“But don’t have too much fun, or you won’t come back to me,” she jokes.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
CHAPTER 3
Pheus
Jaysen can’t stop blowing up my phone. I was due to meet him in front of his building twenty minutes ago. He should know better. I can’t rush things with Pops. Pops considers our time together a gift and won’t allow me to simply bounce. Jaysen will have to wait.
“Hand me the screwdriver,” Pops says. He tightens a screw on his bike.
Pops is part of a crew that soups up bikes with cool accessories and rides them around at festivals. Some of the guys have been in Pops’s inner circle since they used to run around as children, catching pickup games in the park. Mom doesn’t like them. I’ve heard her call them bums. If I look closely, I can see her point. They have grease stains on their clothes. There’s a combined odor of weed and unwashed hair. I don’t think they have real jobs. They’re definitely not the type of men Moms wants me to spend time with. Still, they are good people and are always up to offer me sound advice.
“How long are you staying with this cabeza dura?” Migs says. His real name is Miguel, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard my father call him that.
“All summer,” I say.
“I see you’re well strapped today.” He gently pats my guitar case. “Ready to woo the girls, huh?”
Migs used to be a popular DJ back in the day. Addiction took him down. You can see the struggle in his hollow cheeks and the thin legs peeking out from under his baggy shorts.
“Music won’t pay the bills, but it will surely keep you warm at night,” he jokes.
“Leave my son alone,” Pops says. “He’s not wasting his talent. He’s the real deal.”
Pops places the Dominican flag I gave him right above the small sign that reads “Apolo,” his name. I take the screwdriver and place it back in the plastic bag he uses as a toolbox. What makes him think I’m the real deal? I can sing and play the guitar. I don’t think that’s enough.
My phone vibrates, and I’m about to curse Jaysen out when I recognize the number.
“Hey, Mom.” It’s 8 a.m., and she must be on her way to work. Her boyfriend usually picks her up with a steaming cup of coffee in the car’s cup holder, ready for her.
“Good morning, baby,” she says. “How’s everything?”
She’s trying not to sound angry. This phone call is not for me.
“Everything is good. Just chilling.”
“I need to speak to your father,” she says.
Pops is already standing up. He wipes his hand on his shirt. Migs shakes his head.
“That’s trouble right there,” Migs says. Pops hushes him and takes the call.
To give him privacy, I start playing chords. The only argument they ever have has to do with money. Money for the private tutors Mom insists I need. Money for after-school programs my public school doesn’t cover, like the SAT prep class or the coding course.
“I need to move some stuff around,” Pop says. “It will be in the mail.”
I can hear Mom arguing back.
“Tracy, I told you, I’ll have the money.”
I strum the guitar loudly, anything to drown out this conversation. Migs and the others take the hint and start to talk. Their action is a small token I’m grateful for.
When Pops hands me back the phone, he barely looks at me. His mouth is a thin line on his face. The wrinkles on his forehead reveal his anger.
“Pops, what do you think about this?” I play the melody from my new song really fast. Instead of a romantic bachata, the song is now a joyful merengue.
“Sounds good, son,” he says without much heart. The tools in the plastic bag make clanking sounds as he roughly rummages around. I place the guitar back in its case.
“I should head out.” There is no way of getting to him, not when Pops is still so deep in the phone call.
“Be safe. Don’t be stupid,” he says. He doesn’t bother looking up.
When I see my father like this, I see what my future might be if I don’t follow the correct path. How did Pops lose sight of himself? He wasn’t always like this, tinkering with bikes and smoking. I’ve seen the pictures of Mom and Pop when they were dating. They met at NYU when they were both studying business. He lost interest in school and dropped out right before graduating. Mom said he was trying to “find himself.” When I was born, he landed for a while at Parks and Rec and seemed happy enough. Then an injury led us to where we are now. I’m all for trying to figure your shit out, but this—this is something else. Mom can’t handle paying for everything, and she shouldn’t have to.
Sometimes I wish my father would get a job. Any job. A weekly check so he doesn’t have to hustle as much. Mom shouldn’t have to beg for money. I don’t know. Things would go a whole lot smoother if he worked.
I catch Migs patting my father’s shoulder. Pops shrugs his hand off. Migs is right—music and love won’t pay the bills.
Jaysen is doing a boxer’s shuffle in front of his building.
“Why you got to play me like a sucka, fam?” he asks. “Penelope is waiting.”
“If I knew she was coming, I would have walked over with her,” I say, annoyed. It’s too freaking early for these absurd logistics of his. “Why you got me coming to meet you first?”
“Because I need to give you the lowdown on her cousin,” Jaysen says.
I wait. He’s acting theatrical like he’s got the dopest announcement ever. Sometimes Jaysen is tiring. I’m not in the mood, not after what I witnessed with Pops.
“Apparently her cousin had some problems in Tampa and they sent her here.”
“Problems?” I ask.
“You know, mental shit.” Jaysen taps his head. Does a circle with his finger.
I push him, which makes him lose his balance. “Man, shut up. Why are you starting something?” I say, pissed off. “Let’s go before I take this guitar and knock you out with it.”
Jaysen can be ridiculous sometimes. He has potential, we all do, but there are moments when he gets caught up in these stereotypical roles. Jaysen is smart, so it riles me up even more when he comes out of his face like now.
“I’m just saying,” he mumbles.
“Let’s go before I bounce. You don’t know a thing about Penelope’s family, so stop speculating. Damn.”
We walk to my building in silence. I’m not here for people making jokes about mental stuff. It’s not lost on me how my father battles depression. Everyone has a hang-up, even Jaysen with his hyperactivity. He was basically raised on cheap soda. You think I’m going to tell him that? No. I look out for him by nudging him to let go of the soda and drink water instead. Right now I just want him to be quiet about Penelope’s cousin. It’s not cool to talk about our friend’s family like we’re Bossip. Whatever is going on with her is none of our business.
Penelope waits with her arms tight across her chest. Her cousin stands beside her. I can see the family resemblance right away, although her cousin is not thin like Penelope. She has way more curves. Her hair is thick and long. It covers most of her face.