I wanted Zoe to leave. To turn around without saying another word, to forget she’d come here. Because if anything was worse than seeing a grown man lose it in the tampon aisle, it was seeing a grown man cry because he didn’t remember how he’d gotten to the tampon aisle in the first place.
Zoe didn’t move, and Papi turned his head from side to side as if that would help him get his bearings. The stock boy returned to his arranging, but he was straightening the same boxes over and over, his neck and ears bright red.
Papi continued to look around, baffled and humiliated, and I closed my eyes, silently repeating the mantra the social worker doled out after we got the news: It’s not my father, it’s the disease. It’s not my father, it’s the disease. . . .
“We’re at the pharmacy,” I told him. “We had Burger Barn the other day, so let’s try the Cantina. I’ve been craving their chips and guacamole.”
I touched Papi’s elbow, and his eyes cleared. He looked from me to Zoe with renewed focus, sharp and determined.
“My daughters asked me to pick this stuff up for them, can you believe that? But I do it. Because we do what we can, right?”
Zoe forced a smile. “Jude, um, let’s get coffee another day. I’ll tell Christina . . . um . . . call me when you get home, okay?”
Her eyes were glassy and frantic, and she zoomed toward the door as if the place were on fire, and a woman behind us whispered to her companion, “I think that’s her father, poor thing.”
“Let’s go eat.” I tugged on Papi’s shirtsleeve, but he shook me off immediately.
“Jude Hernandez, you will settle down and behave yourself in public.”
I was five years old again, wilting in the Colorado heat, whining to go home after a long day of errands. People were watching us; the burn of their collective stare scorched my skin. My phone kept buzzing in my pocket, and my tongue was fat and stupid and useless. “Papi—”
“¡Cállate!” His command was short and firm, and I did as he ordered: Shut up. He dropped another box into the cart and I stared at a crack in the floor, wishing it would expand and swallow me down into the deep red earth with the dinosaur bones. But it didn’t, and people kept passing by and jostling me, and Papi was loading up the cart and—
“It’s my favorite Hernandezes.” Emilio clomped down the aisle, arms loaded with enough candy and chips to feed the whole garage. When he noticed the disheveled pyramid of boxes in our cart, his eyes went wide.
I didn’t have time to worry about my own mortification. Papi was three minutes from a full-scale nuclear meltdown. We needed to vacate. Rápido.
“We’re leaving,” I said. “Just had to get some things . . . for my mother. And my aunts. And all my cousins.” Even though they live in Argentina, where they grow their own tampons. “Ready, Papi?”
Papi turned to Emilio, his fingers closing on another pregnancy test. “Do you have kids, júnior?”
Emilio looked at me with raised eyebrows, but I didn’t have answers. Was there a right one? A wrong one? Anything could snap him back to reality or send him into the abyss.
“No, sir,” Emilio said. “No wife yet either.”
Papi clucked his tongue. “Good-looking guy like you? I don’t believe it.”
“I know, right?” Emilio loosened up, his smile genuine. “Glad I ran into you guys. I found this vintage Harley blog and—”
“Harley? I used to ride. Sixty-one Duo-Glide,” Papi said.
Emilio’s eyebrows drew together, but I shook my head, like, Don’t ask, just play along, and he pressed on. “Yeah, I heard.”
“Life throws different things at you though. Can’t hold on to the past.” He held up the pregnancy test and tossed it into the cart. “Do you kids know if they have the . . . What are they called?” Papi made a balling-up gesture with his hands.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“You know. The . . . thingies. For the . . .” He closed his eyes, face contorted with concentration and frustration. “Damnit! God damnit!”
Emilio met my eyes across the cart. My skin crawled with panic, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Sing, Jude.”
Papi made a fist and slammed it against the cart handle, pounding and pounding, cursing with every blow. The stock boy finally got up from the floor.
“Miss?” he said. “Do you need me to call someone?”
Emilio held up a finger, put the stock boy on pause. “Jude, does he have a favorite song?”
“I don’t—I have no idea.”
Does he?
Papi kept on hammering the cart, and I scanned my memories as far back as they would go, searching for a note, a lyric, a verse. My mind served up happy birthdays, television theme songs, Mom’s tango CDs, but nothing I could remember him singing, nothing he cranked up the car radio for.
Everyone has a favorite song. . . . Why don’t I know his?
“I should get the manager,” the stock boy said.
“We’re fine,” Emilio told him. “Jude, sing something. We need to distract him, get him calmed down.”
I cleared my throat and started singing “Many a New Day” from Oklahoma!, which I hoped Papi would appreciate, since he’d been on that western kick. My voice was shaky at first, but Papi stopped pounding, smiled even, and I kept on.
Never have I wept into my tea over the deal someone doled me. . . .
At the end of my Grant’s Pharmacy concert debut, Papi abandoned the cart that only moments earlier had been his entire world. “You’re an angel, Juju. How come you don’t sing anymore?”
I shrugged, but inside, shame clawed my stomach. I’d manipulated him. Tricked him like you would a little kid throwing a tantrum, offering up a shiny new toy to get him to stop.
“Well, you should.” Papi put his arm over my shoulder. “You hungry, queridita? Can we get some lunch?”
Just like that, the rage and confusion lifted, and everyone in the store returned to their prescriptions and greeting cards and sunburn-relief gel as if nothing had happened.
Calm followed chaos, a temporary relief, false and tricky.
That’s how El Demonio rolled.
Chapter 5
“How’d you learn so much about motorcycles?” I sat on the workbench and flipped open a Coke. Now that Emilio had finished the whole bike-whisperer gig, I really hoped my job as silent spectator was over, especially since Papi was down for an afternoon nap and Emilio still hadn’t mentioned yesterday’s Great Tampon Incident, and one more falling feather of silence would crush me.
Emilio shrugged. “My pops was into bikes. And my uncles. None of my brothers liked ’em, though.” He held my eyes for a second, and something crossed his face like a shadow. Regret, maybe? Guilt? I swallowed back my own, hoping he wouldn’t bring up my sisters.
“What’s up with your dad?” I said. “Still riding?”
Emilio wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “He’s in Puerto Rico with my grandma. I only see him for Christmas.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s here with me.”
“They’re divorced?” I didn’t remember Celi saying anything about that. Maybe it was recent.
“No, still together. They’re just . . . weird.” He looked like he wanted to say more but then the shadow passed and he motioned for me to come closer. “Check this out.”
I knelt beside him and peered into the guts of the bike. He pointed to an accordioned piece below the gas tank that looked like a giant V capped with twin metal plates.
“You know why people call Harleys different nicknames, like panhead or shovelhead?” he asked.
“This one’s a panhead.” I’d looked that up first thing, no way I’d forget.
“Yeah, but why?”
I took another sip of Coke, scanning the archives for a clue. File not found. “I forget.”
“It’s the shape of these rocker arm covers.” He popped off one of the metal plates and handed it to me. “See how they look like pans?”
> I nodded, and he pulled a manual from a stack he’d brought and flipped to a page in the middle that showed all the different models.
“That’s a shovelhead,” he said, pointing. “That one’s a knucklehead. Valentina’s a Duo-Glide panhead, which means she has the pan-shaped covers and the kickstart. You have to jump on it to get her going.”
“Like yours,” I said. I’d noticed it when he left here the other day.
“Exactly. But mine’s an aftermarket addition. It could start with the key, but I like the jump. In sixty-five, Harley rolled out the Electra Glide, which was the first one with an electric starter.” He dropped the manual and pointed again to the bike, his whole face lighting up. “Now the Duo-Glide is an FLH model, the H meaning high compression—more power than the FL bikes. ‘Duo’ is ’cause it’s the first Big Twin with suspension in both the front and the rear . . .” He trailed off and looked away, running a hand through his mop of hair, bandannaless today. His face was still glowing. “Sorry. Your pops probably told you all this, right?”
“Only a little.” Papi hadn’t gotten into the mechanics or the Harley history, but he’d told me everything else about Valentina. How he’d saved up, searched for months for the right one. “She spoke to me, Juju,” he’d said. “Called my name.” To hear him tell the story, it was no less than magic, an ancient jewel fated to him by the prophecy.
“Not for nothing?” Emilio said. “It’s cool as hell you guys are doing this. Not a lot of girls would be into it.”
“Girls can’t be into Harleys?”
“That’s not what I—”
“What can we be into? Being barefoot in the kitchen and pining over you?” I’d meant it playfully, but it came out sharp, and Emilio raised his eyebrows.
“Hey, don’t let me stand in the way of your dreams or anything.”
I opened my mouth to put that jackass in his place, but instead of my witty retort, a giant belch escaped.
“Nice!” Emilio laughed. “You went primal for that one, princesa.”
“It’s the soda! And why do you keep calling me princess?”
Emilio flashed me another dimpled smile, but then he just shrugged and turned back to the bike. He poked and prodded, leaned in close to check out the engine.
And then he started humming. One note, two, the first line, the second . . .
Beauty and the Beast, tale as old as time. It was last year’s school musical. I’d starred as Belle.
“How do you—”
“Saw the show,” he explained. “My cousin Ben played the candlestick guy.”
So he does recognize me from school. . . .
My stomach twisted when I thought of Emilio watching me twirl around stage in Belle’s big yellow dress, cavorting with talking candles and clocks. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous now. And Ben was his cousin? God, there were a lot of Vargas boys. Even though Ben’s a Ribanowski, not a Vargas. Still. I wondered if my sisters knew how broadly this dynasty of heartbreakers spanned? We could be talking nationwide pandemic here.
Emilio looked at me over his shoulder, still smiling like he was plotting some big practical joke. “Anyway, I just think it’s badass. I don’t know any other girls who’d spend their summer restoring a vintage panhead with their pops. That’s all I meant.”
His dimples diffused the tension, and my shoulders sank under the weight of Papi’s secret. Emilio had to know something was wrong with him—there was no logical way to explain the pharmacy meltdown, the random trips to the moon in the middle of a sentence.
“My father . . . This isn’t some summer bonding project.”
Emilio’s face was open and curious, not judgmental. I wanted to tell him the truth, the family secret Mom tried hard to protect, the one I wanted so badly to destroy with the roar of Valentina’s rebuilt engine. But the words burned my throat, as if naming the disease out loud would unleash another cloud, darker than the one that had already settled over our family, and I let them turn to dust on my tongue.
“Sorry about yesterday,” I finally said. “He gets tired sometimes. Kind of throws him off.”
Emilio held my gaze another moment but didn’t press. When he asked me to help put away the tools and manuals like it was no big deal, I was so relieved I could’ve hugged him.
But obviously that wasn’t happening.
“The good news?” He wiped his hands on a rag. “This is a big project. I’ll need to strip her down to the bones, clean her, and build her back up, one piece at a time.”
We left the barn and walked toward his motorcycle, parked next to Papi’s old truck, and Emilio grinned. “You’ll be seein’ a lot of this pretty face around here.”
“How is that good news?”
He took a step closer and stared me down, unblinking, and my stomach flip-flopped.
“Jude, I never thought I’d feel this way, but . . .” He held his hand over his heart. “I think I’m in love . . .” His eyes drilled right through me, and my breath hitched as he licked his lips and leaned in close. . . .
“With empanadas,” he whispered.
I jerked away fast. “That was a one-time deal.”
Emilio shifted toward me, closing the space between us again. “Hey, for real. This is a cool project. Best thing I ever got to do.” He twirled his keys around his finger, the star on a Puerto Rican flag key chain glinting in the sun, silver where it should’ve been white. “Leave the oil pan set up. The old stuff needs to drain out.”
“No problem. Do you need a—”
The words evaporated the second I saw Mom’s dark-gray Jetta motor up our driveway.
“She never comes home this early! Um . . . leave.” I met his eyes. The amusement there didn’t reflect the panic that must’ve been blazing through mine. “No, seriously. Can you go?”
Mom killed the engine and got out of the car in one swift motion.
“I think she already saw me.” Emilio stiffened. “Should I be worried?”
It was too late. She was already walking toward us, eyeing us up with every step. Please don’t notice the family resemblance. . . .
“Let me do the talking,” I said.
“Hola, mi amor.” Mom kissed my cheek and gave Emilio the side eye. “Where’s your father?”
“Taking a nap. This is—”
“Emilio,” he said, and I winced, hoping he wouldn’t say the V word.
Mom looked at him a moment, assessing. “Are you . . . one of Jude’s boyfriends?”
“Mom! God.” Mari was the one with the string of random dudes all through high school. The only boy I’d ever brought home was Dylan Porter in tenth grade, my first-last-and-only boyfriend, ancient history. “Don’t be weird. He’s the mechanic. The one we hired to fix the bike.”
“Oh! Sorry, querida,” Mom said. “I was confused. It seems like you two are old friends already.”
“Tryin’ my best, but she keeps shootin’ me down.” Emilio flashed another dimpled smile and leaned in close, our arms brushing. Beneath the faint smell of gasoline and metal, a warm wave of leather and fabric softener wafted up. His muscles tensed as if he were trying not to laugh.
I was trying not to die, not that anyone cared.
“Are you staying for dinner, Emilio?” Mom asked. “I’m making milanesa napolitana.”
“He can’t,” I said before she launched into a description of her mouthwatering creation. I should’ve seen it coming. Feeding people—friends, family, notorious bad boys—was pretty much her holy mission in life, a mission that even trumped the no-strangers-in-the-house rule. “He has a thing.”
Emilio was laughing now. “I do?”
“Yeah, you know. Your thing!” I stared at him with wide, desperate eyes. Basketball practice, chess club meeting, monster truck rally . . . Make something up!
“Right. My . . . thing. Guess I forgot.”
“Some other time, then.” Mom watched us for, like, five hours. “Oh! Look at me, talking off your ears. I’ll leave you alone to say good-bye. Nic
e to meet you, Emilio. I don’t know why Juju said your name was Eddie. You don’t look like an Eddie. Emilio suits you so much better—”
“Mom! Go inside before you hurt someone.”
She was practically blushing. What was with the women in this family? Vargas was like Hernandez Lady Kryptonite!
Thank God I had my father’s genes.
“Good thing I’m such a charmer with the parents,” Emilio said once Mom was gone. “Otherwise, this boyfriend thing wouldn’t stand a chance.” Emilio winked, straddled the bike, and jumped on the kickstart, which I now knew, thanks to his helpful lesson, was just for show.
Who’s this hottie you’ve got working at the house?
What’s Mari talking about? Hottie?
OMG, what’s Lourdes talking about? Do you have a new boyfriend?
FINALLY! I hope you’re being careful!
It had been less than two hours since Mom met Emilio, and already my public Facebook wall—yes, public, thank you!—glittered with my sisters’ peanut gallery commentary. Was nothing in this family sacred? Five women, and after decades of shared news and gossip, it was still like the nonstop telephone game. At least Mom had left out his name. So far.
Delete, delete, delete, delete.
I thunked my head on the desk and closed my eyes, my sisters’ questions flashing behind my eyelids. No, I didn’t have a boyfriend, so no, there was no need to be careful. And if my sisters found out just who this hottie not-boyfriend was, they’d kill me anyway. Lourdes would be on the next plane to New York, Celi would meet her at JFK, they’d rent a Prius and speed all the way to Denver without stopping once to pee, they’d snag Mari, and the Holy Trinity would be on the scene by morning, looming over me at the breakfast table, hands on hips, demanding an explanation.
“It’s fine,” I said to the family of stuffed owls on my bed. Emilio was temporary. A means to an end. As soon as the bike was running, he’d be out of my life, and “Vargas” would never again pass my lips.
Over.
Done.
Terminado.
I nodded vigorously as if that would help the words settle in, and it worked for about ten seconds. But in all that rattling, I’d shaken loose an image my mind had captured and stored without permission—Emilio, winking at me and jumping on the kickstart, the bike roaring beneath him. My treacherous little beast of a heart fluttered.