Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet: Chapters 1–5

Grease hisses and pops beneath the staccato drums ticking from the speaker above my brother Angel’s head.

The impact ignites a thousand memories. My father’s pipe speaking in tobacco apparitions.

But that’s hard to do when you’re slammed and short-staffed. Not to mention the fact that the number of free meals my father’s been doling out has nearly doubled, which means fewer tips but twice the work.

She scrambles to scrape up the broken plate and slices her hand. She winces, but I’m not sure if the tears are from the pain or my proximity.

“It was an accident,” she says, reminding me that these kinds of things do indeed happen and that I should defer to her in moments requiring human compassion since she is much better equipped for them.

Mrs. Cantu can draw almost anything—caricatures, animals, flowers.

I didn’t know my father had commissioned them to paint the sidewalk outside the restaurant, but it doesn’t surprise me.

The look in Mr. Cantu’s eyes spurs my pulse, then my feet.

That’s who I have to be when I’m here. Pragmatic. A problem-solver.

I adorn cakes and pastries with mint leaves and powdered sugar, cinnamon and drizzled cajeta.

I find what he’s looking for before he does, and I poise the air horn between the two brutes.

As he hurls a string of expletives at anyone within earshot, I shove away the voice for the millionth time tonight, find a pair of gloves, and get to work.

Angel and I are thrown forward as the truck idles in the middle of the empty street.

Because, somehow, stepping into my fears is the only remedy I’ve found to ward off that feeling of helplessness.

And on Fridays, they come for half-price pork carnitas, legendary thanks to my addition of sweetened condensed milk, which caramelizes the meat with a sweet coating.

But beneath the salt of grease and gristle, I can also taste the lie.

Crossing this threshold feels just as dangerous, and I graze what’s left of the image, hoping some good luck rubs off on me.

“My dad’s not like that. He's not fickle, and he’s never in a good mood.”

“And now?” Angel searches my eyes, earnest, almost afraid. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone...but now?”

The words dredge up memories like shards of glass.

Inventory’s coming up. Payroll. Another audit from the IRS.

I’d sit at the kitchen table, picking the hair off the tripe while she started the broth.

One side of the restaurant is covered in a traditional mural, vaqueros on horseback and folklórico dancers leaning over the patrons as they eat.

One side of the restaurant is covered in a traditional mural, vaqueros on horseback and folklórico dancers leaning over the patrons as they eat.

One side of the restaurant is covered in a traditional mural, vaqueros on horseback and folklórico dancers leaning over the patrons as they eat.

But on the other side, the wall lining the bar is covered in old photographs, posters of local bands, and vintage ticket stubs.

It’s become somewhat of an attraction for the college crowd lately, but the people in my neighborhood have been tithing to the taco gods as long as I’ve lived here.

He points out two guys with the same black hair, both chopping onions with the same methodical crunch and swipe.

We move past the prep station to the washroom, a small alcove with four sinks, two of them already piled high with dishes.

“Oh no, and she’s got her Rosie the Retributioner face on.”

Lucas is still clutching the wall, fingernails digging into the grout as he watches Pen from across the room.

“They’ll beg her to come back. Or maybe she’ll just sue her dad for, I don’t know, copyright infringement for all of her recipes, and then they’ll have to close the place down and none of us will have to step foot in this godforsaken dive ever again.”

A premonition. The answer to a question I used to be too afraid to ask.

Hearing my mother say goodbye had cauterized those wounds.

And in that festering, my fears told a story with only two possible endings—that my father was alive and wanted nothing to do with me, or that he was dead and the past decade of searching didn’t matter.

He places my misshapen tortillas on the comal next.

Someone has even left a cute paisley hand towel draped over the side.

Every hope that’s been propelling me forward dissipates in an instant.

My father didn’t ask me here to make amends.

“You were really looking at apartments?” There’s actually a hint of pride in her voice, but all I can focus on is the underlying surprise, and it only makes me angrier.