Pen looks over. “You’re dripping.”
“I think I’m going to explode.”
Her lips scream red. “For real this time?”
“Oh God, it’s so hot. Do we have any water?”
Pen searches the bags from the restaurant. “Shit.”
I close my eyes, teeth gritted. “Oh God.”
“You said that already.”
Beneath our panting, mouths desperately trying to suck in air, rain still pounds against the hood of the car. I look from the window to Pen. Then we both reach for the doors, falling out into the downpour. We look straight up, mouths open as we try to find some relief.
Pen laughs, choking.
I hold out my hands, trying to funnel the drops into my mouth. “It’s not working!”
Pen flings her arms around me. “Here, try this.”
My lips throb as she crashes into them, and it’s the opposite of relief. It’s agony. But I can’t let go. Even though it hurts. Even though it scares me. I don’t let go. I won’t.
14
Pen
MY FINGERTIPS SKIM THE door handle of El Pequeño Toro, and then I stop. I count the fear in needle pricks, every moment of discomfort that’s led up to this one—putting on my uniform, catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror, pulling into the parking lot. This morning has already been full of impossible tests, but I’m here and I can’t turn back.
The door pushes open, knocking into me. I shake the surprise from my face just in time, one of my new coworkers looking down at me with an amused smirk.
“You all right there?” he asks.
“Oh, I…” I straighten. “I’m great.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Look, Josie’s not here yet, so if you need to go to the bathroom to cry or something, go right ahead.”
“I don’t cry,” I snap, a little shocked at how big of an asshole this guy is.
“Right, just wait till your first shift’s over.” He clips on his name tag: DAVID.
Needle prick number four—David’s assumption that I am weak and can be easily reduced to a soggy puddle of shame.
I step to him. “Is that some kind of threat?”
He winks, amused again. “Only if you want it to be.” He crosses his arms. “Making little girls cry… it’s sort of a specialty of mine. There’s an art to it, really.”
He’s more pathetic than sinister, but it still ignites a pang at the pit of my stomach. Because I know that for the next several hours, the next days, weeks, David will be watching me. And I have to decide in this moment who I want him to see.
I cross my arms in response, feigning the same wicked amusement. “And my specialty’s making little boys piss themselves, so I suggest that if you don’t want to be the one in tears, you’ll stay the hell out of my way.”
He hangs his head back, laughing. Then, without warning, he grips both of my shoulders, grinning even wider. Before I can shove him away, he says, “I think I’m going to like you.” Then he disappears to the back of the kitchen.
For a minute I just stand there, trying to calculate where I went wrong. I can still feel his grubby hands on my skin, his enthusiasm—or maybe it was admiration—making the hairs on my arms stand on end. It definitely wasn’t terror. Why the hell wasn’t he terrified? Why the hell did threatening him compel him to put his hands on me? Why the hell didn’t I punch him in the fucking nose?
Because you’re weak.
The voice passes through me like a chill and I try to shake it off.
As I come around the corner, I spot the shift manager, Claudia, in the back of the kitchen, freezer door propped open against her back as she lugs out boxes of food. David walks right past her, fingers racing across his cell phone. He hops up onto the counter next to me, legs swinging as he laughs at something on the screen.
I look from David to Claudia. “You’re not gonna help her with that?”
He barely glances up. “Claudia doesn’t like when people try to help her.”
“So what does everyone else do? Just stand around until we open?”
He chews the dead skin from his thumbnail, spits it out. “Pretty much.”
Regardless of whether or not Claudia might bite my head off for offering to help, I can’t stand to share any more breathing space with David.
When I come up behind her, she stiffens.
“Do you want me to get some of these boxes?” I ask.
Without a word, she heaves one into my arms and I fall against the wall. She rolls her eyes before nodding to the empty counter where she wants me to drop it. I suck in a deep breath, but the weight shifts, almost toppling me over. I drop the box down on my fingers, trying to wince as quietly as possible as I pull them free.
Claudia glares. “I told Josie I didn’t need another lightweight.”
“Trust me,” I shoot back, taking offense, “I’m no lightweight.”
She rests her hands on her hips. “You used to work at another restaurant?”
I nod.
“Well, forget everything you learned there. You’re in the bowels of the culinary world now, and whatever fancy shit you know, you won’t be needing it here.” She motions for me to come closer. “I’m only going to show you this once, so pay attention.”
Claudia turns on the fryers as the grill sizzles on her right. She shows me the prepackaged foods, explaining how to read the labels before pulling the first batch of menu items to drop into the fryer.
“Only six in each basket or else they’ll be cold in the center.”
Because they’re frozen, I remember, shuddering. There are a few foods that are better the next day, but Mexican isn’t one of them. Especially if you’re making dough or any kind of masa. I prod at one of the ice-cold empanadas and it feels like something dead. I imagine eating it probably feels the same.
Claudia leads me to a stack of cardboard cutouts, slaps one on the counter, and begins to fold.
“Ten per minute. Three empanadas in each box.”
And here are their coffins. I wonder if they have one big enough for me. Here lies Penelope Prado. Aspiring chef turned premade Hot Pocket peddler.
Something dings. Claudia unloads the fried empanadas onto a metal tray and places them in a tall warming drawer. She drops the next batch in the fryer. There’s another ding. Fried burritos are done. They go in the warming drawer too.
Twelve dings later and we get our first drive-through customer. Claudia yanks a headset down over my ears, motioning for me to watch the screen above the cash register as she enters the order. Two breakfast empanadas, two fried burritos, four churros, two Diet Cokes—one with no ice—and three packets of hot sauce. The food is illustrated on the touch screen for easy navigation, but Claudia doesn’t even look. She’s got one hand reaching to fill the first drink when they ask her to add an extra burrito to their order.
She barely looks them in the eye, each transaction lasting just a few seconds. Not long enough to notice what they’re wearing or whether they’re in a good mood. Not long enough to see them leave satisfied, to find out what they hungered for in the first place. It’s not like Nacho’s, where we were people’s priests and therapists and surrogate grandchildren. Neighbors. Family.
You don’t have a family.
The voice is poison, coating the back of my throat until it’s on fire. But I don’t cry. Not here.
Three customers come and go, and then Claudia says, “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
As if the universe is equally as amused by my misfortune as David, the next person who pulls up to the order speaker is about a hundred years old and under the impression that she’s at a 1950s burger joint.
Claudia nudges me.
“Uh, hola, welcome to El Pequeño Toro, can I take your order?”
“Hello?” The speaker crackles. “Well, I’m not sure if this thing is working, but I need two cheeseburgers, no onion, add mayonnaise, two orders of fries, two chocolate shakes, one with whipped cream and one without—”
/> “Ma’am?”
She still can’t hear me. I slide open the drive-through window and peer out. The old lady has the driver’s side door open, half her body hanging out of the car. The person behind her honks; four others idle in line.
Claudia glances at the clock above the cash register. We only have eighty seconds between taking someone’s order and then their money. I have thirty seconds to finish this one and get the old lady out of the way.
I lean out the window and wave, trying to usher her forward. She’s still shouting into the speaker box, totally oblivious.
I can tell Claudia’s waiting for me to ask her what I should do, or maybe to take over herself. I won’t give her the satisfaction.
“I’ll be right back,” I say before marching out the side door.
I’m a few inches from the old lady before she finally notices.
She waves a hand at the speaker. “I think it’s broken.”
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am.”
She looks up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What was that?”
I lean closer, voice raised. “I said I’m sorry about that. If you’ll just pull up to the window I can take your order there.”
She blinks.
“Screw this.” I walk in front of the car, motioning with my hands for her to roll forward.
She does, one inch at a time. Suddenly, the car jerks, her foot too heavy on the gas. I stumble back, the front of the car almost catching my leg as I jump onto the curb. I land on the concrete, ankle throbbing.
David’s leaning out of the order window. “Hey, look at the vieja whisperer.”
I push myself onto my feet before hobbling to the door. The instant I reenter the kitchen, I smell something burning.
Both fryers are dinging, the batch of empanadas and burritos dark and crumbling.
“You couldn’t keep an eye on these?” I yell.
David ignores me, greeting the old woman and entertaining himself by calling her crude names that she cannot hear and therefore cannot be offended by. She just smiles.
I dump out the burnt food, drop some from the warming drawer into a sack—without bothering to wrap them—and practically toss them into the old woman’s lap. David’s already got her credit card.
The next customer shouts in my ear. The fryers ding. I search for Claudia and find her cleaning up a hot sauce disaster in the dining room while David just stands there, doing nothing.
“Tell me, are you completely useless?”
He leers. “It’s called nepotism. Josie’s my aunt and I’m her favorite nephew. Speaking of Josie, here she is now.”
The bell above the door sounds, Josie stepping inside. I expect another warm greeting, but instead she’s fuming. “There’s a line all the way to the turn-in. What’s going on back here?”
I want to point a finger at David, but he’s already pointing one at me. “Pen’s first day.” He lays on the charm. “Give her a break, Aunt Josie. I’ll take care of this rush.” He snatches the headphones off my head, snagging them on my ponytail.
“What’s that smell?” Josie sniffs, smoke billowing up from the fryers. “Christ!” She waves a hand, trying to get Claudia’s attention. “I need you on this.”
Claudia rushes over, her pants covered in hot sauce. “I thought Pen was on the fryers.”
“Actually, I was on the drive-through—”
She glares at me as she brushes past.
“Uh, excuse me. Could we get some service over here?” A family of four waits at the register, the mother with a hand on the counter like she’s ready to hurdle over it.
Josie angles us out of earshot. “Do you think you can handle this?”
“Yes, I—”
“Here, put this on.” She hands me a felt mustache, one side covered in double-sided tape.
I turn it over in my hand, horrified. “What’s this?”
“The rest of your outfit.”
I look from the mustache to Claudia, then to David. “But no one else is wearing one.”
“David has allergies.”
My nose wrinkles. “He’s allergic to double-sided tape?”
Josie sighs, annoyed. “The adhesive,” she finally says. “He has very sensitive skin.”
I almost snort. “And Claudia?”
“She’s allergic to people.” Josie snatches the mustache back and slaps it over my lip. She spins me toward the register. “Now, the customers expect to be greeted with a little Latin flair.”
My brow furrows again. “Latin flair?”
“An accent,” she whispers. “The gringos love it. Gives them the full experience.” She smiles, nudging me forward. “Bienvenidos. How to help you today?”
I’m pretty sure one can have an accent without speaking in broken English. Maybe when she said “Gives them the full experience,” she didn’t mean my experience. She meant theirs. The experiences they’ve cultivated at places like this where the food is as authentic as this mustache stuck to my face and where the Latinx people they meet are characters instead of human beings. I can see the expectancy in their eyes as they wait for me to slip into the caricature they know and love.
I use my own voice instead. “What can I get for you today?”
Josie’s lips tighten into a thin line.
I ignore her, punching in their order. But the whole time I can’t help but remind myself that this is not a place where I can just make my own rules. I’m not the boss. Josie is. And as degrading as it is to pander to such harmful stereotypes, I can’t pretend like there’s no risk involved in me refusing to follow her orders. I can’t get fired. Not on my first day. Not when I’ve already spent my last check from the restaurant.
I slide the bag of food across the counter, my eyes down as I tilt my words. “Gracias. Please come a-gain.”
I’m grinding my teeth as the next customer approaches. Before I can summon enough desperation to force out a greeting, he’s pointing a finger in the direction of the bathrooms.
“Men’s is clogged. Just thought you should know.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” David slides over and I’m relieved that he’s at least decent enough to keep me out of foreign territory. But then he says, “I’ll cover the register for you,” once again exuberant at the misfortune that keeps hurling itself in my direction. He takes my place before I can object. “What can I get you, sir?”
I follow Josie to the bathroom, counting the linoleum tiles as we approach the door marked MEN. She hands me a plunger before going in first, only one of us able to fit at a time. I can hear her jiggling the handle, something making her gag. She comes back out, sweating.
“Toilet’s clogged. Do you think you can take care of it?”
I want to say no, to snap this plunger over my knee and run as far away from here as possible.
“I’ll take care of it.”
I hold my breath and then I venture inside. A latex bubble floats in the center of the bowl. I stand there, watching it twist, and I think about how my survival rule about always doing the scary thing was not created with condom-clogged toilets in mind. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe it’s a sign. I look closer but then I start gagging the same way Josie was. And I realize that it isn’t the universe trying to test me or send me a message. It’s a condom in a fucking toilet.
And this is your life now.
Suddenly, I’m sliding down the wall. I land on the floor with a thud, my back pressed to the hard surface as I try to keep everything inside me from collapsing too. My lungs are the first to go, the smell of the stagnant toilet water making them clench. The dam in my tear ducts goes next. The rush forces my lips apart and I cover my mouth, not letting myself make a sound. I barely sniff, shaking as I try to cry as silently as possible.
Because it hurts to feel it all over again—losing the restaurant, losing my father, losing the only purpose I had for anything.
And because this is where David said I’d end up. And then I challenged him to a duel. A duel I’m in v
ery serious danger of losing if I can’t stop the storm inside me.
But maybe I don’t want to stop it.
Maybe this time I want to be swept up, torn apart.
I close my eyes, imagining the sounds of the restaurant, the smell of my food coming out on steaming plates, the tastes resting on people’s tongues.
Gone. Gone. All of it gone.
Because you lied.
Because you’re weak.
Because you’re broken. Broken. Broken.
No.
I cover my ears, trying to muffle the sound. In the corner of my eye, I see the scars. The places where I used to put the pain. Memories like a warm whisper in my ear. But just because the voice is familiar doesn’t mean that it tells the truth.
The truth.
What is the truth?
That I’m a failure and a fraud and more fragile than I thought?
Or that I’m fearless. That I’m strong.
I stare down at my arms, looking past the scars at the veins underneath. Purple and pulsing with life.
I am fearless. I am strong.
I steal my breath back, chanting the words over and over in my head. Until it’s not such a fight to remember, to believe it’s true.
I am fearless. I am strong.
The voice is hushed.
I rise to my feet, remembering the way my father gripped my hands. The way he begged me to fight. And then that’s exactly what I do.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and lock eyes with the girl staring back. I scrape the tears from my cheeks.
I am fearless. I am strong.
Then I stand over the toilet, staring down into the bowl. At a fucking condom.
I take a deep breath, reaching for the plunger.
Because this is my life.
And I can do this.
15
Pen
AS SOON AS I get home I peel out of my shirt and grease-stained Dickies. Then I just lie on the floor in my underwear, absorbing the cold.
“Pen?” I hear Chloe’s voice on the other side of the door. “Pen, I know you’re in there. I’ve come to rescue you.”
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 14
