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

by Carlos Hernandez

  I ignored her and passed the time looking around. This place could seat two hundred people, easy. Each round white-top table was surrounded by eight cushionless yellow chairs. My guess is that the hospital didn’t want to encourage people to stick around for long. Looked like it was working.

  The cafeteria had exactly three people in it, besides Gabi and me: Three custodians, all sitting at different tables, clutched their mugs of coffee and tried not to fall asleep, even though it was only the afternoon. The cashier was a robot that didn’t have legs. It looked like a woman from the waist up, and only one of its eyes still blinked. Its name badge said ALMA.

  “I am coming to get you!” Gabi sang from beneath the table. “I am getting closer!” went the song. “I am almost upon you!” she tra-la-la’ed. “You’d better speak now, or you’re gonna get it!”

  I didn’t.

  And then Gabrielle Reál, straight-A student, student council president, and editor of the Rotten Egg, bit my leg.

  As you might expect from a shark-girl, she bit to kill. She clamped her jaws on my calf and threw her head back and forth like a dog with its chew toy. “Grrr!” she said happily.

  Lucky for me, I hadn’t had a chance to update my wardrobe to Florida weather yet. I had on cargo pants (instead of, say, cargo shorts) that protected my drumstick. It turned Gabi’s attempted mauling into a slightly uncomfortable but completely endurable gumming. The hardest part was not laughing.

  But freaky dudes in bauta masks don’t laugh. I sat there, unmoving, unperturbed. The three janitors sipped their coffees at the same time.

  Gabi popped up from beneath the table so fast that all her fighter-jet barrettes flew a crisscross pattern in the air for a second before settling back into her puffball hair. She was frowning.

  “Seriously, Sal, are you okay?” she asked. “Did something bad happen?”

  Ploy to get me to talk, or genuine concern? I played it safe: I moved my head slowly closer to hers, turning it to study her from weird, inhuman angles, the way Principal Torres had. Then I ducked down beneath the table.

  When I rose again, I had the other mask in my two hands. I held it out to her. In the wordless way of a loving animal, I gestured with my bauta beak that she should take it.

  Gabi gave me an evil smile. She grabbed it and was just about to shove it on her face without thinking.

  Nuh-uh. I interrupted her by handing her a note. Still holding the mask in one hand, she took the note, flapped it in the air until it was unfolded, and then read it out loud. “‘Gabrielle Reál, girl with a thousand fathers, whose name means “reality,” know this: Once you don this mask, you will cease to be a person. Your body will vanish, and all that will be left of you are the things you live for. All your past deeds, be they good or be they evil, shall define you. So before you replace your own face with that mask, ask thyself: Are you prepared to become what you believe?’”

  “Sal!” she said, shocked and kind of thrilled. “Did you write that? That is so good! You must have written it, because I’ve never heard it before, and if it existed I would have heard of it. Oh my God! How did you come up with something so good?”

  “You like it?” I asked. “I just wrote it on the way here. It’s not bad, right? I read a lot of fantasy, so I’m pretty good at—”

  “Ha!” she yelled in triumph. “Made you break character! All it took was a little flattery.” She started dancing around the table. “Sal always wants to be the star, but vanity won’t get him far, directors will say au revoir, if he can’t share the cookie jar with other people, har-har-har!”

  The left janitor snorted.

  I wanted to laugh, too. Did she come up with all those rhymes on the spot? Gabi could lay down some bars.

  But I wasn’t going to tell her that right after she’d burned me. I wasn’t going to say a thing. I was just going to stare at her. Like a one-eyed rooster.

  “Aw, not this again!” said Gabi. “C’mon, Sal, cut the cacaseca.”

  I just tilted my head to the other shoulder, in pity for her. Rooster pity.

  “Sal! Come on! You were telling me what the homework assignment was. So, what, we have to use the mask to invent a new character? Do we have to create a scene?” She tied on her mask.

  That was my cue!

  I flew out of my chair and swept over to Gabi, who’d gotten halfway around the table by then. “Beg you will, mortal, as all who came before you have, and all who come after you shall. For I am Life’s End, I am Fin, I am Rot and Ruin and a pile of bones. You and I will walk you away from your body, arm in arm. We will journey together into the Great Hereafter. You will not want to come, but you will come with me. You have no choice. For I am—”

  “Death!” she guessed, jumping up and down, clapping.

  She already knew she was right, but I told her anyway. “You are correct, m’lady!” I said, giving her a Renaissance Faire bow. “We have to create a scene. One of us plays Death, and the other one tries to bargain with Death. It’s—”

  “An Everyman play!” said Gabi.

  “I love Everyman plays,” said one of the janitors.

  Of course Gabi knew what an Everyman play was. “I’d never even heard of an Everyman play until today,” I admitted, taking my seat again.

  She started dancing around the table at top speed. “Oh, they’re so much fun! You’re going to be all like, ‘I am Death, and you have to die now!’ And I’ll be all like, ‘Oh no, I am not ready, Death! Give me more time!’ And you’ll be like, ‘No, there is no bargaining with Death!’ And I’ll be like, ‘No, Death, have mercy!’ And you’ll be like, ‘Too bad, mortal!’ And I’ll be like—”

  “Why do I have to play Death?” I interrupted.

  “Ha!” Gabi started creeping toward me from halfway around the table, wiggling her fingers. “What, are you scared of Death?”

  “Um. Yes, actually. I’ve seen what Death can do.”

  I wish my voice hadn’t cracked.

  Gabi took off her mask, revealing the tragedy mask her face had become. “Sal, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to trigger you. You’re probably still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder from the death of your beautiful mother, and here I am, making jokes. I’m just feeling so much better ever since I heard that Iggy’s out of the woods. Now I’m all like ‘Ha! Suck it, Death! My baby bro beat you again!’ as if he’d defeated Death forever. But that’s just plain ignorant of me, and insensitive. Please forgive me.”

  It’s easier to forgive when you’re wearing a mask, so I kept mine on for a little while longer. “S’all good. I wanted to play Death, anyway.”

  I texted the padres to ask for two favors. Can I sleep at the hospital tonight? And could you bring some stuff from home? It’s for a drama assignment.

  Yes and yes. It really helps to have great padres. I’m lucky, and I know it.

  While we waited for them to arrive, Gabi and I knocked out all our non-theater homework for Monday. And PS, if you ever want to do the best homework of your life, partner with Gabi Reál. Seriously, by the time we’d finished, I felt like I’d grown an extra little brain in my left shoulder to hold all the new knowledge I had. I think it might be whispering to me still.

  The padres walked into the cafeteria around dinnertime, horsing around, as usual. They each had a big box filled with props and costumes and toiletries and a few changes of underwear. They kept ramming into each other like bumper cars.

  I had bought three espressos, one for each of them and one for Gabi (who, you guessed it, was already addicted to coffee), and had them waiting on our table. I kept smacking Gabi’s hand away from hers so we could all drink espresso together.

  Well, except me; I had water. I don’t drink caffeine. Magicians need steady hands.

  I’d also gotten them a thank-you flan for everyone (except me) to share. The padres sat down and were very grateful; they hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch.

  I told them it was important not to skip meals. “What,” I said, “do
you want to end up in the hospital or something?”

  Trolling parents is fun.

  The padres asked about Iggy, and Gabi cheerfully related how well he’d responded to a new drug regimen, and how she just couldn’t wait for all this to be over and have her little brother safe at home. We toasted our drinks to that.

  Once the flan was gone, Gabi sidled over to American Stepmom and chatted her up. She seemed especially interested in talking to her. I wondered why, paranoically.

  Whatever. That gave Papi a chance to ask me the big question he had for me. “So. How was gym class today?”

  “Health and Wellness,” I corrected.

  “Yes, right. Did anybody beat the red zone today?”

  “Nope.”

  Cubans don’t get shocked or stunned. They get asombrado—mysterious shadows cross their faces when they’re confused. All sorts of shadows crossed Papi’s face now. “Really? I mean, I thought after—” And then he shut his mouth fast enough that I heard his teeth clack.

  Ha! He’d almost admitted he had called Mr. Lynott. I took the opportunity to torture him a little more. “After American Stepmom and I figured out how I could cheat to get to the top? Oh, I decided not to cheat after all. You seemed so opposed to the idea, Papi. I couldn’t go against your wishes.”

  “I see,” he said carefully. “And the red zone was…as hard as ever?”

  “Oh yeah. I mean, Mr. Lynott had tried to make it easier for us. Everyone was so mad! Treating us like babies—how could he? We changed it back to the hard wall and made fun of him all period. I mean, how clueless can a chacho be?”

  Papi sipped espresso. “Yeah. What a sandwich.”

  We both decided it was a good time to check in on Gabi and American Stepmom’s conversation.

  “What’s it like being Sal’s mom?” Gabi was asking. “I bet he’s a real handful around the house.”

  American Stepmom turned her surprised mouth into a smile. “A handful? That’s not what I would say. Sal is incredibly talented. I’ve never met anyone so driven to succeed.”

  “Well, you’ve only just met me,” said Gabi.

  American Stepmom laughed and blinked, and blinked a little more without laughing. “Sal is extraordinary. Has he shown you any magic tricks yet?”

  Gabi gave her a look. “Oh yes. Have you seen the one where he throws a spider at your face?”

  “We should head upstairs,” I said, piling both boxes in my arms and heading for the elevator.

  I led the way to the waiting room, where Gabi’s mom and her many, many dads had set up camp. Reina Reál greeted us the second we walked in. She wore a parrot-bright outfit, but her hairdo fell around her shoulders in ruins. She should have sued her mascara company for claiming it was tearproof. She cried when she saw me, cried whenever one of Gabi’s dads came or left, cried as she accepted good wishes from visitors, cried when doctors and nurses told her there had been no change in Ignacio’s condition, cried as she prayed rosaries in groups, and cried to herself when she thought no one was looking.

  But here’s the thing. Her crying never kept her from smiling, laughing, joking, listening, thinking, or caring for anyone else. She just cried and did everything else she would normally do. When she met Papi and American Stepmom for the first time, she cried, and hugged them, and said “no es fácil” over and over.

  She lavished praise on the padres, telling them how wonderful it was of them to come visit, how good-looking they were, and what a caballero of a son they had raised. They were most welcome. And now they must eat!

  Before she knew what had happened, American Stepmom was balancing a heaping paper plate of steaming food in her hands, fresh from the infinite buffet of Cuban goodies against the left wall. She looked at me, panic in her eyes. I shrugged. What can you do? A Cuban mama’s gonna feed you.

  Papi, thoroughly trained in the ways of grieving Cubans, understood exactly what was happening and couldn’t wait to get his plate. He didn’t have to wait long.

  I got to watch as Papi and American Stepmom introduced themselves to the five of Gabi’s dads who were in the room for this shift. Papi kept waiting for American Stepmom to freak out when she shook hands with Dad: The Final Frontier, and American Stepmom kept waiting for Papi, who still seemed confused about even their own marriage sometimes, to freak out about this many people claiming to be Gabi’s dads.

  But no one freaked out. Everyone was nice. No one forgot that the reason we were all sitting in a hospital waiting room was because two floors down a little boy was fighting for his life.

  I love it when adults remember to behave themselves. They forget all the time. Hard to blame them, though. They haven’t been kids for a long while.

  Gabi and I left the adults to their “networking,” or whatever adults did when they were alone. We went to visit Iggy.

  Well, first we went back to the cafeteria so I could pick up an espresso for Nurse Sotolongo. When I gave it to her at the NICU reception desk, she said, “You are officially my best friend in the entire world.” Then, squinting hard at me, she asked, “You didn’t put anything in it, did you?” She sniffed her cup like a squirrel.

  “He didn’t,” chimed Gabi. “I watched him the whole time. You have to keep your eye on Sal, you know.”

  “Dime tú,” she cacaseca’ed. “The second Chacumbele here walked in the hospital, I knew he’d be nothing but trouble.”

  What the heck was this? I opened my arms and told her what she should have said to me: “‘Thank you, Sal, for bringing me coffee! That was so considerate of you, Sal! Of course I know you wouldn’t try to poison my café, Sal!’ Last time I buy you espresso.”

  Nurse Sotolongo shot out of her chair, ran around the reception desk, and enveloped me in a feet-off-the-floor embrace. “No, chacho, no! Don’t say that! I need my cafecitos! I’ve worked more than sixty hours this week, and I still have to get through tonight before I can go to sleep until Monday. If you don’t bring me coffee, who will?”

  “You work sixty hours a week?” asked Gabi. “Sister, you need a union.”

  “Tell me about it. But it’s never going to happen. The medical establishment thinks working nurses to death is good for their character.”

  “I did a report on unions last year. I know a lot about them now. If you want, I could help you start planning how to—”

  “Um,” I said. “Put me down?”

  Nurse Sotolongo looked down and remembered that she’d been crushing me that whole time. “You bringing me a cafecito the next time you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prométalo.”

  “I promise.”

  She dropped me. “And that,” she said, turning to Gabi, “is how you handle Chacumbeles.”

  “Pick them up and squeeze them until they give you what you want,” Gabi replied. “Got it.” They high-fived.

  I was worried that, during the high five, one of them would notice that I’d stolen Nurse Sotlongo’s Fitbit off her wrist. But they didn’t. Gabi also didn’t notice when I slipped it into her backpack as we walked to Iggy’s room.

  And that’s how you handle getting double-teamed. I should high-five myself more often.

  There was less space in Iggy’s room for humans now, because it all had been taken up by tall, hot machines. They babbled to each other in the language of computer beeps. They muttered to themselves like old dogs. They talked in their sleep.

  No room for chairs anymore, so Gabi and I had to stand. We stood on opposite sides of the incubator with our four hands on its lid, like we were healers trying to cast a Cure Disease spell. Iggy lay sleeping inside. He was in just a diaper and a little red hat today. They had tubes up his nose, and a tube in his mouth that went all the way down his throat. A fat IV was taped to his right wrist; another was taped to his right foot. The skin of his hands was peeling off.

  “It’s okay, Sal,” said Gabi. “It’s going to be okay.”

  At first, I felt embarrassed and angry that she’d caught me wipin
g my eye. But I’ve been in therapy long enough to know I just had to wait a second to let the feelings pass. Gabi was just being kind.

  Therapy also taught me what to say next. “You don’t have to tell me it’s going to be okay, Gabi. I’ve been in hospitals a lot. When people lie to make you feel better, you feel worse.”

  “Yeah.” She was almost crying. “Yeah, I know. I hate it when people lie to me.”

  I had been through a lot of the same feelings before, when Mami was in the hospital. My memories, all the confusion and helplessness I felt back then, rolled themselves into a ball and settled in my throat and made it hard to breathe.

  So, time for some calming techniques. And time to express my feelings out loud.

  I took deep, slow breaths. I closed my eyes, concentrated on the warmth of the incubator under my palms. And then I said, “None of this should be happening to Iggy. I feel sad, and angry, and powerless.”

  “Powerless,” Gabi repeated. The way she said it made me open my eyes. She leaned her head back, breathing through her mouth, and the fighter-jet barrettes in her hair all did a nosedive toward the floor. “That’s why I’m so wrecked inside. So”—and here she gritted her teeth—“pissed off. I want to fix this so bad.”

  “I know,” I said. “I really, really know. In other universes, Mami is alive.”

  Gabi nodded for me to keep going.

  I came around to stand next to her, put my hands again on the incubator. “There are other Sals out there who never lost their Mamis. Somewhere out there in the infinite reaches of space, there’s a Mami who’s alive and well and just waiting for me to find her.”

  “Does it help, knowing that?”

  I shook my head. “It makes everything worse. The multiverse is infinite. I can’t search all of infinity. I’d have to get so lucky to find the right Mami that Papi says it’s a ‘statistical impossibility.’”

  Gabi nodded in sympathy. “‘Statistical’ is the worst kind of impossible, because it acts like there’s a chance, when there isn’t.”

  I wanted to cry, which always makes me want to hide. To fight the urge, I looked Gabi in the eye and said, “It’s so hard to take. How am I supposed to take that?”