BREN AND MOP are in the middle of tossing free throws when I get to the court. A huge dark cloud rolls in, threatening to rain on our game. It rains almost every afternoon in the summer.
BREN: Dude, what’s in your hand?
ME: Um, a book.
BREN: What kind of book?
ME: A book of poems.
Bren stops dribbling.
BREN: By poems, you mean, like, rap lyrics?
Mop interrupts us and takes the book out of my hand.
MOP: José Martí? Cool. Didn’t know you were reading that.
ME: Um, I’m not. I mean, I guess I could—will—maybe read it.
BREN: I don’t know any rappers named José. Is he new?
MOP: Bren. Martí was a revolutionary hero in the Cuban War for Independence against Spain in the late 1800s.
BREN: A Cuban rapper from the 1800s? Dude, that’s awesome.
Bren tries to shoot a three but airballs.
MOP: Are you sure you want to try out for the eighth-grade team?
BREN: I have a chance to start.
Mop and I look at each other.
BREN: So, Arturo, perchance does that book of Cuban rapper poems belong to a special someone who popped into your life the other day after so many years apart?
ME: What? No.
Bren stops shooting and smiles.
BREN: Bro, she was, like, the tallest girl I’ve ever seen. She’s almost your height, Arturo.
Mop takes the ball from Bren.
MOP: Every time you say bro, the English language loses its will to live.
BREN: Dude, I think you should totally ask her out.
ME: No way. My mom is her godmother! We’re practically related. Can we just play?
Mop and Bren look at each other, then back at me.
BREN: I think someone’s got a thing for his godsister.
ME: No, I don’t. And there’s no such thing as a godsister.
Bren eyes the book in my hand.
BREN: Then why are you reading her book of Cuban love poems?
ME: She left it behind. I just need to return it to her.
Rain starts coming down in little drops, but the sun is still out. Mop takes one last shot, which banks in while Bren looks at me funny.
BREN: Dude, I can loan you my Pitbull imitation shades. Those are killer.
MOP: What does that have to do with Arturo reading poetry, Bren?
BREN: Because the shades will make him look cool. And tall girls like guys who are cool.
Mop slaps his forehead as we walk off the courts.
MOP: Dude, I wish I didn’t have to leave for camp this week.
BREN: Me too! Man, I wish I weren’t going away! I feel it’s my duty to teach Arturo Cuban hip-hop.
MOP: You’re from Northampton, Massachusetts, Bren. Not Cuba.
We leave the courts and start down the alley and onto Main Street.
ME: Guys, seriously. I’m not interested in Carmen like that. I mean, she’s cool and all, but we’re practically related.
BREN: Hey, bro, when love calls, love calls.
ME: Can we stop talking about it? Let’s just go get ice cream.
MOP: An excellent idea!
We walk to Two Scoops and take in the sights of summer. Long humid days turn into showery afternoons. And pink sunsets conclude each day like the swirl of a mango, guava, and papaya sorbet. It doesn’t get dark until about eight o’clock. Sometimes nine.
We eat our cones quickly, careful not to drip melted ice cream onto our clothes. I look across the street and notice a fancy sign with cursive writing on it above a new store. I can’t read the sign until I get really close. It says: PIPO PLACE—THE FUTURE IS NOW.
ME: Guys, this weird man came into La Cocina today and told us he’d just opened a place few blocks from the restaurant. I wonder if this is it.
Mop examines the storefront from across the street.
MOP: It looks like it could be a boutique clothing shop. The sign looks flashy.
BREN: Bro, that would be awesome if it is. I need to get some fly clothes before school starts. Can’t roll into eighth grade wearing these rags.
MOP: Bren, if your clothes get any brighter, the sun is going to cease to rise.
ME: You will literally cause the next ice age.
BREN: Don’t hate the flavor, fellas. El sabor Latino.
MOP: We’re trying to save humanity from your wardrobe.
BREN: Come on—let’s go to my house and play Legends of the Universe.
MOP: Finally a good idea comes out of the man’s mouth!
We walk and talk and each take turns dribbling our ball through the neighborhood. The rest of the week is exactly what I want out of summer. I hang out with Mop and Bren every day after my shifts at the restaurant, I see Carmen occasionally around the apartment complex, and I eat a ton of ice cream. Life is good until Sunday family dinner when disaster strikes.