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Prologue - Parker
14 years earlier (2008)
On the corner of Palmetto Street and Wilson Avenue was the equivalent to what I always thought was a deli. I learned quickly that it wasn’t.
“Atortariais much better than a deli,” Mateo Gomez, who owned La Parrilla—thenon-delion said corner—would always remind me. “Delis are cold, you smell nothing when you walk inside one. But here, you smell the chorizo before you even get to the door. I should charge for that alone, not just for mytortas,” he overexaggerated the word chorizo, pinching his fingers in the air.
He wasn’t wrong, but any time I tried to say torta,let alone tortaria, my pronunciation made him laugh, so I avoided it all together. “Why can’t I just call them sandwiches?” I’d ask, knowing damn well the question made him sigh.
“Because these are better. They’re hot, filled with potatoes, salsa, crema, and pork. It’s not just a sandwich, it’s a meal.”
“A meal between two slices of bread…” I maintained.
“Wrong! Not bread, atelera! It’s flat but sweet,como las nalgas de mi esposa.”Mateo always said this, but I never knew what it meant. Gloria, his wife—who spent more time cooking than eating—would smack Mateo with a dish towel whenever he’d repeat himself.
I tried not to argue with him, and honestly it was more playful banter than anything else. Mateo was the only man who’d hire me, a twelve-year-old kid, who didn’t know a lick of Spanish on this side of Brooklyn.
“I’ll give you ten bucks to run the route and deliver all the papers with my coupons. If anyone mentions your name while ordering food, I’ll give you an extra ten cents per order. You bring in one hundred customers, and I’ll add you to theWall of Fuego.”That was Mateo, he was all about the recognition, and for some reason he thought he could entice me the same way. “You could be up there with Oscar De La Hoya. Think about it,güero!” He’d demonstrate, pointing to his collection of autographed portraits that hung adjacent to the cash register.
Güero… that was his nickname for me, which was better thangringo,the name some kids tried to call me at school, but I’d never let them. Mateo was different though, more endearing, like a buddy, not a bully. I just wish I knew how to say the word right.
“Wet... toe,” I attempted, repeating the nickname as I rode my bike down the street, tucking Andy, the stuffed giraffe, back into the blue Ikea bag I carried the newspapers in.
I knew Mateo wanted to ask about the plush animal, and why it saidKings County Prideon its little green shirt, but I didn’t want to explain it. How could I admit that the toy wasn’t mine, or that I wasn’t actually going on the paper route first, but instead, riding to Gemma’s house to drop it off?
That’d be a lot to explain. If I told him about the giraffe, then I’d have to tell him how I got it, about how much work it took to win him at the county fair, a prize that wasn’t for me, but rather a girl. No, not just any girl, but Gemma, my best friend, the very person who left Andy at my house during a sleepover two nights ago.
And if I told Mateo that, then I’d have to explain why it was so important to drop this off first; admitting that Gemma was more of a priority than his potential lunch crowd. He thought I was working to get onto theWall of Fuego,but in reality, it was because of Gemma.
It was for her… just like how Andy was for her. Anything and everything typically was, though this in particular was special. I was saving money to buy Gemma a birthday gift in the coming months, and that was huge. What would Mateo think if I confessed that I was getting her a ring, one with a small, silver butterfly at its center? I think I’d die from the admission.
He’d surely ask if I had a crush on her, and I’d have to tell him no, but that’d be a lie, and I didn’t like lying. It made me feel sick. But even if I said no, it technically wasn’t a lie, because what I felt was far more than just acrush. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to him, because maybe I wasn’t sure exactly whatitwas I felt.
Like… at any moment I could explode.
Perhaps, I’d explain how my stomach always felt full, and how food always tasted dull when I wasn’t with her. Or, I could tell him how I didn’t even have space in my head to think abouthowGemma made me feel, because all I felt and thought of… was her.
What a big feeling in itself, and the most confusing jigsaw of emotions I’d ever confronted.
With her, my insides felt as though they were made of marble, but also of boiled water. I was melting and stiffening all at once, and at times I thought I was going crazy. What if I told her that myself? “Gemma, you make me crazy.” How would that sound? Or, “Gemma, I think I’m failing seventh-grade math because you sit in front of me, and all I do is stare at the back of your braided, auburn hair.”
I’d sound like a psycho, but considering how much we loved horror movies, it may not have been such a bad label to give myself. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d say to Gemma, but I’d tell her everything after surprising her for her thirteenth birthday.
Pulling up to Gemma’s apartment, I made my way through the old steel door that creaked as it opened. It wasn’t safe to leave my bike outdoors, so I carried it up four flights of stairs—bike on one shoulder, bag of papers on the other. I didn’t mind it, considering each arduous step allowed me an opportunity to think. I had plenty of time to know what I’d say to Gemma on her birthday, but I wasn’t even sure what I’d say to her now.Hi? What’s up?
Hellosounded too simple, but everything else felt equally lame in my head. The thought of even seeing her face made me nervous, especially as I approached her door, regretting my stupid outfit. What was I thinking, wearing a grey shirt with a comic book cover on it?Amazing Fantasy,issue fifteen? The first appearance of Spider-Man swung across my small chest, and it made me feel like an asshole.
I blocked the thought out, knocking three times before placing my hand right back at my waist. I decided to play it cool, delivering the perfect greeting as the door opened.
“Wha’d up?” My voice cracked, shifting from squeaky to deep. I sounded silly but was saved by the fact that it wasn’t Gemma who answered the door.
“Parker?” Mrs. Harrison looked down at me, but not before poking her head out. She peeked from side to side, checking for anyone else in the hall, looking both nervous and hopeful. When her eyes came back to me, they appeared more sunken in than I remembered. They were dark, but not as much as the living room behind her.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Harrison.” I couldn’t tell if she had just woken up, or if she hadn’t slept at all, and the way she clutched onto her robe seemed as though she could tear it apart at any moment. “I’m here for Gemma…”
“For, Gemma?” she asked. “Where are you taking her?”
“Nowhere ma’am,” I clarified, unsure of her interpretation. “I only meant that I’m here toseeGemma. Not take her.”
