11. Alejandro Sixteen-Years-Old
Alejandro: Sixteen-Years-Old
It's another hot Saturday, the sun already muscling through the blinds by the time I roll onto my back. From the kitchen, I hear Papá before I smell the coffee—low humming drifting down the hall, that old tune he’s carried since I was little, the cafetera answering with its soft hiss.
He does this every morning. Says a house wakes up better if the first thing it hears is music and the first thing it smells is café.
“?Ya te levantaste, mijo?” he calls, voice rough with sleep and years.
“Yeah, I’m up now,” I say, even though I’m still half asleep.
The tile is cool under my feet. I wander in, rubbing my eyes, and find him barefoot in work pants and a white undershirt, hair combed with water, radio turned low to a weekend bolero.
He doesn’t look at me; he’s pouring coffee beans into the grinder.
He lifts the bag to his nose and sighs like it’s the good stuff, even though we buy the same cheap brand every week.
“Tortillas,” he says, nodding toward the stove. “No las quemes.”
“Sí, senor,” I answer, pulling the skillet out. “But you know I never burn them.”
“Nunca digas nunca,” he shoots back, mouth tugging.
Never say never.
We move quietly. He handles the coffee, I handle breakfast. Oil warms. Tortillas kiss the pan and puff.
I crack eggs into a second skillet and let the whites set slow, slide salsa into a small pot so it softens but doesn’t boil.
Papá lines up two mugs and taps the side of the sugar bowl twice, like always.
Before we sit, he crosses to the corner shelf and does what he always does. Two fingers to his lips, then to the framed photo of my mother. “Buenos días,” he murmurs, too soft for anyone but the picture and me to hear.
I look at her like I do every morning—eyes bright, smile easy, hair pinned. I never met her, not really, but she lives here. In the photo. In his voice when he tells me about my mother. She died when I was only a month old, some complication they caught too late.
We eat by the window, watching our neighbor hose down a driveway.
“How’s school?” Papá asks, spearing the yolk so it runs just right.
“Fine. Finals next week,” I say. “Coach thinks I should try out for the bigger travel squad this summer.”
“Mm.” He lifts his coffee. “Soccer is good, but school is better.”
“I know.” I mop salsa with tortilla and change the subject by asking about work. “What’s first today?”
“Coral Gables,” he says. “Hedge trim, mulch. Then la senora in Westchester with the hibiscus that refuses to bloom. After that, the Ayala house for the front beds.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but we both hear the name. Something tenses in my chest and relaxes all at once.
“And Beatriz?” he adds casually, like he’s asking whether it’s going to rain.
I only move my shoulders. “I saw her yesterday. We sat outside for a while.”
His eyes cut to me. Not pressing, just checking. “?Y?”
It's a simple 'and,' like he's hoping for more.
“She’s… better.” I pick at a corner of tortilla. “Some days are bad. Yesterday was okay.”
He nods like the answer is exactly what he expected and exactly what he’d hoped. “I know losing her mom was hard. She was a wonderful woman. Just keep being there for her, mijo.”
I nod, feeling those words settle deep. But he doesn't have to tell me that. I know that.
We finish quickly and head off to work. In the yard, we load rakes, shovels, bags of soil. He checks the cooler—cold water, a few oranges—and tosses me a hat.
“Póntelo,” he says. “The sun doesn’t play."
“Sí, senor” I say, putting it on as he suggests.
We roll out with the radio still on the bolero station, windows down, wind warm already. Papá keeps one hand on the wheel, taps the rhythm on the horn with his knuckle, and sings under his breath just enough to make me want to learn the words.
The Coral Gables hedge has grown wide and lopsided, swallowing the front walk. We line a tarp, mark a straight line with twine, and start from the bottom like he taught me. Always from the bottom. If you start at the top, you’ll lie to yourself about the shape and end up with bald spots.
“Roots,” he says, tapping the soil with the rake handle. “Everything starts there. You rush roots, you kill the plant. Same with people. Same with love.”
I keep my eyes on the hedge. “I know.”
“?Sí?” He glances at me. “Do you?”
“I’m trying to,” I admit.
He nods, satisfied with that. We clip for an hour, snipping, stepping back, checking the line, snipping again. He saves the small talk for later.
At the Westchester house, we kneel around a hibiscus that looks like it gives up at sunrise every day. Papá scoops soil into his palm and rubs it between his fingers, eyes narrowing.
He sends me for compost from the truck. On the way back, sweat slick at my neck, I hear the words come out before I can stop myself. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say to her.”
He doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean. He presses compost in with both hands like he’s tucking the ground in. “Don’t try to fix what you can’t fix,” he says. “You listen. You stay. You give her space, but you leave yourself available.”
I swallow. “What if I say the wrong thing?”
“Then you say, ‘lo siento’ and try again.” He sits back on his heels. “Respect. Always. People grow better where they feel safe.”
After a while, we take our break on the tailgate with the cooler between us. I press the cold bottle to my neck and sigh like I haven’t had water in days. An orange splits under his thumbs, juice bright on his hands. He passes me half and wipes his palms on his pants.
“Coach says I should run more on my own,” I say after a minute. “On days we work.”
He lifts his brows. “Entonces corre. After dinner.”
“I’ll be tired.”
“You’ll be proud,” he corrects. “You want to be better? You do a little more than the other guy.”
I nod, mouth bitter and sweet with orange.
The last stop before the Ayalas is a tidy yard in Shenandoah. We trim, sweep, edge the walk so crisp the line shows from the street. He doesn’t let me rush the corners.
When we finally turn down the Ayala’s street, the light has shifted into late. The house is what it’s always been… white stucco and neat lines. I feel it in my chest again, that weird mix of nerves and relief. I’ve been here so much I could walk the path to the front door with my eyes closed.
We pull up. I step out and grab the shovel without thinking.
“Ya basta,” Papá says, telling me to stop with a hand to my shoulder. His palm is rough, warm.
“I can help,” I say.
“You have helped.” His eyes soften. “A lot.”
I hesitate. “There’s mulch to spread.”
He shakes his head. “Go. Be with her.”
“Papá—”
He tilts his head and gives me that look that means I don’t need to argue. “Go,” he says again, with a little smile that cracks the serious. “Be a kid. You worked hard enough today.”
I put the shovel back. He pats my back once before I start up the walk.
Inside, the air is cooler, touched with lemon oil and something sweet I can’t name. Music thumps from the living room, not loud enough to wake the dead, but loud enough for me to follow. I stop in the doorway.
She’s there. Hair loose around her shoulders, t-shirt knotted at her side, bare feet sliding on the polished floor. “Bomba” by Azul Azul shakes the room, that ridiculous beat that always makes people grin.
She’s swaying her hips with exaggerated drama, throwing her arms up like she’s onstage, singing the words half-right and off key. And she’s smiling, a beautiful and bright curve at the side of her mouth. I haven’t seen her smile like this in months. It knocks the wind out of me.
I don’t say anything at first, giving myself a moment to just watch her. She looks like the person I met before everything hurt, before she lost her favorite person. She looks like she wants to feel something that isn't grief for her mother for five minutes and is finally letting herself.
“Is that your best move?” I ask, leaning on the frame.
She jumps, spins, and clutches her chest like I just shaved years off her life. “Alejandro! You can’t just poof into existence like that.”
“You invited me by dancing like that,” I say, straight-faced.
She narrows her eyes. “Like what?”
“Like… that.” I wave a hand at her hips. “You’re going to blow out a knee.”
She grabs a couch cushion and pelts it at me. I catch it and toss it back; it thumps against her hip. She tries to look offended, fails immediately, and grins.
“You’re mean,” she says, but her eyes are soft.
“You’re loud,” I say, pretending to inspect her moves. “Also, you’re off beat.”
“I am not off beat.”
“Okay, you’re on a beat,” I concede. “Just not the right one.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Show me then, Senor Know-It-All.”
I step in because I was hoping she’d say that.
The song blares into the chorus and I match it, feet easy, shoulders loose.
I’ve danced to this at a hundred barbecues, a thousand different times.
I keep it light so she laughs, and she does.
She tries to copy the footwork and almost trips.
I catch her with a hand at her waist and steady her.
She’s warm. Her breath smells like bubble gum.
“Don’t think about it,” I say quietly. “Just let go.”
She rolls her eyes like the advice is stupid and then follows it anyway. Her body relaxes, and her groove picks up. We’re two kids in a living room, messing around to a song that shouldn’t make sense for grief and does anyway because it gets you out of your head.
When it ends, she leans forward, palms on her knees, laughing.
“Don’t die,” I say.
“Shut up,” she answers, gulping air. She tilts her head, looking up at me through those lashes like she used to when we were twelve and plotting against teachers. “Thanks for the dance lesson,” she says, the words sliding out of her mouth.