Chapter Two
Marcos – “Perdedora”
LATE NOVEMBER
“Can someone clean the kitchen?” Marcos’ mum called out in Spanish.
Her voice carried through the house from the other side of the hallway, sharp enough to cut through the low thud of music coming from Becca’s room, the distant noise of traffic beyond the front windows, and the soft flick of playing cards against the carpet.
Marcos did not move.
He sat with his legs crossed on the floor of the family room, one knee wedged under the edge of the low coffee table that had been there since before his legs had gotten too long to sit under it comfortably.
The carpet beneath him was flattened in the places where all of them sat too often, worn down between the couch and the television, and there was a faint permanent lean in the old armchair near the window from years of Greg dropping into it after work.
The room itself had a good structure. The rest of the house did too. High ceilings, neat cornices, old stained glass in the front window that turned the grey evening outside into broken pieces of colour.
It was home. It had been all Marcos’ life.
His shorts rode high on his thighs, and his loose tank top’s arm holes hung low enough to show almost the entire side of his torso.
He had come back from training, showered, eaten two bananas over the sink, and ended up on the family room floor because Paula had slapped a deck of cards against his chest and challenged him without needing to say anything.
Two cards rested on his knee. Three more sat face-up between him and Paula, along with a messy pile of cheap plastic chips from a poker set.
Paula sat opposite him with one foot tucked under her leg and the other stretched out to kick his shin if required.
She was fifteen and had inherited enough of the same features Marcos did from their mother that people still made comments about it when they saw them together.
Same eyes, same stubborn mouth, same expression when they thought someone was being stupid.
Hers sat a little sharper on her. Slimmer and more precise.
She wore her long dark hair down, and it kept falling forward while she studied the cards between them, brushing the carpet.
She glanced at her two cards, then at Marcos.
He raised his eyebrow and signed, ‘You gonna call? Raise?’
Paula tilted her head. Her eyes flicked from his hands to his face, then down to the cards again. She threw one of her chips into the pile between them and met his gaze with the kind of calm that usually meant she was either bluffing or about to make him look stupid.
Marcos smiled. He liked games with Paula because she treated dignity as part of the rules. Cards, racing games, Uno, and rock paper scissors when Becca needed someone to decide who had to take the bin out, all received the same cold focus. Paula did not play casually. Paula always played to win.
They had that in common, too.
Marcos turned the fourth card between them over, then lifted his head enough to call back to his mother in Spanish, “I’ll be there in a second.”
Paula’s attention shifted to his mouth, then his hands when he turned back to her. ‘What was that?’
‘Mum needs help,’ Marcos replied, then threw another chip into the centre.
A floorboard shifted near the doorway before Becca appeared, already wearing the expression of someone who had heard enough to be curious. Her music was still playing down the hall.
“I thought she was just yelling,” Becca said, walking into the room and throwing herself down on the couch, causing it to dip in the middle. Her gaze swept the room, and Marcos followed it.
The coffee table had pale rings on it from mugs no one had bothered to put coasters under.
A basket of folded laundry sat near the doorway because someone had put it there two nights ago, and everyone had decided to walk around it since, picking what they needed when they needed it.
The television remote had tape around the battery cover, and the cabinet below it was still full of DVDs, which Marcos insisted they use instead of streaming.
When his eyes landed on Becca again, she was already staring at him, brow knotted.
She had turned eleven earlier in the year and had decided no one in the family impressed her.
She was the youngest of the three siblings.
Light brown hair cut just short of her shoulders, hazel eyes bigger than Marcos’ and Paula’s, face taking more from Greg than Diana, which made her the odd one out in a household.
She stretched across the couch on her stomach and craned her neck toward Paula’s cards.
“I see your Espanol is coming along then,” Marcos said, glancing at Becca as she shifted to get a better angle.
“I’m still struggling with English. Give me a break.”
Marcos nodded and signed through the conversation for Paula, who smirked before dropping her cards and answering, ‘She also sucks at signing.’
“I know enough to know what you’re saying!” Becca exclaimed, shoving Paula with her foot.
Paula pushed her foot away keeping her eyes forward.
Marcos shook his head and signed as he spoke. “Go and help Mum, Bec.”
“Why do I have to?”
“Because I’m just about to beat Paula at poker. I’ll come out after.”
Becca groaned, pushing herself up off the couch with a dramatic effort. She dragged her feet toward the hallway, muttering as she went, “You probably suck at poker like you suck at football.”
Marcos watched her go with his mouth open.
Paula leaned slightly to look past him. ‘Did she say something?’
‘She said I’m the best.’
Paula stared at him. ‘Liar.’
Marcos winked and flipped the final card between them. He glanced at his two cards, then at the spread in the middle, and let his grin come wide before he thought too hard about it.
“Straight!” he yelled, throwing his cards down and holding his arms wide open in celebration.
Paula did not move at first. She leaned over and checked his cards, then the ones between them. Her nose scrunched, and her gaze travelled back to his face, slow and unimpressed, before she shook her head and signed, ‘That’s not a straight.’
Marcos stared at her, unblinking. ‘What?’
She tapped each card in order, then signed slowly. ‘Three, four, five, seven, eight. Not a straight.’
He looked down and saw she was right.
“Shit,” Marcos mumbled, then looked at Paula’s cards and saw she had two pairs.
Paula gathered the chips with too much smugness. ‘Loser. Maybe you’d like to play my other card game?’
Marcos stuck out his tongue. ‘The question one? Never. No one will ever know me.’
Paula rolled her eyes as he pushed to his feet without letting his hands touch the ground. He left the family room and followed the sound of running water through the hall.
The house narrowed in the middle before opening into the back section, where the old part gave way to the newer living space Greg still called “the extension” even though it had been there longer than Becca.
The kitchen, dining area, and back sitting space all ran together, looking out toward the rear yard through glass doors.
Beyond them, the small stretch of grass had gone dark under the evening, and the outdoor laundry sat along the side, its door not quite shut because someone always left it that way.
The kitchen was the best part of the house, and not just because of all the food Marcos was too accustomed to overloading on.
It had a stone bench, decent cupboards, and a good oven.
The fridge was covered in different notes from his sister’s school, held up by electrician and plumber magnets.
An old rice cooker sat on the bench beside it, which Diana kept saying she would replace, though never did, because it still worked if she placed something heavy on the lid.
Marcos could have replaced it. He had offered once.
His father had shot him down instantly, and the conversation had ended.
His mother worked between the stove and counter, cutting vegetables and stirring whatever was in the pan with a neat efficiency. Her hair was tied into a messy bun, and her glasses sat low on her nose. Steam clung to the lenses until she pushed them up, blinked, and kept going.
Becca stood at the sink, filling it with water and preparing to wash the mountain of dishes stacked beside it.
As soon as Becca saw Marcos, she threw a dish towel at him. It hit him in the face before he could react.
“Thought you were meant to be able to catch?” Becca questioned.
Marcos pulled the towel down slowly. “When did you become mean?” he shot back, walking around the kitchen’s island. “I feel like something happened when you turned eleven. Like the devil got you.”
A sharp slap met the back of Marcos’ head, followed by Diana’s voice. “No hables del diablo.”
It didn’t hurt. Not really. Diana had never slapped hard enough to cause damage. It was mostly a warning and a habit. Still, he put a hand to the back of his head because that was also part of the habit.
“I know that one.” Becca chuckled while Marcos worked his fingers through his hair.
“Perdón, Ma,” he said, his voice soft.
Diana did not look impressed, but the corner of her mouth shifted while she turned back to the stove.
“You know, you wouldn’t get slapped if you moved out,” Becca said, turning the tap off and grabbing some dishes. “Don’t you get paid like a bajillion dollars?”
“Not quite. And I like it here.” Marcos shrugged. “You guys need me.”
“‘Need’ is a strong word.”
Marcos took the plate she shoved at him and wiped water from the edge.
He did have enough money to move out. More than enough, in fact. Sometimes he looked at the old couch, the taped remote, the rice cooker with its crooked lid, and the pan Diana refused to throw out, and thought about ordering replacements just to see what would happen.
Even though he already knew.
Greg would find the receipt, or the delivery docket, or the box at the door, and his face would close over. Then Diana would try to smooth it over. Then Marcos would feel like he was twelve years old again, getting yelled at by his father.