Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet: Chapters 6–10

He’s a massive hoarder, and he and my abuelo play cards in the afternoon, betting on things that don’t even belong to them. Like the washer and dryer that’s been sitting in the McDermotts’ yard for almost three months, or Mr. Martinez’s cattle trough-turned-aboveground pool that you can just make out through the holes in the fence.

There’s no signature. Just another generic response.

But three installments later, the guy was $800 richer and I was still at square one.

No gold plaque outside the door. No fake diploma from an Ivy League law school on the wall.

Money he’d begged me to save for college, for my future. Instead, I squandered it on the past.

“Nacho, what have you been telling these kids about me? They all look like they’re afraid I’ll bite.” He raises a hand to his mouth and says conspiratorially, “Don’t worry. My bark’s much bigger.”

Mr. Prado is so stoic I can’t tell if he’s breathing.

“We’re not old friends.” Mr. Prado seethes. “And you’re not welcome here.”

What else do you call someone who uses blackmail and intimidation to extort people out of their hard-earned money?

I think back to his uniformed posse watching us from the corner of the room.

Then we have no choice, a barrage of moans and murmurs and various curse words filling the dining room as we all get back to work.

Because I need the quiet and whatever feigned safety exists in this space between us.

The lull I’ve been waiting for finally slips over us, and I know it’s my turn to chase it away.

“I’d extend the patio area, maybe put in a big pergola with some of those hanging lights. We could rip out all of those weeds back there and have live music on the weekends.”

I can recall the cadence of every stranger who’s answered one of his old phone numbers.

“You’ve checked with the consulate?”
“Several times.”
“So there’s no record of him becoming a permanent resident or having been deported in the past fifteen years?”

A few weeks after I came to live with him, I finally mustered up the courage to ask about my father.

“In my experience, when Angel takes us on these little excursions outside the restaurant, it’s never good.”

When I first moved in, the house was already full of memories: trinkets and old mismatched furniture, Western figurines, vintage beer bottles, and his giant coin collection.

After carrying in her mattress we all collapse on the floor, the cold concrete suddenly a welcome amenity.

I crawl under the blankets, still examining my life in fragments, the tears warping everything until it looks like one of those abstract paintings that people call genius even though it’s just a bunch of lines and dots.

The walls rattle, pipes probably purging the last of the hot water.

Instead, he pulled out my childhood memories, one by one, brushed off the dust, and wove them into this mesmerizing patchwork, this haphazard portrait—revealing a life I hardly recognize anymore.

It used to stare back at me from my vanity mirror, whispering how.

I remember the first time it happened, puberty inciting a war inside me that finally erupted the day after my abuelita died.

I wrench it open, the trill of laughter following two small children as they disappear at the end of the hall.

I relish the audience the same way I do at the restaurant.

I stand in front of one of the worktables, watching from across the kitchen as two girls meticulously ice cupcakes before balancing them on an elaborately tiered cake stand.

Indelibly, it’s left a significant mark on not just your cooking style but your way of life. I'm just not sure if that”—her eyes crinkle into a condescendingly cheerful smile—“style will be a good fit here.”

“Indelibly, it’s left a significant mark on not just your cooking style but your way of life. I'm just not sure if that”—her eyes crinkle into a condescendingly cheerful smile—“style will be a good fit here.”

Chloe is sprawled out on my bed, paralyzed in awe.

“What the hell?” He guffaws. “You live in this thing or something?”

“A race, a relay, a trivia contest.”
“A little bit of truth or dare,” Pen adds. “Oh, and an endurance test.”

Angel beckons me into the garage.

The first time Miguel flubs the words, everyone on our side of the table cheers.

My turn is an impromptu spelling bee, and I only win by default when my opponent, one of the buzz cuts (who is already so drunk he can barely stand), tries to argue that the word propitious starts with the letter J.

My turn is an impromptu spelling bee, and I only win by default when my opponent, one of the buzz cuts (who is already so drunk he can barely stand), tries to argue that the word propitious starts with the letter J.

They move on to some crude obstacle course, people hopping onto couch cushions and climbing chairs and footstools, avoiding the ground.

I mull over the words and finally settle on, “Are you really as tough as you seem?”

“Are you as cool, calm, and collected as you seem?”