Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

23 | Pop The Trunk

DOMINGO
8:31 PM

Dahlia Gray

"¿Sabes qué día es hoy?" Do you know what day it is?

My mother looks up from her cooking; the low sizzle of oil on heat cracks through the air and a light aroma of spices satisfy the atmosphere. Beside her, sitting on the counter, are a couple of plates filled with black beans, white rice, and fried plantains.

She meets my gaze for a few seconds, and her tight features softens. She pulls her full lips into a thin line and returns back to the frying pan. "Deberías ir a buscar a tu padre. La cena está casi lista." You should go get your father. Dinner is almost ready.

I don't protest, and stand from my seat. I found my father in the living room, sitting on the couch, furiously typing on his phone.

"Dad. Time for dinner." I announce, just to see him wave a dismissive hand in my direction.

"Just start without me," he proclaims, to which I nod without complaint. I've grown accustomed to these types of reactions whenever I ask him to come to dinner that I practically stopped trying. I head back to the kitchen, just to see my mother set three plates of pabellón criollo on the breakfast table.

My mother looks at me, and her expression morphs to pure disappointment when she realizes her husband doesn't appear beside me. She swallows, "¿Qué dijo?" What'd he say?

"Dijo que empezaramos sin él." He said start without him.

She nods, dropping her gaze to the table and gestures with her hand. I reclaim my previous seat, and my mother takes the one in front of me. I take one of the metal forks and dig in; while my mother closes her eyes, slips her hands together, and begins a prayer.

Her words were small and swift, hard to comprehend. Her eyes were squeezed shut, like she was asking a favor from God, and while I didn't know what she was talking to her God about—one thing's for sure: she said Lucía's name.

My aunt.

Her sister.

My father walks in shortly after and takes the seat between the two of us. He doesn't say anything—no greeting, no thank you—and begins his dinner.

Compared to the dinner party with Hannah and Josie, our family dinners were always stiff and awkward. It was amplified through the clinks of the chinaware, our unnatural silence and inability to contribute to a flowing conversation. It wasn't an enjoyment, but rather was an inconvenience to our daily routine.

"¿Qué tienes en el brazo, Dahlia?" What's that on your arm, Dahlia? My father asks, pointing to my left arm.

I drop my fork and look, noticing ink smears trailing down my forearm like a modern painting. The side of my hand was worse and stains with fade imprints of words made from gel ink. This is why I hate writing in pen.

I turn back to my father, swallowing a gulp, "El cumpleaños de Lucía es hoy." Lucia's birthday is today.

My father's brows pull together in confusion. "¿Quién?" Who?

"Lucía. La hermana de mamá." Mom's sister.

The recognition dawns on him and he gives me a scoff, "¿A quién le importa esa puta? Ella siempre fue muy entrometida y molesta. Lo juro, ella—" Who cares about that cunt? She was always so nosy and annoying. I swear, she—

"Clayton," my mother whispers sharply, cutting him off. He turns away from me, meeting my mother's stern eyes, "Es mi hermana." That's my sister.