“I’m fine.” It’s what I’m supposed to say, and just like everything else, if I pretend hard enough, maybe eventually it’ll be true.
But today, the first day after returning to my apartment, a felt mustache stuck to the sweat above my lip, my skin and hair covered in grease, it’s not. And Claudia knows it.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I want to tell her that it’s either here or alone in my apartment again. Alone with the doubt, with that little loud voice that feeds on it. But I don’t trust her. I almost tell her that too.
“My parents used to own the gas station on Real Street. They needed money to help send my sister to college, and El Martillo offered them a deal that was too good to pass up.” She leans against the counter, the admission making her shrink. “When they couldn’t pay it back, he took everything. The gas station. Our house. The six of us had to move into a two-bedroom apartment.”
“I’m so—”
She lifts a hand, probably not trusting me either. But then, why is she telling me this?
“I put up with this shithole so I can help them pay bills, but every time I’m working a shift from hell I can’t help but picture his face. And I’m reminded that this place and every cancer-serving dump like it is a weapon too. A trap set to keep us from venturing outside our neighborhood, to keep us from thinking for even a second that we can.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask.
“Don’t you?”
The escape I yearn for isn’t outside our neighborhood. It isn’t even beyond Monte Vista Boulevard. It’s in my own head, El Pequeño Toro just a manifestation of the fears I wrestle with every single day. But this place, those fears—they don’t define me. They shouldn’t define Claudia either.
“You could do it, you know.…”
Claudia’s eyes soften but she doesn’t entertain the thought. “Not anytime soon.” She shakes her head. “Go home, Pen. I’ll make sure you stay clocked in until the end of your shift.” Then she takes my headset, gentler than the last time she told me to leave.
After an entire day of scowling, the smile feels foreign on my lips. I head back to the lockers, removing my mustache before scraping off a layer of grease with a few paper towels.
I find a pen in Josie’s cubby, scribble the number to Nacho’s on the back of Claudia’s hand. “My father’s restaurant. You should ask for an interview.”
She stares down at the ink. “Are they hiring?”
“Always.”
“Then… why don’t you go back?” she asks, not condescending, just curious.
I head for the door. “I will.”
It’s the opposite of what I was feeling this morning—uncertain, defeated—but the words come out before my fears can stop them. Maybe today is a day for pretending, for unfiltered hope and second chances. Even if it’s not my father giving me one, maybe I can give one to myself.
The radio is a soft buzz in the background when Mrs. Damas opens the door.
“I smelled you baking.” I raise a basket of ingredients. “I thought you could use some help.”
“One day you better start charging me for your services,” Mrs. Damas says on the way to the kitchen.
“If only…”
There are cupcakes cooling on the counter, a Bundt cake halfway piped with cream cheese frosting, and some chocolate melting on the stovetop. It smells like heaven.
“I’m serious,” Mrs. Damas says. “While it’s admirable that you prefer to use your skills helping little old ladies bake for charity, I think you’re missing out on a lucrative business opportunity.”
I tie on an apron. “I’m not exactly in a position to open my own bakery. I make eight dollars an hour. To save up for something like that would take…” I pause, attempting the calculations for half a second before I realize I’d need to work “about a million hours.”
Mrs. Damas tsks. “What ever happened to taking risks?”
“I do take risks. Every day that I walk into the black hole that is El Pequeño Toro.”
“Then don’t.”
Mrs. Damas pops out each cupcake while I smear icing over the tops.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t walk into that black hole ever again.”
My brow furrows, the spoon slipping from my fingers. People from my neighborhood don’t take risks. We have dreams, sure. But the numerous threats involved in their pursuit keeps us from pining for things beyond our reach. We don’t shoot for the stars or even the moon. Instead, we pray for roots. Something to tie us down, to ensure that the places and the people we love are never taken away from us.
As much as I hate working at El Pequeño Toro, the thought of quitting my job molds a pit in my stomach. “I can’t just quit. I have to pay rent.”
She turns to me, serious. “What is your dream, Pen? The thing that keeps you up at night.”
I place the cupcakes in a Tupperware container.
“I know it’s on the tip of your tongue.”
It is, the thought warming my cheeks the longer I refuse to speak it aloud.
“What’s the harm in telling the truth?”
The harm is in the hope. But what’s worse is feeling it and trying to pretend like you don’t.
“I want to bake,” I finally say. “I want to own my own bakery right in the center of the neighborhood. I want to feed the people I care about. I want to help them the way my father does.”
“Have you ever told him that?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
“He’d tell me not to do it.”
“And would you listen?”
I flick my ponytail over my shoulder. “I don’t know. I listened to my parents when they told me to go to school. But that didn’t last long. I guess I’m just as stubborn as they are. But what do I really know about owning my own bakery? What do I know about anything at all?”
“Make me something.”
I take a step back. “Now?”
She nods. “Make me something you’d sell at your bakery.”
“And what?” I grimace. “You’ll tell me if it’s good enough to actually do it?”
“I already know it’ll be good enough. We’re doing this to convince you.”
I stare at the ingredients for a long time, pulling things forward, changing my mind and swapping them out. I think back to the “test” I was given at Maureen’s bakery, Tiers of Joy. She wanted French, complex. Something to show my skill. But that’s not why I bake.
As I mentally scroll through the desserts on Nacho’s Tacos’ menu, nothing is a puzzle, and when I think about what I’d serve in my own bakery, there’s only one thing that matters—how does it make me feel? That’s why I bake—to feel in one bite all of the things I temper when I’m trying to stay in control; to remember who I am when it feels like that control is slipping from my grasp.
I reach for the coconut flakes and condensed milk—just two ingredients—deciding that if I’m going to make Mrs. Damas something from my dream menu, it’s going to be just as simple as my reason for cooking in the first place.
I mix the coconut and condensed milk in a bowl, and then I spread it out over the bottom of a baking sheet. I pop it in the oven, leaving the light on so I can see when the edges have started to brown.
We’re boxing up the last of the baked goods for the women at Casa Marianella when the timer sounds for my cocada. I pull it out, letting it cool.
“It looks lovely.” Mrs. Damas leans closer, breathing in the roasted coconut. “And your signature flavor.”
I inhale too, using a butter knife to cut the bark into jagged pieces. She cracks one in half, examining where the flakes have settled within the condensed milk. Then she takes a bite, holding it in her mouth until it ignites a smile.
“It’s delicious.”
I rest a piece on my tongue, sugar dissolving like tiny sparks, the coconut rising like sweet smoke to the back of my throat. I don’t realize my eyes are closed until Mrs. D
amas speaks again.
“That feeling, Pen, is passion.” She takes my hand. “And the thing about passion is that it’s born the second you are. You love baking not just because it’s in your blood, but because it’s in your soul.”
I think back to the doubts I was wrestling with this morning. I can believe Mrs. Damas when she tells me that cooking is in my blood. I can even believe Xander when he tells me there’s magic in the things I make. But I don’t know if I can believe that it all means something. That it matters.
“It might be my passion.…” I face Mrs. Damas. “But is that enough?”
She smiles, surprised, saddened. “Of course it’s enough. You are more than enough.”
I think about how good it felt to walk out of El Pequeño Toro earlier, how it wasn’t just Claudia who gave me permission to leave, but myself. Maybe because I wanted a second chance. Because I deserve one. But it’s not enough to want something, I actually have to let myself do something about it. That means not wasting any more time being stuck in this self-doubt that is a leech and a liar and the most dangerous kind of amnesia. That means facing my fears head-on, not because doing the scary thing is how I survive, but because, this time, the scary thing is the right thing.
Mrs. Damas and Xander are right. I don’t belong at El Pequeño Toro. Maybe I don’t belong in my father’s restaurant anymore. But my food is fucking magic and I won’t stop making it.
24
Xander
CHLOE’S ROLLING SILVERWARE AT the hostess stand when I walk inside the restaurant. “I’d wipe that smile off before Angel sees.”
My face is hot. “What smile?”
“The one Pen’s kisses have permanently plastered to your face.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Someone chuckles.
I turn and see Lucas.
“Oh no, the boss is not gonna like this.” I’m not amused, and he pats me on the back. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
I look to Chloe next.
She raises her hands. “My lips are sealed.”
“But seriously, though.” Lucas leads me back to the kitchen, hand covering his mouth. “If anyone else around here finds out, you’re toast. There’s nothing these losers love more than some good chisme. And you sleeping with the boss’s daughter—”
“NO.”
Andrea and Mari slide around the corner, Mari with her hand over her mouth while Andrea’s hands are pressed to her cheeks in shock. They look like two of those wise monkeys from that Japanese proverb.
Chelo steps around the corner next, eyes bulging. “Who’s sleeping with Pen?”
Andrea shakes her head, hands still cupping her cheeks. “Xander—”
“I’m not sleeping with Pen,” I snap.
My voice ricochets, and every utensil stops moving at once—the Medrano brothers pause midchop, soapsuds dripping down Struggles’s forearms as he clutches a plate, fish and chicken starting to burn as the starters stop and stare. Everyone except Angel. He’s got his headphones in, tongs drumming against his grill, totally oblivious.
Lucas presses a finger to his lips, motioning for everyone to keep quiet, before dragging that same finger across his throat. Without a word, everyone gets back to work. The fact that they’re not using it to humiliate me, or worse, get me fired, must mean my initiation phase is finally over. I’m relieved.
“We still on in five?” Miguel waves over at Lucas.
Lucas nods. “You get the stuff.”
Miguel heads back to the storage room.
“What stuff?” I ask.
Lucas rubs his hands together. “We found the perfect way to celebrate the reopening of Nacho’s. Speaking of which…” He snatches one of the finished tickets off the spike before maneuvering over to where Solana is checking her cell phone.
He brushes past her—“sorry”—pressing the sticky side on the back of her shirt. His face scrunches as he tries to stuff down a laugh.
I eye him. “What are you doing?”
Solana heads back out to the dining room, passing Andrea on her way to the bar. I didn’t notice before that Andrea has three tickets stuck to the back of her shirt. Java pops up from behind the bar and he has six.
“Just a good old-fashioned game of pin the ticket on the waiter.” Lucas crosses his arms, beaming with pride. “It’s all part of the opening ceremonies.”
“Opening ceremonies for what?”
Miguel lugs out two giant jugs of pickled jalapeño juice.
Lucas wiggles his eyebrows. “Prank Wars.” He waves Angel over.
“All right, here’s the deal,” Angel says. “Winner gets to clock out early and still gets a cut of the tip share from the rest of the night.”
“Rules,” Lucas adds. “You have to finish the entire jug and keep it down for at least ten minutes.”
“Did someone say something about clocking out early?” Andrea suddenly reappears.
Mari’s right behind her.
“Come on, you two can’t possibly clean out this entire jug.” Miguel motions to their stomachs. “Where the hell are you gonna put it?”
Andrea glares at him. “Watch us.”
“Well, I guess now we’re working in teams.” Lucas looks around the room. “Who wants to step up and be Miguel’s partner?”
Everyone turns to look at Aarón, expecting him to volunteer. When he notices us looking, he puts his headphones in and gets back to chopping.
Struggles comes around the corner. “I’ll play. Chokehold and Super Shocker have a match tonight. I never get to catch the livestream.”
Miguel scans the room, completely ignoring Struggles.
“Come on, man,” Struggles pleads. “I won’t let you down.”
“Fine.” Miguel spins the top off the first jug. “But you better not fucking puke on me.”
Andrea and Mari lean over their jug while Miguel and Struggles crouch over theirs like animals.
I gag at the sound of those first few gulps, covering my nose. “Whose sick idea was this? It’s not even a prank.”
Lucas lowers his voice. “It is a prank if the contestants have no idea that they weren’t even on the schedule today.”
I pause. “So… they’re competing to go home early on a day they weren’t actually supposed to work?” I shake my head, still not seeing the genius in all this. “Are they getting paid?”
“Everyone but Miguel.” Lucas snorts. “Prank’s on him, dude. Chloe’s idea. Apparently, he harassed Pen at work and now Chloe won’t rest until she’s imagined a million ways to torture him.”
I remember Pen mentioned something about dragging him through the order window. I look on with a new sense of appreciation. Ironically, Miguel is the one struggling the most, his face already green and half of each sip finding its way onto the floor.
“Hell no.” Angel kicks a rag over the mess. “You spill and you forfeit.”
I look over at Andrea and Mari, still chugging, both stone-faced.
Lucas shakes his head, awestruck. “Holy hell…”
Miguel shoves Struggles. “Fucking keep drinking, man.”
Struggles pushes him back. “Dude, you do it!”
Angel holds his nose. “I can’t watch any more of this.”
Miguel starts gagging and I have to look away too. The girls near the finish line, Struggles huffing and puffing as he tries to keep up. That’s when Miguel topples over, clutching his stomach. The girls finish off their jug, and I can practically hear the pickled jalapeño juice sloshing around inside them. Struggles falls back, defeated, and then he hurls all over himself.
Andrea leans over him, holding her nose. “Your shift ends in half an hour, dumbass.”
Mari shakes her head. “And it’ll probably take you that long to clean this up.”
The girls high-five, and then they wobble like two pregnant women toward the exit.
Before Struggles can lift himself out of the mess, Mr. Prado walks in, almost steppin
g in it. He spots Angel, motions with a finger for him to follow him into his office. The door closes.
We all hold our breath, partly because of the smell but mostly because we’re trying to hear what kind of punishment is in store. A few minutes later, Angel steps out again with a stack of paychecks. But instead of handing them out, he hands them to me.
“I need you to take care of passing these out tonight. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Me?”
He leans closer, shielding his voice. “My dad is fucking pissed, and I’m going home. He asked me to pick someone else to take care of it.”
Angel ducks out the back door, no one saying a word. While Struggles and Miguel finish cleaning up their mess, I make the rounds, passing out paychecks. I don’t open mine until my shift is over and I’m sitting in my car.
I rip open the envelope and find a check for $564. Enough for Detective Freeman’s fee, to possibly find my father; enough to make my abuelo hate me in the process.
When I pull into the driveway, Abuelo is sitting on the porch playing cards with Mr. Daly.
“How’s the job treating you, Xander?” Mr. Daly chews on a cigar.
“It’s good, thanks.”
A few days ago I would have pulled up a chair and played a few hands with them. But right now I can’t manage more than a few words.
Mr. Daly notices the tension, looking from me to my abuelo in this exaggerated what the hell is wrong with you two kind of way. Neither of us speaks and Mr. Daly huffs, slamming his cards down.
“Straight flush.”
He knows not to try to force my abuelo to talk. The last thing he needs is to end up on his bad side too. Then he’d have no one to play cards with.
The sun inches lower, glinting off something big and white in Mr. Daly’s backyard.
“What is that?” I ask.
Abuelo groans. “More junk.”
Mr. Daly jabs a finger. “That there is not junk.” He heaves himself out of his seat, smiling from ear to ear. “Follow me.”
We pass through the side gate, the truck coming into view. It’s tall and wide, like a box truck only bigger.
“You starting a moving business?”
Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet Page 21
