Poppy smiled and called “No worries” after them.
“You know, I remember when you were like that,” he said to Zoey, coming around the counter to sit down in the folding chair beside the out-of-service Pac-Man.
“Me?” Zoey was appalled.
“Ay ay ay, los gritos when Abuela and I took you to the beach and tried to teach you to swim!” Poppy shook his head fondly. “You told us you were scared of sharks. We tell you, ‘There’s no sharks, mija.’ You don’t believe us. My little jefa. You want to tell us what to do. You order us to leave the beach and take you to Disney World instead. You screamed so loud I think my old neighbors hear you back in la Habana vieja.”
Poppy laughed at the memory. Zoey felt her cheeks redden, especially at hearing her childhood nickname, jefa, again, which means “boss.” She didn’t feel like that title fit her. To be a boss, you have to be loud and confident. That certainly wasn’t who she was anymore—in fact, she doubted whether she had ever been that assertive.
“Your brother was the opposite. José go running into the water, sin los salvavidas, the second his feet touch the sand. I remember your mami diving in to save him, even though she hate the water more than you. When she was a kid, all her friends would go to the beach. And she’d go and bring books to read. No one could get even her pinky toe en el agua.”
Poppy’s gaze was far away beneath his glasses. Zoey smiled, but thinking of her mom made her both happy and sad. She headed to the bin with the returned shoes, avoiding eye contact.
“Can I do anything to help? Maybe tidy those for you?” She didn’t wait for Poppy to respond, and picked up a basket full of rental shoes to sort by size.
“Sure, gracias, mija,” Poppy said, giving himself a little shake and standing up to frown at the accounting software on his computer once more.
“By the way, the A in ‘alley’ is falling off the sign outside,” Zoey said. She held her breath, waiting to see if Poppy would ask her how it got loose. She didn’t know whether she was relieved or worried when he didn’t.
“I’ll fix it eventually,” Poppy said, but his tone didn’t match his words. He sounded depressed and glanced around at all the broken machines in the arcade as if they were ganging up on him. Remembering that Dad had warned José not to ask Poppy for money, Zoey wondered if maybe her grandpa couldn’t afford to fix his sign and mentally kicked herself for breaking it.
To make up for the sign, Zoey shined the rental shoes until they gleamed. She’d been working for at least an hour when Poppy’s next customer walked into Gonzo’s. But the middle-aged man wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of what looked like an expensive designer suit didn’t much look like he wanted to bowl. Poppy glanced up when he heard the bell on the door chime. And when he saw who it was, Zoey noticed her grandfather stood up straighter—the same way Dad did when he wanted to assert his authority over José. Had Dad learned that habit from Poppy?
“Mr. Silos,” Poppy addressed the man. “How are you?”
“Wishing it was December. It sure is a hot one out there,” the man replied, gesturing toward the boardwalk outside.
Poppy nodded, but said nothing. No small talk about the weather? Obviously this was no ordinary customer. Wondering what was up, Zoey grabbed a broom and began sweeping the floor closer to where the guy in the suit was standing, so she could eavesdrop better. Poppy continued staring politely at the man, his back still stiff.
“Mr. Gonzalez, I’m here because I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer. It’s more than fair.”
Poppy’s face turned pinker than the Barbie convertible he’d given Zoey when she was four. “I already told you, Mr. Silos. My answer is absolutely not.”
“But—”
“No,” Poppy said, his voice quiet but firm. “I will not sell to your company.”
“Be reasonable, Mr. Gonzalez. We’re offering you a decent profit margin, and you’re facing eviction otherwise. The clock is ticking.” Mr. Silos tapped his fat, gold, diamond-studded watch. “The deal I’m offering here is a win-win. This is a no-brainer.”
Poppy sucked in his breath, and Zoey could tell he was trying very hard not to yell at Mr. Silos. Finally, Poppy spoke in a tone even lower and sterner than before.
“My answer remains no. Buen día, Mr. Silos. I hope you have a nice day.”
Mr. Silos gawked at Poppy as if he’d sprouted a unicorn horn and shimmering blue mane, but finally appeared to get the message. He shook his wrist with the fancy watch in the air, mouthed “the clock is ticking” once more, and left.
Poppy exhaled as the glass door chimed shut and leaned over the counter, rubbing the gray hair above his temples.
“What was that all about?” Zoey asked.
Poppy jumped as if he’d forgotten Zoey was there.
“Ay, mija, it’s nothing for you to worry about.” Poppy waved a hand dismissively through the air, like Mr. Silos was nothing more than a fruit fly to be shooed away from the bananas. But Zoey didn’t buy his casual act for a second. Dad was right. Poppy was in big trouble.
“It sounds like there’s a lot to worry about!”
Poppy tsked, waving another dismissive hand. “Mira, every business has its headaches. My headache is named Mr. Silos. Yes, it’s been a little slow at the bowling alley. Yes, if it doesn’t turn around soon, then I have to close in a few weeks—”
A few weeks?! Zoey gasped.
“But I’m going to turn it around, Zoey. I don’t want you to worry, eh?” Poppy glanced down at her and smiled.
“Mr. Silos said you were going to get evicted though.” Zoey’s eyes widened into dinner plates.
“Mr. Silos just works for a big development company that wants to tear down the bowling alley and make a fancy new hotel for tourists. So, mija, he comes here to talk about the worst-case scenario and try to scare me. But no, your Poppy is no coward, eh?” He shook a finger in the air. “Absolutely not. This place, it’s been in our family too many decades. I raise your mami here. I won’t sell. I can’t,” Poppy said earnestly. His cloudy brown eyes looked far away again.
Zoey wondered what her grandfather was remembering. Her own bowling alley memories were all like abridged YouTube ads. A collage of snippets, each lasting only a few seconds. Mami laughing when five-year-old Zoey rolled the bowling ball from between her legs and it got stuck halfway down the lane, followed by Mami chasing after her when Zoey went down the lane to roll the ball the rest of the way. Dad shooting mini basketball hoops with José, while Mami and Zoey cheered them on, waiting for their turn. Mami showing Zoey how to shine rental shoes behind the counter. Abuela and Poppy handing Mami free lollipops from the prize basket that cost customers ten tickets apiece, for Zoey and José’s dessert that night.
Zoey glanced back up at Poppy. He looked so forlorn that her heart ached at the sight. Forget the broken sign. Poppy had bigger problems to worry about. But right then, Zoey’s heartache solidified into steely resolve. She was going to figure out a way to save the bowling alley, no matter what.
3
Back at the house, Zoey tried talking to Poppy about Mr. Silos’s visit, but Poppy wasn’t cooperating.
“Poppy, I want to talk about Mr. S—”
“¿Qué?” Poppy said, burying his head in the refrigerator to find the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. “Sorry, mija. I can’t hear you. I look for the onions now!”
Zoey waited beside the fridge until Poppy finally shut the door.
“I was saying—”
Poppy jumped, nearly dropping his onions on the floor.
“Ay, mija, so sorry. I can’t hear you over the music. We talk later.” Poppy shrugged helplessly, but Zoey had just seen him poke at the volume button on the ancient radio/cassette player on his counter. Indeed, the voice of Julio Iglesias suddenly rocketed ten times louder out of Abuela’s old tape. Frustrated, Zoey gave up trying to talk to Poppy and vowed to try again to get his attention later that night, maybe over dinner.
The result of Poppy�
��s insistent culinary avoidance was ropa vieja, a traditional Cuban dish that translated in English to “old clothes.” Ugh. Zoey had zero desire to taste it. Sure, the stuff looked innocently enough like shredded beef, but it probably tasted like old socks. Otherwise, what was up with the name? She pushed the meat to one side and dug into her yellow rice with peas instead.
“Ropa vieja was your mami’s favorite food when she was your age,” Poppy said in his thick accent, smiling sadly. The skin around his glasses crinkled like tissue paper.
José served himself seconds and paused at the kitchen counter, practically inhaling his beef before heading back for thirds. “Man, we haven’t eaten like this in so long,” he said. The way he eyed the slow cooker reminded Zoey of Pooh Bear beaming at a long-lost pot of honey.
“Come más. Come más,” Poppy urged them all to eat more, shooting a Look at Dad that asked without saying out loud, Why doesn’t el Americano feed my grandchildren better?
Dad pretended not to see the Look. “Big news, guys!” he said instead. He tossed his napkin on the table and leaned forward eagerly.
Zoey’s stomach churned, even though she’d just bitten into her ropa vieja and found the tender beef’s peppery seasoning delightful. Usually, whenever Dad announced “big news,” what he meant was “time for a big move.”
Big news: We’re leaving Boston to fulfill my lifelong goal of starting up my own bar and grill in Las Vegas!
Big news: My cousin in Colorado needs an assistant manager at his sporting goods store. Goodbye, Nevada deserts! Hello, skis and snowboards!
Big news: New family business in Silicon Valley! We’re off to repurpose dead cell phones into inspirational fridge magnets!
But Zoey didn’t want to move again. Twelve states in twelve years was more than enough. Plus, they’d only gotten to Poppy’s house three days ago! Zoey had just finished unpacking, and for the first time since Mami died, Zoey felt close to her mother again. She really didn’t want to let that feeling go. José crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair beside Zoey, shaking his head and looking like a younger, angry version of their dad.
“I have this buddy, Ryan Antoli. From high school. He’s done real good the past few years, owns a motorcycle dealership. He needs a new salesperson,” Dad said, pouring himself a tall glass of soda. “And you’re looking at him!”
“Where’s the dealership?” José asked, sucking in his cheeks.
“Ah, that’s the best part,” Dad said. “Your old man’s got a job lined up in the Big Apple!”
Zoey sighed, and immediately felt bad for not mustering up more enthusiasm. Dad looked super excited about his new gig. Maybe this dream would actually stick.
“Where’d the cardboard boxes go?” All her packing things had disappeared from the front hallway yesterday. She’d figured Dad had thrown them out because they were planning to stay awhile. But they would need them now to repack.
“You don’t need to pack, mija,” Poppy told Zoey, patting her arm. “You’re staying home.”
Zoey’s heart floated up to the ceiling at the word. She was home? Home. Home! That meant Zoey could look forward to school in the fall without dread. They’d be at the Jersey Shore with Poppy long enough for her to try out for extracurricular activities. Maybe she’d make a junior varsity sports team. Or join the debate club, like Mami.
“So you’ll be commuting?” Zoey turned to Dad. “Are you taking the train or driving? Are you going to get back really late every night? If I make the girls’ soccer team, do you think you’ll be able to get back in time for my games?”
Dad frowned. “Kiddo, you’re talking at least a four-hour round trip with traffic. It’s too far to commute every day.”
Confused, Zoey’s eyes darted between Dad and Poppy. “I don’t understand. Are we moving or not?”
“I’m going to New York City. I’ll crash on Ryan’s couch while I get settled,” Dad said matter-of-factly.
Dad’s words completely knocked the wind out of her, like the time she and José had gone water tubing in Delaware and she’d been flung off, smacking hard into waves made in the boat’s wake.
Now suddenly Zoey felt like she was back in the water again, out of control and watching Dad speed off to a new adventure alone. But maybe she was overreacting, Zoey thought, trying to calm herself. Surely Dad didn’t mean he was really leaving them. He just needed a day or two to find their new apartment, Zoey reassured herself, and started breathing again.
But beside her, José’s mouth thinned into a grim line.
“You’re leaving.” There was no question in José’s tone, just accusation.
“It’s only temporary,” Dad said, avoiding eye contact and scrolling through his phone.
Zoey stared at Dad, silently willing him to look up. Despite all of his harebrained schemes, this was the first time he had ever talked about living without them. No, without her, Zoey realized with a jolt. Dad was only leaving her, since José would be at college soon.
“How long?” Zoey asked, her voice small. Moving suddenly sounded better than being abandoned by the only parent she had left. But Zoey was afraid if she said that out loud, then José would get all protective and shout at Dad. The last thing any of them needed was another huge fight.
“I don’t know, kiddo. I have the job on a trial basis. When the probation period’s up, I’ll come to get you.”
He turned his wide blue eyes on Zoey then, and she knew what he needed her to say. That she’d be okay. That everything was great. “Peacemaker” was Zoey’s role in the family, the same way José’s was “realist.” Whenever José yanked Dad down to reality, Zoey dusted Dad off and launched him back toward the stars. Mami used to do both, could balance Dad out with a single loving phrase, but ever since she’d died, the Finolio siblings split the job between them. If Mami were here, she would’ve asked Dad to join her in the kitchen, then convinced him in soft whispers not to leave while they cut up flan for dessert.
Zoey glanced away, frantically trying to think of a way to make Dad stay. For the first time ever, she didn’t want to just tell Dad that she was okay with his “big news.” Her gaze landed on a gold-framed photo of Mami on the boardwalk with Poppy and Abuela, in front of the bright red sign for Gonzo’s. Every letter was lit by a necklace of tiny yellow lights. Suddenly Zoey had an idea of how she might convince Dad not to go.
“Wait, hang on, Dad. You can’t leave because we have to save the bowling alley—”
“Zoey!” Poppy interrupted sharply.
Zoey hesitated, but only for a moment. “There’s this mean guy who wants to evict Poppy and turn his bowling alley into a hotel! But I’ve been thinking, and maybe we can save the bowling alley if we fix it up. You could stay and help with the repairs. We’ll get new customers and make enough to pay off the mortgage and—”
“Zoey! That’s enough. I told you I don’t want you worrying about grown-up problems. That’s what the adults are for,” Poppy said, shooting some major side-eye at Dad. “The bowling alley is my concern, and only my concern.”
Dad nodded, exhaling loudly. “Listen to your Poppy, Zoey. He knows what he’s doing. Just like I know what I’m doing. We’re all working through something here. I have a good feeling about selling motorcycles—I just can’t afford to move us all to Manhattan yet. And lots of kids spend the summer with their grandparents. This is just temporary,” he said again, giving Zoey’s hand a quick squeeze. “I should have enough for my own place in the city by the time José goes to college, and then you can come bunk with your old man. Sound good?”
No, Zoey thought, gawking at her father. What sounded good to her was staying put together as a family. Mami had always said, “Lo más importante del mundo es la familia.” The most important thing in the world is family. Had Dad somehow forgotten that?
“What happened to your dream of starting that food truck, Finolio’s Famous Grilled Cheeses?” Zoey asked, desperately grasping for another reason to make him stay. “Isn’t that why
we moved here to begin with? Let’s feed all those hungry people at the beach! You make the best mozzarella-muenster-provolone blend in the world!”
Dodging Zoey’s gaze, Dad checked his phone again. His free hand combed uncomfortably through his thick brown hair. Poppy crossed his arms at the same time as José and raised his eyebrows. “Michael, aren’t you going to answer your daughter’s question?”
Dad finally put his phone down on the table. “Look, I didn’t realize how expensive buying a new truck would be. Or how many regulations applied. I’d basically need a full kitchen. And developing a whole menu around just one dish, especially a simple one like grilled cheese, turned out to be a lot harder than I thought.”
I could help, Zoey thought excitedly, imagining tomatoes, caramelized onions, all the toppings they could add to create a whole line of famous grilled cheeses. Maybe even ropa vieja on rye. But before she had a chance to pipe up, Poppy interrupted.
“Excuses, excuses, excuses,” he muttered in disgust. “¡Ya basta! I am so sick of your excuses, Michael! In the twenty years I know you, you never change! The only thing I can count on with you is that you will never—nunca—amount to nada!” Poppy banged his fist on the table, and Zoey jumped along with the water cups.
Dad’s jaw twitched beneath the shadow of his beard. “I can’t help it if things don’t always go as planned.”
But his choice of words only seemed to further infuriate Poppy, whose face turned purple. A vein popped out on his neck, zigzagging from his shirt collar all the way to his ear. “Ya sé.”
“I’m teaching them to follow their dreams,” Dad said slowly, glaring at Poppy. Next to Zoey, José scoffed.
“No dreams, tontería! You have every privilege in the world and you waste it! You know how hard it is for my family coming to a new country to build our lives? No. You don’t know. You were born here. You can do anything. But you don’t. And you are no longer a young man with no one to support, Michael,” Poppy said, his accent growing thicker in his exasperation. “You are a father of two who quits every single job he starts. And it’s not like you even have one—” Poppy pointed his index finger at Dad’s shirt “—big passion you try to make work. Oh no, you are not a painter or a poet or a chef like my Jasmeen! No, you have dream of the day, like my restaurant in the bowling alley used to have soup of the day. You’re not special—you have specials!” Poppy shouted, waving his hands for emphasis. “Today grilled cheese, tomorrow motorcycles. But qué va, mijo, you are forty-four years old! Time to grow up.”
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