The living room sofa bed is going to be my new best friend for the next eight weeks. At least it’s an upgrade from the inflatable bed.
“Son.” Pops steps out of his bedroom. He wears jeans and the Cibaeño T-shirt I gave him on his last birthday. His chancletas hit the hardwood floors. Pops gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How was the ride?”
“You know. Same ol’.”
Pops got that Sergio Vargas vibe when Sergio was at the height of his musical reign in the nineties. Pops can basically chill with anyone, but I know for a fact he still carries a picture of him and Mom tucked in his wallet. Is he still pining for Mom to take him back? Mom’s been dating this bank teller for the past two years. Pops doesn’t ask about him. He would never disrespect Mom like that. I want to tell him I think the guy is hella dry, like white bread even though he’s Black, but I won’t do that to Mom either.
I dig through my bag and pull out the Dominican flag I found at a 99-cent store the other day. I hand it to Pops.
“Nice. Thanks, son. I know exactly where I can hang it,” he says. “What’s your summer plan? Have you given much thought to what we discussed?”
Pops wants me to try out for a free after-school program at a music conservatory where students are teamed up with professional musicians. I love music. I do. I can feel it bubbling inside me—a new verse, a melody—and I want to jot it down. Capture the tune and share it with everyone. But music isn’t everything. I’m not foolish. I’m practical like Mom. If I continue with my grades, I can step into a real moneymaking job. I’m thinking more like an entertainment lawyer. Music will not get me where I need to go.
“I’m thinking about it,” I say and hope Pops changes the subject.
“The application is due in August. The after-school program is perfect for you.” He can tell I’m trying to shake him off.
“I promise to give it a look before the end of the week.” I mean this, although I doubt I’ll apply.
“Found this for you.” Pops hands me a used book, We Took the Streets. Pops always has nonfiction books about history to give me. I’ll devour this one in no time.
“Thanks. I’ll read it tonight,” I say and give him a quick hug. “We’re heading to Orchard. You want to come?”
“I got work to do.” With disability, it’s not worth it for Pops to get a real job, so he picks up odd gigs that pay off the books. Money has always been tight for him. Luckily I have my allowance, so I don’t have to ask him for a dime.
“You’re young. You don’t want this old man messing up your day,” he says. “Be safe. Don’t be stupid.”
I head to the bathroom to get ready.
The six-pack I grabbed from the bodega keeps my legs nice and frosty. I keep replaying the new lyrics to my song in my head. I can feel it. This is going to be the summer jam. Can’t wait for my friends to hear it.
“El Nuevo Nene de la Bachata has arrived!” Jaysen proclaims as I walk over to the group. Everyone from the block is here, including Melaina and her girls. She glances over but doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Not yet. Melaina is cold at first. This is her thing. She’ll warm up later.
“Here you go.” I hand the six-pack over, and Jaysen tries his best to conceal the drinks. Although the day is just beginning, we still want to feel a buzz. The first suntan. The first taste of freedom. Melaina’s glistening skin. Summer is going to be mine.
I pull out my guitar and tune it. Pops gifted me the strings when I turned ten. There’s a multitude of musical styles playing around us. Eventually the differing sounds—the rap, the reggaeton—will be pushed aside. When I start to sing, nothing around me matters. It’s just my voice and the emotion I’m trying to convey. How I’m trying to capture beauty, the waves that come and go, the feeling of longing or lust.
“Stop fooling around with them chords,” Angel, one of the guys from the block, says.
“Yeah!” Another one joins in. “It’s time Pheus earns his keep.”
“For real. It’s been a minute since we heard him sing,” Melaina says. “What if he doesn’t have what it takes anymore? What if he sounds like Bad Bunny trying to sing a bolero?”
Melaina gives me a sexy, mischievous grin. She wears a bathing suit with a plunging neckline. Her hair is slicked back in a tight ponytail. Her lips lined bloodred. Mean and beautiful.
Those around continue to flame me. I take my sweet time. Melaina pulls away from her girls. Everyone on the block couldn’t believe when she decided I was going to be the one. I knew she was mine by the way she looked at me.
“Sing to me,” she whispers in my ear. Then Melaina saunters right back to her crew.
I won’t sing the new song. It’s still too fresh. The lyrics need some cooking. I decide on a favorite. I lean over to Jaysen, and he hushes everyone.
My fingers strum an A minor chord. A minor is a sad chord, a chord meant to pull on them hearts.
I sing the first verse to Romeo Santos’s “Propuesta Indecente.” The group oohs and aahs. Families turn down their radios. The girls are sexing me. The guys are looking at me too. It’s the start of the summer. This song is going to be the first of many. Music is sex and games. I’m playing hard, because come September, I’m getting serious about the future.
“Otra,” Melaina says.
I sing another and another until the beach closes down.
CHAPTER 2
Eury
“Eury, honey, aren’t you hot?”
Titi Sylvia talks more to my hair than to me. The first thing she noted after giving me a long hug and kiss at the airport was how long my hair is. Titi Sylvia asked my mother—her sister—whether I ever cut it and how it is I haven’t fainted from the heat. My natural hair is a curtain I can hide under. Mami has tried many times to chop it off or at least have it straightened. I won’t allow her.
“I like the way my hair covers me,” I say. “I feel protected underneath it. Almost, anyway.”
I notice the worried look Titi gives Mami. To avoid any more questions, I place my earbuds in and listen to “Sign o’ the Times” by Prince. The song has been on repeat ever since we boarded the plane departing Tampa earlier this morning.
There are no clouds in the sky. The Weather Channel stated the temperature will be high in the seventies with no chance of showers. Still, I search for signs of him. He’s going to show up. It’s only a matter of time. He’ll surely follow me here. If only my hair could completely hide me from this fate. When? When will he show up? I try to steady my rapid breathing. I can’t afford to lose it in this car. I close my eyes and count backward from ten slowly. Instead of this calming me down, my mind races to how I ended up in the back of Titi Sylvia’s car en route to the Bronx with my mother avoiding telling Titi the truth: that I’m not well and that I’m only getting worse.
“Eury needs to speak to someone. It isn’t like when we were growing up, Danaís. Lots of people see therapists now,” Titi Sylvia says. “These episodes she’s having are not nervios.”
“Eury is fine. What happened in Tampa was just a little bump. She’s been under a lot of stress to fit in at the new school,” Mami says. “I’ve been working long hours and that’s affecting her too. We can handle this. She just needs to spend time with family. That’s all.”