The boys waited in the big white room for Ma and Pa to come home. The windows were open and the breeze carried in sausage smoke from a cookout next door. Miguel was leaning out the window, trying to see the faces. Santi sat on the bed, watching an episode of a cartoon he had already seen before: the purple dog-guy banging his head against the floor. Santi didn’t understand why this was a funny thing to do.
“Santi,” Miguel whispered.
“What?” Santi asked.
“Los veo.”
“Who?”
“Tres papás grandes.”
“Do you see the bus stop boy?”
“¿Cuál?”
“The boy with the T-shirts of monsters and clowns,” Santi said, turning to his little brother.
Miguel pointed.
“Yes. There he is sit.”
The boys ran downstairs and out the back door. In the backyard, burnt and brittle grass surrounded a small concrete slab just outside the door. Two mesquite trees, scrawny and unclimbable and strung together with Christmas lights, hung over Ma’s glass picnic table. Beyond the back fence, a road roared with endless cars. The boys moved quietly through the grass until they reached the gate and nudged it open. They could see the party clearly as they passed the tangled-up garden hose—three fat men in flexy chairs at the end of the driveway, laughing, drinking, grill billowing behind them. Across the street, the bus stop boy sat on a sewer lid, dribbling a basketball low. Santi leaned into Miguel.
“Let’s pretend to look at a big bug.”
“There is bug?”
“No, but imagine that yes.”
The boys moved into sight, into their half of the front yard, and hunched over a spot in the grass. Miguel picked up a twig and prodded the ground. Santi squatted down, examining. The bus stop boy perked up. He was watching.
“I think he see,” Miguel whispered.
“Just keep doing it.”
Santi hovered his hand low, just above the ground, and snatched up the pretend bug, bringing it to his gut. Miguel looked into Santi’s fist.
“Wow!” Miguel said. The bus stop boy stood, leaving the ball to roll away, beginning to walk toward them.
Miguel tugged Santi’s shirt. At the long end of the street, Ma and Pa’s van had just pulled onto the block.
Santi tossed the bug and the boys ran back the way they came, down the strip of grass and through the gate, the backyard, the sliding door, up the stairs. Santi climbed onto the bed with his back against the headboard. Miguel walked over to the open window.
“The boy is look for bicho but no find it.”
In the darkening evening, the boys sat at the picnic table beneath the string of lights, eating arepas with egg and avocado. Ma sat across, watching them eat, holding up her head in her hands. Her hair was loosely tied in dark bunches and her eyes were tired.
“Papi isn’t coming down?” asked Santi.
“Papi is very stressed,” Ma said, in Spanish, reaching for the boys’ hands. “He’s in a little bit of trouble.”
“In trouble?” asked Santi.
“We didn’t leave early enough this morning,” said Ma. “The way to work is complicated, on the other side of San Antonio, so I got him to work late, again.”
Ma massaged her forehead.
“From now on,” Ma said, “everyone has to be in bed by eight-thirty—this way Papito can get to work on time. And you boys will have to take the bus to school, but I’ll still be there at four to pick you up.”
The boys nodded.
“It’s easy,” Ma said. “You’re just going to cross the street, to the stop sign, and wait with all the other boys and girls. It’ll be bus eighteen. A one and an eight in big black numbers on the side. When it comes, just sit together, two to a seat, by the driver. Stay in your seat until you get to school. Then you get out and start your day like everyone else.”
“OK, Ma,” said Santi.
“Any questions?” Ma asked in English.
“I have one,” said Santi.
“Dime.”
“Is it true that Pa’s bosses are gringos ácidos sin respeto?”
Ma leaned forward. “He said this to you?”
“Yeah,” Santi said. “He said that they don’t treat people good.”
“No, it’s not true,” she said. “They gave him a job, they helped us a lot. They are the reason we get to be here now. Papito is just very stressed. People say crazy things when they are stressed.”
The boys nodded.
“But together, we stay strong,” Ma said in English. “¿Verdad?”
“Verdad,” Santi said.
“Good. That’s the way.”
Ma stood and picked up the boys’ paper plates, tossed them in the trash.
“Vamos a—¿cómo se dice?” she said, pointing to the windows of the second floor.
“Upstairs,” Santi said.
“Yes,” Ma said. “Upstairs.”
Inside, the house was still and dim except for Pa’s TV down the hall, flashing. The boys’ room was small and painted blue with two narrow beds and a jungle rug between them. The boys changed into their long sleep shirts and got into bed. Ma lay down on the rug, reaching up for their hands.
“Ángel de la guarda, dulce compañía, no nos desampares, ni de noche, ni de día. No nos dejes solo sin tu compañía. Amén.”
“Amén.”
“Amén.”
They took turns saying their own prayer for everyone still in Maracaibo—Rayaya, Wilmer, tío Charco, and all the others back home.
Like the nights before, Miguel and Ma fell asleep first. The road behind the house would not stop running, and Pa’s TV flashed and flashed, lighting up the house like a storm.
Santi and Miguel were first to the stop. Ma and Pa had gone when it was still night out and left a plate of sliced bananas by the sink. There were no other kids—just a fire hydrant, an ashy dog poo, and the passing cars. The morning was gray and wet.
The bus stop boy came out of his house, swinging a heavy grocery bag as he crossed the street. He had buzzed hair and was as tall as Santi, but heavy, like a fifth grader. On his black shirt was a goblin, naked, squatting on a stack of bones. The goblin’s stringy hair hung over its face and it had sharp yellow teeth, smiling like it knew about things it wasn’t supposed to. The words THE GOBBLER were written beneath the bones in dirty green letters.
Miguel raised his hand for a high five as the boy approached.
“Hello.”
“Hi!” the boy said, smacking Miguel’s hand.
“What’s you name?”
The boy giggled.
“‘What’s you name’?”
“He wants to say ‘What’s your name?’” Santi said.
“Ha! That’s a funny one! I’m Abel. What about you?”
“My name Miguel.”
“I’m Santi.”
“What grade are you little piggies in?”
“Kinder!” said Miguel. Abel snorted.
“I’m in fourth,” said Santi.
“I’m in third. Y’all live next door, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I actually saw you two being sneaky-eaky the other day,” Abel said. His breath smelled like celery, even from where Santi stood. His lips were crackly and dry.
“Really?” Santi said.
“What did you find in the grass?” Abel asked, squinting.
“We find bicho,” Miguel said.
“What in the world?” Abel said.
“We found a bug in the grass,” Santi said.
“Well, what kinda bug?”
“A long bug. Silver, with huge eyes and feather feet.”
“Like a dragonfly?”
“Yes. But bigger and faster. And with wings that look like mirrors,” Santi said.
“Ooh! That’s definitely mega-rare. But where did it go?”
“The hole,” Miguel said, plunging his hand sharply down.
“It was a burrower,” said Santi.
“A burrower,” said Abel. “And feather feet? And mirror wings?”
The boys nodded and Abel tapped his lip.
“I gotta see it to believe it, little piggies.”
The bus turned onto their street, groaning to a stop at the fire hydrant. One and eight in big black numbers.
“Piggies first,” Abel said, gesturing Santi forward. “Let’s sit together in the back.”
“We have to sit in a seat, just us two,” said Santi.
“I want back,” Miguel said to Santi.
“Miguel,” said Santi.
The doors folded open and the boys climbed up the rubber steps of the tin bus. Abel leaned into Santi’s ear from behind.
“If we sit in the backest back, the driver won’t ever know.”
Even lying on the living room couch, curtains down, fan on, barely ten-thirty Saturday morning, Santi was hot. Pa had left early and taken Miguel with him. Ma was still upstairs in her room, door shut. She and Pa had been up all night, pacing in their room, speaking at each other in low, spitting bursts. Santi had not been able to sleep through all the hissing and pleading, which he’d never heard before.
Santi went through every channel, looking for something to watch. On 57 some blonde grandmas huddled around shiny jewels that lay on top of a spinning glass cube, offering to mail them to you if you called the number on the screen. Eighty-six was a show about the police, in which the camera ran after the bad guys who had taken a bunch of DVDs from a store. The camera stumbled and trembled, just like a real person. The very last channel, 1385, was Smooth Jazz Speakeasy, which only showed the name of the song and a saxophone wearing sunglasses on a dark blue background.
A thump shook the ceiling. A scream ripped through the house.
“Ma?” Santi said.
“No!” Ma yelled from upstairs. Three hard stomps rattled the fan. Santi rushed up to her. The second floor was dim.
“Ma?”
“¿Hijo?” Ma’s voice cried out, warped with fear. Santi walked into the room. The blinds were shut, Ma’s cell phone on the pillow.
“Aquí, hijo.”
Through the open bathroom door Santi could see Ma on the floor, against a wall, gripping her foot with one hand and holding up a shoe with the other. A scorpion shot across the tile, amber, armored, barbed tail pitched high. Ma swung down at the floor. The scorpion fled to a corner, scrambling for a crack.
“Ma!” Santi shouted.
“Quiet.”
“What’s going to happen?”
The scorpion dashed toward Ma, jabbing its barb, as she swung down and missed again, sending the scorpion back. Ma winced violently, tucked her leg into her chest.
“Go get someone.”
Santi ran downstairs, outside, crossing the yard to Abel’s house, knocking frantically at his door. There was no movement and no car in the driveway. Santi knocked again, louder, with the meat of his fist. Too much time was passing.
Santi ran back across the yard, to the brick one-story on the other side, and rang the bell. Santi held his hands together.
A man opened the door, tall as the frame, wet hair and pouchy eyes.
“I ain’t looking to buy nothing.”
“We need help.”
“What, now?”
“My mom got stung by a scorpion.”
“Your mama got stung by a scorpion?”
“Yes.”
The neighbor stared at Santi, then looked out into the street, scanning one end, then the other. He cleared his throat.
“And where’s your daddy?”
“I don’t know.”
He massaged his neck.
“We need help!” Santi shouted, swinging his hands up.
“Calm down,” the neighbor said stiffly. “Which one’s your house?”
Santi pointed next door.
“How come I never seen you?”
“She’s hurt. She can’t move.”
The neighbor shut the door. Santi wasn’t sure if the neighbor had understood him. Maybe he needed to try again and explain better. Santi rang. The neighbor swung the door open.
“I need you to calm down. I was getting my boots on. Christ.”
Santi led him across the grass to the front door. The neighbor stepped into the dark house, glancing at the stained glass on the wall, the angel statuettes.
“Come.”
They walked up the stairs, through the room, past the bed, into the bathroom. Ma was on the floor, holding her foot, breathing deeply. The scorpion was gone.
“El vecino, Ma.”
Ma glanced up. The neighbor scratched his head, placed his hands on his hips.
“So, what’s going on?”
“A escorpión, it bite me.”
“How big was it? What was the color?”
“Like three fingers big,” Santi said. “Two dark stripes along the body.”
“Two dark stripes along the body?”
“Yeah,” Santi said.
“Hmm.”
“What?” Ma said, eyes widening.
“And it got you there?” The neighbor pointed to her foot.
“Yes,” Ma said.
“How’s it feel?”
“It hurts.”
“Right.”
The neighbor squatted in front of Ma and planted one hand between his legs. He extended the other hand toward her.
“Let me see it.”
Ma held onto her foot. The neighbor looked up at Santi.
“Did she not understand what I said?”
“Ma,” Santi said. “El señor dice que—”
“I understand,” said Ma.
“Well,” the neighbor said. “I need to see what it did to you.”
Ma inhaled and stretched her foot out. The neighbor leaned forward on his toes, holding his hand below her heel. The skin on Ma’s foot was pink and puffy, dark at the top.
“Hmm,” the neighbor said.
“What?” said Ma.
“Your son came out like you were about to die or something,” the neighbor said. “But this bit here—”
“¡Coño!” Ma swung her leg back in a spasm.
“Ma?” said Santi.
The neighbor shot a glare at Santi.
“Good lord,” the neighbor said, standing up slowly, wiping his hand on his pant leg. “That top part of the sting there needs ice. You might feel like you have a fever today, maybe tomorrow. But you’ll be fine. Rest should do it. Y’all both need to take a deep breath.”
“I will be alive?” Ma asked.
The neighbor’s face clenched with confusion, then he shook his head, chuckled.
“You ain’t gonna die.”
Ma nodded and exhaled.
“You kill it, at least?”
“What?” Ma said.
“Que si lo matamos,” Santi said.
“No. No. Is fast. It run another place,” Ma said.
“Another place? Where’d it go?”
“I don’t know,” Ma said.
“Well, that ain’t good,” the neighbor said, blowing air through his lips, looking to Santi. “When your daddy gets back, get him to seal up them cracks under the wall unless you want something worse getting in here.”
Ma looked to Santi.
“Que papi cubra las grietas,” Santi said.
“Y’all from Mexico or something?” the neighbor asked.
“Venezuela,” Ma said.
The neighbor stuck his lower lip out and nodded.
“Didn’t know y’all were coming in here, too.”
The three stood quiet.
“Thank you for helping, sir,” Ma mumbled, nudging Santi toward him. The neighbor nodded and turned as Santi led him out of the bathroom and down the stairs, opening the door for him.
“Alright,” the neighbor said, stepping into the sun. “Y’all be careful.”
The scorpion had just been here, lashing like a flame.
Upstairs, Santi grabbed the cell phone from the bed and went back into the bathroom, which now stunk of wet cigarette. Ma’s head was planted on her knee.
“I’m calling Pa,” Santi said, coming to Ma, searching for his number.
“No, Santiago,” Ma said, reaching for the phone.
“He’ll help us better.”
“Give me the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Now,” Ma said as Santi handed it over, snatching it from his hand. “And you’re not telling anybody about this.”
“Ma.”
“Not Miguel either.”
“But why?”
Ma’s face was flushed, hair matted against her skin. “It’s too much, Santiago,” she said. “Do you remember how you felt when abu Lobo died?”
“Yes,” Santi said.
“How did you feel?”
“Very, very sad.”
“OK,” said Ma. “How would you feel if I told you we were leaving Venezuela the day after?”
“Probably a lot of feelings.”
“Do you think you could play with your friends or take a big test with all of that in your head?”
Santi shook his head.
“Exactly, Santiago. That’s why we waited to tell you and Miguel—even though we already knew. Aren’t you happy we didn’t tell you right away?”
Santi nodded.
“It’s the same thing. Your dad is not OK right now. Your dad misses home. He is in trouble at work. It is important for all of us that he feels better. I will tell him later, OK? Once we are all better.”
“OK,” Santi said, “I’ll get the ice.”
“Not yet,” Ma said, patting the floor next to her. “Stay here a bit.”
Santi sat down with her, back against the wall, and reached for her hand.
Through the blinds, the sun began to soften. Santi did not know how the room could be so still now, so quiet, when the scorpion had just been here, lashing like a flame. He held Ma’s hand in the dimming light, eyes on the cracks above the tile, keeping watch.
“Whoa! What brings you two piggies on the back-home bus?”
Abel squeezed in beside Santi and Miguel. Santi could feel Abel’s arm sticking to his.
“I not a piggie,” Miguel said, frowning.
“Our mom isn’t feeling well today,” said Santi. “Our dad works far away.”
“Well, what a coincident!” Abel said. “Today, I brought you piggies a surprise!”
“What is it?” asked Santi.
Abel folded his eyelids inside out.
“Surprise!”
Miguel hid his face against Santi’s arm.
“Nasty,” Miguel said, leaning away, against the window.
“I know, right?” Abel said, closer.
“He doesn’t like it,” Santi said.
Abel’s face was almost touching Santi’s. The flipped eyelids looked like fish flesh.
“He said he doesn’t like it.”
“Jeez Louise, piggie! It’s just a prank!”
Abel covered his eyes and unflipped his lids.
“See? It’s not real!”
“You can look again,” Santi told Miguel, buried in his shirt.
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re the scarediest little piggies the world has ever known?”
“I not a piggie,” Miguel said.
“You’re being mean,” Santi said.
“I’m not mean. You’re mean for saying I’m mean.”
The bus was getting close to home.
“You wanna come over?” Abel asked. “I’m home alone on Mondays!”
“We have to go home,” Santi said.
“Gah lee! But I have PlayStation games, Nerf guns, action toys, a hundred thousand movies, and a trampoline in the back. Plus, pepperoni Hot Pockets, if you’re hungry.”
“You have trampolín?” Miguel said.
“Are you deaf or something?” Abel said. “It’s limited edition. You can actually fly off it if you jump hard enough.”
“He’s lying,” Santi said.
“Are you loco in the coco? I super-duper swear I’m not.”
“I want to see trampolín,” Miguel said, tugging on Santi.
“Come over! Come over!” Abel was bouncing up and down in his seat.
“Tenemos que ir a la casa,” Santi said.
“Vive al lado,” Miguel said.
“Ma se va poner brava.”
“Santi, él vive al lado.”
“What are you saying?” asked Abel.
“We can go, but only for a little,” Santi said.
“I’m so excited I could”—Abel placed his fists at his temples and burst them open—“explode!”
There were clothes on Abel’s living room floor and a crumpled-up napkin on the sofa. Toy figurines still in their boxes sat on the shelves on either side of the TV—football players, dragons, presidents, and monsters. One was a giant with an axe cleaved in the middle of its head. In front of the TV was a high chair with a tray that was splatted with orange mash.
“You have little brother, Abel?” Miguel asked.
“Duh, doofus. Who else do you think that chair is for?”
Miguel walked over to the toys on the shelves. “Why they are in boxes?”
“They’re collectibles, little piggie,” said Abel. “One day the Big Man is going to sell them for a million dollars and buy me a pet tiger.”
“So, can we see the trampoline?” asked Santi.
“Before we begin the quest,” said Abel, “we need to fuel up.”
“Fuel up?”
“Time to chug some”—Abel wiggled his fingers—“Morning Thunder!”
Abel tucked his arms into his chest like a bunny and hopped pogo-style to the fridge, reached into the back, and tossed the boys two golden cans.
“What is this?” Miguel asked, examining the can.
“Literally the best drink ever. Apparently, it’s cherry juice plus lightning bolts. It makes you feel like a bomb!”
“Wow,” said Santi.
Abel went over to the back door and slid it open.
“Let’s smash these on the trampoline or what?”
The trampoline’s legs were spindly, and the mesh glinted in the sunlight like water. Santi struggled on, then helped Miguel up. From the top, Santi could look over the fence into their backyard and to the road and see the cars rushing past. Abel climbed on and held up his Morning Thunder, flicking the tab.
“Now, before we begin, my piggies,” Abel said, “I have a very important question.”
“What?” Santi asked.
“Are you Mexican?”
“No,” Santi said. “Why?”
Abel held out a finger.
“Exhibit A: You’re almost white, but you’re not. Exhibit B: You speak Spanish in secret. Exhibit C: You don’t know anything about Morning Thunder and you wear soccer shoes to school.”
“We’re from Venezuela,” said Santi.
“I Venezuela too,” said Miguel.
“I knew it was somewhere weird!”
“Are you Mexican?” Santi said.
“I think maybe. The Big Man calls me mijo and we always eat enchiladas.”
“Is the Big Man your dad?” Santi asked.
Abel jutted forward at Santi and huffed. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, silly piggie,” he said. He leaned back and held up his can. “Are we going to slam this Morning Thunder or what?”
“Yes,” Santi said. “Miguel, ¿entendiste?”
“Drink Morning Thunder?”
“Exactly.”
Abel clipped his can open and sucked it down, drinking so fast his throat rolled. He crushed the can empty, tossed it over the fence, and burped. Santi took a sip, then another. It tasted like cherry candy plus fork metal. Abel tipped Miguel’s can so that it poured down into his mouth, spilling onto his neck. Miguel’s eyes were teary and red. Abel shot up.
“Did you piggies play popcorn in Vuvuzooloo?”
“No,” Miguel said, wiping his mouth. “What’s that?”
Abel kept hopping. The springs were squeaking.
“OK, so, one of you lays down and holds your knees in like a little corn thingy and then everyone else jumps hard until the corn can’t anymore and they pop like a popcorn. Then you switch who the popcorn is.”
“OK,” said Santi. He was starting to feel like he was made of lasers, like he could zoom to school and back in thirty seconds and not even feel tired.
“Shotgun not popcorn!”
“Shotgun?” Santi asked.
“Holy moly, guys! If you don’t want to be popcorn you have to say ‘shotgun not popcorn!’”
“Shotgun not popcorn!” Santi yelled.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Miguel is it! Miguel is it!” shouted Abel.
Miguel was chewing on his nails, staring away toward the fence.
“OK, get in the middle. Lay down and tuck in your knees.”
Abel got down to show him how. Miguel got in position.
“We’re gonna pop you, little corn-piggie! Isn’t that right, my dear popper-partner?”
“Affirmative, Captain Pop,” Santi said in a low, adult voice, beginning to jump.
Abel cackled. Miguel shut his eyes.
“Ready?” Abel said. “One . . . two . . . three!”
Abel squatted low and then sprung, shaking the frame. Miguel flew off the mesh and came back down. Santi jumped.
“Come on! We have to pop him!”
Santi jumped again.
“Come on, skinny scaredy piggie!” Abel said. “We need more muscle than that!”
Santi squatted low and sprung again, giggling wildly.
“Harder, piggie, harder, piggie. Harder!”
Santi leapt with enormous force, cleaving his feet into an inch of mesh just by Miguel and flinging him high into the air. Miguel landed flat on his back, sprawled out.
“We got him! We got him! We got him!” Abel sang. Santi knelt down.
“¿Estás bien?”
Miguel nodded, eyes still shut.
“Puedes abrir los ojos,” Santi said. “No pasa nada.”
“Are you piggies oinking about me?” Abel asked.
“No, I was just asking if he’s OK,” said Santi.
“Next round! Shotgun not the popcorn!”
Santi stood Miguel up.
“We have to go home now.”
“Oh my God,” said Abel. “Are you serious right now?”
“Our mom doesn’t know we’re here and we can’t be places without permission,” said Santi firmly.
“Why not?” Abel asked.
“It’s what my mom said.”
“Holy crud. You’re the popcorn next time, then. It’s the law.”
“Fine.”
Santi and Miguel lowered themselves off the trampoline and picked up their backpacks.
“Wait!” Abel said from the mesh. “Important announcement: My birthday is on Friday. And you piggies are invited to Lunar Jimmy’s and then to spend the night, or else!” Abel spread his arms out. “You two are the best friends I ever had.”
“We’ll ask our mom,” Santi said.
“You and your mom, you and your mom. Always you little piggies and your mom.”
The boys waved goodbye and left through Abel’s back gate. Back at home, the door to the big white room was shut. Miguel lay down on his bed, still quiet, biting his nails. Santi sat against his headboard and closed his eyes. He did not want this wild feeling anymore, like his heart was a spinning top whirring in his ribs.
“We go see Ma?” Miguel whispered. “Maybe we take her a tea.”
“I think she’s OK. She just needs to sleep.”
“What is happen with her?”
Santi looked down.
“I can tell you, but it has to be a secret.”
“OK,” Miguel said, sitting up.
“It’s serious, Miguel. Ma told me not to say.”
Miguel nodded solemnly.
“She got stung by a scorpion. In the foot.”
“A escorpión?” Miguel said, hooking his finger and jabbing the air.
“Yes. But everything was OK. The neighbor came over to help.”
“Abel?”
“No,” Santi said. “Another one, from the house on the other side. He saw Ma’s foot. He said she just needed to rest.”
“And the escorpión? Did you kill?”
“No. It ran away somewhere.”
The boys were quiet.
“Where did you go with Pa on Saturday?” Santi asked.
“I no know. We just drive a big circle all the day.”
“Where?”
“We drive next the mall, we drive next the SeaWorld where Shamu live, we eat hamburgers. And then drive more.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Pa said is not so good here,” Miguel said.
“What’s not so good?”
“Here. He just say he never want to come.”
Miss Lacey came to the house the night before the birthday. Ma opened the door carefully as Santi listened in from the living room.
“Hi, I’m Lacey, Abel’s mom,” she said. She wore candy-pink shorts and bunny slippers and was holding Baby, and wanted to know if the boys could spend all of Friday with Abel. The plan was to go to Lunar Jimmy’s Playplace, do the arcade games, eat pizza, go to the movies to watch Hoofy and Flute, and then, finally, come back to stay the night with Abel.
“Abel loves your boys,” Miss Lacey said, “and this is the only birthday gift he is really asking for.”
Ma said her husband was out with Miguel, but she would talk to him when he returned.
Pa and Miguel came home an hour later. Pa nodded at Santi, eating at the table, and passed Ma in silence as Miguel hurried up the stairs.
“Everything OK?” Ma asked.
“Everything OK,” Pa said, going to the fridge, not looking up.
“Where were you?”
“Nowhere, really,” Pa said, closing the fridge, nothing in hand. “Just driving, getting to know this place.”
“The boys are invited to a little party tomorrow,” Ma said.
“Yeah?” Pa said, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. Santi sat still, staring at his food.
“The little boy next door, Abel, is having his birthday at one of those pizza arcades,” Ma said, softening her voice. “His mom—very nice lady—came by and said she’d pick them up from school, take them over, then back next door to stay the night.”
“Stay the night. With the neighbor?” Pa said flatly.
“Yes,” Ma said.
“Which one?” Pa said.
“What do you mean? The one over there, the little boy,” Ma said, confused, pointing toward Abel’s house.
“Oh,” Pa said.
“So, what do you think?”
“No.”
“It’s right next door,” Ma said. “If—”
“No,” Pa said, shaking his head. “Why would my boys go inside someone else’s house, someone I’ve never met?”
Ma reached for his shoulder.
“This is a good thing,” she said. “It’s just next door. How good is it for all of us that they’ve already made a friend?”
Miss Lacey’s truck was taller than all the other cars on the road. Abel sat at the front, and Santi and Miguel each had a window in the back, with Baby strapped into a booster between them. Miss Lacey had a fluffy pink cover on her steering wheel.
“Lunar Jimmy’s! Lunar Jimmy’s!” Abel shouted, thumping his lap. “Come on, Lunar Jimmy’s! Lunar Jimmy’s!”
Inside the giant orange building, Santi could not hear anything over the sounds of race cars, ray guns, and splashing coins. There were hundreds of kids running all around. Too many games to try in one day.
“What are we gonna play first?” Santi asked.
“Hold your horses, little piggie!” Abel shouted. “Do you not know what time it is?” Santi looked at Abel blankly.
“Pepperoni time, pepperoni time, pepperoni time!” The boys followed Lacey into the dining hall. The Big Man was waiting at a long table with a big bottle of soda and two enormous boxes of pizza. He had spiky hair and a heavy brow, skin darker than Pa’s. His body was wide and heavy like a rhino’s, his rough wrinkly skin folding at the neck.
“What up, little devils?”
The Big Man smiled and extended his fist, which was dense and dry as a stone.
“Hi,” Santi said, bumping back. “So, you are the Big Man?”
“That’s right, young sir,” the Big Man said, leaning closer. “And are you the mumbly piggie or the serious piggie?”
“I’m Santiago Andrés Ríos,” Santi said, smiling. “But my other name is Santi.”
“Ha ha!” the Big Man laughed. “Well, then, Santi—pleased to meet you. Very charming.”
“I Miguel,” said Miguel, placing his little palm on the Big Man’s outstretched fist.
“God, it’s like I know you two already. Abel never shuts the fuck up about y’all.”
Miss Lacey sucked her teeth.
“What?” the Big Man said.
“Don’t be talking that way in front of his friends. We’ve been over this.”
“They know I’m kidding. Right, little devils?”
Miss Lacey shook her head. Baby was awake in her arms, staring out at the room’s bright colors. In the lights he looked older than Santi had thought he was.
“The Big Man can’t handle Big Love.”
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“You haven’t said hi to me!” Abel poked at the Big Man’s shoulder.
“Hello, little bastard,” the Big Man said, palming Abel’s head and shaking it. “Happy birthday.”
“Did you get me anything? Did you get me anything?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I did.”
“What do you mean maybe?”
The Big Man smiled.
Miss Lacey opened the pizza boxes and served the slices on paper plates that stained clear through with grease. Santi watched as Abel dumped a glob of white sauce onto his slice.
“What is that?” Miguel asked.
“Ranch!” Abel said.
“Ranch, like a farm?” Santi asked.
“Oh my gosh! Really Santi? Ranch is like the most stupendous food in the galaxy, not like a farm. What a dum-dum,” Abel said.
“I try?” Miguel asked.
“Of course, hungriest littlest piggie.”
Abel passed Miguel the container. Miguel tore off his crust and dipped it into the sauce. He moved it slowly to his mouth and took a bite.
“And?” the Big Man asked. “What do you think?”
Miguel waited to swallow.
“Mm. Stupendous.”
The Big Man cackled and Abel did the same.
“Hold up,” the Big Man said, his face pinching. “Y’all smell that?”
“Smell what?” Abel said.
“A wet fucking turd.”
Miguel sniffed the air.
“Yes, I smell. Wakala,” Miguel said.
“I smell it too,” Santi said.
The Big Man pointed at Miss Lacey.
“Is that Baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? You’re the one holding him.”
“Well, it could be another person’s kid.”
“Well, why don’t you check?”
Miss Lacey rolled her eyes and stretched out the band of Baby’s diaper. She lifted him onto her shoulder and left the table.
“Jesus Christ,” the Big Man said, shaking his head, taking a bite. “That kid’s getting too old for this.”
The boys stayed quiet and ate. The clinking and shooting and clobbering were making Santi feel like he needed to go outside for a little.
The Big Man reached underneath his seat and placed a slim black box on the table. Inside was a hunched, naked goblin with long fingers like twigs, visible through the plastic window on the front.
“Oh my God!” Abel shouted. “The Gobbler!”
Abel tore the box open and held the Gobbler up for the boys to see. Its shriveled arms were stretched all the way out and its belly was sucked into its ribs like a cave.
“Isn’t he pretty?” Abel said, holding the Gobbler up, stroking his dark hair.
“Shit,” said the Big Man. “You won’t believe all the places I had to go to. Damn near drove to Dallas. And look, real quick, before your mom comes back.”
The Big Man reached into his shirt pocket and set four blue tickets on the table.
“Oh my freaking gosh!” Abel shouted. “No effing way! The Gobbler III: All Chopped Up—at the Parthenon?”
“Happy birthday, mijo,” said the Big Man. “But don’t forget, Lacey thinks we’re seeing Hoofy and Flute, so don’t be—”
Abel leapt onto the Big Man, hugging him around the neck, planting a long kiss on his cheek.
“Alright, alright, get the fuck off me,” the Big Man said, nudging Abel away.
“The Big Man can’t handle Big Love,” Abel said.
“Go play your damn games already, little weirdos,” the Big Man said. “Just be back here in an hour so we can make it on time. Parking at the Parthenon is a bitch.”
“Roger that, Captain,” Abel said, then turned to the boys. “So, what are we gonna play first?”
“Shoot the dinosaurios,” Miguel said. “Pow, cha-chink, pow!”
“Oh my God!” Abel shouted. “Killing dinosaurs is more boring than a thousand spelling bees.”
“What about the cup bowling? I want to make it in the top one,” Santi said.
“You mean Skee-Ball? That’s for geezers and kinderbabies. Let’s go stomp some spiders.” He hopped briskly ahead into the play zone as the boys followed.
“This is the best one,” Abel said, arriving at the spider-whack game: an octagonal platform, big enough for two, painted over with a spiderweb and ten angry spiders, each with a red button on its stomach.
“When it lights up, stomp them,” said Abel. “Stomp them so hard they end up double-dead!”
“And if I do this?” asked Miguel, hopping up and coming down forcefully with both feet. “Like popcorn?”
“Heck yes, little piggie!” Abel shouted. “That’s what real warriors are made of.”
“Me and you and Miguel at the same time?” asked Santi.
“Duh!” shouted Abel. “That’s how we can do Expert Level and get the highest score in the universe!”
Santi and Miguel mounted the platform, standing ready. Abel dropped a coin in the slot, hit the Expert button, and the lights began flashing red. Santi held onto the rail as he stepped onto the lights that flashed, and Abel shrieked with every stomp, crushing every button, lit or not, with fury and force. Miguel hopped across the board, tapping the flashes with his toes as the sounds of wet squashing blared from the console.
“Smash and kill, piggies!” Abel shouted, panting and sweating. “Crush these creepy freaks!”
“¡Muérete, muérete, muérete!” shouted Miguel.
“Yes, piggies, yes!” Abel shouted as he stumbled and spun around.
The lights went off. The LED screen showed the score: 987.
“Holy cannoli!” said Abel, thrusting his fists high, heaving. “That’s almost a million!”
“Incredible!” said Santi.
“I smash, I crush, I kill!” Miguel said.
The ceiling of the Parthenon was high like a cathedral and painted with curly-haired angels floating between clouds and harps. The people here looked like they were from the house-buying channel, with sweaters and shirts with buttons on them and sandy pants and boots that shone brightly. The boys followed the Big Man through the crowd.
“Alright,” the Big Man said, whispering. “If the ticket dork asks, y’all are my kids. OK?”
The Big Man extended his fist. Santi and Miguel bumped and nodded.
The ticket dork did not look at the boys as he tore the tickets, and they followed the Big Man down the dark, winding hall, past the poster for the movie: a lady on a big plate, tied up with rope so she couldn’t move, and the Gobbler drooling in the dark above her, holding a pitchfork and a saw.
“That’s the movie we will see?” Miguel whispered to Santi as they entered the auditorium.
“Yes,” Santi said.
Miguel nodded, taking a deep breath.
The seats were full and, climbing the steps in the dim light, Santi could not see any other kids.
“This is our row,” the Big Man said, pointing.
“Big Man?” Abel asked.
“What, mijo?”
“Can we get a popcorn, a Chew-Blast, and an Earthshaker?”
“Come on, Abel. Why didn’t you ask me out there? The movie’s about to start.”
“Pleasey, pleasey, pleasey. I was too excited.”
“I don’t even know if they have those here. It’s the Parthenon.”
“It’s the last thing, I promise!”
“Alright,” the Big Man said. “Y’all go take the seats, then.”
The boys shuffled down the row and sat down. Miguel leaned into Santi.
“Santi.”
“What?”
“Is OK to see this movie?”
“Yes,” Santi whispered. “Just remember it’s not real. It’s all made up. Close your eyes if you get scared.”
“So, we no say to Ma and Pa.”
“No,” said Santi. “It’s a secret, like the scorpion.”
Miguel nodded, his eyes glimmering.
“What, Miguel? It’s not real.”
“Le dije a Pa.”
“You told Pa what?”
“About the escorpión.”
“What?” Santi jerked forward. “Why?”
“I tell him because Ma is stay in her room. Maybe she is not OK.”
“No, Miguel. She is fine.”
“And what if the escorpión come back and get us when we sleep?”
Santi stared straight ahead.
“When did you tell him?”
“Yesterday,” Miguel said.
“And did you tell him about the neighbor coming over?”
“Yes.”
“Miguel.”
“But is OK. He say is good that I say the true.”
“What secrets are you little piggies whispering about now?” Abel asked, leaning in.
“Nothing,” Santi said.
“That sure didn’t sound like nothing, sneakiest oldest piggie.”
The previews ended and the lights dimmed to black. Miguel sank back into his seat. Santi’s heart was kicking at his neck.
“Excuse me,” the Big Man shout-whispered from the end of the aisle. He squeezed his way in with one hand on the seat backs in front, hugging a tray of snacks to his chest. Some popcorn spilled out of the bucket and onto the floor.
“Sorry,” he said as he reached Abel.
“Sit the hell down already, you fat fuck!” someone yelled from the back. People laughed—even the grown-ups just behind them. The Big Man stumbled forward, toward the empty seat by Santi. He turned around, staring back into the dark.
“What did he just call you, Big Man?” Abel asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Just watch the fucking movie.”
The movie began without any credits: a mom, dad, and little girl were having dinner in a clean white kitchen. They talked about their day and ate spaghetti, not knowing that the Gobbler was hiding in the vents above them. Miguel pulled his legs onto the seat, clenching himself tight. He reached for Santi’s hand and held it.
A splat of slobber fell onto the little girl’s head, and as she looked up to find yellow eyes in the vent, she screeched and the Gobbler broke through. Miguel pressed his face into Santi’s shoulder. Santi let himself watch because he knew there were no such things as air vent goblins that jumped down to slice open kids and moms and dads with their claws and munch off their faces. The movie cut to the title card: The Gobbler III: All Chopped Up in dirty green letters smeared across a black screen.
“Whoa,” said Abel.
The Big Man shifted in his seat, rubbing against Santi’s shoulder. In the light of the screen, Santi could see him gripping one hand with the other, wringing it like a rag.
“Oh, my god, remember when the library man was on his knees, crying, saying, ‘Please, please don’t eat me. I have two kittens at home,’” Abel said, turning wide-eyed to the boys as the Big Man pulled the truck out of the lot. “And then the Gobbler was like, ‘Too bad! Today, I’m feasting!’”
“That part was tight,” the Big Man said. “What did you little devils think?”
Miguel was staring into his lap. He hadn’t spoken since the movie began. Santi nodded.
“I think the Gobbler must get bored eating the same thing every day,” he said.
“Ha ha!” the Big Man bellowed, smacking the steering wheel. “You’re a different one, Santi. What about you, Miguel?”
Miguel shook his head.
“You didn’t like it?” the Big Man asked.
“Oh, my God, Miguel!” Abel said. “What the frick? Why?”
“Very dyings,” Miguel whispered.
“Well yeah, doofus! That’s what’s so good about it!”
They drove over the highway and past the school and the grocery store and turned onto their street.
Miguel looked at Santi. “¿Vamos a la casa?” he whispered.
“No,” Santi whispered back. “Ma will think something’s wrong.”
The truck pulled into the driveway.
“Let’s go, my little piggies! The night is young!” Abel shouted into the back, exiting the truck.
“I no want see the Gobbler again ever, ever,” said Miguel.
“It was just people in costumes and fake blood, like Halloween.”
Abel slammed against the truck window, hands spread, eyelids flipped, pressing his lips flat against the glass like a lamprey. Miguel covered his eyes, shaking his head.
“It’s OK, Miguel,” Santi said, opening the door.
“Goshdarn,” said Abel, stepping back. “You tricky little piggies sure have a lot of secrets!”
The boys followed Abel inside. The house was cleaner than before: no dishes in the sink, no dirty baby chair. There were blankets laid across the floor for the boys to sleep on. The Gobbler squatted on the counter. Lacey was sitting in a chair by the open sliding door, smoking a cigarette. She was in pajamas.
“How was it?” Lacey asked. The Big Man glared discreetly at Abel.
“That was the best movie I’ve ever seen!” Abel said, drumming his fingers on his face.
“I’m glad,” Lacey said flatly, planting the cigarette into the ashtray on her lap. “Y’all were out longer than I thought. What did you boys think?”
“I liked it,” said Santi.
“I don’t like,” Miguel said distantly, shaking his head. “Very—”
“Come on, now,” the Big Man said, interrupting. “Who doesn’t like Hoofy and Flute?”
“Why didn’t you like it?” asked Lacey.
“Very bloods,” Miguel whispered, eyes wide.
“Very bloody?” said Lacey.
“Oh, quit playin’, Miguel,” the Big Man said.
“Hmm,” said Lacey as she stood up.
“One of the posters in the hall must have scared him,” said the Big Man.
“One of the posters in the hall?”
“Yeah,” said the Big Man.
“Sure, Julio,” Lacey said, reaching for Abel’s cheek. “Happy birthday, mijo.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Mama’s tired, Baby doesn’t feel good, so I’m gonna go up, OK?”
“OK, Mom,” said Abel.
“Make yourselves at home,” she said, heading upstairs.
“Well, she’s on one,” the Big Man said, looking up the staircase.
“What are we gonna do tonight, Big Man?” Abel asked, hopping.
“I don’t know, I think I should head up, too.”
“Wait,” Abel said, “you’re not staying up with us?”
“Y’all open the fridge if you want anything,” said the Big Man. “Just don’t be drinking my energy drinks anymore. I need those.”
“It’s only eleven.”
“I’m opening the restaurant tomorrow, Abel. Gotta be there at seven.”
“But it’s my birthday.”
“You already got Lunar Jimmy’s and The Gobbler at the best movies in town. Your mom’s pissed at me,” the Big Man said, sharpening his voice.
“But we have to play Topple the King!” Abel said. “We have to. Please.”
“Abel—I’m not going to say it again.”
“Please, Big Man, please.”
“Y’all three can play that. You can finally be the King with friends this small.”
“The last present. Please.”
“What are Topple the King?” Miguel asked.
“Literally the best game ever! The Big Man made it up.”
“But how do you play?” Santi asked.
The Big Man snorted.
“I get a ball, or a rolled-up sock, or whatever, get on my knees and stump across the living room, from the front door to the back. Y’all little devils are free to do whatever the hell you need to either strip the ball from me, or bring me all the way down—and no one has ever done either.”
“No one ever?” Santi asked.
“Never ever,” said the Big Man.
“Please, Big Man, please,” Abel said, kneeling, bowing his head to the floor.
“Alright,” the Big Man said. “Get your ass up. One round and that’s it.”
“Yay!” shouted Abel.
“Where’s that little foam ball?”
Abel checked under the sofa. Miguel and Santi looked around.
“Jesus, just grab the remote from the shelf, Abel.”
“I’ve got a better idea!” Abel leapt up, ran to the counter, and picked up the Gobbler.
“You sure you wanna use this?” the Big Man said.
“Mhm,” Abel nodded, front teeth out like a rabbit, and handed the Gobbler over.
“Alright,” the Big Man said. “How about this: if y’all can’t get him, I keep him.”
“What?” squealed Abel.
“If not, I’m not playing.”
Abel squinted and rubbed his chin.
“You got yourself a dealio, doofus.”
Abel extended his hand and they shook. The Big Man walked over to the front door, where the carpet began, and lowered himself to his knees, the Gobbler tight in his right hand.
“I’m not a scared little piggie like you!”
“Alright. From here to the back door. No nut-grabbing or titty-twisting. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Santi said.
“Yes,” Miguel said.
“Let’s go already!” Abel said.
“Alright,” the Big Man said. “One, two, three!”
The Big Man waddled forward on his stumps and the boys sprang onto him. Miguel wrapped around an arm, reaching for the Gobbler, but the Big Man kept it far out of reach. Abel climbed on a shoulder and grabbed the Gobbler’s foot, pulling, trying to pry him away. Santi speared into the Big Man’s belly and he could not believe how it didn’t do a thing, how the Big Man pushed on even as Santi dug in, plowing, burning his feet on the carpet. Miguel climbed onto the Big Man’s back, clinging around his neck, trying to push his arm down, trying to help Abel get a fiercer grip, but the Big Man began bucking like a bull.
“Get off, Miguel,” Santi said, pressing into the Big Man’s belly.
“No!” Miguel shouted, flinging around. “We almost do it.”
“Get off and block the front with me!” Santi said.
Miguel tumbled off and leaned with Santi into the Big Man’s chest. Abel clamped his legs at the Big Man’s sides as Santi and Miguel dug all their weight into him from the front, shouting, losing their breath, dragging against the hot carpet.
Santi lowered his shoulder into the Big Man’s belly. “Cosquíllalo,” he whispered.
Miguel reached up into the Big Man’s rib.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” Miguel said. “Tickle, tickle, tickle.”
The Big Man stumbled. Abel lunged for the Gobbler and grasped at its hair as Santi and Miguel held firm, their feet against the back door. The Big Man was almost there. Santi’s head was about to blow.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle!” Miguel said, poking into his massive side, and, finally, the Big Man fell. Abel slipped the Gobbler free, cackling.
“We did it! We did it! We—”
The Big Man grabbed Abel by the back of the head and slammed him face-first into the carpet, ripped back the toy, and tapped the back door with it.
“There,” the Big Man said. “Game.”
Abel lay face down, motionless.
“Oh, come on. Get your ass up.”
Miguel knelt beside him.
“Come on, Abel,” the Big Man said, rolling him over with his foot.
Abel stared up at the ceiling, blank, as if someone had unplugged him.
“Abel?”
Abel’s lip began to quiver, his eyes welling.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the Big Man said. “You’re the one who wanted to play.”
Abel covered his face with both hands, choking on his breath, beginning to cry.
“So you’re really gonna do that, then,” the Big Man said. “Fucking pussy.”
The Big Man dropped the Gobbler onto Abel and lumbered upstairs. Santi and Miguel scooted next to him.
“Are you alright?” Santi asked.
Abel sat up, fists clenched at his teeth, and screamed, eyes red and wild. Santi reached for his shoulder and Abel smacked it away.
“Leave me alone!” shouted Abel. “I’m not a scared little piggie like you!”
Abel ran upstairs. A door slammed shut. Santi and Miguel stayed on the living room floor, kneeling.
Miguel looked up at the dark staircase. “We go to him?”
“Let’s just wait.”
“OK,” Miguel said. He crawled to the first step, peering up into the darkness, waiting for Abel to come back down.
Santi woke up on the floor. It was dark and cold inside, and Miguel was sitting up above him, poking his rib, illuminated by the light of the clock on the cable box.
“Santi,” Miguel whispered.
“What? What is it?”
“I have dream of the Gobbler,” Miguel said.
“It’s OK,” said Santi. “It’s just a dream.”
“He come from the closet and bite my head,” Miguel said, his breath wavering. “He eat my nose and I had a hueco in my face.”
“It’s just a dream.”
“I want to go home.”
“Let’s just go back to sleep. We’ll go when the sun comes out.”
“I want Ma and Pa.”
“No, Miguel.”
“Santi, please.”
The boys slipped on their shoes in the dark and snuck out the front door, shutting it quietly behind them. The night was still black, but glowing softly at the edge of the sky. Their driveway was long and empty.
“The van?” Miguel asked.
“I don’t know,” Santi said, hurrying across the grass and the driveway, up to the front step. He lifted the mat, found the key, and opened the door.
The house was still. A faint light was on at the end of the hall by the sliding door.
Miguel stepped forward. Santi grabbed his arm.
“Wait here,” Santi whispered.
“Why?”
“Something’s wrong.”
“Santi.”
“Stay here, Miguel,” whispered Santi. “If something happens, run to Abel’s and knock on their door.”
Miguel nodded and stayed in place, eyes wide, hands clasped. Santi moved carefully toward the light. The lamp in the living room was on.
“Ma?” Santi whispered. “Pa?”
The back door was open. The curtain rose and sank in the wind. Santi went over to it slowly and stood at the glass.
Outside, the night was thinning into morning. Ma sat at her glass table in the pale blue light, between the skinny mesquites. One hand was pressed to her temple and the other held her phone, her knee jittering wildly just below her chin. She brought the phone down to her lap, dialed, and brought it to her ear.
Santi gripped the door handle to slide it open, to run to her, but stopped himself. He’d never seen her like this before: how she hunched so painfully, staring into the dirt, dialing again and again, wincing as if she were about to split apart.
