Getting Home

Part 12

"Hey, hello, bueno, yes, excuse me—you can't actually park your janky-ass hoopty right there, thank you very—"

I sighed, mentally steeling myself.

Then got out of the car.

"Ava?" Jorge actually stopped mid-sentence. "What the—what did you do to your car, dios mio?!" He gestured dramatically towards the rear of the car.

Jorge was particularly more "Jorge lit" than usual—his winged liner was particularly off the hook and serious fire today for some reason; his sculpted eyebrow game was more on point than usual. He wore a tank-top that showed off his tanned, skinny-toned arms; his shaved head was just as smooth and fresh.

He was madly chewing on a piece of gum.

But holy cow, he was right about being dramatic.

It looked like a garbage truck had slammed into the back of the Civic. The tail-lights were long gone, and entire bumper was mashed in—but mashed in evenly. The rear window was long gone.

It looked like the whole trunk and rear-end of the car had been accordion'ed.

Deep scratch marks were gouged into the scrunched up metal of the trunk.

"This is crazy shit," Jorge said, his voice high and hands gesturing overdramatic as usual. "What in the puta did you do, Ava? I always tell you to not drive like a pendejo, but you never listen."

"Crazy is right," I said, walking around the crumpled rear end of the car to Jorge. "What I really need to know is if I can keep driving it—or if it's going to leave us stranded."

"Us?" Jorge tried craning his head over my shoulder to look in the car.

I snapped my fingers in front of his face. "Focus!"

"Okay, okay, sorry chica," Jorge said, rolling his eyes and tossing his head. "No need to get huffy, entiendo. You're lucky I known you since third grade—when you were just a little puta instead of a big one."

"Lovely," I said. "But the car, please?"

Jorge squatted low behind the Civic.

"Well, mi amiga, your exhaust is incognito—sound like shit, but it's fine." He rocked side to side on his heels. "Wheels is still pretty straight. Might be a little rough ride—lucky you."

He peered underneath, behind the rear tire. "Small leak in the gas tank."

Jorge took the gum out of his mouth and slapped it up somewhere under the car.

"Should hold it for now," he said. "But, Ava, chica, you can't drive this. Forget the fuel leak—you'll look soooo busted. What if somebody recognized you? Ain't nobody wanna see that."

"Can we go inside already," I urged. "Please."

Jorge stopped again when Henry stepped out the car.

"Oh, mi gusta, who is this? Muy caliente, what are you waiting for Ava, introduce me—"

"Come on," I said, putting my hands on both their backs and pushing them towards Jorge's front door.

The dog jumped out and followed us in.

The inside of Jorge's house was very homey—and not the biggest. The color aesthetic was like typical earth and brown, older furniture. Carpet was pretty faded and worn bare in a few places. There was a lot of clutter and knick-knacks around. Tons of pictures of Jesus, too.

But it felt like home.

"Mami is out doing errands all day," Jorge said, going into the kitchen. "You want food?

"No, thank you—listen Jorge, something crazy is—"

"How about your puppo?" Jorge came out with a kale-shake in one hand and a breast-piece of chicken in the other. "Es flaco. Pollo for your perro."

The yellow Labrador was sitting still at Henry's feet, panting in a giant, doggy smile.

Jorge tossed the piece of chicken. The dog caught it in its mouth, then laid on all fours, chewing contently.

I tried again. "That's very nice of you, Jorge, but—"

"What's that smell," he said suddenly, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed. "It smells like an alleyway—oh hell no, we ain't about to be—"

"Jorge, we almost died!" I shouted.

The dog raised his head, mid-chew. It even startled Henry, who gave me a look.

"Woah, woah, okay," Jorge said, raising his hands up while still holding his kale-shake like a wine glass. "Okay, tell me all about it. But if it was on account of that yucky-ass hair you got going on right now—which I strongly suspect it was—kiiinda understandable. Just sayin." He sniffed.

Yeah.

My "best friend."

Since third grade, no less.

"No, it's not that," I said. "There was like this big, black cloud thing, and it came out of an alley, that's what hit my car, and Henry—"

Yeah.

I'm really bad at explaining things too.

"Slow down, chica," Jorge said. "First things first—who is this delightful little snacc with you that doesn't say much?"

"I call him Henry," I said. "He has like, amnesia or something, I don't know. He jumped in my car last night... and he was being chased. Chased by whatever that thing was that did that to the Civic."

"Dark entity," Henry said.

"How come no cute boys ever jump in my car?" Jorge said. "You have all the luck."

"It's real, Jorge," I said. "I'm telling you."

"Yeah, si, sure." Jorge finished his kale-shake. "And let me guess—you sang at it and banished it back to whatever dimension it came from, right? You don't gotta lie to kick it chica, no need to make up crazy stories to your bff and closest homie."

"I'm not," I said. "And there's something else about Henry... something amazing."

"More amazing than the ability to still look really fucking good in those horrible-ass, tattered-ass rags?"

"Yes," I said. "Henry, show him."