He appeared when I was five years old, almost six. It would be years later when I could finally see him for what he is. But at first, he was a friend.
“Papi, don’t leave!” I wail, flinging myself onto the floor of my parents’ bedroom. “No! Don’t go.”
Papi picks me up and dumps me on Mami’s lap. I wriggle and kick free from her embrace. I run to him, but he’s already out the door, heading toward his car. He places the last of his luggage in the trunk. I try to climb in, but the car doors are locked.
“No, Papi. Take me with you.”
Mami screams for me to come in. The neighbors look at the scene I’m causing with pity. Why is Papi doing this?
Papi doesn’t look back once. He starts the car and leaves. I’m left screaming on the porch. I run back inside my room and grab the doll Papi gave me, the new one that smells like strawberries. I was so happy when he gave me the toy. It meant the arguments between Mami and Papi would soon end.
I run to our backyard and throw the doll against our tree, hoping it will break. When it doesn’t, I search for a rock or a stick. Anything to damage the doll, to hurt it as much as Papi hurt me.
“I hate you,” I say. “I hate you so much.”
Raindrops slowly fall on my face, blending in with the tears. There is a slight rumble. I can hear thunder in the near distance. A storm is coming, like the many storms that blanket the island at the start of hurricane season. I don’t stop throwing the doll against the tree. I will break it until there is nothing left of my father’s gift.
“Here.”
A beautiful boy my age with tight brown curls appears from behind the tree. A trigueñito with angelic features. I’ve never seen him before. In his hand, the boy holds a thick branch.
“Use this,” he says and hands me the branch. “Go ahead.”
I swat at the doll, over and over again. With each hit, the doll’s face deforms. The rain drenches me completely, but I don’t stop. I hit the toy until it becomes broken pieces.
“I hate him,” I say, and I suddenly feel so tired. I go down on my knees. The rain now forms mud around me.
“I’ll hate him too,” the boy says. “We both will.”
The boy kneels beside me. We stare at the crumbled fragments while the wind slowly picks up, the shower now a downpour.
“It will be hard for him to see while he’s driving in this storm,” the boy says. “If he’s not careful, something could happen to him.”
I turn to the boy.
“You think so?” I’m suddenly filled with fear, picturing Papi in a ditch somewhere, unable to get out of the car. I hate him but not enough to wish him into an accident.
Do I?
“I don’t want something bad to happen to him,” I say. “I just want him to come back.”
“He won’t come back because of what you did,” the boy says. And I start to cry because I can’t remember what I did wrong, but I’m sure I did something to push Papi away. The boy consoles me by placing his hand on my shoulder.
“That’s okay. I’m here and I’ll never leave.”
The boy says this with such tenderness.
“Eury, come inside!” Mami yells from the porch. She’s been crying, just like me. “Please!”
“Your mother needs you,” the boy says. “If you want, I can come back tomorrow. Do you want that?”
His voice is so soothing. His eyes are not cold like Papi when he left.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m Ato. I’ll see you tomorrow, Eury.”
Inside, Mami wraps a towel around me. “Eury, who were you talking to?” she asks.
“A boy.”
“What boy?” she says. “I didn’t see a boy. Stay inside. The storm is getting worse.”
The loud honk of a car behind us snaps me back to reality. Mami and Titi Sylvia no longer argue. Their silence is proof the conversation will most likely continue later. My sweet cousin Penelope waves frantically when Titi parks the car. I continue to search in the shadows for signs of Ato. He won’t come right away. He’ll choose a time when I feel safe, like in Tampa. This time I will make sure to be ready. I will stay alert.
“Finally!” Penelope says. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
“Get the luggage first,” Titi Sylvia says.
“Ma!”
Penelope opens the door and instantly wraps her arms around me. My eyes brim with tears. Penelope is my closest friend even though we live so far apart. She’s the only person who sort of knows what’s going on.
“I missed you so much,” I whisper into her shoulder. Her hugs fill me with hope.
“I know, prima. We’re going to have so much fun!” she says. “We’ll talk as soon as we can get away from them.”
A voice calls her name from across the street. Penelope still holds me while responding to them.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she yells back. “You’ll meet them fools soon enough. They give me a headache. They’re good people, tho. Let’s go inside. It’s too hot.”
Even though she’s holding me, I don’t feel frail or weak. I can lean on her, and Penelope is ready to support the weight. Lighten my load, even if it is only temporary.
“Ay, un cafecito,” Titi Sylvia says. Her husband, Charlie, left a sticky note with a heart drawing on the pot of coffee he made before leaving to work. “You girls hungry? Breakfast. You must be.”
“Later,” Penelope says.
She drags my luggage over to her bedroom and quietly shuts the door. Everything in Penelope’s room is color-coordinated in a black-and-white palette, right down to the pillowcases. Her mother likes everything to be a particular style. The only splashes of color come from Penelope’s vibrant clothes and the framed glamour shots of her taken when she insisted on modeling classes.
“Sit!” she says. “This is going to be your home.”
Penelope opens her window. I shake my head. Without saying a word, she draws the thin curtains.
“Sorry, prima,” she says. “I forgot. How are you?”
“Mami is tired of dealing with my drama,” I say.
“No, she’s not. She’s worried. We all are,” Penelope says. “We want you to feel better.”
Even though we’re the same age, Penelope always acts a bit motherly toward me. Perhaps it’s because she thinks I’m a jíbara, a girl from the island who doesn’t know any better. She opens an empty drawer.
“This is for you. And I made room in the closet. You can borrow anything you want because I intend to do the same.”
Penelope was named after the Spanish actress and she hates this tidbit of information. She wishes her name was more Latinx, less white or European. We spent one summer coming up with alternative names only to find the Greek mythology behind hers. I thought the story of Penelope being the wife of Odysseus was cool. She didn’t.
Penelope darts about the room, wanting to show me everything. Her new clothes. Her makeup purchases. The latest boy she’s in love with. Penelope is always falling in love.
“I’ve got our summer planned out. Tomorrow, the beach. The next day, the beach. Maybe there’s a party. We can always hang out by the park.” Her laugh is contagious. I wish I could be so carefree.
“Prima,” I interrupt her. “I need to find a church.”
She puts down the handful of lipsticks and tries her best to keep her concerned face light.
“A church?” she asks. “You know this family is a bunch of heathens. We never go to church.”
Back in Tampa, Mami drove me to church every morning so I could light a candle. I want to keep my practice here.
“Yes, a church. Can you help me find one?”
“No problem. Let’s look it up. What kind of church? Maybe stick with the Catholics. What do you think?”
“Yes, the Catholics.”
“Perfect! The Church of St. Anselm. You can walk there. Easy. I’ve been to plenty of quinceañera masses there, and it’s not a bad looking church either,” she says. “Do you want to go today?”
“Yes,” I say and give Penelope a hug. “Thank you.”
No matter what I ask of her, Penelope never makes me feel weird.
“Cousin, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she says. “You can tell me anything.”
I shake my head. I can trust Penelope, but I’m not sure if I can explain to her what is happening to me. Not yet anyway. When I made the mistake of telling Mami once about Ato, she responded by telling me to pray harder. I have, but I don’t think it’s working.
“Not yet,” I say. “I swear I’m okay. So, the beach tomorrow?”
“I can’t wait for you to meet the knuckleheads I hang with. They will love you. This summer is going to be one jangueo after another.”
There’s a knock at the door. Titi Sylvia serves breakfast. When I enter the dining room, I can tell Mami’s been crying. Tomorrow she’s set to fly back to Tampa. Mami said she has to go to work, and this may be true, but I also think she needs a break from me.
“We’re going to take a walk to St. Anselm later,” Penelope says in between forkfuls of scrambled eggs.
“Church? ¿Pa’ qué?” Titi Sylvia says. “I haven’t been to church since what’s her name, the one who had the sweet sixteen mass and two months later was pregnant?”
“Ma! Her name is Gloria. Eury wants to go, so we are going.”
Titi Sylvia gives Mami the look. I bow my head down so my hair covers my face.
“We’ll all go,” Mami says. “It will be nice before I leave to Florida.”
Mami reaches under the table and squeezes my knee. I look up and smile.
Penelope was right. The church is only a few quick blocks away. It is a beautiful two-story building with a towering domed ceiling, historic paintings, and geometric mosaics. Parts of the building are under repair and in a bit of disarray, but I can still see the beauty in the hundred-year-old church.
Because it is an early afternoon on a weekday, the church is practically empty, with only a handful of practitioners. The service is held in Spanish and English. Mami introduces herself and me to the priest.
“It is great to meet you, Eury. I look forward to welcoming you to the neighborhood,” Father Vincent says.
His handshake is not firm enough. He won’t be able to help me.
After the mass concludes, I walk up and place a few dollars in the offering box. I’m sad the candles are electric and not real ones. I hate when churches go the easy modern way instead of sticking to tradition. I don’t have a choice. I press the button to the electric candle and kneel down in front of the statue of Mary. Like Penelope, I never grew up in a religious household. But when you’re the only person seeing Ato, you search for any type of spiritual solution that might help.
I say the prayers over and over again until Mami places her hand on my shoulder, alerting me it’s time to go.
On our way back to Titi Sylvia’s, Mami slows down to walk beside me. Penelope, reading the moment, walks ahead to her mother.
“Sylvia can be a bit much with her opinions, but she means well,” Mami says. “Promise me you will enjoy yourself. Do fun things.”
“I promise, Mami.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“This will be good for you. I just know it will.”
There’s so much hope in her face. I wish more than anything to strip Mami of all her worries. This past year hasn’t been easy for her. Leaving our home of Puerto Rico took such a toll. She really wanted Tampa to work, and it did for a while. Then came the incident at school and the barrage of doctor appointments to make sure I didn’t have anything wrong with me physically. There was also the one therapist the school officials insisted I go see. Mami was furious, but she eventually agreed. So much time and money spent on doctors with no insurance to help.
“What did you think of the priest? It’s a nice church,” she says. “And it’s so close. You don’t have to walk so far. You still have the rosario I gave you, don’t you?”
“Yes, I still have it,” I say, pulling out the small circular rosary bead from my tote bag.
I continue to scan the streets and alleyways. It’s only a matter of time before he shows his face. I hold tight to the rosary.
“We are going to get through this,” Mami says. She begins to tear up, which in turn makes me emotional, although I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want to continue in this pain, and I don’t want to be such a burden to Mami or anyone. I place my head on her shoulder.
“I promise I will have fun,” I repeat. “Please don’t worry.”
“But don’t have too much fun, or you won’t come back to me,” she jokes.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
CHAPTER 3
Pheus
Jaysen can’t stop blowing up my phone. I was due to meet him in front of his building twenty minutes ago. He should know better. I can’t rush things with Pops. Pops considers our time together a gift and won’t allow me to simply bounce. Jaysen will have to wait.
“Hand me the screwdriver,” Pops says. He tightens a screw on his bike.
Pops is part of a crew that soups up bikes with cool accessories and rides them around at festivals. Some of the guys have been in Pops’s inner circle since they used to run around as children, catching pickup games in the park. Mom doesn’t like them. I’ve heard her call them bums. If I look closely, I can see her point. They have grease stains on their clothes. There’s a combined odor of weed and unwashed hair. I don’t think they have real jobs. They’re definitely not the type of men Moms wants me to spend time with. Still, they are good people and are always up to offer me sound advice.
“How long are you staying with this cabeza dura?” Migs says. His real name is Miguel, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard my father call him that.
“All summer,” I say.
“I see you’re well strapped today.” He gently pats my guitar case. “Ready to woo the girls, huh?”
Migs used to be a popular DJ back in the day. Addiction took him down. You can see the struggle in his hollow cheeks and the thin legs peeking out from under his baggy shorts.
“Music won’t pay the bills, but it will surely keep you warm at night,” he jokes.
“Leave my son alone,” Pops says. “He’s not wasting his talent. He’s the real deal.”
Pops places the Dominican flag I gave him right above the small sign that reads “Apolo,” his name. I take the screwdriver and place it back in the plastic bag he uses as a toolbox. What makes him think I’m the real deal? I can sing and play the guitar. I don’t think that’s enough.
My phone vibrates, and I’m about to curse Jaysen out when I recognize the number.
“Hey, Mom.” It’s 8 a.m., and she must be on her way to work. Her boyfriend usually picks her up with a steaming cup of coffee in the car’s cup holder, ready for her.
“Good morning, baby,” she says. “How’s everything?”
She’s trying not to sound angry. This phone call is not for me.
“Everything is good. Just chilling.”
“I need to speak to your father,” she says.
Pops is already standing up. He wipes his hand on his shirt. Migs shakes his head.
“That’s trouble right there,” Migs says. Pops hushes him and takes the call.
To give him privacy, I start playing chords. The only argument they ever have has to do with money. Money for the private tutors Mom insists I need. Money for after-school programs my public school doesn’t cover, like the SAT prep class or the coding course.
“I need to move some stuff around,” Pop says. “It will be in the mail.”
I can hear Mom arguing back.
“Tracy, I told you, I’ll have the money.”
I strum the guitar loudly, anything to drown out this conversation. Migs and the others take the hint and start to talk. Their action is a small token I’m grateful for.
When Pops hands me back the phone, he barely looks at me. His mouth is a thin li
ne on his face. The wrinkles on his forehead reveal his anger.
“Pops, what do you think about this?” I play the melody from my new song really fast. Instead of a romantic bachata, the song is now a joyful merengue.
“Sounds good, son,” he says without much heart. The tools in the plastic bag make clanking sounds as he roughly rummages around. I place the guitar back in its case.
“I should head out.” There is no way of getting to him, not when Pops is still so deep in the phone call.
“Be safe. Don’t be stupid,” he says. He doesn’t bother looking up.
When I see my father like this, I see what my future might be if I don’t follow the correct path. How did Pops lose sight of himself? He wasn’t always like this, tinkering with bikes and smoking. I’ve seen the pictures of Mom and Pop when they were dating. They met at NYU when they were both studying business. He lost interest in school and dropped out right before graduating. Mom said he was trying to “find himself.” When I was born, he landed for a while at Parks and Rec and seemed happy enough. Then an injury led us to where we are now. I’m all for trying to figure your shit out, but this—this is something else. Mom can’t handle paying for everything, and she shouldn’t have to.
Sometimes I wish my father would get a job. Any job. A weekly check so he doesn’t have to hustle as much. Mom shouldn’t have to beg for money. I don’t know. Things would go a whole lot smoother if he worked.
I catch Migs patting my father’s shoulder. Pops shrugs his hand off. Migs is right—music and love won’t pay the bills.
Jaysen is doing a boxer’s shuffle in front of his building.
“Why you got to play me like a sucka, fam?” he asks. “Penelope is waiting.”
“If I knew she was coming, I would have walked over with her,” I say, annoyed. It’s too freaking early for these absurd logistics of his. “Why you got me coming to meet you first?”
“Because I need to give you the lowdown on her cousin,” Jaysen says.
I wait. He’s acting theatrical like he’s got the dopest announcement ever. Sometimes Jaysen is tiring. I’m not in the mood, not after what I witnessed with Pops.
“Apparently her cousin had some problems in Tampa and they sent her here.”
Never Look Back Page 2
