USUALLY, WHEN I’M tucked behind Sherman on her bike, time becomes liquid. It flows around us as we curve through Sunnylake’s capillaries, the skinny back roads that feed the city’s pulsing heart. Tonight, though? I’m hyperaware of how close she is, the narrow tuck of her waist, the strength in her shoulders. The ride lasts too long and not nearly long enough.
After bidding her the most awkward goodbye of my life (“Okay. So. Yeah. See you. Sometime. Around. Somewhere. Maybe. Yeah.”), exhaustion overtakes my gay-crisis adrenaline rush. I don’t even look at the new Blair Homes letter on the doormat. My eyes are shut before I hit the pillow.
Lyssa, gremlin that she is, wakes me up two hours later by flailing out of her bed in a burrito of blankets and whooping at the top of her lungs. I groan, roll facedown, and attempt autoasphyxiation.
“Nope. Too early for birthdays.”
“You’re just jealous I’m gonna get Superpowers, like you never did!”
I smack my lips and waft a fart in her direction. “Mm-hmm. You’re welcome to ’em.”
I’m not jealous. Every kid wants to be a Super, but if there’s a chance of turning out like Cooper Hanson … hard pass on that.
Course, if Lyssa does develop powers, she might wind up more like Sherman. But, considering the pain in Sherman’s beautiful brown eyes whenever her past comes up, I’m not sure that’s a good thing, either.
A voice chimes in from the main living space: “I better not hear fighting!”
Hernando? Here in the morning? That’s enough of a novelty to drag me from my bed. I hurry into the main room, while Lyssa dons her liner and prosthetic at light speed and follows close behind. We find him smearing salsa verde onto a leftover tortilla. One sniff and my saliva ducts start working on overdrive.
“Chilaquiles?”
“Had to cook breakfast for my princess,” says Hernando. Lyssa sticks her head over the pan to inhale, then rests her weight against him so he can kiss her hair. I smile, watching them together. That’s what a dad is. The guy you can lean on. Who leaves you in charge of his prize motorcycle, so a part of him will always be with you.
When I told Hernando about Hench, the conversation went better than I expected. We didn’t yell and no plates got flung at my head, which puts it miles above the fights I got into with Mom as a kid. But Hernando didn’t pull me into a hug after, like he would’ve done for Lyssa. I know it’s wrong to expect that (’cause I’m older, and I’m not his, and so forth), but damn, if I don’t want arms around me now.
I don’t know how to ask for that. Guess I’ll absorb his love through my taste buds, like always.
Hernando makes chilaquiles the Jalisco way (the best way) like his mama: steeping the tortillas till they’re soft as sponges. He serves Lyssa first, then me. “Enjoy, mija.”
I intend to. “Not at the Mart today?”
“Don’t need to be.” He lowers his voice, though Lyssa’s too busy stuffing her face to tune into the Adult Conversation Channel. “I got a promotion at the warehouse. Comes with a pay rise, so I cut my shift at the Mart to part-time.”
I pinch my lips together. It’s great that we get to see Hernando in the daytime, when we’re actually awake. But what with everything that’s happening at Hench …
Hernando must understand why I’m not whooping for joy. He opens his mouth, as if to explain himself—but having wolfed her portion, Lyssa bounces up and holds out her empty plate for more.
Hernando obediently halves his own breakfast. He spoils her so much, I swear. I tuck my own plate closer to my chest as I take my first mouthful, tomatillos bursting fresh and sour on my tongue. Birthday girl or not, no way is she getting mine.
Once breakfast’s over and we’ve each hogged the bathroom, the three of us head to Sunnylake’s prosthesis clinic. A local charity funded Lyssa’s current leg, after she’d spent eleven months in a temporary, letting her residual limb find its new shape. The leg was supposed to last at least another year, but having hit her growth spurt, she’s on track to catch up with me and Hernando. She had back-to-back fittings and castings in the run-up to summer vacation, and by sheer luck, her new leg should be ready today, on her birthday. It won’t solve all her problems—certainly can’t do shit for that attitude—but it’ll make it less painful for her to climb the stairs when the elevator’s out, like it is today.
I head down first. The letter from Blair Homes is right where I left it. Their squiggly blue logo sparks a chain reaction in my head: Jav, the library, her gentrification theory, the Flamer, Amelia Lopez. Project Zero. I haven’t thought about that in so long. Too long. Got distracted by Sherman, the strike, everything.
Or maybe I wanted to be distracted. Maybe I’m still afraid to admit that, if Jav’s theories hold any weight, our house might end up like the Szechuan Sizzler or the bowling alley or any one of the other mounds of rubble we pass on our way to the clinic.
I can’t let that happen. I just have no clue how I’m supposed to stop it.
We take a bus into town, which is horrible, but at least I know Hernando’s not judging when I spend the trip with my head between my knees. Carsick, if anyone asks.
At the clinic, a clinician aligns the new prosthesis and runs Lyssa through a series of stretches and exercises Hernando and I will have to bully her into doing every other morning. Feigned interest is an ability I honed during math class, so don’t let anyone tell you algebra won’t give you applicable life skills. Eventually, though, after the third time Lyssa tries and fails to conjure a miniature whirlwind in the palm of her hand, I can’t stomach being in the same room a moment longer.
Hernando shoots me a disapproving glare as I stand. Yeah, yeah; I’m ditching my sister on her thirteenth birthday. Right now, though, I wanna be anywhere but here: waiting for Lyssa’s heart to get broken, which would be awful, or for her to gain Superpowers, which would be so much worse.