“Unfortunately, yes,” I groan out, holding my stomach.
I don’t elaborate on the fact that I taught Junior that game because I’m supposed to be an adult. Some shit you don’t outgrow, though. I knew from the days I worked at the shop that most of the male species found the stupidest things entertaining.
“Oh my God, is that Dolly?” Isa is looking at my not-so-little sister huddled around her friends.
“Yup. That’s the baby.”
My parents had many children. Dolly was the youngest of twelve, and she was the only one who got robbed of having my dad around when he died before her first year of kindergarten. My siblings and I took turns helping her navigate through life.
“I can’t believe how grown she is. Remember when we had to babysit her?” Isa says, laughing.
“Believe me, I know. It’s intimidating. Kids are wild these days.” I respond, watching as the yellow supercharged F-150 pulls up on the other side of the park.
“Who is that?” Isa says, watching my newest sworn enemy walk across the lawn and swing his arm around Dolly.
“That’s Dolly’s boyfriend. Peso Pulga.”
“Peso Pulga?” Isa says with a laugh. “I take it you don’t like him?”
“I think kids are just weird these days. Him especially. Ten dollars says he’ll say ‘si quema cuh’ at least four times.”
“Damn. Tell me how you really feel,” Isa mocks.
“They’re all no sabos, but they have that whole Selena effect thing,” I say with my eyes narrowed on the kid.
“The Selena effect?” I look to the side and see Isa’s brows bunched together.
“They can sing Spanish, just not speak it as well,” I explain.
Isa is still looking at me, puzzled, so I do my best impression of modern music.
“En el radio cochinero,” I sing in a nasally voice that earns me a wholehearted laugh.
“You sound like a bitter old man,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Our parents hated our music too.”
“Ya, but we respected the old tunes too. These kids no nothing about the good shit. No Sam Cooke or Barbara Lewis. Just rap corridos where they all sound nasally.”
Isa laughs again, and my heart churns.
“Okay, so which one is the chambelan?” she asks
“That one in the green shirt with the stupid haircut.”
“They kind of all have stupid haircuts,” Isa says with a chuckle.
She wasn’t wrong. The rise of Corridos Tumbados had influenced some of the most questionable haircuts: the Edgar, the mullet, and whatever the hell it was where they permed the front.
“Maybe you’re right. We are at the age where we start complaining about everything the younger generations are doing,” I reply
“That’s true. Remember in seventh grade when you shaved your head but left your bangs and dyed them blonde?”
“Hey! I try to limit how often I hurt my own feelings,” I say, earning an ear-to-ear smile that makes all the walls she placed between us shift.
Our friendship was a dying plant, but I would water it however I could to keep that smile on her face. Isa climbs to the top of the picnic table and cups her hands around her mouth.
“Attention. Hi. Bien Bienvenido. I’m Isabel. Manny and I are going to be teaching you how to do the first dance of the quinceañera. This is the easiest dance to learn.”
Dolly partners everyone up, and Isa arranges the couples in a line from tallest to shortest. The music starts, and I am immediately triggered when I hearVals de Mariposasplaying. How had hair evolved so drastically, and yet a song about a butterfly garden in the 70s was still alive and thriving?
