Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  No ice princess would stamp her feet to Queen songs. Or yell, “C’MON HARRY! TURN ON THE SCARY!” at the top of her lungs. Or keep her cool when the little brother spilled soda in her lap.

  And, yeah, each of those moments made me turn back for a look. Nothing icy about her. Just hot.

  Only not for me.

  “Not a priority,” I say, flinging off the covers and pulling my mind back to the Daily Three. I make my bed and decide they’re going to be Customer Satisfaction, Staffing, and Bros.

  I text my brother to see if he wants a ride to school today, and then I text Cesar. Maybe he has time for a beer tonight. Alex won’t answer for another hour, but my best friend is already up.

  Cesar: Time and place?

  I move to the kitchen and fill a mug with coffee, tallying up the tasks that fall under my first two priorities. Call the Sterling’s and find out if they want to change anything else before we start framing the house. Check in with Mike and Ella Lambert to smooth over any hard feelings about yesterday’s mess. And try for the twentieth time to reach that woman with the kitchen redesign. I might just have to go over there if she doesn’t pick up this time.

  And I can’t iron out staffing until I know where that third job stands. But I won’t make Cesar wait on me. If I have to work a couple of hours at my desk tonight after we have drinks, so be it.

  Me: 6:30. And you’re the restaurant expert. You pick.

  “You bought lumber from Stine’s? Why not Menard’s? I always bought from Menard’s?” Papi says, frowning up at me from the kitchen table.

  “Stine’s had a better price for three-quarter-inch moulding,” I say, crossing to the counter to refill my travel mug. “Coffee smells good, Mami.”

  My mother flips the last pancake onto a short stack and turns toward the table. “Help yourself. You want some pancakes, Luca?”

  “No time,” I say, shaking my head, and then I realize she’s setting the plate down in front of my father, and I frown. “You sure you should be having pancakes, Papi?”

  He makes a dismissive grumble and reaches for the syrup.

  “Don’t worry, mijo,” Mami says. “His doctor increased his Metformin, so it’s okay.”

  I look from Mami to Papi. “Um… I don’t think that’s how it works, guys.” They both know that’s not how Type 2 diabetes works. We’ve been over this for months.

  Scowling, Papi slathers his short stack with ribbons of syrup. “So, I’m supposed to go without breakfast?”

  I take a slug of coffee and swallow my response. No use in mentioning green smoothies or steel-cut oats. None at all.

  I lean down and kiss my mother on the cheek. “Tell Alex I’ll be in the truck.”

  “Without greeting Abuela?” Mami gasps, scandalized.

  “What was I thinking,” I mutter.

  In the living room, Abuela sits in front of the Today Show, propelling herself in her glider like a champion sculler. Her eyes are trained on the TV screen and she’s clutching her rosary when I bend to kiss her.

  “Buenos dias, Abuela.”

  Abuela doesn’t speak English. I would bet my life on the fact that she understands English perfectly. The woman watches the Today Show religiously and without subtitles. She just won’t speak it. My cousins and I have a theory it’s just to make sure we all learned Spanish despite being American born.

  “¿Qué hay en las noticias?” I ask her.

  My grandmother makes a face like she’s tasted something rotten. “Centros de detención,” she hisses. She rubs her rosary beads between her thumbs and forefingers and mouths the Hail Mary.

  In the time it takes me to send up my own Hail Mary, Alex tears down the stairs, and we head out to my truck.

  “Good game last night,” I tell my little brother when his butt lands on the passenger seat.

  “Thanks.” When his seatbelt clicks in place, I put the truck in reverse. “And thanks for the ride. I hate the bus. I can’t wait ‘til I can drive.”

  I eye him with a smirk. “What’re you planning on driving?”

  “A car.” His sarcasm has me biting back a growl.

  But I just nod and let his answer hang there as we snake through the neighborhood.

  A minute later. “Did Mami and Papi buy you a car when you turned sixteen?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mierda,” he hisses under his breath, staring at his lap. “Did you buy your own? When you were sixteen?”

  “Not sixteen.” I shake my head. “I was seventeen.”

  He blinks. “Why not sixteen?”

  Alejandro is twelve years younger than me. We may have the same parents, but we didn’t have the same childhood. He doesn’t remember the years when Papi was in Mexico, waiting for his green card after he got deported as an illegal. He doesn’t remember the days when it was just Mami, Abuela, and me, the two of them working to keep the rent paid, to save for the day Papi would be allowed to come back and start a business while sending him a little money every month.

  But I do.

  “I couldn’t afford one until then.” I take a sip from my travel mug. I know better than to lecture Alex. He listens more when he’s asking the questions.

  He turns to me with a frown. “You worked?”

  I nod. “Mowed lawns and pressure washed houses for three summers.” We’re stopped at the intersection of Meaux and South College, so I don’t miss his double blink.

  “You started cutting grass when you were my age?” His voice cracks on age, and he clears it forcibly, embarrassed. I hold my mouth as firm as granite, even though I’d love to crack a smile.

  “Yep.”

  “What kind of car did you get?”

  Now I free my grin. “You don’t remember the Geo?”

  “The Easter egg?!” His voice climbs at least two octaves.

  Breath leaves me in a laugh. “You did call it that,” I say, chuckling at the memory. “Yeah, the blue egg.”

  He’s quiet until we stop at the light in front of Rouse’s Grocery. “You worked for three summers before you could buy that piece of shit?”

  I aim my glare at him. Yeah, I curse, but Alex wouldn’t know it. That might make me a hypocrite, but he’s fourteen. I don’t want him to sound like some naco punk. He can curse in front of me when he’s older.

  Alex rolls his eyes. “You look just like Abuela when you make that face.”

  “You’d better not be cursing like that in front of Abuela.”

  “You think I’m loco?”

  I eye him like the jury is still out, but he knows I’m joking, so he just snorts. “So, if I promise not to curse, can I come work for you this summer?”

  I keep my focus trained on the traffic in front of me. A construction site is the worst place to park him if I don’t want him to curse. But it will be the best way for him to decide if this is the life he wants.

  Papi named the business Valencia & Sons Construction when I was Alex’s age and before my brother was even potty trained. To say Papi had hopes and dreams for us would be an understatement. And that worked for me.

  But I want Alex to have choices. For him to know what to choose, he needs to know what he wants and what he doesn’t. I don’t want him to go into Construction Management at LSU just because I did.

  “I think I could put you to work,” I say simply.

  From the corner of my eye, I see a smile break over his face. “That’d be awesome.”

  I shrug. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ll be low man on the totem pole. Hauling dirt, picking up trash, sweeping sawdust...”

  This doesn’t seem to faze him. “Yeah, but I’ll be making bank,” he says, rubbing his palms together.

  I scoff. “You’ll be making minimum wage.”

  “What?!”

  His shriek makes me wince. “You heard me.”

  “Minimum wage?”

  I join the line of cars waiting to pull into Lafayette High’s horseshoe drive. “You think your knowledge and experience deserve more than that?” I
don’t have to look at him to know his mouth is hanging open, but I glance over in time to see it close. He narrows his glare at me, and now he’s the one who looks just like Abuela.

  “Does everyone you hire start at minimum wage?”

  I shrug. “Everyone with zero experience and zero training.”

  “Hmmph.” His lips press together and he mutters, “You’d think you’d give your own brother a break.”

  He’s not really upset—at least, I don’t think so. And if he is, he needs to get over it. “I am giving you a break, ” I say, nudging the truck into the drive and braking as cars crawl through the drop-off line. “By paying you what you’re worth, I’m making sure the business with your name on it stays profitable.”

  He doesn’t have to like this, but I’m glad when I see the corner of his mouth turn up just a little. “So you’re saying keeping me poor is making me rich?”

  My chuckle is low but automatic. “Appreciate the paradox.”

  Alex sniffs a laugh. Then he looks at me and shakes his head. “You’re not fooling me.”

  “I’m not trying to fool you.”

  Shooting me his best wise-ass face, my brother shakes his head. “You’re trying to fool everyone, but you don’t fool me.”

  He looks so smug, I have to reach across the seats and mess with his hair.

  “Hey!” His skinny arms shoot out to defend against my attack.

  Wait a minute. They used to be skinny. They look bigger, more solid. When did that happen?

  “Serves you right,” I say as he rakes his fingers through his hair, restoring the order of his dark waves.

  “Yeah, that’s what I get for speaking the truth. I see through you.” His voice holds a teasing note, but something in the way he averts his eyes has me frowning.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Alex shakes his head. “Nah. Forget I said anything.” We’re at the front of the line, and it’s his turn to get out. His hand is already on the door, but I grab one of the straps of his backpack.

  “Hermano, what do you mean?”

  He opens the door and leans out, tugging against the backpack. “I gotta go, Luc.”

  I firm my grip. I’m wearing a grin, but I have no intention of letting go. “Tell me.”

  He climbs out of the truck and the backpack forms a link between us, neither one of us letting go. The car behind me honks.

  “C’mon, Luc.” His eyes widen with exasperation.

  I hold his gaze with my own determined one. “I’ll let go when you talk.”

  The car behind us honks again. An on-duty teacher motions for me to pull forward. I ignore her.

  “Luuuuuc.” He drags my name out until it’s at least three syllables. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Can’t. Won’t.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Fine.” He throws up his free hand in defeat and then gestures at me with it. “This. Your big brother routine. All work and no play.”

  I frown. He tugs at the backpack, but I hold on. “Work is important.” It has to be. I’m running the family business now.

  “Yeah, but it’s not everything,” he says, all smugness. “And the way you were looking at that bonita at the game last night tells me you know it too.” Alex jerks hard on the backpack, and the strap pops from my grip.

  My brother tips me a two-finger salute, turns, and melts into the crowd before I can utter a single word.

  By ten a.m., I’ve ticked off almost half of the tasks on my list. I’ve logged a brief report about Hector’s dirt dump into his employee file, realizing when I did that it’s not the first time his failure to show up on time has cost the company.

  Papi had a three strikes policy. As far as I’m concerned, three strikes seems excessive. Why should I let anyone fuck up a third time? What’s wrong with getting it right the first time?

  Don’t get me wrong. Accidents are one thing. I’m not talking about accidents. I’m talking about dumbass moves. About being somewhere else when you’re supposed to be waiting on a dirt delivery.

  I’m not eager to fire anyone. I’ve done it once right before Papi went into the hospital. He’d asked me to do it, and even though the guy I fired needed to be fired, it still wasn’t a fun time.

  Hector probably needs to be fired, but I decide to give him one more strike.

  Before I break for lunch, I reach out to my clients—or try to anyway. The family with the new construction is easy enough to contact, and the good news is they don’t want to change a thing. We’ll have some framing up by tonight. I leave a message on Ella Lambert’s voicemail, asking her to call me if the clean-up didn’t meet her satisfaction.

  And then I try the lady with the house on St. Mary, but instead of the call going to voicemail this time, I hear the three-tone beep and then,

  “We’re sorry, but the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service…”

  I hang up. She must have changed her number. I look down on the papers from Papi’s meetings with her and grimace. He took her deposit last spring. Her orders for cabinets, lighting, and appliances were filled weeks ago, and the tile and granite should come in soon. I know we fell behind schedule when Papi got sick, but this is bad. We should have started the job in September. She’s probably ready to sue us by now. I roll up her plans and head for my truck.

  A silver Infiniti QX80 sits in the driveway at 1021 West St. Mary Street. Somebody’s home. I pull up and kill the engine.

  As soon as I step out of my truck, the red front door opens and a baying, bounding white blur surges off the front porch.

  I halt on the spot. Jesucristo.

  “Clarence!” A woman’s voice calls from the porch, but I can’t spare her a look because this dog is huge. He’s not even a dog. He’s a polar bear.

  The bear stops three feet in front of me, tips up his chin, and bays again, aiming his warning to the treetops. Hell, they can probably hear him in the Space Station. See him too.

  “Don’t worry. He’s friendly. Can I help y—Hey, do I—Are you—”

  I look up, and I blink. It’s her. The redhead.

  What the hell is she doing here? She’s wearing dark green scrubs over a long-sleeved gray shirt. Is she a nurse? Does she work here?

  Maybe I’m in the wrong place. I glance down at the roll of plans in my hand. Delacroix, Eloise and Hudson.

  Delacroix? Is that the name of Alex’s teammate?

  “I—” I look up again and see she’s frowning. Definitely confused, but those blue eyes are sharp with wariness. “I’m Luc Valencia. I think we met at the soccer game.”

  Her posture stiffens. She doesn’t move an inch, but, I swear, every line in her body hardens. “We didn’t meet.” Her voice is hard. Flinty.

  She looks angry. Why the hell is she angry? We may not have been introduced, but I’m sure she remembers me. And by the look of it, it’s ruined her day. I might have to rethink my Ice Princess conclusion.

  I take a step forward and offer my hand. “We did. I—”

  She steps back. “Stop right there.” At her words, I hear what sounds like distant thunder, but the sky is clear. No rain in sight. And then it dawns on me.

  It’s the giant dog-bear.

  He’s growling. His lip curled in teeth-baring menace. At me.

  “Whoa—” I step back, both hands—the one holding the plans and the one I extended—go up in surrender. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Maybe I’ve got the wrong house.”

  She narrows her eyes as though trying to make sense of my words. The dog growls again. I take another step back, and that monster takes a step forward.

  I jerk a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of my truck. “I’m with Valencia & Sons Construction. I’m looking for the Delacroix house. Maybe they’re one of your neighbors,” I say quickly, but fuck this shit. I don’t need to get directions from her. “You know what? Never mind.”

  I’m already moving toward the truck, walking backward, not giving the dog my back.


  “W-wait,” she says, her eyes flicking from me to my truck with its Valencia & Sons decal. “Construction?”

  It’s the look on her face that makes me stop. It’s not just confusion. It’s more like…

  Shock.

  She bites her bottom lip, and just like that, everything in her posture changes again. She sort of just… wilts.

  “Are you okay?” The question leaves my mouth, and without thinking, I move toward her. The dog growls again. I halt.

  “Clarence.” She says the dog’s name again, but now the sound is so different—a plea instead of a command—both the animal and I look back at her. He trots to her side, sits on his haunches, and sniffs the air around her as if searching for something.

  “Can you tell me wh-who…” I watch her swallow, her face now pinched, the wariness gone and a kind of devastation taking its place. “Who contacted you?”

  I glance down, tilt the plans, and read the names aloud. “Eloise and Hudson Delacroix?” I say, hoping I’m pronouncing it right. “Do you know them?”

  I flick my gaze back to her and my stomach drops. The woman has gone completely white.

  Yeah, of course she’s white. But a minute ago, she was a creamy white and high on her cheeks a rosy white. Like vanilla and strawberry swirl ice cream.

  But now she’s ash white. Bloodless white.

  I move then because nobody can look that white and stay upright. And just when I do, her knees give. The plans and my keys fall to the ground, but she doesn’t because my left hand catches an elbow while my right arm hooks her around the waist.

  “¡Ay!”

  She staggers back, but I’ve got her, and I lower her to the porch steps. Her eyes are open but unfocused. On instinct, I guide her head down until it’s even with her splayed knees. Curious, but no longer threatening, the big, white Clarence hovers, sniffing, but his attention is all on her. Not me, gracias Madre Maria.