Chapter Six
of burnt ground beef to welcome you home after a long day.
“Ive?!” Mami calls after I close the front door.
I pull out my headphones, so unused to her actually being home these days that I’m not sure I didn’t imagine hearing her. “Yeah?”
“Can I get some help?”
I follow her voice to the kitchen, jumping back in surprise when I open the door to find the room shrouded in smoke and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Mami is bent over the kitchen sink, struggling to empty the charred contents of a pot into the sink while Nurse Oatmeal laps the ground for scraps. Smoke swirls around them, getting dangerously close to the flickering fire alarm on the ceiling. I don’t wait for Mami to give me marching orders, immediately throwing open the back door and as many windows as I can. I cover my mouth with the collar of my flannel, fanning as much of the smoke out of the room as I can.
Miraculously, we’re spared the rage of the fire alarm, and the room clears within a few seconds.
“I think I burned the meat,” Mami says, breaking the silence.
And, just as quickly as the smoke dissipated, we’re doubled over with laughter.
Walking into two almost-catastrophes in one day should be traumatizing, but as Mami leans against me for support as she struggles to keep herself up from laughing so hard, all I can feel is relief. Because our house didn’t burn down, sure, but mainly because she’s here.
“All right, all right, let’s get this handled before the fire department shows up,” Mami says as she stands upright, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
“Again,” I add as I set down Nurse Oatmeal.
She scoffs, waving me off. “That was one time.”
Two times, but I won’t argue.
We work together to clear out the last of the smoke and scrub the charred contents of the pan. Whatever Mami was attempting to make for dinner is too crispy to be edible; the crumbles sitting in the sink are hard as coals.
“What was this even supposed to be?” I ask, nose wrinkling.
“Tacos,” she replies with a sigh, holding up a pack of unopened tortillas. “Want pizza instead? Mushrooms, olives, and onions with extra cheese?”
I nod eagerly as she recites my go-to order, excitement dashing any lingering disgust over the smell. Who would’ve thought I’d actually be happy about spending a night on the couch eating takeout with my mom? Most of our meals are enjoyed from the comfort of the living room while we binge whatever reality TV show has piqued our interest that month. A tradition we haven’t honored in weeks.
Mami pulls out her phone, typing away while I scoop food into the trash. “Joaquin tried promposing to someone today.”
In the madness of helping Joaquin with his plan and Mami heading back to work after her Vegas extravaganza, I haven’t had a chance to catch her up on his lovesick quest.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles absent-mindedly, distracted by something on her phone.
My smile drops, familiar disappointment coursing through me. I’d gotten my hopes up too quickly. “We almost set the parking lot on fire.”
She just keeps typing. “That’s great.”
“Arson is great?”
Finally, she breaks out of her trance and blinks up at me like a deer in headlights. “Wait—what?”
An obnoxiously loud car horn cuts me off before I can explain.
Mami rolls her eyes. “Carajo,” she mutters, shoving her phone into her pocket and storming off to her room.
I carefully peek through the living room window, and my stomach drops. Leaning against the driver’s side door of a double-parked black Tesla is a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before but who’s exactly Mami’s type. Salt-and-pepper hair with a thick mustache to match, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. When he catches sight of me, he leans through the open car window and presses the horn again. Classy.
Suddenly, the pieces fit together. Mami never said we were having dinner together. All she asked was if I was in the mood for pizza. She even neglected to mention our real order: half mushrooms, olives, onions, and extra cheese for me, half pepperoni and sausage for her. Not for the first time, I let my hopes get the better of me. At least this time she attempted to leave a homecooked meal behind.
“I told him I wouldn’t be ready until seven-thirty,” Mami says through gritted teeth, reemerging from her bedroom in a black wrap dress and heels, her hair up in a slicked back bun. “Pizza should be here in twenty. It’s already paid for—just give them a tip from the jar in my room.”
I’m grateful she’s distracted as she darts around the room, grabbing her purse and coat while applying her go-to ruby-red lipstick. Tears cloud my vision, anger splitting through me like a pulsing headache.
Finally, she stops in front of me, cradling my cheeks like she used to whenever I came home with scrapes and bruises. “You okay, mama?”
I wish all I felt was anger. That I could push her away and send her off with Mr. Car Horn and not care that I’m eating dinner alone again. But, more than anything, I want her to stay. I want her to run her fingers through my hair and ask about my day.
“M’fine,” I mumble, pulling my face out of her hold before she can see the tears. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice. “Just a headache.”
She coos, running a hand down my back that should feel comforting but just makes me angrier. “There’s some Advil in the bathroom. Take two and call me if you’re still not feeling good, okay?”
I nod, biting back a barbed reply. That stings too, knowing that even pretending to be sick didn’t get her to cancel her date. Outside, said date slams the horn yet again, earning him a “Cállate!” from Doña Carmen next door.
“He seems great….”
She sighs, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s a decent guy, I swear.”
She also thought Tim, the lawyer who stood her up three times in a row, was a decent guy. And let’s not forget about the other decent guy—Luis—who stole our air fryer.
Not trying to upset Mr. Car Horn more than we already have, she presses a wet kiss to my cheek and heads for the door. “I’ll be home by ten, and I want to hear about this whole arson thing. Love you!”
Before I can say I love her back, the door slams shut.
By the time I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen, my pizza’s gone cold. Groaning, I turn on the oven and stick a few slices in the broiler. Microwaving pizza is basically a sin.
The ache in my body begs me to crawl into bed and forget this nightmare of a day. I’ve dealt with two different near-death experiences, my email inbox continues to be painfully devoid of any updates from Sarah Lawrence, and I landed myself three weeks of detention. Rushing out after my first detention to get two hours of set building finished in forty-five minutes has done a number on my joints. Anna was pissed to the high heavens about my sacrifice, but I promised her I wouldn’t leave our already small crew down a person. Even if it means wrecking my body in the process.
Between getting up at the ass crack of dawn, bending over backwards for the drama club, and the emotional whiplash of my run-in with Mami, I could sleep for a week. But I still have a grueling amount of pre-calc homework left, and I don’t trust myself not to pass out if I go anywhere near my bed.
So, I grab my pizza from the oven and head out to my safe haven.
The treehouse in our backyard has seen better days, but it’s not any less comforting than when we constructed it over a decade ago. It was Joaquin’s idea, a space for us to get away from our parents without giving them a heart attack. We spent the summer between first and second grade building it with our moms. A whirlwind summer of splinters and firecracker Popsicles. Since we were, y’know, seven, Mami and Mrs. Romero did most of the work, nailing and sawing while we handed them the tools they needed. When the hideaway was finished, Mami called it our greatest creation. And it absolutely was—is. She’s a better carpenter than cook.
Ignoring my muscles’ protests, I climb up the ladder to the treehouse’s entrance. Over the years, Joaquin has sprouted enough that he barely bothers with the ladder. Meanwhile, puberty wasn’t as kind to me. On a good day, I can pass as five one.
One flick of a switch and the treehouse comes alive—our homemade paper lanterns casting shadows along the walls. It’s been a while since I last came up here. The place could use a good wipe-down. Just the sight of dust on the windowsill sends me into a brief sneezing fit. As soon as my nose is under control, I sprawl along one of the blankets piled in the corner, yawning like a lazy cat. One of the perks of remaining tiny is that I can continue to stretch out across the floor and have room to spare while Joaquin has to scrunch up.
I nibble on my pizza while staring at the decorations we tacked to the ceiling. Finger paintings of our favorite things—dragons, cartoons, each other (but mostly dragons), and Polaroid photos tacked on every free patch of wall in between. We’d put the camera Mami gave us for my eighth birthday to good use, taking photos of everything we could possibly think of. Joaquin riding his bike. Me eating a peach. Mami on the couch with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Mrs. Romero giving Joaquin a piggyback ride. Isabella doing a cartwheel. A piece of toast that we found aesthetically pleasing. At the center of the collage is the last photo we took before the camera completely crapped out for good. Me and Joaquin on my eighteenth birthday four months ago, hugging Otis the Otter, the stuffed animal he’d given me to commemorate our day at the aquarium.
Hidden behind the playbill for my first show at Cordero is a photo of Mami and Papi at their sophomore year homecoming dance. The only thing bigger than Mami’s hair is their smiles, their arms wrapped tightly around one another like they’re worried they’ll float away. A light pink peony corsage sparkles on Mami’s wrist, a perfect color match for her floor-length dress and dangly earrings. For years, Mami kept dried peony petals in a glass jar beside the picture and that dress in her closet. Now the jar is empty, and the dress is being eaten by moths in the attic. If she knew I’d kept this photo, it’d go straight into the trash, but I can’t help it. I don’t remember much about what life with Papi was like, but when I think of him, I want to think of this moment. Of him and Mami, so blissfully happy they didn’t notice the camera.
The treehouse feels unusually dark. Outside, the sun has only barely started to set. I sit up on my elbows, scanning our canopy of paper lanterns. Sure enough, some of the fairy lights we’d strung through the lanterns to give them a little extra shine are missing.
And look an awful lot like the ones Joaquin used in his roses stunt…
As if on cue, my phone buzzes.
I finish the last of my crust in one ill-advised bite before crawling over to the treehouse’s window. Joaquin is stationed at his bedroom window one yard over, pointing to his hand and mouthing something I can’t make out.
“Slow down,” I mouth back with some added hand gestures to convey the message.
He rolls his eyes before sticking his hand out the window, waving whatever he’s holding at me until I finally piece together what it is. A walkie-talkie.
I take two steps to the opposite side of the treehouse to the dustiest surface of all: our toy chest. The walkie-talkie sits on top of a pile of headless Barbies and melted-down action figures. Somehow it has enough juice left to turn on. Joaquin’s voice comes through a few seconds later.
“Red alert, I repeat, red alert. If you don’t respond in five minutes, I’ll assume you’re either dead or these walkies finally crapped out on us.”
“The walkie lives,” I reply, though my mouth is so full of crust it comes out too garbled to be intelligible.
“Use your words, Ive.”
“Shut up,” I snap once I’ve chewed and swallowed. On the other end of the line, I can hear him groan as his spine cracks unsettlingly. “Rough practice?”
Usually, baseball practice keeps Joaquin busy until well past sundown, but with the championship game in a month, he’s lucky if he gets home with enough time to heat up dinner and have a five-minute FaceTime with his mom before crashing.
“Coach actually went easy on us today since we have the pep rally on Friday. Not a great look if half the team is about to pass out onstage.”
Fair point. Then again, half the student population looks like they’re about to fall asleep on any given day.
“And speaking of which, I kinda need your help…again.”
I make my way back over to the window, where I spot Joaquin sitting at his desk, his profile backlit by the colored light strips he installed over the summer. The lights flicker menacingly before shifting from purple to green.
“If it’s with home décor, then my advice is to stop buying shitty sponsored products from influencers you think are cute.”
His chair swivels around so he can turn to glare at me. “These lights were a steal,” he retorts before disappearing from view, doing something to said lights that make them switch back to purple.
“More like a scam, but whatever you need to tell yourself.”
He doesn’t grace me with a reply. “You and Anna are running tech for the pep rally, right?”
My brow arches even though I know he can’t really see me. “We are. Why?”
“Because I have another idea.”
His excitement is palpable, even from a yard away. My stomach twists uncomfortably, as if it senses what he’s going to ask before he can say it. He sits up straighter in his seat, his free hand gesticulating wildly as his words come through after a brief delay. “I know the roses majorly backfired, but this one doesn’t involve anything flammable!”
“That you know of.”
“Hush,” he snaps, waving his hand out the window toward my direction. “I was thinking…I’ve been so panicked about this whole speech thing for the rally. What if I just kept it short and sweet and asked Tessa to prom at the end of it? The crowd would go nuts.”
Public spectacle aside, the thought of Joaquin pouring his heart out to Tessa in front of the entire school versus the entire senior parking lot makes my skin clammy. The seniors would’ve teased him mercilessly, but getting turned down by Tessa is practically a rite of passage by now. A rejection in front of the entire student body is totally different, though…
“You’d just have to play this song once I’m done.” My phone pings with another new message from him. A link to a playlist titled “tessa hernandez pls say yes.”
Gross.
I scoff as the opening notes of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” begin to play. “Seriously? You couldn’t have picked a song from this century?”
“When was the last time you heard a good, life-changing romantic song on the radio?”
He’s got me there. If there’s one thing Joaquin inherited from his mom, it’s her taste in music. Before Herbert was ours, we’d get rides from Mrs. Romero in exchange for letting her have total control of the radio. We probably know more old-school ballads by heart than anything from the past decade. Now Joaquin passes as a cool, aloof music snob.
I rest my cheek on the windowsill, willing him to turn his chair around and face me too. “Are you sure you want to declare your love for Tessa Hernandez in front of hundreds of people?”
“It’s not love, it’s prom.”
“Same thing.”
He sighs, leaning so far back in his chair I wonder if he’ll topple over. “Yes. I’m sure. Again. I just have a good feeling about this one, okay?”
Even with his back to me, I can picture the hopeful smile blossoming on his lips. My best friend’s smile is one of my favorite things about this too-small town. Right below Marco’s, but above Nurse Oatmeal and the really good taco place down the block from school.
And I hate that this smile lodges a pit in my stomach.
“Yeah, I’ve got you,” I say, settling down on my pile of blankets when it’s clear that Joaquin isn’t going to turn around. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when everyone roasts you for your song choice.”
He snorts before letting out an exaggerated, “Fine.” Then, “You’re the best, Ive.”
“I know,” I say with a smirk. “Oh, also, my mom just—”
Before I can finish, our connection sputters. Leaning up, I watch Joaquin toss the walkie into a desk drawer and flip his bedroom lights off, gone before I could say goodbye, let alone finish what I was saying. Again.
Why is everyone in my life determined to blow me off today?
Slumping against my pillow, I try to calm the uneasy feeling in my stomach. Maybe I just ate my pizza too fast. Or the questionable food in the cafeteria is finally wreaking havoc on my body. Or I’m just still pissed about Mami leaving me high and dry. I’m considering taking her advice about that Advil when the sound of a crack makes me spring back up.
I’m on my knees in the nick of time, one of the ceiling planks snapping in half and crashing down right where my head was seconds ago. Almost got killed by the one place I can go to be alone. Cool cool cool. If there was ever an excuse that could get Mami to come home from a date, it’d be this. Hey, what’s up, almost got decapitated, you coming home yet?
My heart races as I carefully peek at the hole in the roof. The wood holding the top half of the treehouse together has become so warped I’m surprised it didn’t cave in as soon as I entered. I can’t find it in me to move, though, my attention drifting to the scattered decorations that came down along with the plank. One of the photos of me and Joaquin, holding hands on the beach, is torn down the middle. Our tiny, clasped fingers keep us together, but just barely. I cradle the photo carefully, making sure not to pull too hard or cause a bigger rip, and tuck it into my wallet. It’s safe for now, but I can’t shake off the fear it sends surging through me.
One wrong move could tear us apart.