the air and lectured my dad about money with all the passion of one of those TV preachers.
“You heard, it’ll more than pay for itself,” my dad said.
A few things had kept the bakery afloat. My parents owned the building and the equipment—though the equipment was old and worth little more than a cumin seed. There was no payroll since my mom, dad and I were unpaid employees. But we still had to pay utilities, supplies, taxes and permits. My dad had mortgaged the building the year before just to get by.
“We have enough,” my dad insisted. “We’ll put off some of the bills a little longer.”
“Dad, Mom,” I interrupted. Both turned to look at me. “Are we going to be okay?”
Neither answered.
“We’re working things out,” my dad finally said. “You just worry about getting to the park tomorrow.” My mom shook her head from side to side and chewed on her bottom lip. She walked away.
Of course, they couldn’t just say everything was wonderful or everything was going to crap. They couldn’t know for sure. The bakery had seen its share of struggles already.
According to my dad’s stories, my abuelita Carmelita Burciaga—his mother—was a widow who’d made ends meet by taking in other people’s laundry back in Mexico. She’d accepted a baker as a second husband so that my dad would learn a respectable trade. My dad’s then narrow frame, once fragile like the spine of a book, had grown straight and strong from kneading masa and from not toiling in the sun. It had been good going until the torrid summer the baker died. His blood relatives evicted my abuelita and my dad straightaway. They departed with nothing but a suitcase and a box full of recipes.
My dad took a job unloading and loading corn trucks from dawn ‘till dusk so he could raise enough money for a bus ticket to come north across the border. While he’d dreamed of California or Texas, he’d ended up here.
He stepped off that bus in the dead of winter—January. The soggy gray city had made dreaming dismal.
The factories were angry monsters, but a means to an end. He took a job at the American Lard Company and roomed with co-workers. The group of men slept in shifts and rows on the floor of a studio apartment. His wages paid for the necessary with any leftovers tucked away. June arrived, and the humid heat was a stark contrast to the desert of his boyhood. He thought there could be no greater evil than the smell of boiling pig fat. Inhaling the fumes from the hot vats of lard slowed him down. But by the end of his fifth year, he started looking at properties and found a place just across the street from the park.
My abuelita Carmelita sold everything she owned to come and help him. Together, they raised enough for a decent down payment. They financed the rest with an uncle’s help. As soon as they collected the keys, they moved in. They named the bakery Burciaga’s. My dad hand-carved a wooden sign on rosewood, oiled it and hung it outside the door. They bought equipment, leaning on the building’s credit line as collateral. They invested every last penny they had and then some.
They sold everything they baked by mid-morning the first day. They even took orders for the next week. Things seemed to be looking up.
A few months later, my dad found my grandmother lying on the kitchen floor, dead of a brain aneurism. His world crumbled. Despite the loss, my dad pushed on.
“Are we going to be okay?” I looked at my dad.
My dad couldn’t give a simple answer to my question because he was hopeful. He was willing to gamble, but it wasn’t just up to him or my mom or me. Our entire neighborhood was on the line. The Nowaks, the Sanchezes, the Fernandezes, the Sustaitas, the Wongs and everyone else had as much of a stake in this.
I hurried up the stairs. I walked into my room and threw myself down on my bed. One thing was clear. This wasn’t MesoAmerica. MasaAmerica maybe. Or even MasiAmerica.
We weren’t Egyptians or Aztecs. As a matter of fact, we weren’t exactly one thing. My dad was as Mexican as a mariachi hat, but my mom had grown up right down the street. Josefina was half Polish. The Sanchez sisters had a daddy no one ever talked about. And so on.
Despite these strikes against the new plan, I still wanted to be hopeful like my dad. I would chase hope, wrestle it down and hold on to it like him.
I tried to tuck my worries about tomorrows to the back of my head. I pushed them under a doormat. I locked them in a closet with el cucuy and my other childhood monsters. I put them in my mouth and let them sit there like bites of stale bread until they softened enough for me to swallow.
Chapter 4
I scrubbed at the mixing bowls. One of the problems with being stuck inside the bakery all day was that I was sure all the more interesting distractions were somewhere else. I thought myself into a circle—or maybe a knot—like a dog chasing its tail.
I arrived at an impasse. Like I said, even if things didn’t work out, at the very least my friends and I would get to spend our last summer together.
It was something like my last meal or —since I was the Cinderella of crumbs—having a fairy godmother grant me one last wish.
I hurried to the park.
I tugged on the belt loops of my dad’s old jeans as I jogged. They hung low around my waist and the torn dingy hems dragged on the ground.
“Lovely outfit, Masi,” Josefina said. She pointed at my T-shirt. The white jersey was spotted with grease like someone had flung spoonfuls of butter at me.
“Likewise. You make a fine chorizo,” I threw back. Josefina had, with all the skill of a sausage maker, squeezed herself into a pair of gym shorts she’d probably outgrown back in eighth grade.
Josefina’s thick eyebrows locked into a menace. I mimicked her face. Her scowl deepened. “Not funny,” she said, right before her face melted into laughter.
I shrugged. “These are my work clothes. I got no one to impress.”
Marcos stepped forward from behind a nearby tree. He reached upward and pulled his hair back behind his ears. “What am I, fried cheese?” he asked.
I put my hands on my hips. “How long have you been here?” I demanded.
Marcos walked to my side in one stride. Josefina turned her shoulder and ignored him as was mandatory of younger sisters. Marcos grinned so that his high cheeks dimpled. “Long enough to hear everything, chorizos.” He jabbed his index finger into my arm like I was his little sister too.
I lost my train of thought. If I had to be completely honest—like if someone was pelting me with dried masa balls—I sometimes suffered unsisterly feelings towards him. Maybe it was that he’d grown out his hair. Or maybe I was just a sucker for dimples. I fought the feelings off, of course.
“Ow. Keep your hands to yourself.” I rubbed at my arm. I thought back at what Josefina and I had talked about. Relief washed over me. We hadn’t said anything particularly embarrassing. “We didn’t even say anything. You’re so weird,” I said.
“Whatever,” Marcos said. He strolled back to the tree and pulled his music player out of the front pocket of his
