m taking this thing home.” He stares at Pen from across the table. “You may not be dumb enough to screw the help, but your brother sure is. I think you skipped him too. Let’s see.… How about we start with the most recent? Or what about the most frequent?” He laughs to himself. “Actually, I think they’re the same person.”

  She lunges for him and Angel holds her back, though he has the same murderous look in his eye.

  Lucas’s shoulders slump. “Java, why do you have to be such a dick when you drink?”

  Java ignores him. “Angel Prado.”

  Chloe stiffens next to me.

  “Slept with—”

  And then Pen starts chugging. She slams the empty bottle down and Java’s team erupts in cheers. She wipes the foam from her chin as she wobbles to the back of the line. Chloe hooks her by the elbow, uneasy.

  Pen just lifts a hand and mumbles something like “Don’t.”

  My turn is an impromptu spelling bee, and I only win by default when my opponent, one of the buzz cuts (who is already so drunk he can barely stand), tries to argue that the word propitious starts with the letter J.

  Even though I’m not the one who had to chug a beer, my stomach still turns when I see the next event.

  Lucas sets out a pair of Hula-Hoops, two baseball bats, and a long braided rope.

  “Rules!” he shouts. “Ten Hula-Hoops and ten spins around the bat before you can join your team at the tug of war. On my count…” Lucas counts down to one and then he blows a tiny whistle that makes my ears itch.

  Struggles takes off running first, which is a horrible idea considering he’ll have to hold the rope alone against Chelo, who is twice his size. When they both make it to the bats, they both slow down, their knees almost buckling under the nausea.

  “Oh no.” Chloe buries her face in Pen’s back. “I can’t watch this.”

  Both of them turn green as they scramble for the rope. I don’t see who takes off next. When Chloe runs off to escape the sounds of dry heaving, Pen drags me behind a tree with low-hanging branches.

  “Are we forfeiting?”

  “On the contrary,” she whispers conspiratorially. “We’re actually winning.” She parts the branches, groaning just as Chelo pukes all over the rope. “Well, will be once the rest of these idiots exhaust themselves and pass out.”

  “Hose!” Lucas yells, Sang running over and spraying Chelo with water.

  Pen lets the branches close on us again.

  “So,” I start, “I guess you’re sort of an expert in people’s dirty little secrets?”

  “Only the humiliating kind.” She exhales. “It was a shitty category. But with this crew, it’s either bite or get bit.”

  After having been in their midst for a little over a week now, I say honestly, “They don’t seem that dangerous.”

  Miguel has his forehead pressed to the bat, turning in slow circles. Sang comes up behind him and pantses him in front of everyone.

  Pen snorts. “Yeah, I guess not.”

  “What else can you tell me about what I’ve gotten myself into?”

  “What you’ve gotten yourself into”—she smiles, nostalgic—“is the most faithful and fucked-up family you will ever meet.”

  My chest tightens at the word. Family. As I look out on the Nacho’s employees, laughing together, howling up at the moon like a pack of wolves… there’s nothing I want more than to be a part of this dysfunction. A part of something.

  Pen parts the branches again. Everyone is slipping in the mud as both teams wrestle the rope back and forth. With one more tug, Struggles’s team loses their grip, flying forward.

  They move on to some crude obstacle course, people hopping onto couch cushions and climbing chairs and footstools, avoiding the ground. I notice the group has thinned, everyone too sick sitting against the house, disqualified.

  “You touch the grass, you take a shot,” Pen says, marveling at the chaos. “Last year Lucas broke his arm trying to jump from the top of the doghouse onto a barstool.” She laughs. “It’s the reason he stole my trademark look. I used to tie that bright green bandana on him before every shift to keep the sweat out of his eyes.”

  She talks about him the same way she talks about her brother, and I wonder, “How long has Lucas worked at the restaurant?”

  “Almost three years. But we’ve known him longer. His family used to come in at least once a week. But that was before…”

  “Before his dad died?”

  She nods, then stops, remembering something painful. “It was cancer. And it was… slow.” She lowers her voice. “Lucas doesn’t like to talk about it. But he’s not the only one who’s had it rough.” She glances at Solana, sitting in filth, disqualified. “Solana and her mom left Guatemala when she was fifteen. En route, they were robbed. She ran but her mother was too exhausted. Who knows how long they’d gone without food or water?”

  My heartbeat ticks up, remembering. “Bandits killed her mother?”

  I traveled with a coyote, the fee my abuelo paid affording us the luxury of traveling by bus most of the way. But that didn’t mean we were always safe.

  “She made it the rest of the way alone and ended up with her aunt, who lives just a few blocks from the restaurant.” She lets out a long breath. “And then there’s Mari, who takes care of her four younger siblings because her mom’s diabetes has her in and out of the hospital, and Andrea, who had a baby when she was sixteen—the two of them lived in her car before moving to the shelter near the restaurant—and Java, who spent his first three years in the country living in a one-bedroom apartment with seven other refugees.…”

  She goes down the line, relaying every hang-up, every heartbreak any of them has ever experienced until it feels like I’m meeting them all for the first time.

  “Your dad’s helped a lot of people,” I say.

  She looks down. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason he keeps the restaurant open.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to bring up—”

  “It’s okay.” Beneath the moonlight streaming through the leaves, shadows hiding her eyes, she’s much harder to read than the last time I saw her. Then she finally says, “I guess it just reminds me what I’m fighting for. Not just the restaurant. But what it means.” She meets my eyes. “To all of us.”

  Before I can respond, Chloe finds our hiding spot, hissing between the branches. “Finish line’s this way.”

  Back in the living room, everyone circles around the coffee table, which is covered in a towering pyramid of shot glasses, Angel pouring tequila down over the top.

  “Final round,” he says. “Good old-fashioned truth, dare, or drink. The last person standing wins.”

  Lucas motions to Java and Struggles. “Okay, you guys are up first.”

  They both look like shit, Java barely able to stand while Struggles’s hair is plastered straight up with peanut butter from one of the obstacles from the previous event. He smells even worse, and Lucas has to hold his nose as he flips the coin, Java gagging as Struggles calls heads. It’s tails, which means Java is up first.

  Struggles smirks. “Okay, Java, truth or dare?”

  “Dare.”

  “Figures. I dare you to play the rest of this game completely naked.”

  Java doesn’t even flinch. He strips out of his clothes, everyone taking a few steps back to avoid skin-on-skin contact.

  “Damn, Java.” Lucas
laughs. “I didn’t know you were smuggling Vienna Sausages in there.”

  “It’s the fucking alcohol,” Java spits back.

  “The alcohol you drank tonight or the alcohol your mom drank when she was pregnant with you?” Lucas says.

  Java lunges for him, putting him in a headlock. “Need to see it up close?”

  They break apart, the room erupting in laughter.

  Java jams a finger in Struggles’s chest. “Your turn, dick face. Truth or dare?”

  “Dare.”

  “Okay.” Java’s eyes water. “I dare you to eat every drop of peanut butter on you.”

  There’s a collective groan, Struggles staring down at the sopping mess mixed with mud and blades of grass.

  “Come on, Struggles,” Lucas begs, “just take the shot.”

  It’s the easiest choice, the most obvious. But Struggles isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and, frankly, I’ve seen him eat worse out of the dish pit.

  He narrows his eyes at Java. “I accept.”

  Another collective groan morphs into hacking and gagging as he lifts his hand and takes the first bite.

  “Shit, Lucas.” Angel waves a hand. “Don’t make us stand here and watch this.”

  “Rules,” Lucas says, his eyes watering too.

  “We’ll be here all night!” Pen yells.

  But she’s wrong.

  Struggles opens his mouth to take another bite and then he hurls all over himself.

  “What the hell?” Angel pushes him back outside, Struggles still gagging.

  Lucas and Java run out after them. I hold my breath, trying to block out the sound of their retching.

  Chloe wipes tears from her eyes. “Killed four birds with one stone.”

  Pen tries to give her a high five, but their hands fall limp.

  There are only three of us left. Pen steps up to the table across from Miguel Medrano, still scorned after Pen revealed that he’d slept with Mari.

  Pen wins the coin toss and gets him to admit that he was the one who clogged the employee bathroom one summer, causing the pipes to explode. Apparently, this was during one of Mr. Prado’s now infamous team-building exercises, which included a taco-eating contest where Miguel found out that ghost chilies don’t exactly agree with him.