Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  Maybe I’m still safe.

  Mr. Prado forces J. P. back, some of his whiskey spilling out of his glass.

  “We’re not old friends.” Mr. Prado seethes. “And you’re not welcome here.”

  J. P. takes a step back, a hand raised. “That’s okay.” Then he nods to a table in the far corner of the room. It’s surrounded by men in uniform, the strobe lights reflecting off their police badges. “I’ve got plenty of other friends.”

  J. P. disappears behind the people spinning in circles on the dance floor. While Mr. Prado shoots daggers at him.

  While Angel clenches his fists.

  While my heart races.

  I look down at my Nacho’s shirt, wondering if in this neighborhood, it’s not a disguise, but a giant red flag. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I wear. Maybe people like that can tell I’m undocumented just by looking at me; at the color of my skin, at all of the ways my body doesn’t belong.

  Angel growls, “Everyone get back to work.”

  We shut everything down early, packing up in silence.

  The quiet follows us all the way back to the restaurant. Until Angel puts the truck in park and Lucas asks, “What the hell was that about?”

  Angel’s still gripping the steering wheel. He’s quiet for a long time, jaw clenched like he’s wrestling with something. Then he says, “I don’t know.” And I can tell he means it.

  Back at the restaurant, the place is packed, the sound of the dining hall like a vortex. Waitresses run plates in and out. Solana is behind the bar, sliding drinks back and forth. Chloe’s at the hostess stand, perched on a chair and yelling over the crowd in the doorway.

  Lucas hands me an apron, both of us frantically tying them around our waists. “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “About the cops?” I swallow, thinking he means J. P. and his thinly veiled threat.

  Lucas slides three plates over to the pickup window. “No, Angel. Do you think he’s telling the truth about not knowing what that was all about?”

  I glance over at the grill. Angel already has his headphones in—no crazy dance moves or even a bob of his head, the tongs in his hand the only thing moving.

  “He seemed as confused as we were.”

  Lucas shrugs. “Yeah, I just hope…” He pauses. “Never mind.”

  “Do you know who that guy was?” I ask.

  Angel finally breaks out of his daze and slams his hand down over the order bell. “We need some runners over here!”

  Lucas loads up another plate. “People call him El Martillo, and he’s the reason a lot of businesses in Monte Vista have closed down. My aunt took a loan from him once. A neighbor told her J. P. was a good guy, not like the other loan sharks who charge an arm and a leg in interest. They said he cared about helping undocumented people. We found out that wasn’t true the day they boarded up the windows to her salon. A few weeks later, they knocked the whole thing down and built some apartment buildings.” He shakes his head. “I can name a dozen other businesses tied up in his bullshit.”

  “And Mr. Prado?”

  “He’s basically Batman to El Martillo’s Joker. Except without the justice.”

  “Is J. P. a criminal?”

  Lucas shrugs. “What else do you call someone who uses blackmail and intimidation to extort people out of their hard-earned money? But apparently he can do whatever he wants.…”

  I think back to his uniformed posse watching us from the corner of the room. “Because he’s got the right friends?”

  “Exactly, which means we can’t do anything that might put us in J. P.’s crosshairs. Because he’ll always win.”

  I didn’t think Mr. Prado was afraid of anyone. What does it mean if he is?

  Chloe looks back from the hostess stand and sends a few waitresses to run plates. Gabby works her way up to four, wobbling a moment before finding her stride.

  She slides between a guy and a girl breaking out of an embrace, barely missing the girl’s big sparkly handbag.

  “Oh shit.” Lucas holds his breath. “This is not going to be good.”

  A few tortilla chips tumble to the floor.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Definitely not.”

  The crowd by the door is ready to burst at the seams, a guy who is obviously already wasted trying to push through. Chloe chases him into the dining area and then he stops. Right in front of Gabby. Then she slams into him, all of the food she’s carrying crashing to the floor.

  Lucas hangs his head. A moment later, Angel is in the dining room, his manager tag askew. The drunk guy jams his finger into Angel’s chest. I don’t even see who throws the first punch, but all of a sudden they’re tangled and falling into the table of six that Gabby was on her way to serve.

  The trusty air horn blares, and the place is a zoo. People rush the entrance, trying to squeeze through the front door in one rumbling stampede.

  When it finally empties, the last of us stand in the middle of the restaurant, staring down at the mess of food and silverware and melting ice. It looks like some invisible hand has come down and spun the restaurant like a top.

  Chloe rushes to Angel’s side, kneeling next to him. She whispers something, her voice firm, but when he looks up I can’t tell if he’s reassured or terrified. But then the bell above the restaurant entrance chimes and his father steps inside. And there is no question. Angel is scared for his life.

  So are the rest of us.

  I wait for Mr. Prado to yell or drag Angel outside. But he just looks around; one sweep of the restaurant is all it takes before he raises a finger and Angel follows him into the parking lot.

  Everyone runs for the windows, trying to get a front row seat.

  “Get the hell away from there!” Chloe summons everyone to the center of the room. “That is none of your business.” She hands out trash bags. “This mess is.”

  There are a few groans, people kicking at chairs.

  “Hey!” Chloe yells. “You want to get paid or not?”

  She hands me a trash bag before pulling all the shades down and planting herself between us and the door. Then we have no choice, a barrage of moans and murmurs and various curse words filling the dining room as we all get back to work.

  After we’ve been at it for about an hour, Chloe dismisses the staff in chunks, Gabby and Mari high-fiving when they’re the first to leave. Java and Solana are next, followed fifteen minutes later by Lucas and Struggles. Lucas makes a celebratory foul gesture on his way out the door, Chloe kicking him in the rear.

  “You okay to stay a little longer?” Chloe asks me. “You’re the only one who hasn’t been bugging me to leave.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great!” She heaves a tub of cleaning supplies into my arms. “Supply closet. Thanks.”

  I make my way back to the supply closet, but when I crack the door I’m not alone. Pen’s examining one of the shelves, a few spice bottles already tucked into her bag. She presses a finger to her lips before pulling the door closed behind me.

  I set down the tub of cleaning supplies.

  “So, I’m guessing you heard that I’m not exactly supposed to be here right now.” She fiddles with one of the glass bottles, puts it back on the shelf. “Or ever.”

  I’m not sure what to say, still surprised to see her.

  “I just needed a few things.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Things you can’t get at the supermarket?”

  Pen shrugs, staring up at the ceiling. “I may have held onto my spare key. I just… I wanted to be here. That’s all.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry about what happened. And about you and your dad.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s…” She runs a hand through her hair. “He and I have always butted heads about everything.”

  “Maybe you’re too much alike.”

  She huffs. “You speaking from experience?”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets. “No, not really.”

  She notices the disappointment in my voice and I w
ish I hadn’t opened my mouth.

  She examines me more closely as she says, “What’s your dad like?”

  “He’s…” My throat’s dry and I swallow. “I don’t know.…”

  She realizes she’s staring too close, backs away. “I’m sorry.”

  I lean against the wall. “It was a long time ago.”

  The words feel like a lie. It’s been more than a decade since I watched him drive away, but every time I follow a new lead and it amounts to absolutely nothing, that sting is brand-new.

  Because time doesn’t heal wounds. It makes them evolve, more durable and more potent. The sting of being left never goes away, it just disguises itself, erupting in fights after school and empty shot glasses that are numbing one second and gasoline the next.

  Pen doesn’t see the memories behind my eyes and I’m afraid to bring them up, shattering whatever this quiet moment is. Because I need the quiet and whatever feigned safety exists in this space between us.

  She moves to the wall, slumping down at my feet. “What about your mom?”

  It’s almost three in the morning and I’m exhausted. But something forces me to join her on the floor.

  “She left too,” I say.

  The air trips over Pen’s lips. “After…? How could she do that?”

  I shake my head. It feels strange that she’s angry, that she cares at all.

  “That’s so shitty,” she says. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” I wait for an uncomfortable silence, but Pen chases it away. “Some people just aren’t meant to be parents.”

  “Yours seem pretty great.”

  Pen’s shoulders slump. “They’re not so bad, they’re just…” She hugs her knees. “Stubborn. Neither of them went to college, so it’s just such a big deal to them, and I get that, but it’s not for me. I tried it, I really did, but…”

  “You would rather be here.”

  “They groomed me for this, whether they realize it or not. Even when I was just a kid, my dad would let me wrap the silverware, and then it wasn’t long before I started tweaking the menu here and there. He knew I was like him. He knew that given the choice, I would choose this. So he took it away.” Pen stares at the walls like they’re closing in on us. “I could do it, you know. I could fix this. If he’d just let me try.”

  “The restaurant?” I ask.

  “Everything.”

  The lull I’ve been waiting for finally slips over us, and I know it’s my turn to chase it away.

  “What would you change?” I ask.

  Pen looks up at me.

  “If this was your restaurant, what would you do?”

  Her face is hard again, thinking. But then she smiles. “Can I show you?”

  When I crack the door, I don’t hear any footsteps. The parking lot out front is finally empty—Mr. Prado’s truck gone—but I know Angel and Chloe are still here. Pen slips out first, waving me over to the back door. Through the window we can see Angel and Chloe sitting on the back steps, their shoulders touching.

  Pen leads me to the kitchen before flipping on the lights. She circles the room. “First, I’d knock out this entire wall.” She steps through to the dining area. “And then I’d put a long display case filled with pastries and candies. Maybe we could even open a drive-through window leading out into the alley so people could take their food to go.” Pen makes her way to the window, tapping the glass. “I’d extend the patio area, maybe put in a big pergola with some of those hanging lights. We could rip out all of those weeds back there and have live music on the weekends.”

  “So is that what you really want? Not your father’s restaurant, but your own?”

  Pen sinks down into one of the booths, scratching at her thumbnail. I sit down across from her.

  “I… If I could do anything, I’d own my own bakery.”

  She looks around as if someone might overhear, but it’s just the two of us, and suddenly that fact is making my hands sweat. I duck them under the table, accidentally grazing her knee.

  “Pen, what the hell are you doing here? Are you out of your mind?” Angel’s spotted us, the terror returned to his face.

  She stands, rolling her eyes. “I just needed a few things.”

  He pokes at her overstuffed bag. “A few things. You’re stealing. After you were just fired!”

  “I’m not stealing. I’m simply borrowing these until Dad changes his mind, and then I’ll bring them back.”

  “Give her a break, Angel.” Chloe pushes Pen toward the entrance. “She’s going.”

  “She better be.”

  I try to catch Pen’s eye one last time, but she and Chloe are whispering about something on their way out.

  Angel hangs his head. “Jesus, being manager is going to kill me.” The almost-laugh catches in his throat. “Shit. Can you believe the day we’ve had?”

  “You mean this isn’t typical?” I try to smile.

  “It wasn’t.” He sighs. “But now…?” Then, in a voice much smaller than he is, “Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

  “I don’t believe that.” The truth is, I’m not sure. This is only my second shift and I can already tell that Pen was the glue holding this place together. I am sure that’s not what Angel needs to hear right now.

  He slings an arm around me and it’s as unexpected as finding Pen alone in that storage closet. “You’re all right,” he says. Then he checks the time on his phone. “Jesus. It’s past three and you’re still here? Thank God there’s at least one person I can rely on.”

  The pang is practically invisible. Not because of Angel’s praise, but because it means I get to come back. That he wants me to come back.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

  Angel grows still, thinking. Then he exhales. “I’m fine. Let’s lock up and get the hell out of here.”

  7

  Xander

  THE LAWYER’S OFFICE IS downtown in a small brick building that looks abandoned. The windows are blacked out, the walls a raw pink that reminds me of a doctor’s office. It kind of smells like one too. Stale and sad and sick.

  The first thing I do is seek out signs of permanence. There’s a water dispenser in the corner, an indoor plant, a few of the leaves browning. One of the drawers of the receptionist’s desk is half-open and full of empty candy wrappers, and six photos of her children line the wall behind her. The phone rings and when she goes to answer it, I notice that a few of the buttons are faded, her fingers finding the correct extension by memory.

  These relics, combined with the fact that it was Officer Solis who gave me the address, encourage me to finally take a deep breath.

  When they call me back, a redheaded woman with green eyes greets me in Spanish. “¿Cómo puedo ayudarle?”

  I reach in my pocket, pulling out the only document I have containing my father’s information—a petition for child support that my mother filed after he left. I always wondered what would have happened if he’d responded, if he’d kept sending her money like he’d promised. Something to shelter us, to keep her heart from being so easily bruised. Sometimes I like to think it would have made a difference. That she would have kept me if she could. That she would have wanted me.… Maybe they both would have wanted me.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I say. “A man named Victor Amaro.” I point to his name on the scanned document. “He came on a work visa fifteen years ago.”

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  “I’m eighteen.”

  She lays the paper flat. “In the case of an outstanding custody or child support issue, the federal government can only assist children who are legal citizens. You’re an adult.” She hands me back the slip of paper. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not seeking child support. I’m just trying to find out where he is.”

  I think about all the old phone numbers and addresses stuffed in the shoebox under my bed. Thin scraps of paper and faded photographs, corners bent from all the nights I’ve spent st
aring, searching every inch for clues.

  I know my father’s twenty-year-old face better than I know my own—the dimples, the crooked bottom teeth, the five-o’clock shadow with hints of red. In every picture he’s smiling. Sometimes if I stare long enough—long enough for my bedroom outside the frame to dissipate, long enough for the light to catch his eyes, to make it look like they’re staring back—I can feel myself smiling too.

  But then I remember. His face becomes static again and I’m just as stuck. After a decade of searching, I can relay every detail about those photographs, about the places he’s been. I can recall the cadence of every stranger who’s answered one of his old phone numbers. But I don’t know where he is. I don’t know who he is. And without that, I don’t know who I am. And I need to.

  I need to know.

  The woman leans forward and that’s when I realize my eyes are wet.

  “When did he leave?” she asks.

  “When I was four.” I swallow. “He said he’d come back for us, but he never did.”

  Her head tilts, expression soft. “And now you need to find out why.”

  I nod.

  She leans back, thinking. “You’ve checked with the consulate?”

  “Several times.”

  “So there’s no record of him becoming a permanent resident or having been deported in the past fifteen years?”

  “No.”

  She pauses. “And what about you?”

  I’m quiet.

  “Are you a permanent resident?”

  I don’t answer, but she doesn’t push me.

  “You know, I see some cases where a person travels alone to the States to find work.” She treads carefully. “At first they stay in touch, calling home, wiring money just as often. But then the calls become more infrequent. The money disappears, and then so do they.” She pauses. “They realize they can have a fresh start. Reinvent themselves.” She twists a paper clip between her fingers until it’s a straight line. “What I’m trying to say is… they become someone else and sometimes that new person just doesn’t want to be found.”