And Cafe Con Leche

By Evie Alexis

While her Mama stresses the importance of maintaining their Puerto Rican heritage, Isabela has other, more rebellious plans. As graduation looms on the horizon, she enters a controversial alliance with the strangest senior male in Preston High. Will her newfound friendship cause her to lose sight of her heritage? Will the family survive Isabela's transition to independence?

• Language: English
• Publisher: eTreasures Publishing
• Release date: Jan 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452473710

Evie Alexis

Evie Alexis is a native New Yorker. Born and bred a city girl, she has traded the tough urban grit for the softer style of suburbia finding the setting suits her demure personality a touch better.A true lover of the written word, she reads more than what she writes. She draws inspiration from life experiences, her vivid imagination, and the mini- chocolates she keeps near her laptop.Her faith in God keeps her grounded and unlike her character, naturally optimistic. Her plate of life overfilled, she believes in the art of multitasking. It comes in handy with raising her two boys, though her husband is always ready to lend that much needed helping hand.

Book preview

1

And Café Con Leche

by

Evie Alexis

©2010 Evie Alexis

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any format or by any means without express written consent from the publisher. This book in electronic format may not be re-sold or re-distributed in any manner without express written permission from the publisher.

Published by eTreasures Publishing at Smashwords 2010

eTreasures Publishing, LLC

4442 Lafayette St.

Marianna, FL 32446

This book is entirely fiction and bears no resemblance to anyone alive or dead, in content or cover art. Any instances are purely coincidental. This book is based solely on the author’s vivid imagination.

And Café Con Leche

by

Evie Alexis

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filters into my room rousing my sleepy senses. Before my vision adjusts to the morning light, my ears catch the distant but certain sounds of city life. I recognize the heavy rumbling of a garbage truck gathering the first of its many collections, the angry blare of car horns from motorists, and the annoying barking of mad dogs. All hail Monday morning. Closing my eyes, I roll over to my side refusing to look at the wall clock. Its persistent ticking resonates in my ears, but I do my best to ignore it. Mamá will walk in soon enough.

No sooner does the thought cross my mind when I distinguish the all too familiar slapping of her slippers against the tiled floor. Not being fortunate enough to own a lock on my door, she walks right in.

"Isabela, despierta, que ya es hora." The impatient ring in her voice gives away her mood.

"Cinco minutos," I plead with a pathetic groan, but recognize my cause as lost. In another desperate attempt, I throw my checkerboard sheet over my face. A useless gesture, I know, but I revert to the childlike game: if perhaps I can’t see her, she can’t see me. It has never worked before, but that fact doesn’t deter me from trying.

"Dormilona, Mamá chastises. My twin mattress sinks when she sits on the bed beside me and smacks my bottom. The strike, clearly not affectionate, causes my cheeks to tingle. I lay perfectly still, praying she will go away. Of course she doesn’t and continues her lecturing, her rapid Spanish making me dizzy. I told you not to go to bed with that book in your hand. And it’s not just today you have a hard time waking. It’s every day. If you would go to bed at a decent hour, you wouldn’t need me to come into this room every morning. What would you do if I worked? You should thank God I’m available to you around the clock."

Knowing Mamá doesn’t have an off button, I pull myself away from the bed and away from her, rushing to the bathroom. My destination lies a mere ten feet from my door, but in my drowsy state seems like a never-ending walk. Once I get there, I discover the bathroom door is locked. I know Papi went to work already, leaving only one other person -- my twin brother, JR. His real name is Juan Ramón, but since he wants to fit in with his buds and have a cool sounding alias, he shortened it to JR. Since Mamá approves of everything he does she thought it cute. When my friends call me Issy she growls. Go figure.

I knock on the door. JR, hurry up. I gotta shower.

You should’ve gotten up first, he replies, his deep, gruff voice still groggy. He sounds as bad as I feel.

Just hurry up, I call back grouchily.

To my complete annoyance, I hear the sudden spray of water while he calls out, Sorry, can’t hear you! I’m in the shower!

I mouth a swear word, careful not to say it out loud. If I do Mamá’s liable to deliver a fast strike the way she did the last time I slipped up, so I take special care where I say my special words.

But the sting of indignation fills me with cause for grievance. I need to release my woes, and I utter the same complaint I have for years. When are we gonna live in an apartment that’s got two bathrooms? I’m a teenager for crying out loud! I need privacy.

So do I! JR shouts above the water’s spray of the water.

I clench my fist and bite my lip, another word about to escape. "Mira, sangano, nobody’s talking to you."

Then get away from the door. I don’t wanna hear you whine like a little b--

The two of you better cut it out if you know what’s good for you! Mamá threatens in Spanish as she walks past the door. It’s only six-thirty in the morning. Can’t you behave like civilized beings instead of bothering the neighbors with all your yelling! And yet of the three of us she yells the loudest. Casting me a final glare, she warns me to stop bothering my brother and stomps towards the kitchen.

Before I turn away, I give the door a quick kick hoping the hot water scorches JR. Once in my room, I sulk on the bed now wide-awake. Despite my angry, heated demeanor, a cold draft chills my bones, and I reach over to run my hand against the radiator by my bed. It remains cool to the touch. I hate this place. In the middle of February, one of the coldest months in New York, and we have no heat again. Last night I forgot to turn on the small electric heater tucked in the corner of my broom closet-sized room. Now I pay the price with a refrigerated bedroom.

While waiting I choose my outfit for school. Before high school I always knew what to wear: my Catholic school uniform. Teenagers are supposed to shudder at the idea of uniformity since it implies a lack of self-expression and individualism, but in my opinion it saves you the hassle of trying to figure out what to wear. However, this morning the cold makes my choice relatively easy: a black turtleneck sweater, boot-cut jeans, and my black low-heeled boots. A sudden gust of wind releases a scary sort of howl. The sound sends shivers down my back and I reach into my dresser drawer rummaging for my thermals as well. I have gym today, and when I change into my uniform the other gals will see the old-fashioned, flesh-colored tights, but I don’t care. Sensibility over glamour. I shut the drawer with an annoyed shove and spot something small moving behind the dresser. I immediately recognize the creeping of a cucaracha.

Although cockroaches and inner city life go hand-in-hand, the sight of them makes my skin tingle. I hate them with a passion and dream of the day I can live in a roach-free environment. Despite my intense aversion, I let this little sucker slip quietly away.

I hear my brother’s heavy footsteps walk past my door signaling the shower is free. Pulling the door open I find JR before me, his hand raised as if poised to knock. His silky, dark locks drip wet, the water droplets sliding down his olive colored face. I would never admit this out loud, but JR is a handsome guy, though I resent the strong familial resemblance shared between us. The skin color I don’t mind, nor the sparkling coffee-colored eyes, but I’ve inherited a touch too much testosterone. A girl’s jaw shouldn’t be square, and my eyebrows are a little too thick for my taste. I live in daily fear that I’m going to grow a unibrow. Mama doesn’t believe in waxing, or threading, or laser hair removal. I should consider myself lucky to own a tweezer. She says I have to be happy with how God made me, and anything else is vanity.

I’m done, my brother announces as if I am oblivious to the fact.

Duh. I cross my eyes and brush past him with tweezers in hand to do my daily pluck.

Girls are so stupid, he mutters under his breath.

I’m going to tell Elsa you said that, I threaten, locking the door quickly behind me.

In a matter of seconds, JR bangs at the flimsy barrier. It shakes under the force of his blows, the feeble lock threatening to give way any moment. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t stick your nose in other people’s relationships, he roars.

I turn on the water and call out gaily, Sorry, can’t hear you!

JR punches the door with such force it undoes one of the hinges. I throw myself against it to keep it from flying open. I fear another strike will break the door down completely revealing my half naked self, an exposure that may lead to years of therapy for both my brother and I.

Mamá finally cries out, Isabela, stop provoking your brother! If you two can’t stop arguing, I promise I’ll put an end to this!

Under such a threat, JR and I immediately stop our bickering and call a tentative truce. A chancletazo from Mamá is not something to scoff at. The woman can handle a slipper with more skill than others do a deadly weapon.

***

Mamá always cooks breakfast. JR can get away with skipping the morning meal if he runs late, but I have to eat mine. Standing at five-seven I barely weigh one hundred and fifteen pounds, which translates to having a long, lanky look. I know this drives Mamá crazy. She likes meat on the bones. Growing up in extreme poverty back in the island of Puerto Rico, she says whenever she sees someone as skinny as me it reminds her of her sufferings. And here we are now in New York with an abundance of food, and I represent the starving poor from the island.

No one will want to marry a skinny girl, she often comments.

No one will marry a girl with a mustache, I have often replied back, to which she laughs, calling the shadow above my upper lip, a fine down. Besides, she has added, my dark skin makes it barely noticeable. However, my skinniness can be spotted a mile away. People will think I have a mother who can’t cook.

Oh, Mamá can cook. At that moment the table lays sprawled with scrumptious delights. Scrambled eggs, toast, ham, juice and of course, mugs filled with café con leche are spread across the small dinette. The limited space presented by the eight-by-ten foot kitchen won’t allow a larger table. We may live like paupers, but certainly eat like kings.

JR has a head start to the meal, and I watch him mindlessly shovel the food into his mouth. He takes eating very seriously and gets in the zone. No one can speak to him as he delves into his happy place, wherever that is. I would love to see how he behaves when out on a date. I strongly suspect this as the reason he and Elsa only go to the movies.

I manage to butter my bread when JR gets up, puts his plate in the sink, and kisses Mamá, thanking her for the great meal. She always answers the same way, "Que te aproveche," but her face lights up at the daily compliment. Her gaze travels in my direction as if expecting a similar response. I have never given it and this morning is no exception. JR fills the pause by telling me to hurry up or we will miss the train.

You should’ve let me shower before you. You know it takes me longer to get ready. While lifting my café for a final sip, my dangling crucifix pendant strikes the ceramic mug resulting in a small ping sound. I quickly hide the necklace underneath my turtleneck before Mamá has a chance to reprimand me for the sacrilegious act.

You should wake up earlier then. Why do I have to suffer cuz you’re slow? And in more ways than one, my brother teases.

I glare at him, feeling an insult tingling on the tip of my tongue. Then I catch my mother’s look, her hard gaze evidence she knows what I’m about to say. Truce. We called a truce.

Sensing Mamá’s foul disposition, I decide it would be safer to eat on the road. "Mamá, give me a sheet of papel de aluminio so I can take this with me."

A person shouldn’t eat and walk. That doesn’t nourish. You have to properly digest your food, she lectures, but I only half hear her, too busy creating a sort of breakfast sandwich with two slices of toast, eggs, and ham.Okay, fine, she actually answers in English, then switches back to her native tongue. As she hands me some aluminum foil she states, Tomorrow I’ll wake you half an hour earlier.

I make a face, while JR nudges me in the ribs. Once we leave the building and find myself secure from Mamá’s radar gaze, I smack the back of his head.

Chapter 2

The forty-minute train ride from El Barrio, the section also known as Spanish Harlem, to Presmont High School on the lower east side proves both entertaining and revolting. Although JR has pledged his heart and soul to Elsa, he winks and smiles at the prep school girls on the train. His idea of faithfulness nauseates me. I know he resents my presence next to him as much as I do his. He claims I cramp his style; I resent being his relation, our moral standards at different ends of the spectrum.

Presmont is the foremost public school on the island specializing in math and science, recommended to my parents by the Mother Superior of our Catholic junior high. My brother and I are both inherently gifted in academics and aced Presmont’s rigorous entrance exam. When JR got in, my parents boasted shamelessly to family and friends, but truthfully had expected nothing less from the Castillo gene pool. When I received word of my acceptance all felicitations and smug reactions ceased. For a moment I worried it was a mistake. Papi, the first to recover after days of shock, hugged me and said he considered himself blessed to have such a smart girl. Mamá has yet to say anything to that effect.

We arrive at school with time to spare, and JR and I instantly part ways. He goes off to a corner to meet his posse, while I find my four gal-pals sitting by the steps. What follows is a flurry of hugs and kisses and picking at each other’s aluminum foiled wrapped breakfasts.

We huddle next to each other tightly for warmth against the freezing cold. Disregarding our apple cheeks and chapped lips, we instead discuss our weekends; some of the ladies embellish their escapades. None of us have love lives, so we work extra hard to make a trip to the library or downloading music sound as great as a first kiss. However, Essie (aka Esmeralda and longtime best friend) has some news.

You’re all invited to my party at the end of the month. Ma kinda skimped on my sweet sixteen, so my eighteenth is gonna’ be huge.

Excited murmurs concur and solidify our appointments. Essie smiles, her black eyes shine with excitement. With a toss of her thick, curly hair, she continues,. Since I’ll be goin’ away to college --

Have you heard from any of the schools yet? Amy Liu cuts in. She takes a bite of her breakfast croissant and makes a face, the sudden wind gust blowing her long jet-black locks into the sandwich.

Essie’s round eyes momentarily lose their brightened expression. You know replies don’t come in until at least mid-March.

A lull follows her statement as the rest of us nod our heads. We don’t say it, but I know in the back of our minds we all worry about college. We expect this of ourselves. Not going is not an option. Our quad