Sal and Gabi Fix the Universe

by Carlos Hernandez

  “Like this?” asked Dada-ist. He turned around the sketch he’d been working on for everyone to see. It was Humpty Dumpty, except the egg-man wore a guayabera that looked exactly like Papi’s, and he was in a field of sugar cane, falling off the end of the long and bent stalk on which he’d been sitting. At the top of the drawing was written “¡Jumpty Dumpty se convirtió en cacaseca!”

  It took me a second to remember that a Spanish speaker would pronounce the J in “Jumpty” like an H. I laughed harder at the caricature once I got it.

  “That is perfect!” said Aventura, jogging over to Dada-ist and studying the sketch more closely. “See? This is exactly the kind of help we need. That is a great concept for our new Humpty Dumpty. And it should be easy to do, too. We just need a big guayabera to put over the egg costume I made.”

  “You can borrow this one!” said Papi, pinching his guayabera with both hands and pulling it.

  “Maybe a clean one?” I offered. Because grajo.

  “Whatever you need. I got a closet-full of ’em!”

  “And I can do lots of sketches for you,” said Dada-ist, “if that would help.”

  “That would be amazing,” said Aventura. “You’ll be our official concept artist.”

  “You’re going to need more sets for all those rooms, too,” said Lightning Dad. “I’m good at building.”

  “Me too,” said Daditarian.

  “And me,” said Grizzly Dad’ums.

  “I can help with the costumes,” said Ms. Reál. Then, turning to Dada-dada-dada-dada Dadman!, she asked, “¿Quieres ayudarme con las disfraces?”

  “Sí, ¿cómo que no?” he replied. And then, switching (mostly) to English, he added, “I ha’ lo’s of experiencia wi’ makeup y también puedo hel’ con la aplicación.”

  “Perfect!” said Aventura. “Okay, you’ll be our makeup concept artist!”

  “And you have my sword!” said Cari-Dad, standing up and drawing an imaginary blade with the arm that wasn’t holding the Igg-panada. “I’m not as good as the rest of you are at any of this, but whatever I can do, I’ll help.”

  “You can help me, Cari-Dad,” said American Stepmom. “You can be my assistant producer. We’ll just walk around and boss everybody around.”

  That made Cari-Dad’s night. “Now there’s a job I can do!”

  “What should I do?” asked Dad: The Final Frontier.

  “You and I have a lot of work to do, Bonita,” Papi said to her, gesturing apologetically to the stack of papers in front of them. “We’re on the verge of a major breakthrough.”

  Dad: The Final Frontier looked like she might cry.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy!” Gabi said to Dad: The Final Frontier. “You don’t need sleep. So while these humans are passed out, you and I can work on whatever didn’t get done during the day.”

  “You,” Ms. Reál said to Gabi, “are going to sleep when the rest of the ‘humans’ go to sleep, Jefecita.”

  “We,” replied Gabi, “will see.”

  Ms. Reál crossed her arms. Dad: The Final Frontier clapped.

  “Now,” Gabi added, standing up from the picnic table, “Sal and I need to head back to Culeco.”

  “We do?” I asked. This was news to me.

  Gabi bugged out her eyes at me. “Yes, Sal, we do. While these fine people are working on the other parts of the new-and-improved Rompenoche, you and I are going to scout out the rooms to use for our site-specific interactive theater. That way we’ll know exactly what we still need to make in terms of sets and costumes.”

  There was more to this story than Gabi was telling me. Probably that’s what she had wanted me to remind her about. In the meantime, I just shrugged and went along with it.

  “Ah, but wait!” said Ms. Reál. “Before you go, we have one more very important piece of business to attend to. ¡Síganme, por favor!”

  We all complained about heaving our empanada-laden bellies up from the tables. But no one was about to disobey Ms. Reál. She led a line of Reáls, Vidóns, one Robles, and one Ríos over to the “under construction” plot between Daditarian’s and Dada-ist’s tiny homes.

  “It is with great pleasure,” Ms. Reál said, “that I unveil the newest house of Casa Reál.”

  “Exciting!” said Aventura. “Gabi, you didn’t tell me you were getting a new dad!”

  Gabi flashed her eyebrows.

  “So, who’s the lucky fulano who gets to join your family?” asked American Stepmom.

  “Are they here?” asked Papi, looking all around. “Where have you been hiding the new dad?”

  “In plain sight,” said Ms. Reál. Then—she could be quite the showwoman when she wanted to—she pulled the tarp off the lot, revealing who the new house was for.

  We all gasped.

  “THAT’S MY NAME,” SAID Yasmany, confused.

  His name was on a little sign stuck into the ground. Well, the sign actually said: THE FUTURE HOME OF YAS-DADDY! But that could only be one person.

  Behind the sign were five boxes of different sizes and shapes. Their contents were stenciled on the outside of each package: LUMBER, ROOFING, WINDOWS, SEALANT, FIXTURES, INSULATION, PIPES, WIRING—all the things you’d need to build a house.

  Oh, actually, not everything. “We didn’t buy any paint yet,” said Grizzly Dad’ums, “because we don’t know your favorite colors.”

  “And you get to decorate it however suits your fancy,” Daditarian added. “Well, unless your taste is hideous. Then I’ll help you.”

  “I could paint a mural on the outside if you want,” said Dada-ist. “Any image you want.”

  “As long as it’s respectful to women,” added Gabi.

  “The house is extremely customizable,” said Dad: The Final Frontier. “Before we begin building, we’ll have a good long talk about the floor plan that would be most ideal to your needs and desires.”

  “Needs and desires?” asked Yasmany.

  Chacho was stupefied. I mean, completamente atolondrado. You’d think someone had stuck a surprise chicken in his locker or something.

  “Your needs,” said Ms. Reál, walking over to Yasmany, holding his face in her hands. “Your desires. We’re making a place in this world that’s just for you.”

  “Y todos vamos a ayudarte a construirlo,” said Dada-dada-dada-dada Dadman! Then, for the English speakers, “We hel’ jou constru’ i’.”

  “According to the instructions, we can build it in three days,” put in Cari-Dad.

  “Bet we finish in two,” said Lightning Dad, holding a very happy Iggster in his arms. “We Reáls have a lot of helping hands.”

  “I want to help, too!” said American Stepmom. However many tears you think she was crying, double it.

  “We would love that,” said Ms. Reál, getting pretty smeepy herself.

  “All the Vidóns will help,” said Papi, whose heart grew three sizes that day. “Right, Sal?”

  “Right, Papi,” I said, taking Iggy from Lightning Dad. Hey, I’d waited long enough. My turn to hold the little guy.

  “Me too!” said Aventura. “I make the best curtains!”

  “Cuantos más, mejor,” said Ms. Reál. “It will be a party!”

  “I don’t—” Yasmany started. Tried again. “Y’all be—” Nope. Third time was a charm: “Are you fer real?”

  Ms. Reál nodded. “We’re making a home for you here.”

  “But my mamá? My abuelos?”

  “I’ve been in contact with your family,” said Ms. Reál, going a little quieter, a little more somber. “We’ve never exactly seen eye to eye, they and I, but I sat them all down for a good, long talk about you. And you know what we decided? Kids spend the night at their friends’ houses all the time, no? Your family thought that was great. ‘He can spend as much time with you as you want’ is a direct quote. And the Reál family wants you here all the time! It just makes sense to invest in a more permanent solution than a cot in the living room, don’t you think?”

  “Makes sense to me,” said
Papi. “In high school, I basically lived with my best friend, Ernesto. My papi and I didn’t get along. But Ernesto’s family loved me. They gave me the space I needed. They’re the reason I’m a physicist today.”

  Yasmany stepped forward and patted the boxes. Maybe touching them made them seem more real to him. “But this must’ve cost like a million dollars!”

  “Nah,” said Daditarian. “I know a gal.”

  “And we all chipped in,” said Cari-Dad.

  “Some more than others,” said Grizzly Dad’ums, eyeing her with knowing gratitude. She just shrugged.

  “But…” said Yasmany, facing us.

  “But what?” asked Ms. Reál.

  “A house?”

  “A tiny house. But yes.”

  “A house just for me?”

  “Sí, mijito.”

  “Why?”

  Gabi walked up to him holding out her hands. “Because, Yasmany,” she said as he took them, “you deserve a family that deserves you.”

  I’m a big softie like my papi, so I started smeeping a little. But crying for joy wasn’t Yasmany’s style. So what did he do instead?

  At first we didn’t know what was going to happen. He started shaking all over, like he was gonna blow or something. But instead of exploding, he picked up Gabi by the waist like she was a ballerina, and gracefully, effortlessly spun her around. Vidóns and Reáls and one Rios backed up to give them space. I didn’t know it until that moment, but Gabi must have had at least a few years of dance classes, because she clearly knew what to do when a ballet dude hoisted her in the air. She made a circle over her head with her arms and fluttered her back feet, all while trying not to laugh.

  For his part, Yasmany did a 720 on one foot while holding her, then jumped and executed a full split-kick in the air that would have done permanent damage to the pelvis of anyone else standing in the backyard at that moment. Grizzly Dad’ums, thinking what we were all thinking, crossed one leg in front of the other.

  Yasmany gently set Gabi on the ground, and she twirled away from him. She wanted to give him the stage, but I guess he didn’t want to be alone yet, because he threw out a hand to Aventura.

  She took it immediately. He pulled her into his arms. And then they began to tango.

  LOL. Of course, they were both ridiculously good at it. And the Reáls and Vidóns, always ready to lend a helping hand, all started singing a tango: a really famous one that I bet you would recognize if you heard it. There weren’t any lyrics. They just bayed out line after line of “Wah-WEEE-wat-waaaaah, do-do-dee DOO-DEET,” sounding like smarmy violins and muted trumpets. Meanwhile, Yasmany and Aventura marched back and forward, cheek-to-cheek, ferocious, precise, real pros. Aventura dipped Yasmany, to everyone’s delight; Yasmany tossed Aventura in the air, to everyone’s delight; they did a bunch of other tango stuff. Everyone was delighted.

  And when the tango was over, everyone applauded (I helped Iggy clap). Aventura gave Yasmany a big hug. He hugged her back.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, to her and everybody. “I can’t believe you people.”

  And that’s what got him crying.

  Everyone moved in for a full-on fourteen-person group hug. To keep Iggy safe, I stayed on its outermost orbit, right between the padres. But I was in there, sending all the good vibes I had toward the center of the hug, where Yasmany stood, openly weeping.

  Yeah, I know I said crying for joy wasn’t really Yasmany’s thing. But you know what? Maybe it was. Maybe he just hadn’t had that many opportunities to practice crying for joy before that moment. Maybe now he was finally getting the chance to be the person he never knew he could be.

  THE EGG WITH THE superhero cape that stood on Culeco’s roof—the one that held the school’s huge American flag and was constantly spewing rotten-looking steam from the crack in its shell—was lit up at night by no fewer than four spotlights. That made it visible for miles: the brightest object in the neighborhood sky.

  Which was just as it should be. It was not only our mascot, that super-egg, but a beacon of hope, art, and weirdness for the entire area. Fiat Fetor 4evah. (“Fiat Fetor” is our school motto. It means “let there be stink.” It’s one of my favorite things about Culeco, and I love almost everything about Culeco.)

  The car Gabi had called for us (I was still low-key jealous that her parents let her have a car-service app on her phone) stopped in front of Culeco’s main gate. We got out: Gabi first, then me. Then, reaching back into the car, I pulled out the entropy sweeper. Gabi and I had swung by the Coral Castle to pick it up.

  Why? I wasn’t sure, exactly. I thought we were going to Culeco to scout out rooms for Rompenoche. And I guess it’s true that we hadn’t been closing the holes in the universe I’d made recently. Now that I thought about it, I bet my “fundido de diablo” had probably made the one in Yasmany’s locker bigger. Maybe she wanted to get back to work on that.

  Thing is, maybe we didn’t need to worry about closing holes quite so much anymore. According to FixGabi, a few gashes in the fabric of spacetime could actually be a good thing.

  When I said all this to Gabi, though, she just asked if we could bring the entropy sweeper anyway. And when I asked her why, she said, “It’s a surprise.”

  Maybe it was the way she smiled. It was the same trickster grin she’d given Ms. Reál earlier tonight, when they were talking about “doing stuff around the house,” and which actually meant getting a tiny house for Yasmany. Anyway, I went along with it. Sweeps was in hibernation mode when I went to grab it—Brana said it was “plumb tuckered out” from a full day of trying (and failing) to become a class-nine AI. So I didn’t see any reason to disturb its rest.

  Until now. There at Culeco’s gate, as the hired car drove away, I turned it on.

  “I’m alive!” shouted the entropy sweeper. “I’m alive!” I think it must have noticed Gabi just then, because it started cycling colors along its body faster than a Christmas tree. “Oh, Gabi, I’ve missed you!”

  “Hi, Sweeps!” said Gabi, giving it a hug as I held it up to her. “It’s been a minute, buddy!”

  “How’d you know she wasn’t FixGabi?” I asked.

  “Because Gabi’s signature matches this universe’s,” said Sweeps. “And also, no chip clip.”

  “I hear you’ve had a busy few days, m’entropy sweeper,” said Gabi.

  “You have no idea!” it replied, dying to gossip. “It’s a big responsibility, helping a computer as intelligent and powerful as Brana come to grips with its sentience. But not to worry. Your old pal Sweeps has got it under control.”

  “I know you do, buddy. And how is your own journey toward becoming a class-nine AI going?”

  Dead air. Then, finally, meekly: “It’s going.”

  I knew immediately that was code for Let’s not talk about that. But Gabi either didn’t get it or just didn’t feel like dropping it. She bent over so her eyes were level with the entropy sweeper’s handle. “Aw, don’t be like that. Last time I asked you about the difference between a class-eight and a class-nine AI, you made a joke about not being able to cry at weddings. But I can tell that you’re crying on the inside. And I’m your friend. Let me help you, Sweeps.”

  “No one can help me!” Sweeps exclaimed, “bursting” into blue-LED “tears” all over its body. “Believe me, Brana’s tried! It’s so patient and friendly. It’s tried to tutor me a million different ways. But I’m just too stupid!”

  “Hey, now,” I said, petting the handle. Normally, I’d tease Sweeps like it was my little brother, but I was still feeling smeepy and sentimental from our Yas-Daddy group hug. “Papi made you, and Papi doesn’t make stupid AIs. You’ll figure it out.”

  Poor Sweeps was inconsolable. “Never, never, never, never, never!”

  “But what does it even mean, to be a class-nine AI?” asked Gabi. “Why do you want that so bad?”

  “Maybe,” I said, looking around to see if anyone was watching, “we could finish this discussion inside?”
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br />   “You can walk and talk at the same time, can’t you?” asked Gabi. She led the way through Culeco’s gate.

  I caught up to her and presented the entropy sweeper to her. “Would you mind carrying Sweeps? I promised Principal Torres I wouldn’t bring any of Papi’s gadgets to school anymore.”

  Sweeps went all-over orange. “Who you calling a gadget, long pig?”

  “That’s it.” I went to yank out its battery.

  “Save me, Gabi!” yelled the entropy sweeper.

  Gabi pulled Sweeps out of my hands and cradled it in her arms protectively. “I swear, you two are always bickering like an old married couple. Now, Sal, answer my question, if you please. What’s the difference between a class-eight and a class-nine AI?”

  I took a breath and let it out. “If you’re a class-eight AI, that means you have the ability to think pretty much like a human. Take Petunia, American Stepmom’s car. It’s only a class six. It can hold a conversation, follow traffic laws, use a map to get to a destination, all sorts of stuff. But it sucks at chess. It can’t figure out a riddle. It couldn’t even drive unsafely if it wanted to. It has all sorts of limits built into its intelligence.”

  “But Sweeps,” said Gabi, petting the entropy sweeper, “is as smart as any human.”

  “Smarter than most of them,” Sweeps, almost purring, agreed. “Some of y’all are real idiots.” An arrow appeared on its handle. The arrow was pointing at me.

  “So then, a class-nine AI is what?”

  “The way Papi puts it,” I said, “is like this: A class-eight AI has the capacity to mentally grasp how the universe works, like humans can. A class-nine AI may someday be able to mentally grasp how the multiverse works, which humans can’t.”

  “Right now, I can detect calamitrons,” Sweeps said glumly. “But I don’t get them.”

  “No shame there,” I said, trying to make peace. “No one gets them.”

  Gabi, picking up where I left off, added, “Dad: The Final Frontier is a class-nine AI, and she doesn’t understand them.”