Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  I do the same, attempting to lure my mind away from the thought: What if?

  What if I’d been home?

  My stomach turns and I almost show her how much it hurts. How much it scares me. Because I know the answer. If I had been home… they would have broken me the same way they broke everything else.

  I strip out of my mother’s embrace and head for the bathroom. Lola’s standing on the footstool, washing her hands as she sings the ABC’s. She’s only on the letter M and I try to hold myself up, to keep the bile down, but I can’t. I fall onto my knees and heave into the toilet.

  Lola stumbles off the stool, my mother leading her out by the hand. “What’s wrong with—?”

  “Let me get you something,” my mother calls back, her voice just as weak as I am.

  But as I stare into the mess, heaving again, I don’t let myself cry. Not with Lola watching, not in my parents’ house, where my mental illness is supposed to be invisible. Instead, I breathe deep, replaying the night over and over in my head—every possible scenario until the shock has worn off. Until the urge to scream is stuffed down so deep that the rest of me goes numb too.

  I don’t feel the warm towel against my forehead or the small droplets of water as they race down my cheek. It isn’t until I see Hugo pressing it to my face that I realize I’m not throwing up anymore.

  “Thanks, Bubba.”

  He’s stoic, and I know he knows that I’m not sick but that something else, something worse, is trying to come to the surface. But he doesn’t ask if I’m okay or what happened. He probably already knows the answers to that too. Or maybe he’s remembering why I don’t live here anymore and realizes that I probably wouldn’t answer truthfully anyway.

  And beneath the numbness, it’s that thought that cuts me open. That he might be angry. That he might not trust me anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Hugo.”

  His tiny fist tightens around the washcloth. “If you never would have lied, this never would have happened.”

  He drops the rag on the floor and brushes past my mother as she carries in a glass of water and something to help with the nausea. She hesitates, having caught the last of what Hugo said.

  I look up at her. “He hates me.”

  “He loves you.” She sets down the glass. “Why do you think he’s so angry, why he’s so scared about what happened last night?”

  “He shouldn’t even know about what happened last night.”

  Her lip trembles. She looks away. “You used to not think I was such a horrible mother.”

  I know she wants me to say that she’s not. She needs to hear that our relationship isn’t entirely ruined. But even though I’m not as angry as I was before, I still can’t make myself say it. I still can’t forgive her.

  “Take this.” She drops the pills into my open hand. “And then get dressed. There’s someone here to see you.”

  When I step out onto the front porch, Xander is sitting on the steps. He stands, looking me up and down—long enough for me to notice the bruise on his right cheek—before burying his face in my neck. For a long time he just holds me, and I can feel his heart racing, his hands slowly curling into fists against my back.

  “I’m okay,” I say, because he needs to hear it. I lean back, far enough to see his eyes. “What happened to you?”

  He swallows, staring at my hairline. “Angel told me what happened.”

  My heart starts racing too. “And what did you do?”

  “We found J. P.”

  I let go of him, trying to reconcile the fear with the fact that he’s standing right in front of me. “What did he do to you?” I search for the same brokenness I found in my apartment; an ache, a tremor, an ounce of regret. Xander and Angel could have gotten themselves killed. Because of me.

  Xander’s mouth twists. “Just a scratch.”

  I shake my head, angry. “Funny.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice is firm. “I’m sorry for what he did to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Pen.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” I take his hands. “He’s hurt so many people. The ‘why’ doesn’t matter.” Anger starts to push past the fear, but instead of snuffing it out, I let it rise. I let him see. “What matters now is what we’re going to do about it.”

  Xander looks down. “If I go to the police and press charges, maybe they’ll actually be able to put him away.”

  “You would do that?”

  He nods, jaw clenched. “I would do anything for you.”

  He makes it sound so easy. Like there is only right and wrong. Black and white. But what about all the gray? All that Xander would risk by putting himself under that microscope?

  “I can’t let you do that. It’s not worth it.”

  It’s not worth losing you, I want to say. Nothing is. Because I need him. Especially now.

  He wants to argue, but I press my lips to his before he can say a word. While my mother and Lola and Hugo watch from the window. While Angel pulls into the driveway.

  Xander grips me in handfuls, breathing deep and reminding me that I’m real. That he is too. That in this moment, in each other’s arms, we’re safe.

  Angel gags, joining us on the porch. “I’ve already lived through one traumatic experience today, now you’re gonna put me through another one?”

  I punch him in the arm. “You idiot, what the hell were you thinking?”

  His brow furrows. “Hey, Xander gets a kiss and I get assaulted?”

  I hit him again, eyes welling up. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

  He squeezes me, resting his chin on the top of my head. “I didn’t just do it for you. I did it for Dad. For all of us.”

  I look up. “Where is Dad?”

  “Back at the station.”

  “Good.”

  Angel crosses his arms. “Oh no. What are you thinking?”

  I cross my arms in response. “I’m thinking that Nacho’s Tacos is officially reopening tonight.”

  “Come on, Pen. That’s crazy. Dad’ll flip.”

  I shake my head. “No. You and Xander got to play hero. You got to do something about what happened. Now it’s my turn.” I glance back at the window, Lola and Hugo sitting at the kitchen table. “I can’t just go back in there and wait for something to be done.”

  And I can’t let this feeling fester. It’s not the discomfort I’m constantly trying to chase away with a sharp bite and bold decisions. Or even the fear I’ve been using as fuel. It’s a darker, colder thing.

  “And this has nothing to do with you wanting to go back to the restaurant?” Angel asks.

  “It has everything to do with it.” I picture the torn booths, the folklórico dancers, and old ticket stubs. Then I imagine the emptiness where there should be flames and food and family. A skeleton as hollow as the ones painted on the walls. “Dad may have fired me, but it’s still my home. I’m not letting El Martillo take it away from me or the people who live in our neighborhood. They need to see the lights on and to know that he can’t do this anymore. That we won’t let him.”

  “She’s right.” My mother stands in the doorway, looking from me to Angel. “I’m tired.… Your father will never admit it, but I know he is too.” There’s a sense of defiance in her eyes and I almost don’t recognize her. “But we can’t give J. P. another cent, another second.”

  Angel asks the question we’ve all been wondering. “What kind of deal did they have?”

  My mother looks down. “Your father made too many deals with the devil. That was the problem. When people would come to him for money, claiming that J. P. was threatening to reveal their status to the police unless they paid him, your father would hire them to do odd jobs around the restaurant.”

  “That’s no secret,” I say. “Everyone knows Dad would hire almost anyone who asked.”

  “What they didn’t know,” my mother says, “is that… your father knew what they were going through because he was t
ied up in J. P.’s web the same way they were.”

  My heart is in my throat, trying to punch its way out. “What do you mean?”

  “We were kids. Your father had tried getting the money from a bank, but every single one of them turned him down. J. P. gave him some money to open the restaurant. He was one of the first, making J. P. seem like a legitimate businessman to all of the other people in the neighborhood.”

  “That’s the real reason Dad’s always helping people?” Angel asks. “Because he feels guilty?”

  “Dad’s not responsible for what El Martillo does,” I say. “He never could have known that he’d turn out to be such a monster.”

  “But he did turn into a monster,” my mother says, “and in our own small way, we’ve been feeding that beast, letting it grow bigger and bigger. Every year he wanted more money, and your father tried to push back, but there was always so much at stake.” She looks at Xander, face pained.

  “What do the police know?” Angel asks.

  “Everything. But it wasn’t enough, especially with all of J. P.’s connections. They tried to convince your father to keep the restaurant open. To wait and see if J. P. would make good on his threats.”

  My stomach drops. “Of course he would.”

  Angel clenches his fists. “You mean they wanted to use us as bait?”

  “Your father refused.”

  “But then J. P. did make good on his promise.” Xander reaches for me. “By going after Pen.”

  “And now they’re holding him at the station.” I find my mother’s eyes. “But he won’t be there for long. In the meantime, we have to open the restaurant. We have to take back control.”

  Opening the restaurant was too much of a risk for my father. But what about what’s at risk if we don’t? If we don’t do the scary thing, if we don’t even try. We’ll be stuck in that fear forever, and I know what it’s like to be stuck. It’s the predecessor to disappearing altogether, which is even scarier than whatever El Martillo might be planning. Maybe tonight, when people are actually safe enough to be seen, is our only chance.

  “You take care of calling in the employees,” my mother finally says, “and I’ll take care of everyone else.”

  21

  Pen

  BY THE TIME WE get to Nacho’s, the parking lot is already full. Every employee is dressed and ready to sling some tacos, to start a fight. They huddle together, talking about what happened to my apartment the other night, trading theories about what else El Martillo’s been doing behind the scenes.

  We reach the front door and Angel pulls out the keys.

  He tries to hand them to me. “Do you want—?”

  I fold his fingers over them. “No, you should do it.”

  He slides in the key and turns the lock. Our footsteps echo in the dark, a single line of sunlight brushing the faded prayer card stopping me in my tracks. I press my hand to it, hoping for magic, like the day I finally told my parents the truth.

  Behind me, Angel grazes it too before reaching for the lights. Then Xander. Then Lucas. Everyone taking a bit of luck on their way inside.

  The stagnant air smells like cleaning supplies. Not like my father’s food. Not like home.

  Soon, questions begin to swirl among the employees. Where’s Nacho? Have you seen Mr. Prado? What are we all doing here?

  The murmurs reach a lull, and I realize that everyone’s looking in my direction. At first, I think it’s because they want an answer to their questions or for me to galvanize them with some kind of speech. But then I realize it’s because they haven’t seen me at the restaurant in so long.

  People I trained, people I helped hire, people I used to give shit to on a daily basis—they all stare at me and I can’t help but wonder what they see. A failure? A total bitch? That might be who I wanted them to see—someone cold and in charge. But is that who they remember?

  Before I can analyze each expression, Chloe breaks through the crowd and then she’s hugging me. I can feel her tears down my neck, and suddenly there’s someone else pressed to us both.

  Andrea wraps her arms around me. “I never thought I’d miss you yelling at me.”

  Then so does Mari. “Or you doing my eyeliner before every shift.” Her wings are crooked and they smudge even more against my shirt.

  Solana finds a way in, Java and Struggles coming up behind her. Between strands of hair I can see Sang and Lucas. Chelo inches closer, patting someone on the back.

  “Oh, come on.” Angel uses his height to sandwich her between him and Miguel Medrano. “You know you love us.”

  She growls.

  “Don’t fight it,” Angel whispers.

  Everyone laughs and then Chelo smiles.

  Lucas pulls Xander in and I immediately find his eyes. And I know he’s feeling what I’m feeling. Accepted. Loved.

  His eyes well up, and it gives mine permission to do the same. Then, one by one, everyone is letting go of something. Their fear of losing the only home they’ve ever known. Their fear of never finding somewhere to belong in the first place. We hold on to one another until the permanence of it sinks in. Until our close proximity has us laughing instead of in tears.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Chloe whispers.

  “I love you.” It’s the first time I’ve said it, but she knows. That she’s not just my best friend but my sister.

  The windows rattle, a heavy bass bumping from one of the cars outside. Through the window, I see Goldie’s ice-cream truck parking across the street, his mixtape blaring. There are others farther down the street selling helados and shaved ice, people already venturing out of their houses to get in line.

  “Hell yeah.” Lucas high-fives Sang. “Block party!”

  I spot my mother standing with Mrs. Rodriguez from La Puerta Abierta, both of them directing people who are setting up tables and chairs.

  Behind me the restaurant speakers crackle, the beginning of “Suavemente” making the hairs on my arms stand on end. Xander’s at the stereo, finger on the volume dial as he cranks it up.

  Angel howls, out of his mind. “You heard the man. Let’s get to work!”

  Lucas races between people, chanting the lyrics as waitstaff removes chairs from tables. Everyone takes their places, and then Chloe opens the doors for customers.

  Every Nacho’s Tacos regular finds a seat, tables scraping across the floor as people push them together. We appease them with cheap liquor and chips and salsa while we thaw meat and prep ingredients. We work double-time, sending out dishes family style instead of taking orders. People aren’t here for the food, anyway.

  Xander and I carry out plates to people in the parking lot. They’ve set up coolers and card tables, some families sprawled out on quilts.

  Mr. Martín’s sitting in a lawn chair with a few other churchgoers. “I haven’t seen this many people out in years.” He removes his hat, holding it against his chest. But he isn’t marveling at the turnout. He’s staring at Mrs. Rodriguez across the street.

  I nudge him. “You two aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

  Mr. Martín laughs, blushing. “You really think I got a shot?”

  “I think you’ll never know until you try.”

  “Wish me luck?” He gives us a wink before making his way across the street.

  We continue winding through the crowd, getting caught in the stream of a bubble machine, kids with water guns giggling so much they can barely aim. Their mothers fan themselves, bare feet stretched out in the grass. A soccer ball rolls against Xander’s foot and he kicks it back to the group of kids playing near Goldie’s ice-cream truck.

  When we near the end of the street I stop, taking it all in. From the corner of Monte Vista Boulevard, the view in every direction is of people sitting on porches, playing music, smoking cigars. Beneath the staccato drums of bachata and the rhythmic beat of cumbia, beneath the voices of Selena Quintanilla and Vicente Fernández and Juan Luis Guerra, you can hear the crack of Coke cans, the slap of children’s
bare feet as they race up and down the sidewalk, the swish of women’s skirts as they sway to the music, the high trill of el grito as that music possesses men’s souls.

  And as the sun begins to set, no one goes back inside. No one hides because no one worries about being found. Tonight, El Martillo is a bad memory, Nacho’s Tacos is the safe haven it’s always been, and our neighborhood is the little piece of the American dream that so many of these people risked everything for.

  As I take Xander’s hand, I wonder if he feels it too. The smile on his face is hesitant, and I wonder if he’s trying not to think about El Martillo the same way I am.

  “How do we make this last?” I ask.

  He looks down at me. “I don’t know.” Then he exhales. “Maybe… it’s as simple as doing what we want. Doing it in spite of being afraid.”

  “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  The smile he’s been fighting finally anchors. “I want to eat a slice of your famous coconut cake. Maybe two.”

  I find his lips, clapping erupting behind us.

  “Yeah, Xander,” Lucas hollers, “I see you.”

  Solana yells, “Get it, Pen.”

  Xander’s lips break into a smile but I hold on, not caring that we have an audience, despite their whistles and cheers.

  Java fans himself before pretending to faint. He lands on Aarón Medrano, who actually cracks a smile for once.

  Xander’s laugh finally breaks our kiss. “Are you ready to be back in that kitchen again?”

  I face the entrance I’ve walked through a thousand times, remembering what it felt like to walk out of it the day my father fired me. My entire world was shattered, the things that used to define me suddenly disintegrating.

  That feeling of being lost tries to nudge its way in again.

  You don’t belong here.

  You never did.

  And that’s the fear that’s holding me back. That without my father here to tell me to go inside—that this is where I belong—reclaiming my place here means nothing.

  I take a deep breath, shoving the voice down. Because maybe I don’t need him to tell me that I belong. Maybe I can walk into that kitchen because I know it.