When I pass the bench outside the hardware store, Old Vinny and Rick are smoking cigars like they always do on Tuesdays. They’re usually nice to me, but today their eyes go wide the moment I’m in view.
“I heard those tough girls rolled up on the skinny boy riding motorcycles! Casting spells, they were, just like in the movies.”
“What’s that you said? Shells?”
“No, SPELLS! Like MAGIC! Broke his arm clean in half, and that’s not the worst of it! They say the girls went after his sister next!”
“A BLISTER, was it?”
I break into a run, my sweat going cold even in 105-degree weather. The back doors of the diner swing open just like normal, but there’s no one in the kitchen. Voices drift back from the dining room. My mom’s, and a man’s. I’m not even sure why, but I creep up to the kitchen door to listen, not making a sound, close enough that their indistinct voices become actual words.
“. . . sure you understand,” the man’s voice is saying, and my blood suddenly goes colder than my sweat. That’s not just a man out there. It’s Jack Bradley, Royce’s father. “Considering the incident yesterday, the pageant board feels it’s more than fair.”
“The incident?” my mom asks, incredulous. “It was a couple of teenagers and a bike crash, Jack. You can’t seriously be considering this.”
“I think you’ll find the PTA is calling it more than just a bike crash,” Mr. Bradley says, his voice oozing condescension. “Considering the boy’s . . . unique situation . . . the charges are more akin to bullying. And as you know, our school board and our pageant committee have expressed a clear zero-tolerance policy for abuse of any kind.”
The irony of these words coming from Royce’s father’s mouth makes me want to launch the entire Bradley bloodline straight into the sun.
“And I’m sure the case will be examined,” my mom says, using the no-nonsense voice she usually reserves for the health inspectors. “But I don’t see what Selena’s has to do with it.”
Selena’s? I press my ear even closer to the door. Sure, everyone hates us, but what can this possibly have to do with the diner?
“Given that every one of your employees were involved in the incident, the pageant board doesn’t feel it would be . . . prudent for any of the official Miss Meteor events to take place in this establishment.”
“The board doesn’t? Or you don’t?”
“As chairman, I won’t pretend my opinion isn’t valued,” he says. “After all, the Kendall boy is one of my son’s closest friends. You can’t imagine how he’s suffering today. His friend maimed. His chances at the championship all but ruined . . .”
“Jack, I’m very sorry for the Kendall boy, and for your son’s . . . hardships,” my mom says. “But the meet and greet is our biggest night of the year.”
I can hear it in her voice now. Fear. The kind she’s never shown to me.
“You know how tough it is to own a business in this town.” I can almost hear my mom’s pride disappearing as she swallows it. “We need this.”
I know, in this moment, that I will never forgive myself for making my mother admit these things to Jack Bradley. Ever.
“Yes,” he says, all fake resignation. “Restaurants. Such a fickle business, Clarita. I always say people will always need cars! That’s what keeps the lights on!” He laughs, one of those awful salesman things that sounds like it was made in a plastic mold. “I imagine you can’t say the same for . . . noodle casserole con pollo?”
He says pollo like polo. I’ve never wanted to throw fryer oil on someone so badly, and I work in a kitchen with Fresa three nights a week.
“I’d like to appeal to the board,” my mom says, stiff, professional.
“I’m afraid with such short notice, there’s no time for an appeal. There’s always next year.” I can hear his shiny shoes heading for the door, and the words my mom isn’t saying. Without this event, without pageant week, we might not make it to next year.
“Where will it be?” she asks. “The meet and greet. Maybe we could . . . cater? Would that appease the board?” I hate that she’s asking him this. I hate that he has this power over her. Over all of us.
“Ah, yes, well as I said, short notice. I’ve offered the local Bradley Dealership as the host and sponsor. We’ll be . . . outsourcing the catering. I’m sure you understand.”
The bell on the door dings. Jack Bradley is gone.
And my mother is crying.
I should go comfort her, but what can I say? Sorry I literally ruined your life? I can’t even look at her until I fix this, so I ease back out the double doors and sprint as fast as I can toward home, hoping like hell someone else has a plan.
When I burst through the front door, the phone is already ringing.
“Lita?” I pant into the receiver.
“Yeah, this is Perez,” she says in her most serious detective voice. Or is it buddy cop? I can’t tell today, but at least I know she’s serious.
“Did you hear?”
“Roger that, Quintanilla, it’s all over town. Over.”
Buddy cop, then. “What do we do?” I ask, clutching at a stitch in my side.
“We meet at the cactuses. At sundown. Bring all the firepower you’ve got, do you copy?”
It’s absurd, but I do. And I know she doesn’t mean guns. “Roger,” I say, already heading for the stairs where all the firepower we’ll need is waiting in the form of three supremely pissed off Quintanillas.
Lita
IT’S ENTIRELY POSSIBLE that, between the three of them, Chicky’s sisters know almost every secret in Meteor. And they’re how I know that something happened between Chicky and Junior, even if none of us knows exactly what.
So Chicky would probably threaten me with what’s left of Fresa’s ribbon wand if she knew I was doing this. But she needs all her friends, whether she knows it or not, and that includes Junior Cortes.
Especially Junior Cortes.
I find him behind the Meteor Meteorite Museum, touching up a board that’s a perfect replica of a Rothko No. 61. He’s never done with a painting until it’s out of his hands.
“Mr. Cortes,” I say, “I am here to request your presence at an urgent convening of . . .”
“Before you get through whatever speech from Henry V you memorized,” he says, “I’m gonna stop you.”
I sigh. “Please?”
He sighs back. “Lita.”
“She needs you right now,” I say.
“You’re either wrong,” he says, standing up from inspecting the paint, “or that’s news to her.”
“I’m right,” I say. “I promise.”
“Then why are you here instead of her?”
The question steals the words from my mouth.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Junior says. “But it’s not the best time for me and Chicky to be in the same part of the desert.”
The words pinch, but I can’t blame him. I know something about Chicky putting distance between her and people she needs.