I make my way across the kitchen, noticing through the pickup window that the dining room is empty too, chairs still stacked on tables.
Mr. Prado’s muffled voice sounds behind his office door. He’s alone, arguing with someone over the phone.
“I’m not opening those doors. I don’t care how it looks. I’m not putting those kids in danger.…” His voice sharpens. “You think I don’t know that? I’m the one who hired them. I know how much they need the work.” He exhales. “Look, I’ll figure something out. Everyone will be taken care of. But I’m not using them as bait, and if you so much as suggest it again I’ll…” He slams a hand against the wall. “It is a threat. I don’t care if you’re a cop. We’re not goddamn pawns in J. P.’s game.”
The door flies open, Mr. Prado towering over me before I can run or hide or wipe the stunned expression off my face and replace it with something that says I heard absolutely nothing.
He grips the phone. “I’m sorry, Xander. I forgot to call to tell you your shift was canceled.”
“Oh.” I take a step back. “That’s okay.”
“Seems we had a few more pests than we thought.” He heads to the kitchen, nonchalant. “We gotta close up shop for another twenty-four hours.”
“I’m scheduled to come in at one tomorrow. Should I—?”
“I’ll call you.” He disappears into the storage room.
I wonder if the other employees were relieved when Mr. Prado canceled their shifts today, too hungover to suspect anything was wrong. I wonder if Angel knows; if it has anything to do with El Martillo’s surprise visit last night. But what could be so bad that Mr. Prado would have to close the restaurant?
My stomach drops.
What the hell is El Martillo planning?
The phone was to my ear before I realized who I’d dialed on the other end. In the ten seconds before she answered, I thought about hanging up at least a dozen times. I thought about telling her that the restaurant was closed again, about what I’d overheard her father saying on the phone. But the moment she answered, I could barely force out my own name. And then she asked me on a date. Pen Prado asked me on a date.…
When I reach her apartment door, I stop, raking my sleeve across my brow. Music is blasting behind a door down the hall, the sound mimicking the panic inside me. I don’t usually get nervous. Not when I was interviewing for the job at Nacho’s, and not even when I was sitting in the lawyer’s office, waiting for more bad news. That’s all I’ve found over the past decade, so that’s all I’ve ever expected, and it’s those low expectations that let me function in a world full of land mines.
But Pen isn’t a land mine. She’s an atomic bomb, and even though she already kissed me, even though she’s the one who asked me on this date, I still feel like every positive possibility that exists within this moment on the other side of her apartment door could self-destruct at any second.
I take a deep breath and knock, trying to listen for footsteps on the other side, as if anticipating the exact moment she opens it will somehow make seeing her less terrifying. I think I hear the clink of the chain falling free, a lock tumbling.
While I’m wiping the sweat from my forehead again, the door pulls open and Pen steps out of her apartment. She’s wearing jeans this time, black ones with these shiny metal zippers on the pockets that jingle against her hips, and a bright red tank top that matches her lips.
“You look great,” I say.
“Thanks.” She smiles. “So do you.” She looks down the hall, her eyes rolling as someone cranks the music to full blast. “All day,” she growls.
I laugh but she doesn’t, and suddenly I’m chasing after her.
She bangs her fists on the door. “Open up!”
A large man towers over us. I expect her to backpedal, but she holds her ground.
“I’m Pen.” She sticks out her hand, formal, and for half a second, the guy actually looks intimidated. “I live down the hall,” she says once he’s firmly in her grip, “and I wasn’t sure if you knew that I can hear every word to every song you’ve been playing for the past five hours.”
His face doesn’t change, and I can’t tell if he’s just stoned or if he genuinely doesn’t give a shit. Probably both.
“I would appreciate it if you’d turn it down.”
He tries to wrestle out of Pen’s grasp. “It’s a free country.”
“I’m actually aware of that,” Pen says. “Which means you are free to choose self-preservation and turn down your god-awful music. As long as one of you idiots can manage to find the volume knob. It’s the little round thing about the size of your brain.”
The big guy finally wrenches himself from Pen’s hold, waving a hand at someone I can’t see. The music shuts off and then the door slams in our faces.
I don’t know whether I’m turned on or terrified. Maybe a little bit of both.
It isn’t until I’m back down in the car that I realize the package of peanut butter cups Chloe instructed me to buy is still in my pocket. I pull it out slow before handing the squished package to Pen.
“I…” I grimace. “They melted.”
She tears open the package, the smell of peanut butter filling the car. “Oh…” Then she laughs. “How did you know that my favorite thing in the world is eating melted peanut butter cups?”
I smile, relieved. “Lucky guess. Or… Chloe may have mentioned it.”
“She likes playing matchmaker,” Pen says.
I clear my throat. “Does she set you up a lot?”
“No,” Pen huffs. “She tries, but the girl’s got the worst taste in men. Hence her being in love with my brother.”
“Oh…” I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. “So… you’re not dating anyone?”
She dips her finger into the melted peanut butter. “Well, right now I’m going on a date with you.” She licks the chocolate off, smiles. “By the way, would you like to know where we’re going or would you rather it be a surprise?”
“I like surprises. Well, good ones.”
I’m not used to seeing this playful side of Pen, and there’s something fragile about it. Too fragile for me to bring up her father and the restaurant. But I can’t stop thinking about the anger in his voice, and the fact that the employees might be in danger.…
“Take a right on Carter Street and then a left at the second stoplight.”
I put the car in drive, following her directions as clouds begin to cluster overhead. Windows cracked, it smells like rain.
“Now take another left up here. Pull into the parking lot in the back. I’m taking you through the secret entrance.”
I put the car in park, the smell of rain swallowed by garlic and chili peppers and green onions. Pen leads me through the back entrance just as it starts to sprinkle, steam from the kitchen ushering us inside. Out of the fog, a girl with gold clips in her hair gives Pen a hug.
“Manee, this is Xander. Xander, Manee.”
“Wait a second.” Manee raises an eyebrow. “Is this a date?” She grabs a pair of menus. “You know what that means, Pen.” She leads us away from the dining room and through a beaded archway.
“Oh, Manee, this really isn’t necessary—” Pen drags her feet.
“Nuh-huh, you two get the sweetheart table.”
She leads us to the most romantic corner of the restaurant and seats us in the embrace of an oversize seashell.
“So, the usual, Pen?” Manee bites the cap off her pen and starts scribbling.
“Actually, it’s a special occasion,” Pen says. “So I think we’ll start with some moo ping and shrimp dumplings. Then I’ll take my usual, and…” She eyes me, lighthearted again. “How hot do you like it?”
I clear my throat. “You know me.”
“He’ll take the drunken noodles with chicken, and the jungle curry. Ped bab cone Thai ka.”
Manee smirks.
Pen continues, “Then we’ll finish with some chocolate roti and coconut ice cream.”
“And some waters?” Manee suggests, pointing to me with her pen. “Looks like this one’s already broken a sweat.”
I wipe myself with a napkin. “It’s just a little warm in here.”
“And it’s about to get a lot warmer. Ped bab cone Thai ka,” Manee mumbles, laughing to herself as she saunters back through the beaded archway. “Yeah, right.”
“What did that mean?” I ask Pen.
“It means we want everything to be authentically spicy. None of that Americanized bullshit.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah…”
Pen taps her foot underneath the table. I scrape my hands on my jeans, waiting for the ease of the other night.
“So, uh…”
“Here you go, guys.” Manee comes back with our drinks. “And your first round of food should be out in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” I reach for my glass and almost knock it over.
“Are you feeling okay?” Pen asks after Manee’s disappeared back through the wall of beads.
“Great,” I say, praying that she can’t see where the sweat is collecting just at the edge of my hairline.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Actually, I do. It’s because the last date I went on was sophomore year, and the last time I liked a girl this much was… never.
I take a big gulp of water, some spilling on my shirt. “Is there a bathroom around here?”
Pen points back through the main dining room. “That way.”
I slip through the beaded archway, almost getting tangled in them, and spot the bathroom next to the kitchen. I jiggle the knob but it’s occupied, so I give myself a pep talk in the hallway instead.
Stop acting like a fucking idiot.
Just be cool. Be cool.
I shake out my shirt, trying to get some cold air against my skin.
“I gave you a good deal, and look at all you’ve been able to build with it.”
My spine snaps to attention. I know that voice.
I creep to the kitchen door, and through the steam, I see him. El Martillo. He stands over a man in a chef’s coat, the man’s fists clenched at his sides.
Just behind him is Manee. Her bright smile gone. But there’s a resemblance between her and the chef. Same birthmark on their left cheek, same forehead lines. I spot the name embroidered on his chef’s coat. Wattana. The same name on the menus Manee gave us.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wattana, but the terms were clear. You fall behind on payments and I start taking this place apart, piece by piece.” El Martillo’s eyes flick to Manee, and my stomach clenches.
“I’m not giving you another cent.” Manee’s father stands his ground. “I don’t care what the contract says. I owe you nothing, and if you don’t leave right this second, I’m calling the—”
El Martillo grins. “Mr. Wattana, you have been here too long.” He takes a few slow steps closer to Manee’s father. “You think you’ve put down roots.” He motions around the kitchen. “But these are weeds. And either I can dig them up, or you can keep paying for your plot whether the paperwork says to or not.”
Then he glances over Mr. Wattana’s shoulder, right at the kitchen door window. Right at me.
I duck, a door wrenched open behind me. An older man exits the bathroom and I throw myself inside, sweaty hands fumbling for my cell phone. I find Officer Solis’s phone number.
The door pushes open again, but I can’t make myself turn and look.
“Has Mr. Prado been teaching you how to be a hero?”
I freeze, the sweat on my brow turned cold.
El Martillo takes the phone out of my hand, darkens the screen. “You haven’t been working for Nacho very long, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. “That man is not invincible, and neither are you.” He ashes his cigarette on my shoes. “And you can either trust me on that and keep your mouth shut. Or I can show you exactly what I mean.”
I wish I was as brave as Pen. I wish that I could force words to my lips, that I could scream. That I could hurt him.
But he’s right.
I’m not invincible.
Not in this country. In this body. In this brown skin.
I’m afraid.
“I think we have an understanding.” He grips my shoulder. “Now, go enjoy the rest of your date.” He winks. “As they say, first impressions are everything.”
My cell phone lands at my feet, the screen cracked. For a long time, I just stare at it like it’s something dead.
“Xander?” There’s a light knock and I tense. “Are you still in there?”
I ease the door open, but I can’t meet Pen’s eyes.
“Oh no, you don’t look so good.” She presses the back of her hand to my cheek. “You feel warm.”
I can’t speak. I can’t move.
“Let’s take a rain check, huh?” She plucks the car keys from my pocket. “I’ll drive.”
It’s raining when we leave the restaurant, five to-go cartons balanced on my lap as Pen backs out of the parking lot. On the way to her apartment, we drive in silence, Pen probably attributing mine to the volcano inside me about to erupt. Instead, there’s something else coming to the surface.
“Pen?”
This is our first date, and all that keeps racing through my mind is that I can’t lie to Pen on our first date. I don’t know how she’ll feel about me being undocumented, if it’ll make her wary, if it’ll make her want to run. What if she thinks there’s no future with me, no reason to even finish this date, let alone go on a second one?
But if El Martillo knows, he can’t be the only one. I don’t want Pen to find out from someone else and think I was lying to her all this time.
She glances over at me. “Yeah?”
I try to figure out how to bring it up without ruining the last few days and all the ones we haven’t spent together yet. I just want that part—the yet—to still be intact after I’ve told her everything.
I let out a deep breath. “I have to…”
“Oh no.” She swerves onto a side street, water splashing the windows.
“No, Pen, I don’t—”
We skirt to a stop, my hands barely catching hold of the food before it goes flying.
I brace myself for another jolt before moving slowly to look at Pen. “I don’t have to puke.”
She puts the car in park, lets go of the wheel. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were feeling sick.”
“No, I’m… I’m not sick.”
She stiffens, searching my face. “Then what’s wrong?”
“I…” Just do it. “I have to tell you something.”
She sinks in her seat. “What is it?”
“Do you remember the other night when El Martillo showed up at your brother’s party?”
She nods, quiet.
“Well, I think… somehow…” I want to stare at the rain, at the floorboard, anything but her face. “He knows that I’m undocumented.”
Her hand is on mine, her touch even more terrifying. Because I don’t know what’s behind it—understanding or goodbye.
After a long silence, her grip on me tightens. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” She looks up, waiting for me to look back. “My father won’t let it.”
It takes everything in me not to fold, melting right there in her lap. I swallow the tears instead, focusing on her touch, on the way she’s closed the distance between us.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t want to be a liability at the restaurant. I don’t want El Martillo to use me to—”
“Hey.” She moves closer. “You’re not the first undocumented person my father has hired, and you won’t be the last. He’ll protect you. I promise.”
I exhale. “I’m sorry I ruined our date.”
“What do you mean? This date’s not over yet.” She’s smiling, the sight almo
st cracking me in two. “Open up those to-go bags.”
I do as I’m told, Pen directing me on what to taste and when. She wasn’t kidding about the heat. A few bites in and the skin under my eyes is already sweating.
I mull over what I want to say next, hoping that she doesn’t feel like my status is something we have to awkwardly avoid. It’s hard to talk about, but I’m so sick of secrets.
Sometimes it feels like my entire life is one big secret. I’ve always been hiding from someone—the federales and thieves who targeted me and other migrants heading for the border, ICE agents once I’d made it to the United States, then neighbors and teachers and police officers, pretty much anyone who I thought might have the power to report me as being undocumented. And now El Martillo.
I don’t want to have to hide from Pen too.
“You know you can ask me anything,” I say. “I’ll tell you the truth. I promise.”
She mulls over the words even longer than I did. “Can I ask you… Why do you go by Xander? It’s just really… American.”
“And I’m not?” I smile, trying to ease the tension. I’m relieved her first question is an easy one. “Officer Solis started calling me that. I used to hate it, but one year on the first day of school, I decided to try it out. Then I started to see how much more comfortable people were saying it, how much more comfortable they were around me.”
“But do you feel like it’s… you? Or do you feel like it’s who others want you to be?”
This question’s harder to answer. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like a choice, and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it feels like the only weapon I have against being an outsider… and sometimes it feels like a weapon other people use against me.”
“Alejandro.” Pen tries out my given name.
“Hearing you say it reminds me of my mother.” I grow quiet.
Pen reaches for me again. “Xander…”
“That’s me,” I say, “for now.”
“I like it.”
We finish the rest of our dinner, empty cartons lining the back seat. All of a sudden it feels like every physical sensation is magnified by a million. My stomach gurgles; Pen’s puffed out like a balloon. I can’t imagine moving, but the longer I sit still, the hotter it gets.
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 13
