Café Con Lychee Page 2

  We manage to avoid the mint-green tiles, but I accidentally slam him into the lockers, a resounding clang echoing around us. I throw myself backward but slam into the lockers on the other side, given the hallway really only allows space for a couple of people at a time.

  Now, three pairs of eyes who unmistakably hate me glare back as I stumble around an awkward apology.

  But really, the worst of them is Theo. I mean, not that he’s the worst person, but it sucks more pissing him off. Not only because he’s the co-captain of the soccer team that I need to stay on to placate my parents, but also because he’s gay. Well, more importantly, he’s the only openly gay kid in our graduating class, and I guess a part of me always felt like we should be friends because of that, even if I’m still so deep in the closet, I’m half-draped in that horrendous Christmas sweater my tía bought me last year and probably can’t ever come out. Also because of my parents.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there before Meli finally twines her arm in mine and whisks me away from the hollow stares. And part of me wants to go back, swoop in, and channel some of that Keiynan Lonsdale swag as I lay out some super-suave explanation that makes all the guys forgive my blunder. Or maybe I’d just out myself. Probably the second one.

  Meli ditches me outside my homeroom, and I quickly walk down the first aisle over to my assigned seat, waiting for Theo to take the one behind me that he’s occupied since third grade. It’s weird, like fate is constantly trying to make us dance together, but no matter what I do, I can’t get past my two left feet.

  After school, I have to attend a Homecoming meeting. Over the summer, we met every other week, but now that only a month remains until the big game, Meli’s insisting we hold more frequent meetings, even if that interferes with my usual Friday plans.

  I’m the last person there, which Meli says is because I run on “Latino time,” which is ridiculous because I’m only like two minutes late. Vivi’s already waiting for me, sitting in the wobbly desk near the window, and considering Vivi’s almost always early, it’s definitely not a Latinx-specific thing. Meli’s just mean.

  I slip into the desk next to Vivi and flash her a smile. We only started being friends after we both joined the Homecoming Committee at the end of last year, but she’s cool. We both adore Kehlani—as any decent person should—and she’s one of like three people in our school who’d actually tried an authentic Puerto Rican bread pudding before I brought the one my lita makes, so there’s that. Really, the only reason we don’t spend more time together is because she and Meli mesh like toothpaste and orange juice, which has only gotten worse as Meli’s Homecoming tirade has progressed.

  Vivi drops her voice low and says, “She’s rampaging again.”

  I chuckle, and despite the fact that Melissa’s half yelling at Jeff for making a mistake on the flyers that are supposed to go up tomorrow, she still shoots a glare in my direction. I roll my eyes. We all know she’s overreacting. Sure, Homecoming is a pretty big celebration at our school, since we don’t have a football team, so administration has been banking on our soccer team to showcase a “balanced academic lifestyle,” but it’s pretty inconsequential in the long run, and Meli will realize that sooner or later.

  Vivi and I spend most of the meeting texting each other memes as Meli drones on about things that we’ve mostly covered already. I get Meli’s irritation that incompetence on the committee seems to be running pretty high, but my mind is focused elsewhere as I scroll Instagram and stumble upon pictures of people holding weird rainbow-colored bubble tea drinks. It never occurred to me that the Moris might start branching out into something so aesthetic, but there’s no way my parents will be happy about it. They hate the Moris and their shop enough as it is.

  “Gabi.”

  I look up to find Meli standing over me, her lips pressed together.

  “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” she says.

  I laugh awkwardly as I close the Instagram app and smile up at her. “Does bread pudding count as an apology?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I glance around to find that most of the committee has moved on to individual tasks—laying out the schedules, planning the dance, organizing the decorations.

  “Come on, Gabi,” she says. “We’re getting too close to Homecoming for you to be this spacey.”

  That definitely feels like an overstatement, given that my only two tasks as class liaison are making sure that the class reps have everything they need to get their floats together and providing snacks for our meetings. I stand up, placing a hand on Meli’s shoulder and flashing her a smile.

  “You should already know how this works, Meli. I’m always on your team.”

  And her face softens a little as I throw her own words back at her. She swats my hand away, but I can see a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Okay, fine, but don’t disappoint me.”

  The true highlight of my day comes when the meeting lets out and I head to the back of campus, past the cafeteria, to our dance hall. Okay, I kid. It’s the highlight of my week.

  Ballet.

  I’ve wanted to be a dancer since age six, but at age seven, my parents made it perfectly clear that dancing is for girls. Especially ballet. So I relinquished my dreams of pursuing it professionally, but when I took a dance elective last year, I actually became friends with our teacher, Lady—yes, that’s her real name—and after I spilled my heart over her infamous rum cake, she offered to train me every Friday after school. It’s like having my own fairy godmother, except, frankly, I look better in the tutu.

  The only downfall to our arrangement is my awkward trek across campus, head bowed, doing my best to make sure no one spots me. Truthfully, they probably wouldn’t even deduce my destination, but I also know the second word gets out that I do ballet, everyone will know I’m gay, and that means I can’t risk anyone finding out. The only person I opened up to about any of this was Meli, but then, she’s also the only person I felt comfortable enough coming out to.

  Lady’s already stretching against the barre when I arrive, and she flashes me a quick smile. I guess you could say I’m one of those teens who gets along better with adults. Parents love me; my peers wish I’d choke on a papa rellena. Talking to Lady is nice, though, because she’s only in her early twenties, she’s the only Latinx teacher I’ve ever had, and she looks like she could still be in high school, so I can kind of pretend I actually fit in for once.

  “Hurry up and get dressed,” she says as her foot hits the mat. “I can’t stay super late today.”

  “Oh?” I say. “Hot date tonight?”

  She laughs. “I actually have a job interview. Namely, a Zoom interview.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Interview for what?”

  “A job that pays above minimum wage.”

  I freeze. “Wait. You’re leaving the school?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know yet. It’s just an interview.”

  But that means she wants to. It means that her best-case scenario is the one where I lose my last chance at dancing.

  “I—” My voice cracks. “Don’t you like working here?”

  “Of course I do, Gabi, but jobs aren’t all about what you like,” she says. “At the end of the day, sometimes being an adult means making a decision you don’t like to get the things you need.”

  I don’t know what to say. I understand sacrifice. I do. But—I mean—now what am I supposed to do?

  She watches my face drop before shaking her head and flashing me a smile. “Don’t worry so much, okay? I still don’t know if they’re going to offer me a position. And even if they offer, I may only take the position part-time. Focus on your craft and worry about the rest later, okay?”

  I nod because I know it’s what she wants, even if my head doesn’t quite feel the same.

  Over our last few meetings, we’ve been working on choreographing a dance together, which basically means she’s been using me as a moving mannequin to help her plan the wh
ole thing out, but I don’t mind. When I was in her class last year, we had to memorize an original Lady dance piece and perform it for her as our final, and I loved every second of it, so it’s kind of cool to be a part of that now.

  The last segment of the dance isn’t finalized yet, so we work through the bit before as she brainstorms ways to conclude it, but my headspace is all wrong. It’s kind of ironic, given dance is my escape from all the world’s anxieties, but here I am stumbling through each move as my fears become insurmountable and throw me off my feet.

  It’s only as I shoot for a cabriole, lose my balance, and stumble back into the barre that Lady suggests we take a break.

  Passing me a water bottle, she says, “Don’t overthink it, okay? Stay in the moment.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Lady rolls her eyes. “Please, you? If you think about it, you’ll overthink it.” And I have to admit, it kind of stings that she knows me so well. “Anyway, you don’t know what’ll happen next, so let it happen naturally. It’s the same with a performance, right? You have the skills and steps, and you just have to let it happen.”

  I let her words sit with me for a moment before nodding and setting the water bottle down. “I’m ready to get back into it if you are,” I say.

  She smiles, motioning for me to join her.

  And really, I feel so much better once I’m dancing. My whole body feels free as I fly through the moves, and even just getting the chance to suggest a plié here or a pirouette there feels like I’m finally getting a chance to live in a skin I’m proud of.

  And I can’t believe I might have to give it all up.

  I get back to the café right after five. Normally, I’d be training until six, but well, Lady’s interview cut everything short.

  I hate going back to the shop after school, because Mom will usually already be off to her night classes, which means Dad’s running the shop himself and is more likely to rope me in. I actually kind of like helping out in the kitchen, but let’s just say customer service and I don’t quite mesh. The problem is that I’m not allowed home alone even though I’m sixteen. Mom says I could get murdered or accidentally burn the house down or something. Sometimes, I think she’s worried I’ll sneak someone over to have sex, but that isn’t in the cards for me. I guess no mom ever wants to admit that her son is just ugly.

  Although, I guess she’d accept that sooner than she’d accept that I’m gay.

  When I step into the shop, Dad’s wiping down the counter, but it’s not nearly as crowded as I feared it’d be. Actually, there’s only some elderly woman sitting in the corner, sipping from a cup and reading a romance novel.

  Dad raises an eyebrow as I enter, and says, “You’re back early?”

  I shrug. “Study session ended.”

  I hate lying to my parents, and not only because it makes me feel like a degenerate, and like Jesus is looking down, ready to smite me. I’m just a truly atrocious liar. I feel like I’m dangling a massive, neon HE’S LYING sign from the center of my chest.

  But Dad doesn’t react, like it never occurred to him that his overachieving nerd of a son might actually tell him an untruth.

  The back-room door opens up, and Mom steps out, a clipboard in hand. “Pedro, you read this part?”

  She freezes when she sees me, her eyes going wide. “Gabi, you’re back early.”

  I try to keep my tone nonchalant as I slip my book bag off my shoulder. “I thought you had class.”

  Mom and I stare back at each other like she’s struggling between admitting that she skipped and making up a lie. Either way, it’s pretty hypocritical, since she’d skin me alive before condoning my playing hooky.

  “Gabi, there’s something we wanted to discuss with you,” Dad says, letting Mom off the hook. It’s not fair that they can team up like that. I need a partner in crime, stat.

  “¿Qué pasó?”

  Dad sighs and looks at Mom like he expects her to deal the final blow, which he probably does. Finally, she shakes her head and turns to me. “We’re selling the shop,” she says.

  My eyes shoot wide. “I—wait—what—why?”

  Mom sighs. “We got a good offer for it, and we really aren’t in a place to refuse.”

  Which is definitely the first I’m hearing of any of this. “What changed?” I ask.

  “Your Mom and I,” Dad says, “well, we always knew this wouldn’t be permanent. It was just supposed to be long enough to get our feet on the ground, get a house, let your mom go back to school.”

  Mom’s nodding along, but none of this makes sense. They’ve had the shop since before I was born. They said it was their first son, you know, before me. Now they’re going to throw it all away?

  “We aren’t getting the same traffic we used to,” Mom says, “and with my tuition, and you’ll be going to college soon too—”

  “I don’t have to go to college,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t really have a whole lot of desire to go anyway. I’d assumed I’d take the shop once I was old enough.

  Dad shakes his head. “Cállate, Gabi, of course you’re going to college. We just have to be practical. Between those chinos stealing our business and that new fusion café—we’ll get more money selling the shop than keeping it, so we really can’t justify holding on to it anymore.”

  “Fusion café?” I say.

  My mom sighs. “Gabi, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  And yeah, that’s not entirely untrue. But between Homecoming and soccer and dance, I don’t really have a lot of free time like I used to, so the shop hasn’t really been at the forefront of my mind.

  My dad says, “The money we can get from selling . . . well, it will pay for your mother’s nursing degree, and it’s more practical I go back to real estate anyway.”

  And everyone loves being practical and making big adult decisions I’m not allowed to weigh in on, like being sixteen means I can’t have any say or opinion on my own life. Like I’m a prop getting tossed around until some adult decides to hit the stop button.

  “I know this is hard for you, mijo,” Mom says. “I know how much you loved the shop as a kid, but this doesn’t mean you have to stop baking.”

  I shake my head slowly, but all I can say is, “Is that what you’re looking at right now? The contract? You were going to sell it before I even got home?”

  And my parents look taken aback by the venom in my voice. I guess they are. I guess I kind of am too. I know better than to talk back to them, but this is a slap in the face. Not only did they not care how I felt about all of this, but they were going to sell away our family legacy without even conferring with me first.

  My mom sighs and says, “We’re not turning it in until Monday. We were going to discuss it with you this weekend.”

  A weekend. That’s all I was going to get to say goodbye. I don’t even realize there are tears building in my eyes until Mom comes over to me to wipe them away. Dad turns his face away. He always says men aren’t supposed to cry, but I guess he’ll let it slide this time as long as he doesn’t have to see it.

  But I don’t know how to tell him it’s only bound to get worse, that everything I’ve put my heart into is slowly slipping out of my hands and I have no idea how to slow the fall.

  Three

  Theo

  Saturday morning, I wake up to loud arguing rushing in from downstairs. It doesn’t take much to figure that means Uncle Greg is in the shop. I’m pretty sure he had a different name before he left China, but now he’s just Greg, and it’s fitting, since he mostly acts like a douchey white guy whenever he comes around.

  Uncle Greg’s hated Dad since he and Mom first met in college. He made it clear Mom should’ve married a Chinese guy and gave her extra shit for taking a Japanese last name. He still comes around, though, so I guess that’s better than Dad’s family, who completely cut him off once he proposed to a Chinese girl.

  I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt before heading downstairs. Uncle Greg used to like
me when I was young, mostly because I was an athlete, and he wanted me to win the Olympics or something. Ever since I came out, though, he’s made it clear that Thomas is his favorite, and frankly, I don’t give a shit. The last thing I care about is approval from a guy who spends most of his free time watching videos of girls who are barely legal on YouTube.

  “Morning,” I say.

  Uncle Greg’s shouting something at Mom in Mandarin, and Dad’s got the world’s best poker face on as he ignores both of them and rearranges the pastries in the fridge. Dad and I scored two tickets on the don’t-speak-Chinese train, but even I can tell the conversation is a wreck from Uncle Greg’s tone, and the way Mom is leaning away from him. Plus, I think Dad actually picked some up between all those soap operas he watches with Mom and the messy karaoke nights.

  “Sup, Uncle Greg,” I say, really just to draw his attention away from Mom.

  He looks up at me grumpily, but Mom looks kind of relieved.

  “Theo,” he says. No, Hi, nephew, how are you doing? He used to start with a You got a girlfriend yet? But I guess now that he knows I’m gay, my love life isn’t nearly as exciting for him.

  “Greg,” Dad says, like my distraction was exactly what he needed to get a word in, “if you want to talk numbers, we have the paperwork in the office.”

  Ah, the numbers. I guess that’s what Uncle Greg’s so upset about this morning.

  Uncle Greg technically owns the shop. He bought the place fifteen years ago while my parents, Thomas, and infant me still lived in California. A few years later, he got tired of running the place, so when Dad lost his job, we packed our bags and moved out to Vermont so my parents could run the shop in exchange for free housing upstairs. A win-win except now we answer to Uncle Greg, who’s both the CEO and landlord. Plus, we live in Vermont. That’s a major bummer.

  “No need,” Uncle Greg says. “I already know you don’t do a good job, Masao. I’ve been paying your rent for how many years now?”