Page 67 of Liar
I blink. “¿Disculpa?”
“I’m taking a year off to study cubism in Frankfurt.”
“You’re moving to Germany?” I exclaim.
“Yes.” She shoots eyes at María before continuing, “You can visit, Luciana. And maybe during María’s spring break, we can meet up at Disney.”
I study my half-eaten churros, the light dusting of sugar sprinkled like tiny snowflakes on my fingers. Sweet and fleeting. Teenage friendships are like that. They carry you through critical times in life while preparing you for a life so much bigger than the tiny world you share.
“Say something.”
I grin like a madwoman. “We should make a day of getting our passports together.”
We laugh and finish our churros while the enormity of their news sinks in. They’re leaving. I’m staying. This moment of dress shopping, eating fried dough, and enjoying the harmony and peace surrounding us is a snapshot of time leading into a beautiful memory. How I wish we could hit pause and allow for the sweetness to linger longer.
María’s smile slips as she looks past me.
It’s all the warning I get.
My bag of churros is snatched from my hand. I pivot in my seat then wish I hadn’t.
El Chalaca looms over me, eyes filled with challenge as he eats my sweets and silently dares me to protest. He’s accompanied by five men, Z22s, who do nothing to stop him.
I keep quiet yet behind my back, casually slip my hand inside my short’s waistband until my fingers wrap around the cool handle of my Glock.
Veronique gasps from behind me. Not understanding that I won’t shoot the pendejo—not even when he licks each crumb from his fingers, not even when he interrupts to ruin another wonderful day—unless absolutely necessary.
“Your protector is out of town, no?” he taunts.
I raise my chin and glare at him.
“He won’t be around much longer, even when he returns.” He turns toward the other men. “It’s the pretty ones that need the most humbling.” His attention swings back to me. “Nothing to say?”
María makes a noise in her throat.
I struggle to keep quiet.
He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes hard enough to leave fingermarks. Then, in a move only a playground bully could dream up, he holds the churros bag over my head and shakes it so crumbs and cinnamon-sugar rain down on me.
“This is as sweet as she gets, compadres,” he sneers.
I don’t move, not even to blink.
“Maybe I’ll find another use for that pouty mouth of hers.”
He moves to touch my lips, but I turn my head away.
The other men snicker, which enrages him. “Get up,” he snarls.
María and Veronique gasp.
I curl my finger around the Glock’s trigger then slowly stand, shaking my shoulder free of his grip as I do so. My anger rises along with me.
No one in the plaza is going to interfere.
My friends are terrified.
El Calaca was warned but is either too stupid or too set on impressing the others to stop. And I’m sick and tired of this pendejo terrorizing the town I love.
