Page 3 of Raspados & Regret

“It’s not the whole summer.”

“No.”

“Just until they fix the permit situation.” He looks back toward the office.

“No.”

He winces. “It’s with the Cárdenas family.”

I stare at him so hard he looks away, and the garage fan rattles in the corner, pushing hot air around like it is doing something useful. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirps. A dog barks twice while the whole fucking world keeps moving as mine becomes one long, slow “¿Por qué?”

“The Cárdenas family,” I repeat.

“You know they have the mobile raspado truck.”

“I know what they have.” Everybody knows what they have.

The Cárdenas raspado business has been at every church festival, swap meet, night market, fundraiser, quinceañera after-party, and summer block event since I was sixteen. Big plastic cups filled to the brim with shaved ice packed tight. Syrups bright enough to stain your soul. Mango, tamarindo, piña, fresa, and blue raspberry for the kids with no taste. Complete with chamoy dripping down the sides and Tajín on everything.

And behind that stand, for the past few years, one loudmouth son of a bitch has acted like God personally assigned him to disturb my peace.

Elías Cárdenas.

Lalo.

The human version of a car with no muffler.

My tío watches my face carefully before shrugging his shoulders. “It’s business.”

“It’s a fuckin’ setup is what it is.”

He waves at me. “Ah, it’s not a setup.”

From the office, my tía shouts, “It is not a setup, Fabián.”

I point toward her voice. “With you butting in like that, I know it’s a setup.”

She appears in the doorway, holding a stack of invoices, her round face shiny from the heat, her hair clipped up with one of those plastic claws she buys in packs of six. “Ay, Fabian. Not everything is about you.”

“This is literally about me being forced to work with people I don’t like.” I toss the paper in my toolbox and sigh.

“You’re not forced. You’re family; it’s more like obligation.” I turn to her, and she smirks.

“That’s even worse.”

She ignores that and looks me over, her mouth tightening. “And why are you dressed like that?”

I glance down at myself. Faded black crop top, old and cut uneven at the hem because I got sick of sweating through full shirts at the shop. Charcoal Dickies with my daily work boots. A thick silver chain with my St. Fabián pendant against my collarbone. Tiny silver hoops in my ears and grease on my forearms and probably my face.

“It’s hot,” I mumble.

“Your whole stomach is out.” She eyes my shirt with pursed lips.

“Okay… and my stomach gets all sweaty…”

My tío coughs into his fist, and my tía narrows her eyes at him, then at me.

“You’re helping tomorrow,” she says.