Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

by Laekan Zea Kemp

  He loves me.

  31

  Pen

  FROM THE CORNER OF Monte Vista Boulevard I can almost pretend that it’s still intact, that my brother’s inside behind the grill and my father’s in his office thumbing through receipts; that Chloe’s at the hostess stand swatting at rowdy customers and my mother is chatting with one of the regulars on the patio. I close my eyes, just for a second, imagining the clink of forks on plates and the buzz of music coming from the kitchen.

  But then something catches in Angel’s throat, shattering the memory.

  That’s all we have now. Memories.

  We trek through the debris, cars pulling to the side of the road as people call out questions and condolences. My father just waves, busy listing the damages while the insurance adjuster scribbles them onto a notepad.

  “What do you think he’s going to do?” Angel’s voice is practically a whisper.

  My voice is just as low. “I don’t know.” I examine our father more closely, trying to sense the relief I noticed last night. I didn’t just imagine it. As he stood before the flames, my mother weeping in the crook of his arm, he wasn’t cursing fate, he was saying goodbye.

  Angel shifts a chunk of concrete with his shoe. “I didn’t think I wanted it.…”

  I know he’s not just talking about the manager position or even the restaurant. He’s talking about our father’s legacy.

  “But now?”

  “I still don’t think it’s meant for me.” He stares at the charred brick. “But I can’t imagine life without it.”

  I can feel more eyes, more hushed voices as people approach the police lines to take a closer look. “You’re not the only one.”

  “It’s where we grew up.”

  Where we’re still growing up, I think.

  “He’ll listen to you,” Angel says.

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighs. “I can’t ask him to rebuild the restaurant for me. But for you…”

  “I think you’re forgetting that I’m technically still fired.”

  “And I think you’re forgetting that we’re currently standing in the ashes of our father’s dream.”

  He’s wrong. We’re not standing in the ashes of our father’s dream. We’re standing in the ashes of the dreams of this neighborhood, every single person who’s eaten my father’s food leaving behind this invisible hope—that’s all that’s left. But I don’t know if it’s enough for my father to rebuild.

  “He needs you, Pen.” Angel squeezes my shoulder.

  I shrug out of his grasp. “Fine.”

  “I believe in you.” He pulls me into a hug. “Always have. Always will.”

  I look up at him. “And I believe in you.”

  He rolls his eyes and I thump him in the chest.

  “Ouch!”

  “I believe in you,” I say again.

  “I heard you, all right?”

  “Did you?” I hang an arm around his waist. “You’ll figure it out, Angel.”

  He frowns. “When?”

  “When the time is right.”

  “Like when I’m thirty?”

  “When you’re ready.”

  His voice drops again. “What if I’m never ready?”

  It’s exactly what I told Chloe—that my brother might never be ready for a serious relationship, that he might never be ready to grow up. Seeing him now, how scared he is to fail, to even try, I realize how unfair it was to judge him. My father’s not the only one who needs me. Angel needs me too.

  “Look at me.” I wait for him to meet my eyes. “You’ll figure it out. I promise.”

  He shrugs, still not sure.

  “You said you believe in me, right? Then believe me when I say that you’ll figure it out.”

  He squeezes me a little tighter. “Thanks.”

  “And you can start with calling Chloe. She was pretty upset last night.…”

  “Obviously I was a little busy.”

  “And obviously she knows that and she understands. I’m just warning you that if you’re actually interested, you have to make an effort. A real one.” I pull out my cell phone, punch in her number. “Call her.”

  “All right, all right.” He snatches it, saunters off.

  “What are you and your brother up to?” My father’s more amused than worried. Despite the destruction we’re currently standing in, everything he’s worked to build resolved to rubble.

  “Just… helping Angel with some girl problems.”

  He shakes his head. “Of course that’s where his mind’s at right now.”

  After a beat of silence, the words form on my lips before I can stop them. “Where’s yours?”

  He glances at me, sensing that I’m asking about much more than just how he feels. I’m asking what he’s going to do about how he feels.

  He tests one of the exposed beams, leans against it. But he doesn’t answer; just stares at the emptiness.

  “Dad…?”

  “They need it.”

  “The neighborhood…”

  “And your mother and your siblings… and you.”

  I take a step closer to him, daring to ask, “But what about you? Does the restaurant make you happy?”

  He pulls me against his chest. “You make me happy.”

  I don’t know how long I cry into his shirt. Until I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to stop. Until I feel him quaking too.

  “We don’t get to give up.” He brushes my hair back. “You taught me that, Penelope.”

  I look up at him. “Because you taught me first.”

  We cling to each other in the middle of all that brokenness, forgetting every fight and finding strength in all the ways we’re the same. I want to tell him again how sorry I am for lying, for thinking for even a second that he didn’t care. But I can feel in his embrace that I don’t have to say a word. It’s done, the past swallowed up by those flames, along with everything else.

  Now it’s time to build something new.

  He takes my hand. “I have a few ideas I need your opinion on. From one chef to another.”

  “I like the sound of that.” I let him lead me back around to the front. “Show me the way.”

  He constructs our new home right before my eyes until I can see his vision past the tears. He shifts my gaze to the entrance, talking about moving the hostess stand and giving Chloe a taller stool. He walks me over to the bar, picking up a broken stick to map out a new configuration. He sifts through the dust, pulling out ticket stubs and scraps of magazines, handing me the pieces until I’m not such a wreck anymore.

  “And I was thinking of widening the order window so the runners have more room. Maybe shifting everything this way…” He walks across the dining room. “We could use some more square footage here.”

  “And the patio?” I walk over to him. “Maybe we could add a pergola and some lights.” I take the stick from him, drawing it out. “We could have someone in this corner playing music for the people eating outside.”

  He smiles, coming to the edge of the patio area. “And what about here?”

  I shrug. “More parking spaces?”

  His eyes crinkle. “No.” He takes the stick from me and carves into the dirt: Pen’s Pastelería. He nods. “That’s where you belong.”

  I can see it: the lights strung between the two buildings, people spilling in and out, my father just a few feet away, the music and laughter suturing us together.

  My eyes well up again. Not just because it’s perfect and everything I’ve always wanted, but because I know that some days I’ll wake up and not be able to see any of it. Because that voice in my head will be louder than the one in my heart, and no amount of medication, no amount of distraction or even love will be able to quiet the fear.

  But maybe I don’t need to quiet it. Maybe I just need to learn to recognize the voice buried underneath. Until her whispers are more like shouts, the sound a tether to that moment just on the other side of my depression. The one I always k
now is coming even when it feels like the pain is all there is.

  Before I can say anything, the insurance adjuster makes his way over, holding out some paperwork for my father to sign.

  My father tips his chin. “You got your first customer.”

  I turn and see Xander.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He’s frozen, taking it all in.

  “Xander…?”

  “Abuelo told me what you did.…” His eyes settle on my face. “You found him.”

  “I’m—” I don’t know if I owe him an apology, if seeing his father was even more painful than what El Martillo put him through.

  “Thank you.” He rests his lips against my forehead.

  “Is he—?” Words fail me again. How do I ask Xander if his father is sorry? If he still loves him? If he even bothered to try to explain why the hell he left?

  “Talking has been hard.” Xander looks down. “There’s just so much.…”

  “I know.”

  “But it’s good. Seeing him… it’s been good.” He winces.

  “You should be resting.”

  He shakes his head. “I needed to see it.”

  I let him look, knowing that he’s reliving that night. He shudders, angry again.

  “I have to fix this.”

  I squeeze his hand. “We will.”

  He looks down at me. “Together?”

  “Together.”

  And even though there’s almost nothing left, no clear way out or place to begin, I know we will fix this. Because we can. Because in life, sometimes the only way to move forward is to do the scary thing. Especially when it’s the right thing.

  That’s what I’ve learned about fear. Courage isn’t a currency, and claiming it isn’t a game. The things that scare us aren’t roadblocks but mirrors, and bravery isn’t about shattering our reflection, it’s about having the strength to look.

  “What do you see?” Xander asks.

  I sense the smile on my face and realize how strange it must seem. “Let me show you.” Then I take his hand, leading him back to the entrance where my father and I started.

  When we make it back around to the edge of the patio, Pen’s Pastelería scratched in the dirt, Xander kneels, brushing the letters with his hand.

  He looks up at me. “You’re coming home.”

  Suddenly, I’m struck by the fact that Xander loves my father’s restaurant almost as much as I do. That maybe he found something here he’d been looking for in all those old photographs and envelopes stamped RETURN TO SENDER. But I can also tell that a part of him is still searching. For answers to all of those questions about what happens next.

  I don’t know if justice will win out. If J. P. will never step foot in this neighborhood again. I don’t know if getting answers to those questions will actually put anything to rest.

  What I do know is that home isn’t as fragile a place as Xander thinks it is. Home was never these four walls. It wasn’t my grandfather’s murals or that old prayer card. It wasn’t even the food. When my mother made me leave home, I thought I’d lost that too. But her love followed me. Insistent. Just like Xander’s love for his father carried him to the United States. Like his abuelo’s love was a refuge.

  Because the truth is, home is not a place. It’s a heartbeat. A living thing made up of every person who has ever left a mark on us.

  But maybe Xander needs to see that mark, to see that he is home to me as much as my father’s restaurant is. That we can be his home too.

  I take the stick my father used to map out our future, answering the only question I can as I draw a giant X in the rubble right next to my name. Then I look to Xander and say, “We both are.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to start by thanking the people who are grievously underappreciated but who are so incredibly near and dear to my heart—teachers.

  Mrs. Perry, thank you for always making me think I was special. To Mrs. Cox, thank you for letting me hang out in the library all summer even though the school was supposed to be closed. And to every other teacher I had who nurtured my creativity and encouraged me to keep writing, thank you for noticing what mattered to me.

  Today, I continue to be surrounded by incredible teachers. I want to thank my mentor teacher, Jennifer Hoober, for modeling how to love kids, how to be strong in my convictions, and how to practice self-love. Thank you, Stephany Gaines, my work mom, for showing me how to set boundaries and how to stay laser focused on what matters—doing the right thing for kids, always. Both of you embody everything I adored about my favorite teachers growing up, and I’m so grateful to have you cheering me on now.

  And if you are a teacher who is currently holding this book in your hands or you’re considering getting copies for your classroom library, thank you. While I had some amazing teachers growing up, none of them ever gave me a book like this. I wasn’t assigned to read a book with POC characters until my senior year of high school, and I often wonder what would have happened if I’d been given those stories sooner. Would I have struggled less with my own identity? Would I have felt less pressure to fit in?

  Knowing my book could be a powerful mirror for students who need one makes every hard day of writing and every rejection I’ve experienced along this publishing journey so incredibly worth it. Thank you so much for the work you do to get these books into the hands of kids. It means the world.

  Next, and most important, are my students. I write books for teens for the same reason I teach teens. Because they are incredible. Because they are steadfast in their convictions. They’re passionate. They’re courageous. They’re honest. They are everything we should strive to be.

  I want to thank my students for letting me into your lives, for trusting me with your stories, and for letting me be myself. I feel safe and loved when I’m in my classroom, and I hope you do too. These stories about beautiful brown kids navigating the big scary world are for you.

  None of this would be possible without the love and support of my family. I want to thank my parents for giving me the safest and most loving environment in which to explore my creativity. Thank you for always praising my brain above all else and being so easily impressed by any and all of my accomplishments, big and small.

  I’m a storyteller because you read to me constantly, and because you let me eavesdrop while you talked about adult things in the living room, and because you let me watch R-rated movies as long as I covered my ears and eyes when you told me to, and because I was allowed to read whatever I could reach, nothing censored or denied.

  You gave me so much freedom, so many colors to paint with now that I’m making my own art. I hope you know everything I make is to honor you.

  To JD: You and I don’t do Valentine’s Day or anniversaries. Love letters aren’t really our thing. But when I look at this book in its final form, I can see so clearly that that’s exactly what it is. This story is my love letter to you. You may not have renovated a food truck for me, but you have made space for my dreams in so many other ways.

  Thank you for always making me do the scary thing. So many people helped bring this book to life, but you’re the one who lay awake with me at night when I wasn’t sure how to be brave. You’re the one who told me to try, who made me feel safe enough to fail. You’re the one who knew I wouldn’t. Not if I never gave up. Thank you for not letting me give up.

  Nacho’s Tacos was inspired by all your crazy stories from years spent working in food service, so it’s only right that I also thank the 2005–2011 employees of Cagle’s Steakhouse in Lubbock, TX, for inspiring many of the funniest scenes in this book.

  I also want to thank my first storytelling partner and childhood best friend, Jamie Adam, for your willingness to play any ridiculous character I could come up with in our amateur movies (and for supplying the video camera and most other props). Telling stories with you was such a blast, but I hope you’ll find after reading this book that my abilities are much improved.

  To my f
ellow Musas, thank you for the advice, emotional support, and endless inspiration. I am honored to be part of this community of fierce and passionate women, and I’m so grateful to have any part in helping and guiding other musas and hermanas who are just beginning their journey.

  I must also bow down to the marvelous Beth Phelan, champion of diverse voices and DVpit founder, for creating a space for marginalized creators to shine. Participating in DVpit completely changed my life. It brought me to my wonderful agent, Andrea Morrison, and my amazing editor, Sam Gentry, who are both the kindest and most incredible advocates for my work. I’d like to take a moment to thank them both for holding my hand through this life-changing process and making all of my dreams come true.

  Moreover, I must thank the entire Little, Brown Books for Young Readers team for the time and effort they spent to make this little book shine. You took this dream of mine and turned it into something I can actually hold in my hands, which is so beautifully mind-blowing.

  Lastly, I want to thank all the readers who have taken a chance on one of my books over the years. Almost a decade ago I chose self-publishing because I didn’t know where else my Latina heroines would fit. You were the first to embrace those stories and give them a home.

  So thank you, not only to every reader who has supported my work but also to every reader who so selflessly and enthusiastically helps spread the word about books that would otherwise stay invisible. Thank you for making it possible for me to do what I love.

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