“She doesn’t. I want to. It’s summer—I have time. Just come for the weekend.”
Devil-Jude sat on my shoulder throwing rocks at Angel-Jude on the other side. Things were getting seriously cartoonesque.
“The girls and I talked about it,” Mari said. “I’m the closest one—it’s easy for me to get there. Celi can come in the fall before you go to school. That way you don’t have to spend all your time with Papi.”
“But I like being with Papi.” Talking to my sisters always aged me backward. Suddenly I was five years old, crying in the driveway as they drove off to Uncle Fuzzy’s without me. Not this time, Jujube. We’ll bring you back some chocolate peanut butter cup! “What about your Internet dates? Your soul mate could be right around the corner.”
Mari groaned. “Around the corner in his mother’s basement. I’m going cold turkey on boys for a while, how’s that? Unless you’re hiding any more cute ones in Blackfeather.”
“No! I’m not. I mean, there are no cute boys here. Zero. Not one.”
Pancake flashed me a wounded look. What am I, chopped liver?
“Except for Pancake,” I added hastily.
“Jude, you’re being weird.”
“I’m . . . What about your clients?” I asked.
“I’m all set up to work from there. Ooh, did you read that book yet?”
I thought of my backpack stashed under the kitchen table, the manuscript inside untouched since I’d packed it this morning. “I will. I’m reading it tonight.”
You’re awesome! Devil-Jude was totally giving me the thumbs-up, her smile glinting mischievously. She had a gold tooth, that’s why. Angel-Jude hung her halo in shame, and it drooped over her hair, dull and dented, because hers was fake gold. Clearly, Devil-Jude’s work paid better.
“You have to read it tonight. It’s so good! Super-hot boys, no vampires.” Mari clicked away on her keyboard. She was at her office, but I pictured her how I always did, wrapped up in her cloud pajamas, manuscripts everywhere, legs stretched out on the love seat in her Denver loft. We’d spent two weeks together on my winter break, huddled on that love seat watching Netflix and ordering Thai food, which was impossible to find in Blackfeather. Mari had let me read some of her submissions, and she sold one of my favorites a month later.
When it hits the shelves, you can tell everyone how you picked the author out of the slush pile. . . .
“I’ll be a huge help with Papi,” Mari said. “I’ve been reading tons of stuff online, and Mom keeps me totally up to date. I’m prepared. You don’t have to worry.”
I considered asking her to put that in writing. “If you say so.”
“I say so. I’ll be there by lunch tomorrow,” she said. “Besos.”
“Ciao.” I tossed my phone on the bed. A headache was setting up camp behind my eyes—Angel-Jude and Devil-Jude were still duking it out. I wanted to see Mari, wanted to trust what she’d said about being a huge help, but . . .
Let’s rid the Vargas boys of their ability to reproduce. . . .
Hello, disaster. I couldn’t let her come home—not yet. When Valentina was running and Emilio was on his road trip? She could totally come then. She could take a whole month off and bring a roll-aboard suitcase full of manuscripts and Mom could make empanadas and Papi could tell everyone he has this big surprise. Then we’d all go outside and he’d start up the bike and tell everyone the story of how we fixed it up, just the two of us mostly, and Mom and Mari would cheer and we wouldn’t even have to mention Emilio.
But that was the future. First, I had to convince Mom to convince Mari that we were fine, that she didn’t need to uproot her life in Denver just to come babysit me and Papi.
Because putting a hold on that restore? Not an option.
Angel-Jude finally flipped me off, and Devil-Jude slapped her and nodded supportively in my direction. You know, Jude, the boss is always hiring down here. Happy to put in a good word. . . .
I made myself a cup of yerba maté and dug out the leftover torta de papas, a potato omelet piled high with tomato sauce and cheese. The kitchen was eerily peaceful, the fragrant aftermath of Mom’s culinary skills spicing the air, Pancake snoring softly in the den, the CLOCK NOT PHONE BOOTH marking off the passage of night one second at a time. I closed my eyes, held the torta on my tongue.
It was Papi’s favorite, and the last time Mom had made it was on his birthday earlier this year. He ate only a few bites—said he didn’t like it. That he never liked it in all his life. They got into this whole argument that ended with Mom digging out old photo albums of previous special occasions where she cooked the torta, and eventually he lost and ate two servings just to keep the frown off her face.
At dinner tonight he’d eaten almost half the pan.
Now the clock struck twelve and kicked off its melodic chime. One minute later, midnight’s gentle spell was broken, and I wasn’t that hungry anymore.
I slid open the trash compactor, half expecting to find another brochure, maybe the missing application packet. But there wasn’t any Transitions propaganda tonight. Just the usual food scraps and torn envelopes and coffee grounds. And a baseball cap, an unopened package of frozen peas, a bar of Irish Spring, one sock, and all three Back to the Future DVDs from Araceli’s Michael J. Fox phase.
Papi must’ve been wandering earlier.
“You’re up late.” Mom’s voice was soft as she slipped into the kitchen, her usually smooth face lined with faint pink ridges.
I set the DVDs and soap on the side of the sink. The baseball cap was pretty slopped up, not worth saving. “Pass out on the couch?”
“Guilty,” she said.
I made us both fresh tea and joined her at the kitchen table. Now that Papi was in bed, we could talk openly about the doctor’s appointment—a topic they’d both skirted at dinner.
“His memory recall is getting worse,” she said, “but not as bad as they expected. He got approved for a clinical trial. They did another brain scan and a genetic test. They’re trying to learn as much as possible.”
“Do you think it will help?”
“I hope so, mi amor.” Mom fished out her tea bag and dropped it onto the saucer. “They gave him the bracelet from the Alzheimer’s Association. Just in case.”
The doctors had mentioned the bracelet program when they first diagnosed him, but Mom had announced right then and there that his illness didn’t need its own name tag. Now she circled her wrist with her fingers, a temporary bracelet to match Papi’s.
“They have my work and cell numbers, our address, and your cell. So if he wanders off . . .” She let the rest fade, her face tight with emotion.
“They call,” I said. “I remember.”
“It’s just a precaution,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
I smiled gently when she looked up from her mug. “I talked to Mari today,” I said. “She’s coming tomorrow?”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mom said, “don’t you? Then you don’t have to do everything by yourself. I know you miss your friends.”
My friends. At this rate, I wouldn’t have any left to miss by the end of summer, but I nodded anyway.
“It’s good for all of us. A little break. Share the load.” She drifted off again and sipped her tea.
“What happens when I leave for school?” I asked. “Mari can’t move here indefinitely. And what about Argentina? We have to start getting the house ready to list, right?”
For years my parents had talked about retiring to Argentina, moving down near Lourdes and Mom’s family as soon as I got situated in Denver. Last year they started talking about it more seriously, getting real estate information from Lourdes and the rest of the relatives down there, giving away things they’d no longer need. They hadn’t mentioned it lately, though, and now Mom looked at me with sad, faraway eyes.
She pressed her lips together as if considering her words, then shook her head. “Let’s not burn that bridge until we cross it. Are you hungry? Want me to fix you
something?” She pushed out her chair. “Why are you laughing?”
“The saying is, ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.’ ”
“Oh!” Mom laughed too, but it was tinny and short lived. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t say anything.”
I held her gaze, and something passed between us. An understanding maybe. A mutual realization that not saying stuff was even more exhausting than dragging it all out into the light, but neither of us wanted to push or pull any harder than we already had.
I thought of the brochure again. The social worker.
There was a lot she wasn’t saying.
She stared at the pile of DVDs I’d left on the sink.
There was a lot I wasn’t saying too.
I squinted at the woman across the table and saw her, for the first time in my life, as someone else. Not as my mother, but as a wife, a woman who’d fallen in love. Someone young and beautiful and vibrant, someone who’d packed up and left her entire family behind for an adventure in a new country, a chance to build a life together. That was love’s unspoken promise—blind and hopeful, some kind of beautiful forever.
Mom smiled, but there was a new sadness around her eyes, a worry that hadn’t been there this morning. All my planned protests about Mari’s extended visit shrank into the shadows. I couldn’t lay that on Mom. Not now.
“I’m not hungry,” I said. “I finished the torta.”
“Okay, querida. Then I’m going to bed.” Mom rose from her chair and kissed the top of my head, and I closed my eyes and listened to the familiar swish of her socks against the tile floors, soft as falling dust.
My sisters were wrong to name the Vargas boys in the oath. Names had nothing to do with it. All boys were destined to break your heart.
Chapter 10
Pancake, what a trooper. He’d been standing sentry at the front door all morning—he thought something exciting was blowing in, pobrecito. A cloud of red dust swirled up the driveway right before lunch, and his tail started helicoptering, and he was all, Oh boy oh boy oh boy something’s happening ohhhh boy!
Then Mari’s car rolled up, and he plodded into the kitchen and nosed my leg like, Seriously? That’s it? Because Jude? Jude? Jude? I was told there would be bunnies.
“I feel you, Pancake.” I set the tomato soup to simmer and pulled the empanadas from the oven. Not bad as far as last meals were concerned.
“Somebody here?” Papi said when he heard the car.
Mari had wanted her visit to be a surprise. And by “wanted,” I mean “demanded.”
When Papi, Pancake, and I opened the front door, Mari was there on the stoop, all sunshine and bed-head blond like she’d just sailed in from the ocean, and when she smiled and pulled us into a group hug, a few of my reservations dissolved. Like, four of them. Out of a hundred.
It was a start.
“I missed you guys so much.” Her breath was soft on my cheek as she squeezed us tighter, and Papi kept saying, “Oh, oh, oh,” through a big, bright grin.
“I’m glad you came.” I whispered the words, and she smelled like lavender lotion and her awful cigarettes and it brought me back to when she had the bedroom across from mine and sometimes she’d let me listen to music in there while she did her homework, and I meant what I said.
I was glad she came.
Mari had just sucked down her third empanada when a rumble shook the windows. She craned her neck to look out the kitchen door and wrinkled her nose at the sight. “Who do we know with a black motorcycle?”
Heart, welcome to throat central. Make yourself at home!
I’d been planning to cancel Emilio today. I needed at least a day to persuade Mari that hiring a Vargas clearly fell outside the terms of the oath, and that my other sisters didn’t need to know about it, and that it would all be finished by the time I left for the Dunes with Zoe and Christina.
¡Terminado!
But I’d totally spaced the cancellation call, and now Emilio was here, all swagger and dimples and low-slung jeans, waltzing up to the kitchen door like he was part of the family.
“Look who’s here!” Papi waved him in. “Empanadas are getting cold, son. You like jamón y queso?”
“Love them.” He shot me a devilish smile and I went all hot and bothered. Seriously, like some Southern belle, and then I had to go open up the windows over the sink and pretend all that cooking had gone to my head. Devil-Jude thought it was a real rock star of a trick.
I finally sat down again and my thigh accidentally brushed Emilio’s thigh and he leaned down to pet Pancake, who in my opinion was getting a little too comfortable with this boy in the house.
“Is that the mechanic?” Mari mouthed the words across the table. “Hot!”
I tried to sink lower into my chair, but there was nowhere to go so I just grinned and hoped Pancake would start speaking French so I could be all, Oh my God, you guys! The dog said bonjour!
But Emilio started the next conversation. In English.
“Hey,” he said as he took in Mari.
She extended her hand and introduced herself. “You must be Juju’s friend helping with the bike.”
“Yeah, must be.” He smiled after they shook hands, and I quietly stomped on his foot, which was obviously the wrong response because then he threw his arm around the back of my chair. Heat radiated from his skin, and I inhaled his leather and fabric softener smell. . . .
“Emilio Vargas.” And my adorable dimples. “Nice to meet you.”
And the whole room went like this: hot, warm, lukewarm, chilly, icy, arctic deep freeze.
“Hey! Who loves empanadas?” I borrowed a page from the Book of Mom and passed the platter. Emilio scooped one onto a plate and held the platter for Mari, but she wouldn’t look at him.
“Mari, don’t you want an empa?” I gestured toward them all Jedi, like, This is not the traitorous sister you’re looking for. . . .
Mari picked up a napkin, blotted her lips, refolded it, and smoothed it across her legs. “How did you two meet again?”
She feigned sincerity, but her eyes lasered us across the table. Emilio looked at me to respond at the same time Mari looked at Papi, who went on slurping his soup as if the Vargas name didn’t register. Likely, it didn’t.
“More salt?” I said, This is not the traitorous sister you’re looking for! Hello! I reached for the shakers and instead hit my glass, sending a tidal wave of iced tea toward Mari. She shoved her chair backward to avoid the spill, and in one fluid motion, Emilio flung his napkin at the puddle and mopped it up. Pancake had the floor covered, licking up iced tea, crumbs, dirt, bugs, toes, anything in his path. The whole thing was over in seconds. There were no survivors.
“God. Be careful, Juju,” Mari said.
“The kids are helping me with Valentina.” Papi stabbed another empanada from the platter and dropped it on his plate, unaffected by my clumsiness.
“Who the hell is Valentina?” she asked.
“The Harley, querida.”
“Okaaaay.” Mari steamed in her chair. “I just stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone.”
“Yo, I love that show.” Emilio pointed at her with his fork. “Ever see the one where—”
“So, lots to do today, look at the time!” I bolted out of my chair and tugged Emilio’s arm.
“What about the Dark Moon magic stuff?” he asked.
“No time for coffee,” I said through gritted teeth. “We have to go out back. Let my father and sister catch up or . . . whatever.”
“Aw, don’t go. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to this summer.” Mari flashed the kind of grin that used to send me scurrying into Mom’s lap. Now it just made me a little queasy. She went on glaring, the unspoken authority of the other Hernandez sisters blazing behind her eyes, once again uniting them in their lifelong mission to be the boss of me.
“Let them go, Mariposa,” Papi said. “You stay here with me. Tell me about your big-time book deals.”
“It wa
s kind of last minute,” I said as we unpacked the tools. “I didn’t get to tell her much about you, and it’s . . . complicated.” I met Emilio’s eyes. Does he really have no idea about our shared family history?
“Pass me that headlamp?” he asked.
I found the lamp on the workbench and handed it over. Emilio dived into the bowels of the bike, which was now propped up on the lift we’d picked up at Duchess.
“It’s not just you,” I said. “She’s like that with everyone. Which is probably why she’s still single.”
“Probably.” Emilio held out his hand. “Allen key? It’s the black one that looks like an L.”
“Oh, the Twizzler wrench.” I pulled it out of the toolbox. “It looks like black licorice, don’t you think?”
“Twizzler wrench? Don’t ever let Samuel hear that. You’ll be in for a four-hour lecture on tools and their proper names. I sat through that shit once. Believe me, you don’t wanna know.” Emilio laughed, but then everything got quiet again as he focused on Valentina, the Twizzler-slash-Allen wrench clinking softly as he removed and inspected a hundred tiny things. He didn’t seem to need any more tools, so I snapped a few pictures for Papi and then busied myself in one of the teetering boxes along the side wall—a collection of fancy dessert books from Celi’s brief stint as a pastry chef.
“Wrecking Ball.” My voice shattered the comfortable silence, but Emilio didn’t flinch. “That was Mari’s nickname growing up. She’s got her good points. She just goes a little overboard. A lot overboard.”
Emilio grunted. I couldn’t tell whether it was an acknowledgment, a laugh, or an accident; he was so focused on his work.
I abandoned the books and pulled out a stack of old homemade CDs, most of them missing their cases. The labels were scrawled in black permanent marker with Celi’s loopy handwriting. Rainy Day Blues Mix. Hot Gangsta Mess. Microsoft Word. The last one had to be Lourdes’s.
“It’s funny with my sisters,” I said. “They knew who they were the instant they were born, and they’ve never changed.”
“And you?” Emilio finally said. “Always the baby girl, right?”