I’ve tried for the past three years to save it. I put an ad out in the weekly paper. I created discounts and specials. Once, I ordered a big sign that was supposed to say, “DELICIOUS CUBAN FOOD,” with an arrow pointing toward the restaurant. I planned to hold it on the sidewalk near the busy intersection in the corner for a few hours and wave it around back and forth. However, when I finally received it, it read, “DELICIOUS CUBAN FOOT” in bold red font. I still considered waving it just to attract attention and then parading my bare foot throughout the restaurant. Surely, people would be curious about what made my foot so delicious. Perhaps the chipped red nail polish I applied two months ago that doesn’t seem to give up? Or maybe the blisters on my pinky toes from standing for over ten hours every day in the vintage Prada loafers I snagged for $10 at a thrift shop? Despite my efforts, here we are, almost in the negative for August. Shit.
I lied. Someone does know. Only one person other than my landlord, actually. Mostly because I, quite literally, could not contain the stress in my body. I felt like I would burst any second, so I opted to tell my most trusted cousin, Maria.
“Are you even on the schedule today? I have enough on my plate,” I say, but I already know she isn’t because I make it, and I have never once made a mistake. She’s clearly here to ask about my dating life, or because she feels terrible the restaurant isn’t doing well. It’s not uncommon for Hispanic kids to feel the guilt of helping their family and doing everything they can to fix whatever issues there are. She’s been spending more time in the restaurant than ever, taking photos and videos of everything.
“Nope—just dropping by to take some pics.”
She pulls out her phone and starts to film a video of the restaurant, panning full circle. She slows down as she films the murals my father painted on opposite walls. One is of a desert and a man in the distance walking toward a blazing sun. The other is a woman wearing a colorful embroidered dress holding a huge basket filled to the brim with maíz. They lay peacefully on top of the light orange walls we sponge-painted together with a darker hue of orange to create a clay-like pattern. My mother absolutely hates it. She says it’s gaudy, tacky, cheesy, and every other synonym of the word. She wants to change it to a more elegant, modern style. The only reason I’ve been able to convince her to keep it is that it’s the last thing we have that my father did. I can still see him on every crack in the plaster from nailing family photos up. Sure, it looks like the inside of a maraca, but it’s got character. It has him.
“Wave to the camera,” Maria instructs as she slowly pans toward the counter.
Oh, God. I wave weakly and bare my teeth into what I think is a smile. Faye runs behind me and waves both their arms up dramatically.
“Isabella, you look constipated. Can you look more natural?”
“I’m trying!” I bare my teeth wider now, undoubtedly looking as if a large mythical snake has petrified me.
“Okay, I’ll just cut that part out. This is whyI’mthe face of social media here,” Maria says as she flips her hair off her shoulder. She is definitely a good face to have for our accounts. Her darker olive skin tone, complimented by her honey hair, makes her nothing short of an absolute knockout. Mix that with her perfect smile and undeniable curves, and you have the ideal spokesperson to garner attention from the Jersey audience. Maria puts her phone down and grabs my bag.
“Cute bag.” Maria grins. Except it’s not a typical grin. I recognize this one.
“Shut your face.” I put my palm over her mouth.
“What? I didn’t say anything. It’s cute! I love Coach. Or this one is called, what, Poach?” She snorts.
“Do you want to die? I can make it happen.”
“Isa, when will you learn you don’t have to buy these fake designer things to impress people? This is why you can’t find love. You’re lying to yourself. The real Isa is just as cool, if not cooler than this one.” She shakes my bag in front of my face.
I sigh. “There is no real Isa.”
She looks up at me.
“Sadly, I’ve been replaced with a bunch of technological parts. I’m a poor android now, Maria. Save yourself,” I say in a robotic voice.
“Pendeja. Even as a cyborg, you’re lame and poor.” Maria throws my bag at me, but I catch it before it slams into my face.
“Why don’t we ever have arroz con leche? It’s my favorite,” she says, changing the subject as she looks into the dessert case.
“Because life doesn’t revolve around you. Also, you know my mother’s rule. She hates it and won’t let us sell it.” I roll my eyes.
Maria reaches for a Malta in the small cooler on the end of the counter. Nothing beats the carbonated malt beverage.
“That’ll be $1.25,” I state with my hand outstretched.
“Put it on my tab.” Maria winks and takes another swig.
“You don’t have a tab. We don’t do tabs here,” I complain. “A buck twenty-five.”
“Jeez, are we doing that badly?” She sighs and pulls out two dollar bills. “Keep the change.”
“Maria!” I look behind me frantically to make sure no one hears her.
“Relax, Isa. No one can hear me,” she whispers.
“Still. Don’t say things like that. You’ll get into the habit and say it at the wrong time. No one is supposed to know about this. No one. Especially not my mother. You know better. And”—I point my finger directly between her eyes, making her go cross-eyed—“you pinky swore.”
“Have you considered…” Maria pauses momentarily, looking serious. Suddenly, I’m concerned. She looks around to make sure no one is listening. I inch closer to her. “…selling feet pics on the internet?”
