Thirty minutes after the ruin my life had become, I turned down the volume of “I Love It” by Icona Pop on the radio and parked a block away from Casta?eda’s Mexican restaurant.
Face wiped free of the thick black eyeliner and lipstick I’d worn to the audition from hell, I checked my reflection to ensure my eyes were no longer red and puffy. When I saw myself, though, I snorted. Proof of my tear-fest might be gone, but I looked hideous anyway—as virginal and Christianly as a Sunday-school teacher. And yet I knew my uncle still wouldn’t approve. The tyrant preferred me in turtlenecks and cardigans over drab, ankle-length skirts made of sackcloth. But I had compromised as best I could with jeans—the denim ripped out in the knees—and a loose black sweater that liked to dip off one shoulder and revealed the strap of my purple tank top—to match the purple highlights in my hair.
My punk-rocker wig gone, I finger combed my dark mane one last time and then grabbed my purse.
I bypassed the main entrance of Casta?eda’s and ducked down the alley beside it, calling a greeting to Mick, the homeless guy who camped out there and waited for stray scraps.
After unlocking the back door of the restaurant, I slipped inside and hung my jacket on a hook. Behind me, the radio played a familiar Latino tune while a humid heat crawled up the back of my sweater.
“If you keep coming in late, mi padre’s going to take a strap to you, prima.”
I yelped and spun around to find my cousin Big T, short for Tomás, mixing dough. Half a dozen raw, already stuffed and sealed empanadas sat on a cookie sheet ready to go into the oven. A hairnet covered his dark head of thick black hair and flour powdered his heavy arms up to his elbows.
“Cállate,” I muttered as I stashed my purse and found my own hairnet to slip on.
He belly laughed. “What’s this? I abandon my post at the stoves to take over your oven job for you and all I get is a shut up? In Espa?ol, no less. My sweet prima offends me.”
Realizing I had been bitchy to one of my favorite people on earth, I let out an apologetic sigh. “Plus a great big gracias and kiss on the cheek for my wonderful Big T.” I wrapped my arms around his wide barrel chest from behind and leaned over his shoulder to stamp a big, wet, sloppy one right to his cheek.
He flushed but grinned his appreciation as he shrugged me off and continued to mix the dough with his beefy hands. “Shoo. Enough of that. Tell me how your audition went. You must’ve done well if you stayed this late. Made the first cut, ?sí?”
My smile dropped. “The audition? It was...bien.” I nudged him aside with my hip and took over where he’d left off, since the baking was technically my job. I put all my attention into pounding my palm into the dough that suddenly worked as a nice stress ball. Fold, pound. Flour. Fold, pound. Forget all auditions, sexy lead singers, and the tears it had brought. Flour. Fold, pound—
Tomás grasped my elbow. “Hijo de puta, it’s dead already. Stop torturing the poor dough.”
I scowled at him but obeyed, yanking up the rolling pin and flattening it into a disc. Crossing his arms over his chest, my perceptive cousin leaned his back against the table beside me as he studied my face.
“They’re not the only band around, you know.”
I ground my teeth, trying to ignore him as I snagged a knife, then a nearby plate to use as a stencil and cut the dough into perfect circles. “But they’re the best band.”
He snorted. “Matter of opinion.”
A die-hard Los Horóscopos de Durango fan, he didn’t get my fascination with all things pop, rock, or punk.
“Hey, wipe the glum off your face. Abuela’s here tonight, working the cash register. Seeing her is always reason to smile. Plus, she’ll know as soon as she gets a look at you that something’s wrong. You don’t want to upset our fragile, aging grandmother, do you?”
After he arched a censorious eyebrow at me, I sighed and let my shoulders deflate. “No. You’re right. I’ll stop being a drama queen.”
“Bien. Because it makes you a total pain in the ass to be around.” Then he picked up a handful of flour and flicked it at me...as if that would help cheer me up or something.
“Tomás Emmanuel Fernando Casta?eda!” I screeched in outrage and tore off my hairnet, frantically brushing flour from my locks. “How could you? Pendejo.”
“Elisa!” The sharp crack of my uncle’s voice instantly had me snapping to attention and lifting my shoulders until my back was military straight.
Fuck. Even though I felt like I was at home in this building where I’d spent most of my childhood, I never failed to flinch at that voice. But I hated getting caught spouting expletives in front of Tío Alonso. It reminded me too much of when I was little and he’d smack my knuckles with a spatula every time he heard me curse.
He no longer verbally censored my language or took a spatula after me, but he sure as hell sent me the ultimate scowl of disapproval as he plowed into the room.
Drawing in a short, bracing breath before turning around, I looked up at him and said, “?Sí?”