She squeezes his hand before taking the money.
While I’m still holding my breath, I watch as he stops to mention something to Chloe about paychecks.
And then he leaves.
Without saying a word to me.
I stare down at the food, trying to blink away the sting. Wishing I was numb already. Smiling and making small talk as if I already am. But as soon as the crowd clears, the serving trays and utensils all packed up, I bolt for the back door.
Chloe follows me out, dropping the last of the dishes in her trunk. “What did I say before?”
“It’s not going to be okay,” I say. “You saw him. It’s not.”
This time she doesn’t argue. She just wraps her arms around me.
Once we jump in her car and she starts the engine, it isn’t long before I realize we’re not heading in the direction of the restaurant.
“Don’t we have to drop off these pots and pans?”
She stares straight ahead. “Look, I’m doing this because I’m your friend, and going to the restaurant is only going to make you upset.”
I slump in my seat. “So, you’re taking me home.”
“So you can shower and get dressed for your interview at El Pequeño Toro.”
“I don’t have an interview at El Pequeño Toro.”
She smiles.
12
Pen
EL PEQUEÑO TORO IS a cement block that specializes in making Mexican food miniature, and it is the final frontier in my search for employment.
The manager, Josie, leads me to a corner booth, old crumbs stuck between the seams of the plastic cushions. They’re bright orange and shaped like sombreros.
“I’ve got to tell you, Pen, when your résumé turned up, I was surprised that you had such extensive experience in the restaurant business. Seven years, I think you said.”
I nod, afraid of divulging too much about my previous place of employment and being forced to answer how exactly I got myself fired from my family’s restaurant.
“So, Pen, what is it about El Pequeño Toro that inspired you to apply for a job here?”
Because once I passed the drug test, I knew I’d be a shoo-in. “Well…” I clear my throat, painting the smile on thick. “I have a lot of experience cooking Mexican food, and it’s something I really enjoy.”
“And what would you say are some important leadership qualities you possess?”
“I managed the restaurant where I used to work. Well, unofficially.” Josie’s eyebrows quirk up. “I mean, it was more like they were grooming me for the position. I had a lot of responsibilities taking care of schedules and payroll, and managing the kitchen.”
“Interesting. And where did you say you were previously employed?” She flips through my résumé again. “Oh, yes, Nacho’s Tacos.” She looks to me for confirmation and I nod again.
I wait for her to make the connection between the Ignacio Prado who owns Nacho’s Tacos and the Penelope Prado whose résumé she is currently salivating over. But then she flips to my availability, jotting notes as she asks whether I’m free to work nights and weekends. I tell her I am, and suddenly she’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Listen, Pen, I’m not supposed to say this until we’ve had HR run your background check, but…” She lowers her voice, eyes twinkling. “After the bad luck we’ve had recently with new hires turning out to be… unreliable, I don’t think we can pass up an opportunity like this. You seem like a very responsible young woman, and I think it’s safe to say we’d love to welcome you to the team.”
She reaches her hand out, waiting for me to take it.
“Oh…” My stomach drops. “Thank you.”
I shake her hand, trying to dredge up the relief I should be feeling instead. But there is none. Her hand in mine, it feels like I’m about to step foot into my worst nightmare, which it turns out is not being broke or homeless, but serving previously frozen, production line–quality Mexican food to people who wouldn’t know real Latin cuisine if I stuffed it down their throats.
I feel like an imposter. But what’s even more terrifying is the fact that Josie doesn’t see me as one. She’s looking at me as though I belong, as though I’m actually excited about this new opportunity. What was the word she used to ask why I applied for the job? Oh right—inspired. What inspired me to apply for the job?
What inspired me was self-preservation, but as I watch the other employees going through the motions, everyone with the same numb expression on their faces, I’m worried that whatever parts of me are worth preserving won’t be strong enough to survive this place.
When I get back to my apartment I throw myself on the bed, which hasn’t been made since I moved in. Music’s been blaring all day—EDM this morning when Chloe dropped me off, and now a steady stream of heavy metal. I can’t tell if two adjacent apartments are competing for Biggest Dick of the Year or if one of my new neighbors just has really eclectic taste… and also possibly a hearing problem.
Underneath the noise, I hear a faint knock. I expect it to be followed by the laughter of those smart-ass kids. But there’s nothing. I creep to the door, peer out the peephole, and see the smiling face of an old woman.
I ease the door open. “I’m sorry. I thought you were these kids who keep coming by and knocking on the door.”
“And I usually pride myself on being the first to greet the new tenants. I’m Mrs. Damas.” She points across the hall. “That’s me in 613.”
I reach out a hand. “I’m Penelope Prado. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Here.” I didn’t even notice the large basket of baked goods she’s holding. “Just to say welcome.”
“Oh… thank you.”
“Still settling in?” she asks.
“Trying to.” I wedge myself in the gap between the door and the frame in an effort to hide the mess behind me.
“I thought I smelled something divine coming from your apartment a few nights ago. Were you baking?”
“It was a raspberry cake.”
It strikes me how many days have passed since I baked something. Not just because of the time I lost, but because without Hugo and Lola and Mrs. Nguyen, there hasn’t been anyone to share my food with. I guess I hadn’t realized before how important that part is to me.
“It smelled delicious.” She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and slips on her reading glasses to examine it. “Actually, I was just in the middle of baking, and it seems I’ve run out of a few things.” Her eyes crinkle as she hands me the list. “Would you happen to have any of these on hand?”
I scan the ingredients, glad that I recently borrowed a few things from the restaurant. “Let me take a look.”
Before I can stop her, Mrs. Damas follows me inside. She doesn’t mention the mess and neither do I. Instead, I search the pantry, lining up the ingredients on the kitchen counter for her to examine. She picks up a glass bottle of rosewater, then a bag of coconut palm sugar.
“You’re an experienced baker.”
I shrug. “I just like to experiment.”
She picks up another bottle. “Dandelions. What do you use them for?”
“Sometimes I like to mix them into an oatmeal cookie batter. They’re also great in sorbet.” I go back to the pantry, shoving aside bags of flour and sugar before pulling out a bottle of lavender extract.
“Penelope…” Her eyes flash to mine. “Would you be willing to give me a hand? If you’re not busy. I would love the help.”
I’d planned to spend the day moping, but as soon as Mrs. Damas asks the question, I’m reminded that I have a choice. That even without my family, without money, without knowing what’s coming next, maybe I can still be in control of something. I can still be myself.
“I’d like that.”
I follow Mrs. Damas back to her apartment, the heat drawing me to the kitchen. There’s a painting on every inch of wall space—landscapes mostly, except for the lone portrait of a man, brow covered by the same hat that sits atop h
er bookshelf.
Mrs. Damas pats my shoulder. “Here, tie this on.”
I slip on a bright yellow apron while Mrs. Damas shuffles around, opening drawers and cabinets and handing me utensils and bottles of different ingredients. The kitchen table is covered in empty plastic containers lined with foil. It looks like Mrs. Damas is getting ready to feed an army.
“Planning a party?” I ask.
Mrs. Damas takes some of the ingredients from me and adds them to whatever she’s mixing. “I spend every Sunday baking for the women at Casa Marianella.”
Mrs. Rodriguez had said the shelter was at capacity. No wonder Mrs. Damas is making so much food.
Her fingers brush her lips, measuring the batter. “After my husband passed away, I didn’t have anyone to bake for anymore.” She pours the batter into two separate pans, and I help her load them into the oven.
“My father owns a restaurant, and we always take food to La Puerta Abierta. A lot of women from the shelter eat there during the week. I was actually just there this morning.”
She pulls a bowl of dough from the fridge, peeling back the Saran Wrap. “Then you know how it feels.” She motions with the rolling pin before handing it to me. “To feed someone who’s hungry… it’s a gift.” She hands me a heart-shaped cookie cutter. “And to be able to help others the way I was once helped is a wonderful thing too.”
“Did you stay at the shelter?” It’s a personal question, one I have no right to ask, but I’m curious to know how she made it out.
“No.”
The timer above the stove goes off. She pulls two pans from the fridge—a raspberry custard kuchen and a simple chocolate cake. She takes the cookies from me and loads them onto the last empty rack in the oven.
I’m afraid I may have overstepped my bounds when she finally says, “I came to this country when I was very young, just before the war reached France. Neighbors invited me to attend the local church, and it was the nuns who taught me English.”
She places a cookbook on the counter, finger marking a page for the chocolate cake’s caramel icing. She shows me the recipe and I start mixing, quiet as she continues.
“I was lucky. I had my family, friends, a community that we embraced and that embraced us back.” She dries her hands on a towel before slapping a piece of dough against the countertop. “But things are different now. People have forgotten too much.”
“The number of people the church serves has doubled.” I pour the icing onto the cake. “A lot of people are really struggling.”
Mrs. Damas nods, splitting the dough before winding it into a long braid. She tucks it into a bread pan and then into the fridge for proofing. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I did nothing. As long as I can, I will.”
It sounds like something my father would say, and just like this morning, I think of him without feeling angry.
For the next several hours, Mrs. Damas and I work in tandem—measuring, mixing, tasting, pounding, cutting. The warmth from the oven spreads until the numbness that followed me home from El Pequeño Toro disappears.
My hands are covered in batter when I finally register the buzz of my cell phone in my back pocket. I scrape off the raisins and dandelions (Mrs. Damas insisted that I make her my aforementioned dandelion oatmeal cookies). I catch it just before it goes to voice mail.
“Hello?”
“Pen?”
I freeze.
“Pen? It’s Xander.”
I ease out into the privacy of the hallway, fiddling with the doorknob, the strings of my apron, my body needing some kind of distraction from the things that are happening inside of it.
“Are you busy?” His voice is more hesitant after the long silence.
I clear my throat. “Actually, I’m helping a neighbor.”
“Oh…”
I backtrack, attempting to be less blasé. “She’s baking some things to take to the women’s shelter by the restaurant. But I think we’re almost done. Why? What are you doing?” Stop talking now, Pen.
“Well, I… just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I lean against the door, remembering Xander’s face as El Martillo drove away. A new pang rises up in my chest as I realize the look I saw wasn’t anger but fear.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. What about you?”
“Well, that’s the last time I’ll ever go to one of Angel’s parties.” He lets out a nervous laugh, dodging the question.
I let him, laughing too. “Maybe it wasn’t all bad before…”
He’s so quiet on the other end of the line I think it’s gone dead.
Then he says, “Actually, it was pretty great.”
I smile, glad that he can’t see it. “By the way, how exactly did you get my phone number?”
His smile is less invisible, a breathy laugh coming through. “Chloe… She slipped it to me before I left.”
“Did you ask for it?”
He hesitates. “Not exactly. But I guess she wasn’t really sleeping against the window. She saw the whole thing.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Xander?” A question forms on my tongue, my hand sweating against the phone.
“Yeah?”
Doing the scary thing right now feels a lot riskier than accepting the job at El Pequeño Toro. Which is exactly why I have to do it.
“Hello?”
“I’m here. Sorry…” Stop being such a loser. “Xander… are you… hungry?”
“Yes.”
My cheeks flush and I feel like an idiot. “Do you want to maybe grab some food?”
“Tonight?”
“Pick me up around eight?”
“Eight. Okay, I can do that.”
“Okay, eight.”
“Okay… I’ll see you then,” he says.
“Yeah, see ya.”
When I finally hear the line go dead, I slump down onto the floor, wishing I could sink straight into it. I fall back, the door yanked open behind me.
“It’s true what they say, you know.” Mrs. Damas hands me a small, foil-covered package, random bite-size pieces still warm. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
13
Xander
WHEN I FINALLY DRAG myself out of bed, the alcohol having offered a brief respite from my normal nightmares, I find my abuelo and Mr. Daly on the front porch. Mr. Daly’s showing off a beat-up mountain bike that he probably picked up at some estate sale this morning, and there are bags of takeout from the seafood place near the highway strewn across the card table in front of them.
Mr. Daly shoves a receipt in my hand. “Here, this is for keeping the old man from starving.”
Abuelo kicks at his chair. “Who you calling an old man? You’re the old man.”
They’re both in their late seventies.
“At least I can still drive,” Mr. Daly says. “Look at that parking job.” The car is halfway on the grass.
Abuelo waves a hand. “I didn’t do that. The boy had it last night for work.”
Mr. Daly examines me. “Work, huh?” Then he sniffs. “Doesn’t smell like he’s been working. Smells like he’s been up to no good.” He raises an eyebrow. “With a girl.”
I take a step back. “You can tell all that just from the way I smell?”
“Did you have a date last night?” Abuelo asks.
“No. I told you, I was working.”
He tosses his napkin. “I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s her name?”
I groan, feeling sixteen again. “I didn’t have a date.”
Mr. Daly leans forward. “Did you pick up a prostitute?”
“What?” I shake my head, hard. “No.”
Mr. Daly turns to Abuelo. “You better clean that car out with some hydrogen peroxide and gasoline. The hookers around here ain’t no good. And you.” He faces me again. “You better have your member checked before he loses an eye.”
“I didn’t sleep with a prostitute!”
“And
that’s exactly what you tell the doctor.”
My cell phone rings, saving me. I assume it’s the restaurant, but I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Detective Lyle Freeman. I received a voice mail from someone named Xander Amaro, wanting to set up an appointment.”
I head back inside, shielding the mouthpiece. “A voice mail?”
“Time stamp says 3:07 AM.”
My face flushes, remembering. The phone in one hand, the business card the lawyer gave me in the other, dialing Detective Freeman’s number and stuttering through the details of my father’s disappearance. It was the most I’d talked about my father in years, and to a complete stranger while I was just inebriated enough not to remember the next morning.
Detective Freeman clears his throat. “Look, kid, if you’re serious about finding your dad, I can meet you Wednesday around four o’clock. There’s a diner on the corner of Hill and Quaker. You know it?”
“Yes.” I swallow, sweating.
It’s just a voice on the other end of the phone, not even my father’s voice, but it feels like he’s listening. Like he’s almost close enough to touch. There’s a fire in my belly, but I can’t tell what’s fueling it—relief, fear, shame? I don’t want to get my hopes up. I don’t want to get hurt.
Detective Freeman clears his throat. “Hello?”
But I also don’t want to give up. “I’ll be there,” I say.
He hangs up first, robbing me of the chance to change my mind. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing or if it’s time for me to forget about the search. About my father.
The fire in my belly returns.
Do not give up.
You can’t give up.
The restaurant parking lot is empty. I check the employee entrance, a single car parked next to the dumpster. I yank open the door to the kitchen, startled by the sound of my own footsteps. At this point in the afternoon, there should be music blasting from the dining room, Angel beating his tongs against the grill, plates sliding, a few breaking. But there’s nothing.
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