Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

“How much?”

  “Six hundred a month, but utilities are included.”

  It’s barely in my price range, but since losing my dream apartment, it’s also the first unit we’ve come across that doesn’t seem to have something else already living in it.

  My phone rings and when I look down, it’s my mother. There’s a pang in my chest, and for half a second I wonder if she’s calling to beg me to come back. But then I remember that it probably wasn’t even her decision in the first place.

  I snuff out the hope and silence the ring, my thumb hovering over the MESSAGE button. I have this urge to tell her it’s only taken a mere nine hours for me to find somewhere new to live. For me to stop needing her.

  Apartment hunting with Chloe. Can’t talk now. Looking over a contract.

  I push SEND.

  “Now, if you’d like to follow me back downstairs, we can discuss leasing options.”

  Back on the first floor my phone rings again, but this time when I look down it’s the restaurant.

  “Would you excuse me for a minute?” I step into the hall as Chloe unleashes a string of questions about the price and the neighborhood and the other tenants. I press the phone to my ear, expecting it to be Angel. “Hello?”

  “Pen.”

  For a minute I can’t speak. I’m too scared.

  My father clears his throat. “Hello?”

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “Good. Listen, your brother is out on a catering job and he took the keys to the safe. Do you still have your set?”

  I swallow, dreading a face-to-face encounter this soon. “Yes.”

  “I need you to come unlock it.”

  It isn’t even a question. As if I would actually be in the mood to do him a favor. I clamp my jaw, filtering my thoughts, searching for something that isn’t profanity. But then it occurs to me that my mother might have told him where I am, that he knows I’m this close to signing a lease.

  My father is direct when he’s giving an order, but never when it comes to his emotions. If he’s had a change of heart, he’d never say it out loud. Instead, he’d ask me to come to the restaurant for something business-related and then say something about seeing me tonight at dinner—as if the whole thing had never happened.

  All I want is to pretend like the whole thing never happened. Maybe if I do this, he’ll forgive me. Or maybe he already has.

  The longest my father has ever stayed mad at me was when I told him he should let Angel join the military and live his own life. He didn’t speak to me for almost three days, my job at the restaurant the only chance I got to hear his voice. He would tell me to make this or clean that or ask so-and-so if they wanted to pick up an extra shift. Every time I would linger, trying to make him see me, and in the meantime, I was the model employee, trying to show him that even though Angel didn’t want to follow in his footsteps, I did.

  Maybe it was seeing himself in me that finally ended our feud. Or maybe it was seeing himself in me that started it. Once it became clear that he didn’t want me to take over the restaurant, I stopped being his little girl and started being his shadow. We stopped talking the way we used to. We stopped joking. We stopped cooking together. But if he lets me come home, at least I’ll know I never stopped being his daughter.

  “When do you need me to come?” I finally say.

  “Now.”

  I leave the leasing application unsigned, thank the manager for the tour, and jump in my car. After dropping Chloe off, it takes me less than ten minutes to get to the restaurant, my foot barely coming off the gas pedal as if my father’s forgiveness is merely sand inside an hourglass.

  When I walk inside he’s standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, too far for me to read his expression.

  Silently, I follow him through the kitchen. It’s Sunday, which means the Medrano brothers are already juicing the Jamaican tangelos and blood limes for tonight’s palomas. My famous palomas. The citrus hits my nose, making my eyes water before my father has even said one word to me. I dry the tears before he sees them.

  When we reach the safe, I hand over my key. He unlocks the door and pulls out three thick envelopes stuffed with cash. The safe usually only houses a few hundred dollars in case the registers are short, and a small supply of Cometa Chicxulub hot sauce—a rare blend that’s over a hundred dollars a bottle and named after the crater made by the asteroid that supposedly killed the dinosaurs.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  He ignores me, pocketing the money and my key.

  “You’re keeping it?”

  “You don’t work here anymore.”

  Every hope that’s been propelling me forward dissipates in an instant. My father didn’t ask me here to make amends. He asked me here to prove a point—that he’s the one in control.

  Desperation pushes me into his path before he can walk away. “But I thought…” I clench my fists. “I thought that maybe you’d asked me to come by so we could talk or something. I thought that—”

  His voice is flat. “I asked you to come by because I needed your key to the safe.”

  “That’s really it? You still can’t even speak to me?”

  He won’t look me in the eye, but I’m watching his. They’re still angry, but then he blinks, takes a breath, and for just the slightest moment, they soften. Like maybe he’s considering.

  But then he says, “I can speak to you, Pen. But I won’t. Not about the restaurant.”

  “But, Dad…”

  He doesn’t look at me as he turns and walks away, and as I head back out to my car, I’ve never felt so invisible. Until my mother sees me. She’s in the parking lot, dressed for her shift at the nursing home. I think about getting in my car and speeding off, but our eyes meet and I can’t move.

  “Pen, I’ve been calling.” She shades her eyes from the sun, trying to read my face.

  “I’ve been busy.” I look down, fiddling with my key ring, now one key short. “You know, looking for somewhere new to live.”

  “You were really looking at apartments?” There’s actually a hint of pride in her voice, but all I can focus on is the underlying surprise, and it only makes me angrier.

  “Yeah, remember, you kind of kicked me out?”

  “We didn’t kick you out.”

  “You did.”

  She sighs. “We just want what’s best for you, Pen. We just want you to learn to stand on your own two feet.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Well… I hope so, Pen.”

  There’s that surprise again. Like I’m incapable of finding my own place. Like she can’t believe an entire day has gone by without me needing her help.

  I think about that last apartment, those four concrete walls. I imagine being alone there in the dark—the sounds, the shadows, the emptiness. I concentrate on that feeling until the fear swells and I know I have to step straight into it. Because making it real is the only way to take back control.

  “Actually, I’m just on my way to sign a contract.”

  “Where? How much is it? Do you need your father and I to come take a look at it?”

  “I’ve got everything taken care of.”

  “But we could come see it. We could help you go over the contract.”

  She has no idea how badly I want to say yes. How badly I wish it were her who’d driven around with me all day instead of Chloe, who was telling me what to do now. I just want her to tell me what to do.

  But she can’t come with me, and she can’t tell me what to do. I have to make my own decisions. I have to grow up. I have to prove to them and to myself that I can.

  “I don’t need help,” I finally say. “But I should head back before the office closes.”

  As I drive away, my mother watches from the parking lot. I think she’ll go inside once I reach the end of the street, but she just keeps standing there. My father comes out and then I make my turn onto the next street, glad they’re confined to my rearview mirror.

  I’m even more
glad that they can’t see me. The dread of what I’m about to do, of how everything is about to change, laps at my insides. Rising, rising. I stop at a red light and grip the steering wheel.

  Just sink, Pen.

  Let yourself sink.

  This time the voice is a siren song.

  The light in front of me turns green, but I can’t move.

  Horns blare behind me, windows down as people shout. A man a few cars back leans out, flashing me the middle finger. I try to tell myself to ease off the brake, to push down on the gas. To breathe.

  It isn’t until I see someone approaching the car in my side mirror that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  The man bangs on my window and I tense, his expression wild. Angry. I catch sight of my own reflection in the rearview mirror, the breaths finally coming slow and shallow the longer I stare into those eyes. I wait for that familiar face to form over my own—the one I wear at the restaurant. The one that keeps me safe.

  That’s what I have to remember. That no one else can save me. Not my parents. Not Chloe. On days like this, in… moments like this, the only one who can save me is myself.

  I scrape the lining of my purse, snatching the pill bottle before tapping one into my open hand. I toss it back.

  “Move the fuck out of the way, lady!” The man raps on the window again.

  Only this time I don’t flinch.

  “Fuck you!” I yell and then I gun it, the back tire almost catching his foot.

  I take a deep breath. Then another.

  Up ahead, the apartment building comes into view again. I put the car in park, an ache forming in my throat, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m afraid or sad or both. I’m certainly not excited.

  Because I’m not ready.

  But I guess none of that matters now.

  6

  Xander

  WHEN I HEAD FOR the door, Abuelo is already sitting on the porch with our neighbor, Mr. Daly. He’s a massive hoarder, and he and my abuelo play cards in the afternoon, betting on things that don’t even belong to them. Like the washer and dryer that’s been sitting in the McDermotts’ yard for almost three months, or Mr. Martinez’s cattle trough–turned–aboveground pool that you can just make out through the holes in the fence.

  Abuelo coughs into his handkerchief, gesturing with the other hand. “I’ll bet you this old ashtray and raise you that lawn mower across the street.”

  Mr. Daly straightens. “Oh yeah? Well, I’ll call your bluff and raise you that lawn mower and that little Speedster in the driveway next to it.”

  It’s pointless, and whoever wins gets absolutely nothing except the satisfaction of pretending to steal the neighbors’ stuff.

  “I’m heading to work, Abuelo. There’s sausage and eggs in the fridge if you get hungry.”

  Mr. Daly removes his hat, forearm wiping the sweat from his brow. “Hold on there, boy, where you workin’ at?”

  “Nacho’s Tacos down the street.”

  “Nacho’s? You mean that strip joint?”

  Abuelo throws up his hands. “That’s what I said.”

  “It’s not a strip club.”

  Mr. Daly gestures for me to come closer. Then he tucks something in the pocket of my shirt and whispers, “Those aren’t even their real names, you know.”

  I don’t glance down at Mr. Daly’s parting gift until I reach the mailbox, and there, glinting in gold foil, is an extra-large, hypoallergenic condom.

  I let it tumble out of my pocket before kicking it into the gutter. Then I open the mailbox, sifting through newspaper ads and flyers for cable television before my fingers graze an envelope with my name on it. I stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans before Abuelo sees, and then I head to work.

  When I reach the kitchen, the mariachi music is already in full swing.

  “Hey, you’re back!” Lucas slaps me on the shoulder. “Listen, we’re working a catering tonight with Angel. Biggest one of the year, so we need all hands on deck.”

  Foil pans line the plating station, where Lucas and I load them with fajitas, refried beans and rice, and Mexican wedding cookies. I stack them three at a time before following the flickering lights above the alley to the back of the truck.

  After we finish loading everything up, Lucas and I cram into the front seat next to Angel while Struggles and Java crawl in the back. As soon as we pull up to the event, I can feel the bass from the music rattling under the truck. The parking lot is full, silhouettes already swaying near the windows even though we’re half an hour early.

  Lucas kneads his hands. “Check it out.” He nods to one of the silhouettes writhing on the other side of the window. Long, thin, with big boobs. “Well, gentlemen, looks like I’ll be catching another ride home tonight.”

  Angel rolls his eyes. “Not after she finds out you need one.”

  “I just so happen to ride the bus because I’m environmentally friendly, and it just so happens that girls find that sexy.”

  “You know what else they find sexy?” Angel asks.

  “What?”

  He hands him a tray of food. “Men who work.”

  Lucas is the first to push through the back doors of the convention center. We follow the swirling lights into the main ballroom, the music pulsing, and then we stop, Angel almost losing his grip on the cake.

  Women with cotton-candy hair and men in Velcro shoes wander in circles around the dance floor.

  Lucas frowns. “Fuck!”

  We set up the food along the far wall, each of us manning three trays and serving the people who come by with plates.

  An elderly woman with a strange blue tint to her hair points to the fried potatoes. “Are these real potatoes?”

  I nod.

  She points to the corn salsa. “Is this real corn?”

  “Yes.” Lucas leans over the trays. “It’s all real, ma’am. Everything but that ridiculous blue poodle on your head.” He mumbles that last part under his breath.

  Java laughs, his accent bold, maybe Slavic. “Damn, Lucas, what’s gotten into you? That’s no way to speak to a lady.” He nudges him. “So much for you getting laid tonight.”

  Lucas bristles. “Fuck off.”

  “Oh, I will. You’re the one who doesn’t have any plans.”

  After an hour of watching the most obscene dance moves of the 1930s, Lucas convinces Struggles to steal some wine coolers, and they each take turns crouching behind the serving station to chug them.

  “You sure you’re good?” Lucas tries to offer me a swig.

  “Yeah, actually, I’m gonna find a bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I sidestep past banquet tables, following the strobe lights to the hallway. In the bathroom, I disappear into a stall and shut the door behind me. I reach into my pocket, feeling the envelope but not able to pull it out. My thumb grazes the ink on the front as if I’m about to toss an old coin into a fountain. I don’t let myself make a wish.

  My fingers finally slip into the corner where the adhesive hasn’t quite stuck, the faint tear so loud in the empty bathroom. My hand grows still. I lean against the stall. Just do it already. I rip it open in one swipe before plucking out the letter.

  Dear Mr. Amaro,

  Our records do not indicate the detainment or deportation of the named, Victor Amaro, within the last 60 days. Our department will be unable to fulfill your request.

  There’s no signature. Just another generic response. Another dead end. I’ve received five of these letters in the past year, but every sixty days I keep checking.

  Once, I was so fed up I tried contacting an immigration lawyer instead. But three installments later, the guy was $800 richer and I was still at square one. I went to his office one day to confront him only to discover that he’d disappeared. No gold plaque outside the door. No fake diploma from an Ivy League law school on the wall.

  The money I’d used to pay the lawyer had been from my abuelo. Gifts from every birthday and Christmas since I’d gone to live with
him. Money he’d begged me to save for college, for my future. Instead, I squandered it on the past.

  When I step back into the ballroom, Angel, Lucas, and the other employees are suddenly standing at attention, their gazes pinned to where Mr. Prado stands on the other side of the serving table. He isn’t alone.

  A man holding a glass of whiskey, lip stretched with tobacco, narrows his eyes as I approach.

  “And who’s this young man?” The stranger’s voice is honeyed, like he’s some kind of performer and we’re his expectant audience.

  I duck behind Lucas, something about the attention making me itch.

  The honey reaches the man’s eyes as he reaches out a hand. “The name’s J. P.”

  I swallow. “X-Xander.”

  Mr. Prado steps between us before I can reach back.

  “The kids are working,” he says, and then a little lower, “and this is between us.”

  The man wags a finger, one eye pinched shut like he’s examining us through a scope. “Nacho, what have you been telling these kids about me? They all look like they’re afraid I’ll bite.” He raises a hand to his mouth and says conspiratorially, “Don’t worry. My bark’s much bigger.”

  “J. P.…” Mr. Prado tries to lead him away.

  The twinkle in the man’s eye disappears. “You’re right. I didn’t just come here to celebrate the Johnsons’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. I also came here to see an old friend and to find out how his business is doing.” He nods to us. “Seems like you’ve got quite a few people on payroll. Business must be good.”

  Mr. Prado is so stoic I can’t tell if he’s breathing.

  “Or maybe it’s just your heart of gold getting in the way again.… You sure do like picking up strays.” J. P. finds my face again and winks. “I heard it’s dangerous running around out here without tags.”

  My insides tie themselves into a knot.

  Everyone in Monte Vista knows Mr. Prado hires undocumented people. But this man isn’t from Monte Vista. I can tell. And not just because he looks like a stranger, but because he’s glaring at us like we’re strangers too.

  My hands sweat and I stuff them in my pockets. Maybe he’s just heard rumors. Maybe he’s just trying to get a rise out of Mr. Prado.