I swear, sometimes her optimism crosses into crazy.
“Karina, that’s not the point. Just come over tomorrow, okay?”
We hang up.
Two hours later my phone alarm beeps. Time to eat again. I press pause on Natural Nathan.
In the kitchen I heat a container of chicken breast, broccoli, and brown rice. I have three of those left in the fridge, about eight more meals in total. I cooked a few different things in bulk the other day.
Some meals it’s tuna instead of chicken, sweet potato instead of brown rice, spinach instead of broccoli. But lean steak, quinoa, and asparagus are too expensive.
It’s all about packing on muscle, which I assume is happening. I see no difference in the mirror—yet. They say a watched pot never boils. Well, apparently a watched physique never grows.
The microwave beeps. I take out my fourth meal of the day, at 2:31, and take my meal back to my room, happy to have the quiet house to myself.
I chew the food quickly, wishing the video could completely distract me from the blandness in my mouth. Eating has become a chore.
When I’m close to the final bite, my phone rings again. Dad’s calling.
I swallow and answer. “Hello?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Boring, please.” It’s Gaby, the comedian.
I laugh. The truth though? It sort of hurts. Before my life became all about gains my sister thought I was the coolest person in the world.
If only she could understand that it’s not normal for a high school senior to spend so much time with an eight-year-old. Besides, I’m becoming a better version of myself. I don’t really have time for silly games and other kid stuff.
“This is Mr. Boring,” I say, playing along. “How can I help you?”
“Dad needs you.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Espinoza Auto Repair is on Bautista Street, across from a furniture factory and next to a run-down sandwich shop. We’re small but impossible to miss. Used tires on a tall rack are displayed in front of the passing traffic, and a large banner advertises 25 percent off oil changes.
Dad and I even put up the long streamers from the shop to the tall street sign, the triangles in red, white, and blue. Dad says immigrants are the true patriots. “You want to know what makes this country great, ask an immigrant,” he likes to say. “Not those ignorant racists who wave the flag like it’s a symbol of hate.”
Rather than put up a flag, he thought the American colors streaming over the lot would be a nice touch. It definitely draws attention.
I roll up on my bike hoping Dad takes care of the tire repair and replacement work if it comes in. I normally prefer the easy tire work, love that customers often slip me a dollar or two as a tip. But now that I’m world-famous Bitchslap, I’d rather stay in the back.
Dad won’t let me wear my hoodie—says it’s tonterías—so I take it off before I roll my bike inside. Sweat streaks down underneath my moist T-shirt.
“Hi, Dad.”
He’s lying on a creeper under a Kia. One day we’ll have one of those professional hydraulic lifts that raises the car over your head. Un día, he always says. But with business so slow he sometimes waits with nothing to do. We’re barely scraping by. Months ago he still had a full-time employee helping him out.
“Your sister has been bored all day.” His voice comes out muffled from under all that metal.
I leave my bike along the back wall, about ten feet from where Gaby is playing with off-brand Barbies on the patch of grass.
“Hi, Gaby.”
She barely lifts a hand to wave a wild-haired doll at me.
“The Ford truck has a leaky radiator,” Dad calls out.
At work he speaks in orders. It’s never please, and rarely thank you.
“On it,” I say.
I’m uncapping the radiator when I hear a car pulling up outside. I turn. It’s a small, newish two-door Chevy, no troubling noises coming from the engine.
“Tire work, Dad,” I say. “Do you mind? I don’t want to be out there.”
“Tonterías,” he says. “Nobody is going to recognize you.”
Dammit. I head out into the bright afternoon again. Enzo hops outta the driver’s side, and Miguel outta the other side. Double dammit.
I feel a tingling of shame in my stomach. This is why I don’t wanna see people, even friends, until I become the new me. How can they look at me without remembering that video?
Though I see the Chevy has a small spare on in the front, I ask, “What are you guys doing here?”
“Flat tire. It’s in the back,” Enzo says, and goes to open it.
I talk to Miguel quickly, and in a low voice. “I told you I don’t wanna see anybody until my transformation is complete. There are other places to fix a flat.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the word-of-mouth advertising,” he whispers back, one eye on Enzo, who pulls out the wheel from the trunk.
Then Miguel’s voice goes sunny and loud. “You’re welcome! You know I’m always glad to bring you a new customer.”
I take the front wheel from Enzo, feeling an ache in my biceps and shoulders.
“We just saw The Ovato Mission,” Enzo says. “You totally missed out.”
Miguel agrees that it was awesome.
They say nothing else, eyes watching me. Am I supposed to be sorry I missed it? I made plans with them to see it before my life got destroyed.
“Cool,” I say.
In that silence, all I imagine them thinking is, Poor Bitchslap.
To locate the puncture, I start with a simple visual inspection. Ever so slowly, I turn the tire in the sun. A dot of dull metal is stuck in the black rubber. I pull it out with the nose pliers—it’s a broken, half-rusty nail.
“I leave for the DR this weekend,” Miguel reminds me. “If you’re busy the next few days, we’ll have to hang out in six weeks when I get back.”
“We should all go to Universal Studios then,” Enzo tells me, “or you and I can hang out before, if you’re around.”
“Maybe,” I lie.
I jam a rubber plug into the puncture with a twist of the tool. Once I fill the tire with air I carry it back to the car, wondering if it feels lighter than a thirteen-inch wheel normally does. Can’t tell. Tomorrow I’ll test my new strength at the gym and confirm, without a doubt, that all my hard work is paying off.
After I swap out the spare for the fixed wheel I bring down the car with a twist of the hydraulic carjack handle.
I take my cap off to wipe the sweat from my forehead and face.
“Oh my God!” Miguel says.
“You buzzed your hair off,” Enzo says.
I’d forgotten about my head. “Does it look weird?” I ask them.
“No,” Miguel says. “The haircut looks fine. You look weird.”
“Thanks.”
He studies me close and then steps back to take me all in again. “How is it possible that your head looks bigger when you chop off your hair?”
“I’ll be growing into my head this summer.”
When Enzo pulls out his wallet, I tell him there’s no charge for friends.
Dad does the same. What’s a tiny piece of rubber thread and a few minutes of labor?
“Hey, Bitchslap!” a voice calls out.