“Truth or dare?” he says when it’s Pen’s turn.
She stares down at the shot glass in front of her. “Truth.”
“Okay…” He hesitates. “The truth.” He doesn’t look at her as he speaks. “Where’d you really get those scars on your arms?”
Everyone who’s still conscious holds their breath, and my eyes can’t help but wander to her forearms. I never noticed them before, the faint white lines. They look delicate, like string, like maybe underneath those dark lips and that angry stare, that’s all she’s really made of.
Angel pushes the shot glass in front of his sister. “Drink, Pen.”
Her fingers curl around the glass, but she doesn’t pick it up.
“Fucking just drink.” Angel fumes, his muscles itching to reach for Miguel and strangle him.
I wait for Pen to transform again—into the girl who was crying alone in her apartment, or into the girl who strikes fear in the heart of every Nacho’s Tacos employee. I don’t know who she’ll choose to be in this moment, and from the way she stares straight ahead, almost numb, I’m not sure if she knows either.
But then she lets go of the glass, looking right at Miguel as she says, “I did it.”
In an instant she looks like she did when I found her in her apartment. And I hate it. I hate watching Pen fill a room with her voice and her stare, bigger than anything, and then three words making her shrink. I don’t want to watch her shrink.
Before I can muster up the courage to ask if she’s okay, light explodes against the back windows, glass charred black.
“What the hell?” Angel runs for the backyard. “I told you no fires in the trash cans!”
The room empties until there’s no one left but a few people snoring. Pen stays put too, standing across from me, her expression stoic.
“Should we call it a tie?” I say.
She slides a shot glass over to me. “There’s no such thing.”
“Okay…” I reach for the coin. “Call it.”
She calls heads. She wins.
I try to steady my voice. “Go easy on me.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth.” It’s the only game I want to play with her.
“Okay. Where are you from?”
I sigh, relieved. “Puebla. I came here when I was nine.”
“My turn,” she says, not wasting any time.
“Truth or dare?” I counter.
“Truth.”
I mull over the words and finally settle on, “Are you really as tough as you seem?”
She doesn’t smile. “Yes. And no. Your turn.”
“Truth,” I say.
“Are you as cool, calm, and collected as you seem?”
I huff out a laugh. “Sometimes.”
“And other times?”
The laugh slips from my lips. “I’m a fucking mess.”
“My turn.” I can’t tell if the quick back and forth is driven by her desire to reveal something about me or to be revealed herself. “Ask me another question.”
“Why did you drink before they could say who your brother… You know…?”
Pen glances at the window seat where Chloe is asleep against the sill. She rolls, sensing our eyes, and Pen lures me onto the front porch. The breeze is warm, the night sky hidden behind gray clouds. I expect Pen to explain, but instead she’s silent, proving once again that Chloe’s secrets, unlike everyone else’s, are safe with her.
Beneath the light whistle of the wind, crickets chirping, I say, “You’re a good friend.”
She ignores the comment, sitting on the lid of an old paint can. “It’s your turn.”
I sit down next to her. “I’m ready.”
She narrows her eyes. “Okay, for all the marbles, this one’s a two-parter. One truth and one dare. Truth,” she breathes. “Do you want to kiss me?”
I don’t look away. “Yes.”
She doesn’t look away either. “Dare.” She leans in. “Do it.”
My hands move first, thumbs grazing her cheeks, fingers in her hair. It’s soft and she’s warm and for a long time I just look at her, closing the space centimeters at a time while I take in the lashes that are stuck together by mascara, the birthmark buried under her left eyebrow, the small dimple on her chin. I stare, sorting every piece into things that feel good and things that hurt like hell, into things I never want to forget and things I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I never have to.
But before I have a chance to savor those first few breaths slipping between her lips, they’re pressed against mine, falling and climbing their way back up. I taste her lipstick, her tongue, and it makes me dizzy. Her hands are on my knees, and then on my waist, on my shoulders, both of us gripping each other like we’re clinging to the edge of a cliff. Afraid of falling off. Or hoping that if we do, we’ll fall together.
Suddenly, Pen stops moving.
She stops breathing, my wild heartbeat the only sound.
I open my eyes and she’s not staring back. She’s staring at the street. At the car parked in front of Angel’s house, cigarette smoke slithering out from the open window.
The engine purrs as the car pulls forward. Just in time for Angel to step outside. For J. P. to say hello to him too.
Angel pulls on Pen’s arm. “Get inside. Now.”
She straightens, shoulders heaving.
“Pen…”
“No.” Her stare sharpens. She charges down the steps. “Stay away from us!”
Angel wrenches her back. “Are you out of your mind?”
My heart races.
“Stay away from the restaurant!” Pen shouts, trying to tear herself from Angel’s grasp. “Fucking stay away!”
“The restaurant…” For the first time, J. P. smiles. He looks at Angel. “That’s just what I stopped by to talk about. Your father’s been a little harder to get ahold of these days, so I thought I’d try working things out with the new manager instead.”
“Work what out?” Pen looks to Angel too. “What’s he talking about?” She seethes, but the faster her breaths, the more transparent she becomes. Beneath the anger, beneath the shock, her eyes glisten with fear.
“Nothing, Pen. I told you to go inside.”
“Now I know where I recognize you from.” This time, J. P. points a finger gun at me. “You’re the kid that’s always hanging around with that cop.” He shifts the cigarette in his mouth. “Surprising, considering…” He ashes his cigarette onto the street. “You two must be close.”
My heart is in my throat, suddenly made of thorns.
Because I was right.
He knows.
He knows.
How does he know?
Angel steps in front of me. “Maybe my father doesn’t want to talk to you because you’re a fucking asshole.”
J. P. just laughs. “I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Then he flicks his lit cigarette at Angel’s feet. “I don’t give a shit if he doesn’t want to talk to me. You tell him that he doesn’t have a choice.” Then he lifts a hand, smile returning to his face. “I don’t want to keep you from your party. Just let your father know I was looking for him. And that if I don’t hear from him, maybe I’ll stop by again. When it’s a little less crowded.” J. P. leans on the gas, letting the engine growl, and speeds off.
11
Pen
I MOVE SLOWLY, ONE limb at a time, everything stretching before I even attempt to open my eyes. I know as soon as I do I’ll be spinning, and I have no idea how far I am from a bathroom.
When the world doesn’t topple over, I get to my feet. I’ve been curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of Angel’s bedroom, Chloe next to me, one of his hoodies pulled over her head.
I tiptoe past her. A few steps into the hallway and my head is already pounding. But the alcohol-induced hangover isn’t nearly as bad as the withdrawals I’m having from that kiss.
That kiss.
It was strange and scary, but also like sinking really slowl
y into something warm and good and safe. But I can barely concentrate on the memory of Xander’s lips, the words we said. All I can think about is El Martillo. Watching us. A warning in his eyes.
The first time my father helped out a family who owed El Martillo money, J. P. just found someone else to extort. That’s what he used to do. But that was before the whisper networks, the warnings to stay away from him, that he was a loan shark. A crook. But whispers were all it was. No one went to the cops. And even though people like Officer Solis want nothing more than to throw him in prison, they tread carefully too, understanding that El Martillo, like my father, is a thread woven so tightly into the fabric of our community, that one snip could unravel everything.
I find Angel in the kitchen and plop down at the table in front of him. “Since when did these games get so goddamn vicious?”
“Since everyone at work started hating each other.” Angel sits down across from me. “Miguel and Sang tried to go at it the other night. I had to send Miguel home early.”
“Over what?”
“Some bullshit. Apparently, preliminary prank wars took a wrong turn somewhere and Sang ended up losing an eyebrow.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to halt the headache long enough to remember Sang’s face. How could I have missed the fact that he was one eyebrow short last night?
“So, what did you do about it?” I ask.
Angel exhales, sits back. “Nothing yet.” He fiddles with his spoon. “Every time I try to make changes or reprimand someone, it’s a mess. I’m just not that guy. I’m not the disciplinarian.”
“You’re the guy who throws anti–Nacho’s Tacos parties.”
“Exactly.” Angel looks away, realizing he’s revealed too much.
“I haven’t found anything else yet,” I say, trying to coax him out of his pride. “Maybe since some time has passed…”
“No.”
“No? That’s it?”
He can’t look at me. “It doesn’t matter what you want, Pen. What matters is what Dad wants and he wants me to do it. Me.”
The word hits me in my gut. Because he’s right. For some awful, unfair reason, our father has always wanted Angel to take over the restaurant. Even though he doesn’t want it. Even though he doesn’t love it like I love it. But our father knows that, and he still chose my brother over me. Maybe he always will.
Angel’s voice softens. “I’m sorry, Pen.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. It’s messed up and I know that.”
“So, do something about it.” Tears prick the back of my throat. I swallow them, angry.
“Pen…” Angel starts to crack too. I’m eighteen years old and he still can’t stand to see me cry. “Last night… you saw.”
My knuckles blanch around the edge of my seat. “What does he want?”
“Dad won’t say.”
“But he wants something.…”
Angel doesn’t respond, and my pulse quickens.
“Angel…?”
He chucks his bowl of cereal in the sink, his back to me.
“Angel, please just tell—”
“Just stay away from the restaurant, Pen. Until this thing blows over, and then I’ll talk to Dad. Like I promised. Just…” He faces me. “Trust me. Please.”
“Will it…?” I still. “Blow over, I mean. Do you think—?”
He squeezes my shoulder, exhales. “It’ll be fine.”
Chloe stumbles into the doorway, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. In Angel’s oversize hoodie she looks like a toddler.
“Coffee,” she croaks.
Angel shrugs. “Sorry, kiddo. Guess you’ll have to get it on the way.”
She grimaces but I can’t tell if it’s because Angel doesn’t own a coffee maker or because he just called her kiddo. Probably both. Last night I drank when Java said Angel’s name, even though I wasn’t sure whose name he’d say next. Sometimes I’m sure Angel and Chloe have something going on behind my back, but other times he calls her kiddo and I’m sure they don’t. If Java had said someone else’s name from the restaurant, one of the other waitresses or maybe one of the girls behind the bar, it would have crushed Chloe just like it’s crushing her now that Angel is more interested in a half-empty carton of orange juice than her.
“What time is it?” Chloe asks, redirecting his attention.
“Time for you to be serving the first plate at La Puerta Abierta.”
La Puerta Abierta is the church across the street from the restaurant where our father sends all of the restaurant’s leftovers.
“Oh no.…” Chloe rushes to the bathroom and twists on the faucet.
“Who else did you schedule?” I ask. “They should already be setting up, right?”
Angel grips his scalp. “Oh shit. I keep forgetting to schedule someone in your place.” He digs in his pocket for his cell phone. “Who got the least shit-faced last night? Do you remember?”
I shake my head. “Ninety percent of the people you’ll try to call are probably passed out in their front yard right now.”
“And I have to be at the restaurant in thirty minutes.”
I follow him to the door, he and Chloe snatching their keys at the same time.
“I can help.”
He ignores me and I try Chloe next.
“We rode together last night anyway. I can help you with the donations and then you can drop me back off at my apartment.”
Angel jumps into his truck and calls to Chloe through the open window, “Do not let her inside that church,” before speeding off.
I turn to her. “You know you can’t serve that crowd alone.”
She groans. “Fine. But only because I’m still hungover.”
We reach the side door that leads into the church’s dining hall, Chloe rapping on it with her foot. When it pushes open, Mrs. Rodriguez, one of the church volunteers, is already in her hairnet.
“Oh good, you’re here.” She holds the door open for us. “Since the restaurant was closed last night, your father already dropped off the food.”
Last year when Nacho’s closed because of Aarón’s electrocution incident, my father and I stayed up until 2:00 AM cooking for the church so they wouldn’t miss out on the donations.
I move the pots of refried beans and rice, setting them down on the burners that are already warm, and I wonder how long he stayed up last night making all this food. I wonder if he did it alone.
Mrs. Rodriguez hands me an apron. “Penelope, I thank God every day for your father’s help.” She lowers her voice. “Our membership has nearly doubled, the women’s shelter is at capacity, and we’ve got three new families living in the rooms below the sanctuary.”
“They’re living at the church?”
“Do you remember Señor Ramos, who used to own the millinery shop? He took a loan from El Martillo. When he couldn’t pay it back, ICE showed up at his house. Thank God he wasn’t home. Your father brought them to the church in the middle of the night. They’ve been staying here ever since.”
I remember the smell of El Martillo’s cigarette, the gleam in his eye as sharp as the tip of a blade. I knew my father was getting in his way somehow.
“Did he bring the other families too?” I ask.
Mrs. Rodriguez nods. “The man is a saint.”
The anger I’ve been carrying starts to dull. Jagged edges smoothed down by sadness instead. It sits like a lump at the pit of my stomach.
The double doors leading into the dining hall finally open, and the crowd moves toward us.
One woman has a blue pin stuck to her jacket—a token of sobriety that the shelter gives out to tenants who’ve stuck to their ninety-day commitments. There are children with her—a boy in a shirt that’s too small, and a girl who’s holding one of her sandals, the clasp broken.
Chloe ties on an apron and comes to stand next to me. “Tacos set. What’d I miss?”
I nudge her in the direction of the growing line, people still pouring in
from outside.
She faces away from Mrs. Rodriguez. “Do you think we have enough food?”
“We better.”
Goldie is first. He’s always first.
His eyes widen as the food hits his plate. “Don’t be stingy, now.”
“Oh, Francis, we’ve got to save enough for everyone,” Mrs. Rodriguez teases.
He stiffens at the mention of his real name. Even though “Goldie” is just a reference to the way his gold crowns flash from his ice-cream truck when he drives down the street, he still prefers it. Chloe and I used to chase him down, his own trap music mixtape playing over the speaker instead of the normal “Do Your Ears Hang Low” or “Pop Goes the Weasel.” When business was slow, my father would let him park in the Nacho’s Tacos parking lot, catching people on their way in and out of the restaurant.
Mr. Martín is next. He’s always next, and I assume he has some kind of deal with Goldie.
He tips his fedora at us, eyes wandering over to Mrs. Rodriguez. “Lookin’ good today, Mrs. Rodriguez.”
She blushes.
He’s always trying to get her to go out on a date with him. She’s been a widow for as long as I can remember. My mother’s tried to set her up a few times, but no one’s ever good enough.
“Penelope, when’s your father gonna send over some more of that capirotada?” Mr. Martín lets out something between a sigh and a whistle. “Reminded me of the bread pudding my mother used to make when I was a kid.”
I smile. I’d been the one to add capirotada to the menu during Lent a few years ago. I liked that it had a history, a sense of tradition you could taste. My father liked that it kept us from throwing out so many expired ingredients.
“Or better yet,” Mr. Martín says, “I’ll tell him myself.”
I turn just as the door slams shut. My father is carrying in another box of food. He stops when he sees me, but not long enough for me to read his face. I hold my breath, waiting for him to throw me out, to fire me again in front of everyone. But he doesn’t.
“Oh, thank goodness.” Mrs. Rodriguez takes the food. “I was worried we were going to run out.”
“And if that ever happens, you call me. No one leaves here hungry.” My father pulls an envelope from his back pocket. “For the Ramos family.”
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 11
