Surviving Santiago by Lyn Miller-Lachmann

“stepmother,” I think “wicked stepmother.” I imagine myself as Cinderella at the ball forced to come home at midnight, though I know Tía Ileana is nowhere near that evil.
    â€œMy aunt. She lives with my father. He’s disabled.” With these words, I feel as if I’m letting go of my old papá forever.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    I’ve gone way beyond Frankie’s English vocabulary, but I hate the Spanish word, minusválido , even more than madrasta . I mean, take it apart. Minus. “Minus.” “Less.” Válido. It too is a cognate, “valid,” with the same definition in Spanish. So minusválido makes it seem as if someone like Papá has less worth, less reason even to live. I explain the translation to Frankie.
    â€œYou know, you’re right,” Frankie says as he throws open the door for us to go outside. “They should save the word for the rats that drink and don’t work.”
    He spits out the word “ ratones ,” then hurls his unfinished cone into a trash can and rips the chain from around his motorcycle wheel.
    I recoil from him. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
    Frankie presses his hands to the side of his head and mutters, “Old man, he’ll wreck my life.”
    His father? Just like mine? I nod. “I know how you feel.”
    Frankie grunts and shakes his head, like he doesn’t think I’ll ever understand. Like I’m a little kid who couldn’t get past the first date without picking a movie he hated, crying during the show, and then saying something incredibly stupid. My heart puddles in my stomach along with the chocolate ice cream. I climb on the motorcycle behind him.
    Frankie gets me back to the house three minutes before midnight. The light is on in the living room. A car is parked next to the wall, two tires on the sidewalk and two in the street.
    â€œLooks like you have guests,” Frankie calls back to me. He makes a sudden U-turn. I grab two fistfuls of leather jacket to keep from flying off.
    â€œCareful, Frankie!”
    He stops at the corner and turns back to me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not used to taking riders. Only packages.”
    My heartbeat returns to normal. I lift off the helmet and slide down, for the first time relieved to be on solid ground.
    â€œWell, uh, good night,” I say.
    Frankie jumps down beside me and asks, “We can meet again?”
    Wow. Maybe I was wrong when I thought he didn’t have that good a time. I don’t want to seem too eager by suggesting tomorrow, even though Papá’s working all day. “Is Monday good for you?”
    He looks away. “Monday, no. Tuesday at eight? We go eat and speak more English.”
    â€œYes!” I pump my fist. He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. His breath is sweet, like caramel. He waits while I fumble with the keys, dropping them twice. As soon as I open the gate, he rides away.
    My head swirling, I unlock the door and skip up the few steps from the entryway to the living room. A manI’ve never seen before—I guess late twenties, with horn-rim glasses, dark wavy hair, and a beard—sprawls in one of the chairs. He’s reading a book. Papá lies facedown on the sofa, his left arm and leg hanging, his leg brace on the floor next to his boots. On the coffee table are his glasses, ten crushed Coke cans, and an empty bottle of pisco.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask.
    Papá lifts his head and slurs, “I’m being a responsible parent and waiting up for you.” He props his head on his good arm. “Be sure to tell your mother.”
    I glance over at the other guy. “And who’s he?”
    The bearded man sets down his book—something about musicians reflecting on their lives—stands and stretches. “I’m leaving.”
    â€œThat’s your name? ‘I’m leaving’?” I