An Appetite for Miracles Read online

and head for the hallway.

  “Mr. Nguyen

  was about to hand out

  a pop quiz.

  So,

  you’re welcome.”

  Victoria

  throws an arm around me.

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I kiss her on the cheek,

  grateful she quit

  the dance team (the other girls never

  let me hang out with them anyway)

  and became an office aide.

  Aunt Veronica was pissed

  and told Victoria

  no college

  was going to accept her

  if she couldn’t stick

  with something

  and Victoria said

  college

  was for the birds.

  Something Grandpa

  used to say

  because,

  to him,

  classrooms

  with four walls

  were the worst kind.

  Because,

  to him,

  the best way to learn

  was to fall

  into the world

  head first.

  Victoria was grounded

  for a whole month.

  But here,

  on the other side,

  she’s back

  to breaking the rules,

  more than happy

  to show me how.

  I finally ask, “Where to?”

  She raises an eyebrow,

  the arch perfectly

  penciled in.

  “Luchas?”

  I’m already salivating.

  “Luchas.”

  We skip out

  through the side doors,

  cross the parking lot,

  and hop the chain-link fence.

  On the way,

  we pass the soccer field

  where Javi Montoya,

  Victoria’s latest crush,

  is running

  shirtless.

  She stares.

  We both do.

  “When is he finally going to ask you out?” I say.

  She gives him a small wave,

  her lashes fluttering,

  drawing his gaze

  like a fish on a hook.

  He flops like one too,

  losing the ball

  while his teammates groan.

  Then they spot us,

  whistling and hooting

  until my skin is on fire

  until I like the way it feels.

  Victoria looks back one more time

  before answering my question.

  “I already did.”

  “Wait.

  You asked him out?”

  “He was taking too long.”

  She clicks her teeth.

  “Now I’m the one in control.”

  This is the thing about Victoria.

  She is always in control.

  Even when she’s not.

  “You’re amazing.”

  “I’m bored.”

  She takes my hand,

  leading us

  across the street

  while the pedestrian signal

  screams red.

  Grandpa put Luchas

  on the map

  with a five-hundred-word

  article in the New York Times.

  He raved about their

  adobo recipe,

  their pork roasting method,

  and coconut horchata,

  every word he wrote

  settling on the tongue

  as if you were eating right next to him.

  As we enter, I’m almost

  knocked back

  by the smell of comino and lime,

  the citrus sticking

  to the back of my throat.

  Victoria and I both reach

  to graze the framed article

  hanging by the door,

  my hand lingering over

  the photo of Grandpa

  and the owner, Mr. Gomez,

  laughing together

  over a story

  I’ll never know.

  We order

  al pastor tacos,

  with cilantro

  extra onions

  and tomatillo salsa.

  Grease and pineapple juice

  drip down our faces

  while we

  laugh

  (and almost choke)

  as we act out

  Victoria’s

  idea of a

  perfect date.

  “And then he’ll

  take my hand across the table,

  look into my eyes,

  and tell me how in love he is with me.”

  Victoria beams.

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  “And you’ll say?”

  She squeezes my hand

  like I’m Javi Montoya,

  desperate

  and waiting

  on the other side

  of the table.

  “I’ll say…”

  She stares deep into my eyes.

  “I.”

  She leans across the table.

  “Love.”

  She licks her lips.

  “Tacos.”

  I snort.

  She cackles.

  Falling over ourselves

  at the thought

  that anything

  could be better

  than

  the perfect

  taco.

  Drifting

  I try to hold on

  to the laughter,

  like a tether.

  But I feel myself

  drifting

  farther and farther

  away from

  reality,

  from this body

  I don’t always hate.

  But you should.

  Mami’s voice

  is a flame at the back

  of my skull.

  The one

  she doesn’t even

  have to use anymore

  because

  every cell in me

  has it memorized.

  The one that

  whispers praise

  for a growling stomach.

  The one that

  slips over me

  like a straitjacket,

  squeezing

  until I make myself

  small.

  I go quiet.

  It squeezes

  and Victoria takes my hand.

  Stain

  I don’t make it

  to my room

  before Mami sees

  me.

  “Danna.”

  I stop

  at the sound of her voice,

  hoping she doesn’t know

  about me skipping class;

  or hoping that’s all there is

  for her to fume over.

  I draw near.

  The temperature spikes.

  “Hi, Mami.”

  I smile

  like I’m happy

  to see her.

  But it makes her brow furrow;

  her arms cross.

  “What’s that?”

  She runs a sharp

  acrylic fingernail

  from the corner

  of my mouth

  down

  to my shirt.

  And there

  just over my racing heart

  is a golden grease stain.

  All the evidence she needs

  to know

  that, unlike Victoria,

  I am not in control.

  Papi senses

  the tension

  and it draws him out

  of the kitchen.

  “Hey, mija.”

  He is a light

  at the end

  of the hallway.

  “Want to help me with dinner?”

  Mami answers

  for me.

  “She already ate.”

  Raúl

  Spark

  My uncle

  saves me

  from the torture

  of riding the bus.

  Instead,

  he scoops me up

  in his old

  Chevy pickup truck

  and I burn

  my hand

  on the metal seat belt,

  hissing

  as I click it in place

  before

  we drive

  to the first client’s

  house.

  He laughs.

  “You burn up

  those fingers

  and I won’t

  be able to

  hide

  my imperfections

  behind

  your playing.”

  I want to tell him

  that my playing

  doesn’t hide a thing.

  But I don’t.

  Pastors have huge egos

  and every single one of them

  thinks they can sing.

  Even if it sounds

  like the second

  a wild animal

  becomes

  roadkill.

  It’s part of

  the perception

  that they’re

  special.

  Even though

  they are

  usually

  more flawed

  than most.

  My mom says

  it’s because

  the Devil

  only goes after

  righteous men.

  He doesn’t waste his time

  with the average

  human.

  No,

  the fun

  is in the fall,

  the dragging

&
nbsp; someone down

  from the

  mountaintop.

  Satan would know.

  He fell farther than anyone.

  My uncle’s not a bad person.

  In fact, he’s a really good person

  who spends all his time

  trying to save people’s souls,

  to bolster them

  in times of need,

  to love them

  when they

  don’t know

  how to love themselves.

  But he also

  uses food

  to make himself feel

  rich. And

  he would rather

  keep his failing flock

  than actually

  shepherd them

  toward truth.

  Which is why

  he shouts

  about apathy

  from the pulpit

  but never confronts

  anyone to their face.

  Still,

  he tries.

  And he pays me

  good money

  to help him

  help others.

  Basically,

  we are a human jukebox

  and through the power of music,

  we lead people

  back to the life

  they once had.

  Alzheimer’s patients.

  Stroke victims.

  People with PTSD.

  Anyone who has lost

  a piece of themselves,

  we try

  to help them

  get it back.

  At first,

  I hated

  going into strangers’ homes.

  But now,

  I’d do it

  even if he didn’t pay me.

  (I won’t tell him that.)

  The truth is,

  it makes me feel

  good

  to help people find

  the parts of themselves

  they thought they’d lost.

  Even if it’s just

  for a second.

  Even if it’s just

  for the length

  of a single song.

  I like watching

  the past

  light

  behind their eyes

  like a match.

  Even if the fire

  doesn’t catch,

  even if it’s just

  a spark,

  it makes me hope

  that

  maybe

  someday

  I can

  find my way back

  to the Raúl

  I used to be

  before

  everything

  gentle in me

  hardened

  or hid.

  Before I used

  my own spark

  to set fire

  to the things

  I used to

  love.

  Salvage

  Mr. Villarreal

  is all smiles.

  Like he knows

  that we’re here

  to see him

  but not that

  it’s because he’s sick

  or because his family is desperate

  and scared

  and all the other

  punch-in-the-gut feelings

  you have

  when someone you love

  is dying.

  He doesn’t know he’s dying.

  That is the real gift

  families give

  when they pay us

  fifty dollars an hour

  for “music therapy.”

  The illusion is the gift.

  The songs about Jesus,

  about falling in love,

  about the past,

  they wrench the sands

  back through

  the neck

  of the hourglass.

  While we sing “Amor de Mis Amores,”

  I watch it happen.

  I strum, my uncle

  filling in the words

  he can’t remember

  with quick glances

  at his computer.

  Mr. Villarreal’s eyes light up

  as we play his request—

  his wife’s favorite song.

  I can’t read music

  so I do my best

  to remember

  how the song sounded

  in my grandparents’ living

  room when they were still

  alive.

  “Aurora,”

  Mr. Villarreal taps his knee,

  leading my strumming

  as much as my own memory.

  “Aurora, you have to come hear this.”

  He searches the empty hallway,

  before looking toward the front door.

  She doesn’t come

  and I suspect

  she isn’t here.

  The only grain of sand

  we can’t salvage.

  “Aurora?”

  The song ends,

  wrapping us in a silence

  that bleeds.

  Mr. Villarreal blinks,

  the joy slipping

  fast from his face,

  like he’s searching

  through fog.

  “I’m here, Grandpa.”

  A girl about my age

  walks into the room

  and curls up

  on the couch next to Mr. Villarreal.

  “Danna…”

  He pets her hair.

  “This is my granddaughter, Danna.”

  My uncle reaches for her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Danna.”

  I reach out next. “Raúl.”

  She touches my hand.

  Her cheeks go pink.

  “Hi, Raúl.”

  Mr. Villarreal’s Granddaughter

  He smooths her hair,

  repeating her name

  like some part of him knows

  she longs to hear it.

  She looks up at him,

  that longing

  sparkling in her eyes

  like she’s trying

  not to cry.

  And I wonder

  how often

  she gets erased

  from his memory.

  As she finally lets go of my hand,

  I wonder

  if I’ll ever be able

  to erase her

  from mine.

  Mr. Villarreal’s Granddaughter Part Two

  Danna picks the next song.

  “Es Mi Niña Bonita.”

  She says,

  “It’s the song

  we danced to

  at my quinces,

  Grandpa,

  do you remember?”

  I carefully

  pluck the strings

  like they’re a secret

  code

  I can crack

  with precision.

  But I’m also trying

  not to stare

  at Danna

  and the small

  grease stain

  on her chest

  just above

  where the shape

  of her bra

  shows beneath

  her shirt.

  Mr. Villarreal’s Granddaughter Part Three