Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  “Hey, that’s a good idea,” he says. “But, actually, I was thinking of sprucing it up, maybe using it for traveling.”

  I follow him around the other side, spotting the faded logo of a barbecue restaurant.

  Mr. Daly taps the metal exterior. “Used to be a food truck.” He laughs. “Food must not have been very good.”

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “Do what now?”

  I stand straighter, feigning confidence even though I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. All I know is that I’m making a choice, and maybe it’s out of fear—fear of finding my father and being disappointed, fear of Pen feeling powerless—but something in my gut is telling me to make it. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Now what are you gonna do with a big thing like this?”

  I hold my ground. “How much?”

  He crosses his arms. “Well… let’s see, I paid four hundred for it, add on a two-hundred-dollar finder’s fee and then another…” When he starts mumbling to himself I roll my eyes. “That comes out to… about a thousand bucks.”

  “But you paid four hundred. Do you really expect to turn this thing into an RV? When was the last time you got out of Austin?”

  “I’m retired now. Maybe it’s time to see the world. Live a little.”

  “You’ve been retired for seven years.”

  Mr. Daly huffs. “Well, what do you want with this piece of junk anyway?”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t a piece of junk.” Abuelo’s leaning against the gate, arms crossed.

  I sigh, doing my own calculations. “Six hundred.”

  “Six?” Mr. Daly snorts.

  “Will you sell it to me for six hundred?” I ask. “Or not?”

  He takes his hat off, knocks it against his knee. “Eight hundred.”

  “Six-fifty.”

  “Come on, kid, this is business.”

  “Business…” Abuelo shakes his head. “You’re a crook. And Xander’s not a customer. He’s family.”

  Mr. Daly rests his hands on his hips, eyes squinting in the sunlight. “Hell, why’d you have to bring up family? Huh, old man?”

  “Because it’s all you’ve got,” Abuelo says.

  Mr. Daly looks at me. “Six-fifty and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Five,” Abuelo calls out.

  “Five?” Mr. Daly’s fuming again.

  “Five. Xander gets the truck and you made a hundred bucks today.”

  I reach out a hand to shake on it.

  “Christ. Fine, kid, you got it.”

  “And you’ll let him keep it back here while he works on it,” Abuelo adds.

  “What?”

  “We don’t have room.”

  “Fine. But I don’t want you clankin’ around at all hours of the night.”

  “I’ll work on it in the mornings before my shift,” I say. “I’ll be quiet, no mess. You’ll hardly know I’m back here.”

  Mr. Daly wipes his brow again. “It’s been a long time since I was so expertly conned out of my own money.”

  Abuelo narrows his eyes. “What’d you just say?”

  “I said you two should team up. You’d be millionaires.”

  For the first time all day Abuelo manages to crack a smile in my direction, and not for the first time, it’s a reminder that family is so much more than a memory, so much more than blood. It’s caring about another human being even when you can’t stand the sight of them, caring about what they care about even when it seems pointless or even dangerous, caring enough to forgive them when those dangers end up hurting you both.

  25

  Pen

  I DELIVERED MY TWO weeks’ notice via email. On my last day, Josie cried, I finally told David what an asshat he really is, and Claudia surprised me by saying she’d finally called Nacho’s. Her interview is this afternoon.

  I shoot her an encouraging text message: Play up your previous manager experience. Trust me, you’ve got this in the bag.

  She responds a few minutes later: What about my shining personality?

  I text back: Very funny. Actually, I think you’ll find that you and my father have a lot in common. He’ll like having another ringleader in that kitchen.

  I can see she’s typing then stops, starts typing again, stops. I’m afraid I’ve scared her off when she says: What have I gotten myself into?

  Then I tell her the same thing I told Xander the night of Angel’s party: What you’ve gotten yourself into is the most faithful and fucked-up family you will ever meet.

  All I get back is a smiley face.

  I thought about calling my father to put in a good word for her, but I asked Angel to do it instead. It won’t matter. He’ll hire her on the spot like he does everyone else.

  Chloe plops down on the floor. Her eyes widen. “Are these all for me?”

  “Yes.” I transfer the best of each batch to a serving tray before pushing it in her direction. “Now, I want you to very slowly and very objectively taste each one. I need to know which ones are worth putting on the menu.”

  “Menu.” Chloe holds a bite of a miniature sopapilla in her cheek. (At least I came away from El Pequeño Toro with one good business idea—miniature is much more portable). “Sounds so official.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m going for.” I reach for my checklist, bite the cap off my pen. “So, what do you think?”

  “Delicious.” Chloe reaches for the pan de polvo.

  I hand her a glass of water. “Can you at least cleanse your palate first?”

  “Sorry.” She takes a sip. “I think I’m stress eating.”

  “Stress eating? Why?”

  She swallows, reaches for the pan dulce next.

  “Chloe…”

  She takes another bite and I snatch the bread out of her hand.

  “What’s going on?” My heartbeat ticks up. “Is it the restaurant? Did something else—?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Nothing like that. The restaurant’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  She shrinks, bracing for some kind of blowback. Then she says, “Angel asked me out on a date. Tomorrow night.” She leans back, still waiting for me to overreact.

  I stuff a wedding cookie in my mouth instead.

  “I knew this would happen.” She finishes her pan dulce. “Now you’re stress eating too.”

  “I’m not stressed.”

  “But you’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Then you’re—”

  “I’m fine.” I exhale, staring down at the powdered sugar on my jeans. Over the past five years, Chloe’s heard every reason why I think she and Angel aren’t a good match—that he’s a flake, that he’s incapable of thinking about anyone other than himself, that he thinks everything is a joke and needs to grow the hell up—and she still wants to be with him. Which means that I have to be a good friend and let her. I meet Chloe’s eyes, knowing she’ll need to see a genuine smile if I’m ever going to sell this. I muster up the best one I’ve got and then I say, “If this is what you want… then I’m fine.”

  Her arms latch around my neck. “Thank you.”

  “Okay, okay.” I wrench out of her hold. “Let’s not make this a big deal. Besides, I have a few orders I need you to help me deliver. We’re on a time crunch.”

  Chloe stuffs the last of the polvorones into her mouth before taking one of the small boxes of pastries. I grab the other two. One order of marranitos, one order of apple pie empanadas, and one order of my famous coconut cake. I fold each lid before smoothing out a PEN’S PASTELES sticker over the top flaps. Chloe designed it on her laptop in my signature red.

  At the door, I take a deep breath, let it go, and then I take the three steps across the hall to Mrs. Damas’s apartment.

  Chloe shrugs. “Well, this is convenient.”

  The door opens, Mrs. Damas out of her apron for once. “Pen, so glad you’re here. We’ve been
looking forward to this all afternoon.” She leads me and Chloe inside, introducing us to the three old ladies sitting on her couch. “This is Pen, the girl I was telling you about. She’s starting her own baking business and is letting us have the first taste of some of her signature desserts.”

  “Where would you like these?” I ask, lifting the boxes.

  “Oh, right here.” She motions to the coffee table.

  Chloe and I exchange a look before slowly folding back the lid on each box. The women lean forward, inhaling, big smiles on their faces. But the first bite… that’s what’s most important.

  I rest my chin in my hands, trying to hide my expression and the fact that I’m dissecting their every move. One of the women takes a bite of one of the marranitos. She sighs. The other bites down on one of the empanadas and she goes completely still, eyes closed. But while I’m watching them, Mrs. Damas is watching me.

  “You see what happens when you follow your passion, Pen?” She smiles. “You feed people’s souls. You feed yours too.”

  26

  Xander

  SUNLIGHT GLINTS OFF THE fresh coat of paint, burning my eyes. No longer black and white, the truck looks like a giant piece of candy. I picture Pen’s face in the order window, the smell of coconut wafting from the opening, the scent corralling people on the street.

  When I first started fixing it up, I thought I was only doing it for her—and if I’m being honest, selfishly, for me too. But somewhere along the way I started imagining it rolling by, tracing the veins of our neighborhood, the magic of Pen’s food pumping new life into the people who live here.

  I don’t know if that’s what Lucas or Struggles or Officer Solis see when they look at Pen’s truck. But just the simple promise of her food has been enough to keep them going under this blazing Texas sun. Unfortunately, all they’re getting today is mine.

  I come around with burritos and bottles of water, Lucas taking two of each before dousing his entire face. He winks at me conspiratorially before twisting the rag he’s holding and popping Struggles right on the ass.

  Struggles howls. “Ouch, dude! That fucking hurt!”

  Lucas laughs. “Sorry, but you missed a spot.” He squats in front of the truck, rubbing his thighs. “You’re not getting low enough. Wax on, wax off.” He motions with his hands. “Haven’t you ever seen The Karate Kid?”

  Struggles crouches, his scrawny legs shaking.

  Lucas nods. “Lower…”

  Struggles forces himself into a deeper squat as he waxes the front bumper. When he isn’t looking, Lucas comes up behind him, towel twisted in his fist again. He swings it slow, aiming just between Struggles’s legs. Then he rears back, popping Struggles right in the junk.

  Struggles screams, writhing in the grass. “You motherfucker!”

  “What are you two idiots up to now?” Officer Solis steps down from the truck. “You’re ruining Xander’s big romantic gesture.”

  “He’s out of his mind.” Lucas crosses his arms. “I’d never spend this much time and money on a girl.”

  “Which is why you’ll be single the rest of your life.” Officer Solis hands me the keys. “Plumbing’s done. I tested the flow and pressure. Everything looks good.” He peels Pen’s premade label from the exterior.

  Chloe snuck it to me so we could copy the logo onto the truck. We all step back, admiring how much it looks like her design. The couple that painted the sidewalk outside the restaurant worked on it all day yesterday. Wouldn’t charge me a cent when I said it was for Pen.

  The same thing happened every time I needed new parts. When the generator turned out to be a dud, the car repair shop down the street found a used one for me in a few days. When some of the electrical was shoddy, Angel called up the handyman who fixed the power at the restaurant after Aarón Medrano electrocuted himself. When the compressor went out, Mr. Daly hunted down a new minifridge, nicer than the one we had before. And not a single person asked for money.

  They couldn’t see the vision in my head, the hopes and dreams I have for the neighborhood. But it didn’t matter because they all had visions of their own. The Prados have given them that—permission to dream again—and not just because of the bravery they showed reopening the restaurant, but because of the bravery they show every morning that they open those doors, welcoming people in no matter where they come from or where they think they belong. At Nacho’s, everyone belongs.

  Officer Solis steps back to admire the fruits of our labor. “It’s more than a gesture, Xander.…” He nods. “More permanent.”

  I know he’s hoping the word will stoke something in me, an admission that I finally feel like I’m home. That Pen is the place I was looking for all along. But after two weeks spent renovating this truck, Angel letting me hijack employees’ shifts to scrub down old kitchen equipment and repair every inch of the inside, Pen’s “fucked-up family” spending just as much time on her dream as I have, I’ve realized that in so many ways they’ve become my family too. That’s the permanence I’ve been looking for. That’s my dream.

  I examine the truck again and think about all those hands that have helped put it back together; all of the people who’ve helped keep it a secret. My brain starts adding up the hours and the sweat before focusing on just the sheer size of the thing. My stomach knots, afraid that’s all Pen will be able to see too.

  I turn to Officer Solis. “Do you think it’s too much?”

  He laughs. “It’s definitely too much.” Then he grips my shoulder. “But she’ll love it. She’ll love you for doing it.” He nods back to the truck. “So, when’s the big reveal?”

  “I’m supposed to see Pen before work.”

  “Well, it looks like a million bucks.”

  I shake Officer Solis’s hand. “Thanks…” I tighten my grip. “For everything.”

  He pulls me into a hug, musses my hair. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Shit, what time is it?” Lucas glances at his phone before heaving Struggles onto his feet. “We’re gonna be late.”

  I toss them two more burritos on their way out. “Thanks for your help.”

  Lucas jabs a finger. “You tell Pen I want free pastelitos for life!”

  I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And don’t forget,” Lucas adds, “championship’s tonight. You never know who might be up for top prize.”

  “You mean I better watch my back.”

  “Hey.” He shrugs. “I gotta go out with a bang.”

  Prank Wars has been going on for the past three weeks straight. As a result, Lucas now has a tattoo of a dachshund in a hot-dog bun on his left ass cheek, Sang is down to zero eyebrows, Andrea has a broken wrist, and Java is missing a tooth.

  I’ve come out unscathed only because I’m used to having eyes in the back of my head. I check every doorway before walking through it, I’m never the last to leave a room, and I keep a haphazard routine so that no one can anticipate where in the restaurant I’m going to be or how I’ll get there. It’s a lot of work, but it’s also the most fun I’ve had… ever.

  My phone buzzes. Pen’s just a few minutes away. I walk the yard again, picking up scraps, trying to scrape the dirt from my hands. I’m at the edge of the street when she pulls up to the curb, the wind catching her hair as she steps out of the car.

  I take her hands before she senses where to look, the truck slightly visible above the fence.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Just… close your eyes.”

  My heart races as I lead her through the side gate.

  “Where are we going?” she whispers.

  I face her in front of the truck, both of us angled within its shadow.

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Open your eyes.”

  She blinks, expressionless for a full thirty seconds, and I think I’m about to be sick. But then she approaches the truck, her hand brushing the logo. She’s still silent as she rounds the front, her hands leading the way as they grab hold of the he
adlights and the grill, the driver’s side mirror.

  I open the door, Pen climbing in first. She plops down in the passenger seat, eyes roaming the dash. I show her the features up front, still waiting for her to say it’s too much. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything at all.

  “Can I show you the rest?” I ask.

  She follows me back to her workspace, where I point out the two sinks, the various storage compartments for all of her supplies, and the new fridge. I’m leaning into the cool air, showing her how far back it goes, when I realize that she’s no longer looking. Instead, she’s gripping the countertop, staring out of the order window.

  The tears are invisible at first. But then I notice her blanched knuckles and short, tight breaths. I come around to face her, searching her eyes.

  “You believe I can do this.…”

  I can’t tell if it’s a question, but I answer it anyway. “Of course I do.”

  She reaches for me with the same fervency that she did the night I showed her my scars up close. Only now it’s her fears on display. Even though she has nothing to be afraid of.

  “Thank you for doing this.” She holds me closer, voice small. “But you didn’t just do it for me, did you?”

  I ease back, afraid of asking what she means.

  “All the money you spent…” She shakes her head. “I don’t even want to know how much. That was the money you were supposed to use to find your dad, wasn’t it?”

  My mind races, searching for anything I can say or do that might prove she’s wrong, that no part of this was selfish or cowardly.

  I don’t look at her as I say, “Maybe I found something better.”

  “Or maybe that’s what you told yourself to justify throwing all of your money at my dream instead of your own.” She takes a step back. “I just need to know.…”

  “What?”

  “That you don’t regret it. That you won’t.”

  I reach for her hands. “I won’t.”

  “Not the truck,” she says, pulling away again. “Your father.”

  I’ve been pushing away thoughts of my father for weeks, reaching for a wrench or a screwdriver every time they started to creep up again. It’s also helped that Angel has been giving me more responsibility at the restaurant. Exhausting myself is the surest way to forget. But never for long, the questions I’ve been haunted by since he left more unbearable now than ever. And Pen knows it. She can see it all over my face.