Sal and Gabi Break the Universe (A Sal and Gabi Novel)

by Carlos Hernandez

  It stopped me in my tracks. That much joy coming from a hospital waiting room is…unusual.

  “This is the best family,” Nurse Sotolongo said over her shoulder. “They’ll probably adopt you before the night is over. Come on.”

  She entered the waiting room, and I, after taking a deep breath, walked in behind her. Seven people stood up from their chairs and cheered as we entered.

  I mean cheered. They made me jump.

  Before we could do anything, a woman exactly old enough to be Nurse Sotolongo’s mami swooped over to a table filled with huge aluminum trays of Cuban pork, rice, beans, yucca, plantains, and a jumbo plastic bowl overflowing with packaged salad. In two seconds she had piled a paper plate so full I was sure it would collapse. She placed that plate in Nurse Sotolongo’s hands and smeared a niña-buena kiss all over her cheek.

  “Good, you’re back!” said the Cuban mother. “Now you can eat!”

  Poor Nurse Sotolongo. I knew that look on her face all too well. She wasn’t hungry. My guess was that she had been at this party earlier and had been forced to python down enough food for three days. To a Cuban mother, it doesn’t matter that you have eaten. That was then. Nurse Sotolongo had to eat now, or risk breaking this sweet mami’s heart.

  Sal to the rescue. “Hi!” I said to the Cuban mother, and stuck out my hand. “My name is Sal. Nurse Sotolongo said you wouldn’t mind if I joined your party. Gosh, everything smells so good! I love Cuban food. And boy, am I starving!”

  I had said the magic word: “starving.” Say that to a Cuban mother sometime. I dare you.

  The Cuban mother almost fainted. “Po! Bre! Ci! To!” she said, and literally took the plate out of Nurse Sotolongo’s hands and placed it in mine.

  “Hey!” said Nurse Sotolongo, suddenly jealous.

  Cuban mother touched her face. “You don’t mind, do you, mi niña? I’ll go make you another plate right now. Double the size of the last one!”

  “No, no!” said Nurse Sotolongo. “I…I’m being paged!” She wasn’t, but she grabbed her pager and shook it herself as if it were buzzing. “See? I have to go.”

  “Oh, okay. But come back soon? We’re going to cut the cake the second La Jefa gets back. She’s just finishing up her homework in the cafeteria. She’s heading up right now.”

  “I will,” Nurse Sotolongo lied. She made mean eyes at me that meant Cover for me, or else! Then she turned back to Cuban Mom and asked her, “You’ll watch over Chacumbele here?”

  “Like he was my own.” And she meant it. Nurse Sotolongo had been right—Cuban Mom was ready to adopt me on the spot.

  Nurse Sotolongo left and the Cuban mother introduced me to the room: “Everybody! We have a new guest! This is Sal!”

  “Hi, Sal!” said six adults at once. I raised my plate to them in greeting.

  And then, from behind me, a shocked girl’s voice asked, “Sal? What are you doing here?”

  I looked over my shoulder to see the person the Cuban mother had called La Jefa, standing in the doorway with her mouth open. La Jefa couldn’t believe that I was there. La Jefa was Gabi Reál.

  There’s no point in saying “Huh?” or “What?” or “What’s going on?” when impossible things happen. It’s better to just play along. So I smiled over my mountain of food and replied, “Hi, Gabi! I came to wish your brother a happy birthday!”

  “HOW DID YOU know it’s my brother’s birthday?!” asked Gabi. I could almost see her head exploding. Very satisfying.

  That’s also when I noticed she had changed the barrettes in her hair again. Now they were colorful metal birthday cakes.

  “Oh, good! You two know each other,” said the Cuban mother.

  “This is the kid I told you about, Mom!” Gabi said, pointing at me. “The one who caused all the trouble today? The one who made the chicken appear in Yasmany’s locker? The one who fooled the most advanced lie detector in the world?” And when her mom wasn’t getting it: “The brujo?”

  “I’m not a brujo,” I objected, maybe sounding a little too serious. So, to soften my tone, I added, “I’m a magician.”

  “Magician?” said the Cuban mother, somehow looking even more excited. “Cool!”

  “I like magic,” said the biggest, beardiest guy in the room.

  “Ooh, me too,” said an African American woman with black-and-gold braids piled like a vase on her head. She wore a doctor’s smock. “Can you show us a trick, Sal?”

  At first, Gabi had looked annoyed that her family was being nice to me. But then, suddenly sly, she said, “Oh yeah. Sure he can. I bet he can make that whole plate of food disappear right before your eyes. Can’t you, Sal?”

  “You can?” asked Gabi’s mom, wanting with all her heart to see that happen.

  No, I couldn’t. I had no idea how to make a trick like that work. I would have to design a whole act for it and practice it for weeks. The only way I could make it happen right now is if I tore a hole in the universe. And I’d done more than enough ripping for one day.

  But still, I have a weakness for Cuban moms. So fine, Gabi. Challenge accepted.

  I stepped into the center of the room and did a 360 on the ball of my socked right foot. The crowd oohed appreciatively. Gabi’s mom almost lunged for me, scared I would drop the plate, but Gabi grabbed the back of her shirt.

  “I can indeed,” I said after the spin, in my deep performer’s voice. “Watch in amazement as this plate goes from overflowing to empty right before your eyes.”

  I twirled the plastic fork like a magic wand, held it up in the air for two full seconds, and then…started eating. A nice big forkful of pork. I chewed dramatically, making mmm-mm! noises, surprised and wide-eyed. I swallowed theatrically, then took another bite.

  “Um…” said Gabi’s mom.

  “What?” I asked, mouth full. “I said I would make it disappear. I didn’t say how long it would take.”

  The room cracked up and applauded.

  Gabi’s mom steered me by the shoulders into an empty chair by the table, right by the huge chocolate sheet cake. “Very funny. Now, you sit here and eat, and when you’re done, there’s cake for you.” She turned her back to me and said to the rest of the room, “Okay, everybody, line up! Stop stuffing your faces and being so rude. Introduce yourself to Gabi’s friend!” Spinning around to face me again, she thrust out her hand so fast it vibrated where it hung in the air. “Hello. My name is Reina Reál. I write an advice column called ‘No es fácil.’”

  “It’s bilingual,” said Gabi, beaming. “It’s syndicated in eight countries.”

  I stuck my fork in the top of my food mountain like a flag so I could shake Ms. Reál’s hand. “I’m Salvador Vidón. It is my distinct pleasure to meet you.”

  “Politeness is one of your tricks,” said Gabi, moving from behind her mother. “But I told my parents about you. You aren’t going to fool anyone here, chacho!”

  “Don’t be rude, Jefa,” said Ms. Reál, putting a hand on Gabi’s shoulder. “Sal is our guest.”

  A second later, Gabi extended her hand to me. But when I went to shake it, she yanked it away suddenly.

  “Gotcha!” she said, and held up her hand so I could see the GOTCHA! stamp still imprinted on it.

  I left my hand out there, floating in the air, and put on a wounded smile. “Yep. You sure got me. Feel better now?”

  “Gabrielle Reál!” her mom exclaimed.

  Gabi narrowed her eyes until only her black-claw eyelashes were visible. “I was just getting him back, Mom.”

  “You’re already writing an article about him,” said Ms. Reál. “Isn’t that enough revenge?”

  “Mom!”

  I took the fork up again and enjoyed the one bite of salty, garlicky yucca I was going to allow myself. Yucca is delicious but, alas, loaded with carbs. “You’re writing an article about me?” I asked with my mouth full.

  Pro tip: Speaking with your mouth full is a good way to make yourself sound more innocent.

  Gabi stuck o
ut her chin and squared her body at me, the way you see heroes in movies face a firing squad. “Yes. What happened at Culeco today is the biggest story I have ever witnessed in all my year of reporting. The school newspaper has a responsibility to cover it.”

  I munched pork and, as casually as I could, asked, “Can I see it?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “Tomorrow. When everyone else does.”

  I paid attention to my food. “If it’s about me, I have a right to see it now.”

  “Ha! You have zero right!”

  “You don’t have to be so confrontational, Jefa,” said Ms. Reál.

  “Actually, Mom, I do. Because it would be against journalistic ethics. You more than anyone else here should know that.”

  “What am I, yesterday’s news?” said the man in line behind Gabi. He was medium in every way: medium height, medium build, skin tone right in the middle between white and black, and a medium amount of curls left on his middle-aged head. He wore casual-Friday pants and a tie that had as many digits of pi that could fit on it. “Weathermen are journalists, too.”

  Ms. Reál made her hands talk like puppets and mouthed, Blah, blah, blah. But then she waved the man over. “Come here; introduce yourself, mi vida.”

  Gabi stepped aside, dodging the man’s jousting-lance arm just in time. “Hi!” he said. “I’m Lightning Dad.”

  “I’m Sal,” I replied. Then, after I had a second to think: “Um, Lightning Dad?”

  “Don’t you watch TV?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh,” said Lightning Dad, deflated. But he recovered instantly, and, happy as a helium balloon, said, “I’m the chief meteorologist for the AhoraMismo News Network. Miami’s most popular local news!”

  “And Lightning Dad is your stage name?”

  “What? Oh, no. That’s just what the family calls me. Gabi has so many dads, you know. We need a way to tell us all apart.”

  My face must have done something when he said Gabi has so many dads. To explain what he meant, he pulled forward the next person in line—that big beardy dude who’d claimed he liked magic. “What’s your name?” Lightning Dad asked him.

  The man had been caught off guard by being yanked to the front of the line. So he blinked and guessed, “José?”

  “No, your dad name!”

  “Oh! Grizzly Dad’ums.” He smiled like a well-fed bear and offered me his massive paw to shake. “I work for the American Heart Association.”

  After Grizzly Dad’ums came Cari-Dad, the black woman with the amazing braids. Yep, apparently women could be Gabi dads, too. Cari-Dad was a cardiologist, and she and Grizzly Dad’ums had been married for a while, years ago. They were divorced now. But you wouldn’t know it by the way they laughed and loved on each other.

  In fact, this was the most love-filled room I’d been in since…forever? I didn’t have enough family for a family reunion, so I didn’t know for sure, but my guess was that this was what family reunions felt like.

  In the course of the next half hour, I also met:

  1. Dada-ist, an artist originally from the Dominican Republic who had sculptures on display in the Miami Museum of Kinetic Art. He showed me a video of his work: mobiles made of shiny black tiles hanging from the ceiling on fishing lines. The tiles spun and swirled around slowly and, every once in a while, came together to become human faces. I liked his art a lot.

  2. Daditarian, a second-gen Cuban American who had started a food co-op. He talked to me for fifteen minutes straight about how the world would be a better place if everyone ate bugs instead of cows. He pulled a bag of dried crickets out of his pocket (my guess is that he always had some dried bugs with him, the same way I always carried a trick or two) and asked me if I wanted to eat some. All the other dads made faces and said I didn’t have to.

  I ate some. They tasted exactly like Crunchy Cheetos. Plus, no carbs. Ten out of ten would eat cheesybugs again.

  3. Dada-dada-dada-dada Dadman!, who exercised more in a month than all the other dads put together exercised in a year, because he worked as an actor all over Florida, usually as whichever superhero happened to be the most popular at the moment. He was the most recent dad addition, and the most recent Cuban immigrant in the family. He thought America was the best country in the world.

  “Confused yet?” asked Gabi.

  She’d been watching me as I met each dad with the sideways look of a hawk deciding if you’re worth killing and eating. I could tell that she’d had to defend her dads against a disapproving world more than once. And she was more than ready to defend them against me, right here, right now.

  But she didn’t have to worry. It was true I didn’t know the story behind why they all had introduced themselves as dads. I was pretty sure they weren’t all actually married to each other, because that’s illegal. So, okay, they were honorary dads. Cool. It was clear they all loved each other as deeply as any family. Ms. Reál was the mom, and these other people were dads, and Gabi was the kid (and also La Jefa, lol), and everyone was happy, and there was a huge chocolate sheet cake for dessert. Love is all that matters.

  So I said to Gabi, “What’s confusing? You have a bunch of papis. Awesome. I mean, I’m not sure how you can survive all their dad jokes, but that’s your business.”

  I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment Gabi became my friend for real. Months later, she told me the way I had met her interesting, complicated family, pleasantly and without judgment, and, especially, my dad-joke joke, made her think I was the most mature seventh grader she had ever met. Except for herself, of course.

  Ms. Reál hugged me—she’d been standing beside me the whole time, too, making sure I kept eating between introductions—and said, “Lightning Dad’s jokes are the worst. Watch out.”

  “I’m a meteorologist!” said Lightning Dad indignantly. “Bad jokes are my livelihood!”

  “I am confused about one thing, however,” I said.

  “What’s that?” asked Ms. Reál.

  “Where’s Gabi’s brother? Isn’t it his birthday?”

  All the dads went quiet. Ms. Reál bit her bottom lip.

  “You really want to know?” asked Gabi.

  Given how everyone reacted, I did, now more than ever. “Yeah.”

  Gabi looked to her mom and dads, and everyone nodded approval. So she left the room, and I followed, and we went to see the most heartbreaking patient in the whole hospital.

  I FOLLOWED GABI to the neonatal intensive care unit. I knew the way, too, but I let her lead. This was her show.

  “Hi, Gabi,” said Nurse Sotolongo, who was sitting at the reception desk. “What, is Chacumbele giving you trouble? You had to return him to me?”

  Gabi, confused, laughed and asked, “What’s a Chacumbele?”

  “That’s me,” I said. “Chacumbele is this legendary hot guy in Cuba. All the ladies loved him. So Nurse Sotolongo is basically saying I’m hot.”

  Nurse Sotolongo laughed in that way that was mostly spraying spit. “You wish. Chacumbele got hacked to bits by the woman he cheated on. I call you Chacumbele because you play too much with fire.”

  “Stop the whole world,” said Gabi. “How do you two know each other?”

  “He probably puts in more hours here than I do with his magic shows. Got any new tricks for the kiddos, Sal?”

  “Yep. Going to try one out in my next show. I call it the Flying Tarantula.”

  Nurse Sotolongo cringed. “Ew. Well, make sure I’m not around when you do it, okay? I hate spiders.”

  “Me too,” said Gabi. And her voice sounded like she’d just drunk a six-pack of gasoline.

  “Anyway,” said Nurse Sotolongo, “Iggy was asleep when I checked on him, so don’t wake him up, okay?”

  “I’m always on my best behavior,” I said, walking past her and into the NICU.

  When I noticed Gabi hadn’t joined me, I turned around. She was just standing there, gawking at me.

  “You coming?” I encouraged.

  Shaki
ng her head to clear it, she waved thanks to Nurse Sotolongo and caught up with me, then passed me.

  She was facing forward, marching ahead, when she said, “Salvador Alberto Dorado Vidón. I have never been surprised so many times in the same day by one person.”

  “Surprise is what I do,” I said. Got a laugh out of her.

  But then her mood changed. Never looking back, she said, in a quiet voice I didn’t even know she had, “Look, Sal. This is serious. My brother is very, very sick. So no surprises. No tricks, no jokes, no magic. Or we don’t go. Okay?”

  We reached the door to the sterile-environment ward. Even after all the magic shows I had performed here at the NICU, I had never been inside. I’d always wanted to know what was going on in there.

  Gabi cleared her throat. She was staring at me, arms crossed, waiting for an answer, blocking the door, tapping her foot, one eyebrow all the way up.

  “Whatever you say,” I replied. “No surprises.”

  The sterile-environment ward sounded like a machine exhaling. It felt a little colder than the rest of the hospital. Cameras looked down at us from the ceiling, which gave me a different kind of chill.

  We entered, and Gabi shut the door behind us as fast as she could. All sound from outside was cut off.

  Gabi walked me over to the hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall and caught a glop of it as it automatically fell into her hand. She rubbed her palms together like she was trying to start a fire with them. Then she grabbed a surgical mask from a plastic container and slipped it over her nose and mouth.

  She flicked her eyebrows at me in that way that meant What are you waiting for? I sanitized my hands and put on a mask, too.

  Besides the long waiting room Gabi and I were standing in now, the sterile-environment ward had four rooms, all with see-through walls. They looked like normal hospital rooms for kids, with beds and chairs and machines, cartoony wallpaper, and Playskool toys. The books, magazines, and little medical advice cards splayed over the nightstands were there to help the grown-ups pass the time while their kids fought for their lives.