Chapter 18
Adriana
I stare out the window, watching as the girls double dutch across the street.
Two long white ropes move like waves catching the last sliver of golden light as they slap against the asphalt.
The two girls inside clap hands mid-jump, their laughter rising above the music—the kind of joy that stirs memories I’ve tucked away for years.
Estrella and me, barefoot on the hot asphalt, playing the numbers game while balancing on one foot.
Oh how things change. Back then, I thought we would be friends forever, comadres* even.
And now, she can’t bear the sight of me, all because we fell in love with the same person.
Despite everything, there she is—dancing merengue, hips swaying in perfect rhythm with Manny, her white t-shirt printed with my Abuelo’s picture. The sight pulls something deep in my chest, a mix of nostalgia and ache. A feeling that erases years of silence between us.
The neighborhood hums with music, every speaker tuned to all of my Abuelo's favorites. Hector Lavoe. Anthony Santos. Juan Luis Guerra. Songs that sound like home. Everyone is out on the block, showing the kind of love that never dies even when the body does.
Ruben is already outside, still dressed in black, wearing a T-shirt printed with a photo of him and our grandfather sitting on his favorite sofa.
He nurses a white styrofoam cup, and I know without asking what’s inside.
Mamajuana, a traditional spiced alcoholic drink from back home that consists of herbs, roots, and barks infused with rum, honey and wine.
Abuelo has spent years curing his, swearing it will cure any heartbreak and cause no hangover.
A laugh works its way up my chest, as I recite the words he would say whenever he poured a shot.
“Cuando yo muera, esto es para eso. Curar el dolor con el alcohol.”*
Abuelo was honorable, kind, and always ready with a joke that could turn any pain into laughter.
Even now, his spirit lingers in this house—in the walls that held his daughters, in the air that carried his grandchildren’s laughter as we played.
Everything he had was dedicated to his bodega and family.
Which is why I’ve decided that it won’t be Yael facing off against Lenny, but me—for my pride, for my family, for love.
My hands curl into tight fists as tears gather, threatening to spill. I can’t let Lenny take the only piece of him we have left. I need to win to keep Altura alive, to bring money back into the neighborhood, to make sure his legacy doesn’t fade.
As much as I wanted to stay angry at Yael for not telling me the truth, I can’t. There’s no grand explanation, no poetic reason. I simply don't want to. I’ve wasted too many years, drowning in grief, when all Neno ever wanted for us was to be happy and thrive here in the place that raised us.
Outside, I spot my mother, hugging Rosita, both women swaying to the side.
I’m sure they’re crying, voices trembling as they sing Abuelo’s favorite Sergio Vargas song.
The merengue beats drift through the air, and I find myself moving to the rhythm.
If heaven exists, my only hope is that he could see how loved he was by, not only his family, but the community.
The song gives me the motion I need to head back downstairs and join in the festivities.
It’s the last game, the one that determines which streets will compete for the ultimate prize.
This year includes maintenance work, gift cards up to $2,000 for household appliances, a year's worth of $100 monthly spending at any of the bodegas. Amongst other donations from people who simply wanted to help. Yael’s thirst trap videos did exactly what we intended them to do—brought eyes to the block and it’s become a movement on social media. Barrio Unite.
Slowly, more people join, and finally, I step outside.
The heat wraps around me, instantly making me regret wearing the shirt, jean shorts, and black Air Forces that surprisingly still fit me.
My hair is up in a messy bun, only a few curls escaping at my temples.
Estrella catches my eyes, and mentally I prepare myself for a snarky comment.
Instead, we just stand there. Neither of us is moving, then she huffs out a breath, tips back her cup and walks over.
“My condolences,” she says with a cautious but sincere smile. “Don Santos was something else. Remember how he would give us candy as payment when we would help stock the shelves?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Cabezonas*, he would call us.” Her voice breaks, and without a warning, she wraps her arms around me. Tears quickly soak through my shirt, Estrella breaks in my arms.
“He loved you like family,” I whisper, running my hand down her back. It’s the truth. No matter what happened between us, Abuelo never treated her any differently.
“I’ma miss that old man,” she cries, and before I can stop my tears, they fall.
From behind her, Yael comes into view, his chin dipping in quiet approval. Not that we needed it. It is just nice to see two best friends reunite, even if it is because of a shared grief. In the end, Abuelo's wish came true.
We finally pull away, sniffling and smiling.
“Go win for him,” Estrella says, pushing me forward and right into Yael's waiting hand. To which he winks when my palm slides into his, igniting that familiar fire between us.
Manny hooks two fingers in each corner of his mouth and whistles, loud enough to make half the block turn to stare. Chinito smirks, still mid-conversation with the girl from the salon. By the smug look on his face, I’m sure he’s spitting game.
And I follow the man I love to the table. The dominoes are already set, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and cold cerveza. Manny’s voice booms over the music. “Oye! If the South Side loses, I’m blaming Adri for bad luck.”
“Tu boca es mala suerte,”* Alex fires back, drying the sweat from his face using the white towel draped around his neck.
From the looks of it, they’ve just finished playing basketball which explains why they are all wearing their Altura jerseys.
Black fabric, bold red ink, and white trimming that gleams under the streetlights.
Rosita waves her metal tongs from the grill. “If ya’ll lose, nobody’s eating my pinchos!”
Don Rogelio chuckles from his folding chair, his cane resting against his knees while he busies himself with the plate in his hand.
Shoving a spoonful of ensalada rusa into his mouth.
Beside him, Frank bites into Yael’s famous mezcla sandwich.
Some might not like it, but I’m obsessed with them, especially if they come from my favorite bori.
The block hums with life. Rosita flips the meat and it sizzles. The smoke curls around her like perfume. Manny and Alex argue over who’s the better player, their voices cutting through the music. My heart swells inside my chest, filling me with a warmth that courses through my blood stream.
Yael pulls a milk crate beside him and pats it. “A mi lado, mi Ciela.”*
I nod, sliding into the seat beside him, feeling butterflies when he leans in, his hot breath fanning my skin.
“You ready, baby?” The way he says the word sends the flutter in my stomach straight into my core, making me pulse with desire. Mustering every ounce of restraint, I peer up at him and smile.
“I was born ready.” I lift my hand, forming a capital L with my fingers—the same gesture we used as teens when we were still learning the game. Falling in love and everything in between. With a grin on my face, I press it to my forehead just so he can see it. “Hope you’re ready to lose.”
He chuckles at that, exposing his white teeth. “I already lost the only thing worth losing. Mi corazón, mami… Por dios*.”
Manny looks down at Yael with disgust, humor dancing in his eyes as he clutches his chest dramatically. “Cono mamaguevo*, you shouldn’t be playing dominoes. Somebody get this man a novella contract.”
Rosita laughs so hard she nearly drops her tongs. My mom shakes her head, trying hard not to join. That’s when I notice she appears sober and fuller. “Chulo, if you lose. You better start selling those sandwiches full-time.”
Yael grins, shaking his head. “You all talk too much.” He slides the first domino across the table, the tile clicking against the wood like a gun cocking, opening with a double six.
Chinito lets out a low whistle, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“He started heavy,” Chinto says as if we couldn’t tell.
That opening alone sets the pace, whoever controls the sixes controls the table.
San Lucas’ captain, the guy in the Yankees cap answers with six five, keeping the chain alive.
Yael nods, unfazed and plays another double.
Five-five. Tightening the board and forcing us to play to his rhythm.
Only one of us will make it to the last round, and that had to be me.
I glance at my hand, six- three, three-two, two-two, a blank four, two-five, five-three and a blank six.
Not the best, but decent enough. I wait for the right moment to play my tile.
When one of the players drops a five-two, right there I slide my six- three into place, locking one end and keeping our sixes open.
“Damn, Adri done blocked him,” my cousin shouts over the music, celebrating with a shot.
My mom claps from the sidelines, cheering alongside my aunt and Rosita. “That’s our girl.”
San Lucas tries to recover, but Yael is already two steps ahead. He plays three-three, cutting through their options. The man curses under his breath, as he reaches into the boneyard.
Don Rogelio chuckles from his chair. “Those two learned from the best.”
Looking up at Yael, I catch his shrug—confirming that Abuelo did in fact also teach him how to play.
A question quickly forms in my head, when?
If I was the one who taught him every Thursday night.
I keep the question to myself, tucking it away to ask when all of this is over.
For now, I focus on playing. Four players sit at the table, one from each side, though technically two from the South side.
Which is Yael and I, but only one of us is moving forward.
Everyone watches the game, even the random bystanders in the streets.
Some shout advice, others laugh between sips of beers.
My gaze sweeps over the players, as their fingers hover, and pluck; mine follow suit. The rhythm of the game is hypnotic—the click of dominoes, the scrape of the chairs, and the hum of the music behind it all. This is home. This is Altura Heights.
We play for what feels like hours though it’s really just a solid hour.
This isn’t just a single round—it’s a points match.
The first person to reach the target wins, and of course, the runner-up close to it.
Out of the four, only two move forward. The winner today will go on to represent every side that makes Altura Heights.
Yael’s hand moves fast, yet deliberately. He plays four-five, then five-five, stacking points like he’s building a tower. The other players try to keep up, but their hands are no good—too many blanks and mismatched ends that result in them digging into the boneyard. The score continues to climb.
160… 175…190.
I’m breathing down his neck. For the first time since our grandparents played, the South Side will face itself in the final tournament. We’re killing the competition, clearing every block, every rival street… In the end, it comes down to us. Yael and I—the last two standing for the hood.
“One ninety five,” Manny shouts. “One more papi!”
We continue to play, when Yael glances at me with that sheepish grin that makes my pulse skip and my thighs clench. “You ready, mi Ciela?”
I nod, sliding my last tile—a blank-six.
“Capicú!” Yael shouts, shooting to his feet, offering me his hand. I take it, rising like a feather caught in the wind. Light with no worry.
He leans in, voice low and teasing. “Open up, baby… time to fill you up.” The way he says it tells me he’s insinuating something far more enjoyable than what he’s about to do.
The crowd around us laughs, also catching his drift.
My cheeks flush hot, but I shake it off and tip my head back so they can waterfall the Hennessy into my waiting mouth.
It’s tradition. The winners must take their Henny Fall.
The liquid burns as it slides down my throat.
Everyone cheers, the music swells and Rosita announces that the last pincho is off the grill and it’s time to eat.
My stomach growls in protest, the sazón drifts through the air, coating my tongue before I even taste it.
Hookah smoke curls upward as we walk toward the small front steps.
Yael grabs a plate, piling it high with food.
I mean he’s got sandwiches, three empanadas, four pinchos, ensalada de papa, quenepas—like he likes to call them.
I prefer limoncillo but I digress, and at the very top are alcapurrias.
The plate looks ridiculous, overflowing like he’s feeding half the block.
He grins, handing me a fork and a paper plate.
“You know I like to eat,” he says, flashing that shit eating grin that makes me laugh even when I try not to.
We eat on the steps, plates balanced on our knees, the music pulsing through the block.
Rosita passes out napkins, Manny refills our cups, and someone starts a chant that turns into a dembow.
Yael nudges me with his shoulder. “Come, Ciela, eat. I wanna dance.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s already grabbing the plate and pulling me up.
The song now playing is “Suavemente” by Elvis Crespo, and the crowd begins to dance.
We move together, our hips catching the rhythm, laughter bubbling between us.
It’s like all the years we spent apart are long forgotten and now replaced with a comfortable joy that feels endless.
The night stretches well into the early morning. Yael spins me once, twice, and then catches me against his chest.
“Hey,” he whispers, his hand holding on to mine before bringing the heel of my palm to his nose.
Inhaling my skin, like a drug. My racing heart settles into a steady rhythm when our eyes connect, and I know now that he’s my home.
Not Altura, like I always believed. I’ve been homesick for so long, blinded to the truth that my home has always been inside his heart.
* Comadres - godmother
* “Cuando yo muera, esto es para eso. Curar el dolor con el alcohol.” - This is for when I die. To cure the pain with the alcohol.
* Cabezonas - big headed
* “Tu boca es mala suerte,” - Your mouth is bad luck.
* A mi lado, mi Ciela - Beside me, my Ciela.
* Mi corazón, mami… Por dios - My heart, mami… my god.
* Cono mamaguevo - Fuck, cocksucker.