The Book of Broken Hearts (4 page)

“Jude?” Papi repeated. He smiled with his mouth full, and my heart sank.

Please bring Papi lots of happy birthday luck and good health. The end.

“I’m beat.” I faked a yawn. “Should we head inside?”

Papi stared at me so long I could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the pieces slipping in and out of the puzzle that never quite clicked into place anymore. “Okay,
querida
.”

Emilio was in the barn when I got back, checking out Valentina’s speedometer and scribbling notes onto a yellow pad.

“You’re still here?” The question was out before I could stop it, words thick with surprise and unexpected relief.

“You think I’m gonna eat and run? We got a job to do here, you and me.” He smiled and set the notepad on the workbench, wiped his hands on his jeans. Everything he did was so confident, determined, and when he met my eyes again, my heart gave an involuntary shudder. “Everything okay with your pops?”

“He’s . . . It’s fine.”

Emilio nodded. “I knew it. You needed an excuse to get me alone. Next time just say so,
princesa
. I’ll take you somewhere nice and quiet.”

The skin around his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and my stomach tried to react with a little zing, but I shut
that
nonsense down with a quickness. Just by talking to this boy and sharing the same air, I was breaking some serious sister code.

Um, Universe? If I’m betraying my sisters, please cause a power outage or freak rainstorm or some other natural disaster. Preferably a super obvious one that leaves no room for interpretation. Anything? Anything at all?

“You and your pops were smart to hire me. I’m really good.” Emilio raised his eyebrows in a hopeful arc, making him look about five years younger but doing nothing to diminish his
charm. He knew it too—wore that flirty little grin like a badge. “Can’t wait to get my hands inside this baby.”

“I’m
sure
.” I matched his smile, and then deadpanned, flipping open my phone calendar. There was a text invite from Zoe—coffee tomorrow at Witch’s Brew with Christina—but I ignored it. I couldn’t think about friends right now. Papi’s mini-meltdown was an alarm bell, a reminder of how little time we had to get the bike restored, to reconnect Papi with his old memories before he lost any more. “If you’re done congratulating yourself, I need to know how much time we’re talking. We don’t have all summer.”

He pulled back almost imperceptibly, but I noticed the change.
Good
. Now that he knew he wasn’t dealing with some softhearted little damsel, we could get down to business.

“Time?” I said again, finger poised over the touchscreen.

Emilio rested his hands gently on the bike. “I won’t know how much work she needs until I get a good look inside, then we’ll need to order parts. I know this great place for rebuilt stuff online, and—”

“Look, Emilio. That’s your name, right?” By now I was in full-on actress mode, channeling every heartbreaking babe I’d ever played onstage. “Can you get this thing running by August or not?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Then we’ll see you here tomorrow at—what time did you say?”

“I didn’t.” Emilio was laughing again, shaking his head.
“I’m at Duchess tomorrow. Think you can wait a whole ’nother day to see me?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean—for your information, I have plans tomorrow.” I hastily accepted Zoe’s invite and continued scrolling through my calendar as if there were more invitations to consider.
Busy, busy!
“I’m just trying to get your schedule straight for my father. I’m a partner in this restore, and I intend to manage your work
very
closely. Got it?”

Emilio took a step toward me, his smirk widening. “Whatever you say,
princesa
. But if you’re gonna work
very
closely with me, you better stop dressing like that.” His eyes trailed down my pink lace cami and white capri pants, his stupid dimples like a warning beacon. “Things are gonna get dirty up in here this summer.”

Christina’s big summer plans involved cramming in shifts at Witch’s Brew and checking out the rock climbers who cruised through before their trek up the East Animas cliffs. She’d claimed all that careful observation would enhance her sociology studies at UC Berkeley.

Zoe and I were supposed to be her research assistants. In quotes.

So far, it looked like Zoe had been holding up her end of the deal—after I got to the café this morning, it took five minutes to snag her attention from the pack of boys at the counter.

I’d been trying to put in enough time with the girls to hold my place, to let them know I still wanted in, still thought of them. But things were getting tougher with Papi, and ever since he stopped working, Mom had been taking more shifts at the NICU up in Willow Brush, which meant long hours for all of us. I hadn’t seen my besties in weeks.

I’d accepted the invite yesterday to prove something to Emilio—what, I didn’t know—but I was glad I had.

“I missed you guys,” I said. And that was the truth of it.

“I missed you too!” Zoe said, and Christina nodded, all sun-kissed and adorable in her purple Witch’s Brew apron. There was a little emblem on the front beside her name tag, a black witch riding a broom against an all-white moon.

“I wanted to call you, but I didn’t know . . .” Christina’s eyes darted over to Papi, parked at his own table in his leather Arañas jacket, recently unearthed. Her smile had faltered when he walked in behind me earlier, but she pulled it together fast, bringing him a free blueberry Scrying Scone and a cup of Dark Moon roast. When he’d asked about her summer plans, she pretended she didn’t hear and scooted back behind the counter to help a caffeine-jonesing rock climber.

I set my frosty Java Potion and a bag of salted caramels on the table. “What’s up with the Dunes? Did we settle on dates yet?”

Zoe smiled so big and bright, all ten million of her freckles lit up, and her red curls seemed to bounce in place. “Yay! I
told
you she wouldn’t bail!”

She’d meant it for Christina, but our coffee witch was busy watching Papi, holding her breath like he might wig out again.

Not that I blamed her. Last time she’d seen Papi, he was accusing her of trying to poison him at the BHS family picnic.

A turkey sandwich. That’s how it all started.

One of the volunteers had mislabeled it as roast beef, and Christina gladly passed it to Papi as such.

That little error changed everything.

The Turkey Sandwich Incident (TSI), Mom and I later called it. Everyone was there to see it. All the graduating seniors. Parents. Siblings. Teachers. The principal.

And here go my friends: Shock. Confusion. Fear. And then the worst one: pity. I hadn’t even told them about the diagnosis yet—Mom wanted to keep it in the family as long as possible—and in the span of five minutes, all the things that made me
me
got erased. I’d gone from Jude Hernandez, best friend, play person, bookworm, bad drawer, salty-snack connoisseur, to Jude Hernandez, Daughter of Crazy Pants.

He wasn’t crazy. He had Alzheimer’s. And he didn’t like turkey.
Really
didn’t like it.

Neither did I, anymore.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said with a hefty dose of enthusiasm. “When do we leave?”

“August twentieth,” Zoe said, “give or take.”

That gave us more than two months to get the bike running.

“Perfect,” I said.

Zoe beamed. “Should we hit up Target tomorrow? Stock up on road-trip reinforcements?”

“I work a double tomorrow,” Christina said. “Friday?”

“You guys have to stock up without me.” I gave them
the highlights version of the bike project, skipping over the name of our mechanic. Emilio and his brothers had been a topic of more Jude-and-Zoe middle-school gabfests than the Cullens, the Lightwoods, or any of the other mysterious yet fictional bad boys we dreamed about back then, and she’d freak if she knew he’d resurfaced. At my house. For the entire summer.

“I need to stick close to home,” I said. “Keep an eye on things for my dad.”

“For the whole summer?” Christina said.

I popped a few caramels and shrugged. “The guy promised it would be done before our trip.”

“But it’s our last summer.” Zoe’s freckles dimmed. “What about the play?”

Upstart Crow was doing
Alice in Wonderland
this summer, starring Zoe as the Queen of Hearts. Six months ago, she and I had grand plans: She’d be the Queen, I’d be Alice, and we’d spend weeks rehearsing to get it absolutely perfect. A real curtain call on our last summer.

When I backed out of auditions, I promised I’d still help backstage, rehearsals, costumes, whatever I could do at the theater. Now even that would be impossible.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Okay. I get that you have to help out at home,” Zoe said, “but you just graduated. And after this we’ll be at college, and then we’ll have real jobs and a mortgage and all that sucky stuff. This is our last chance for a normal teenage summer.”

I chewed on my straw.
Normal teenage summer? What does that even mean?

“At least she’s coming to the Dunes,” Christina said.

“She better.” Zoe bumped my knee with hers, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, waited for it to lodge back in my chest where it had settled after Papi’s diagnosis in January. I’d told Zoe and Christina soon after the TSI, but they didn’t really get how someone as young as Papi could have a disease associated with grandparents, with frail old bodies bent and bleached by time. Even I didn’t get it. Papi still had the wavy black hair and tanned skin of his youth; he was broad shouldered and strong, and every time I looked at him, some part of me still believed that one day he’d decide enough was enough and shake it off.

Apparently, today was not that day.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Papi beelining for the door. He hadn’t finished his scone, though when I got up close, I noticed he was wearing a good bit of it on his shirt.

“Papi, you okay?”

“Eh?”

“Can we hang out a few more minutes?”

He watched me a moment, then finally returned to his table by the window.

“Sorry,” I said when I got back to the girls. They exchanged a nervous glance, and I fumbled for something to rekindle the conversation. “Any more ideas about the trip?”

Zoe leaned back in her chair. “We’re thinking of renting a
car so we don’t have to worry about breaking down.”

“Good idea. What else?” I slurped up my Java Potion, waiting for her to continue.

“There’s some cool stuff to see on the way there, like—”

“Jude?” Christina’s face was tight and pale. “Your dad’s . . . digging in the trash.”

I followed her eyes across the coffee shop. Sure enough, Papi had both hands in the trash can, elbows deep.

“I need something.” He glared at me as if it should be obvious. “It’s not here. I think . . . I have to go now.”

The sun was deceptively cheerful, and as soon as we got outside, he stopped and basked in the light. Behind us, one of the other coffee witches swept a family of tumbleweeds off the sidewalk. Papi watched them catch the air current and mosey on down the road.

“This way.” He crossed the street to Grant’s Pharmacy and ushered me inside. He grabbed a shopping cart and the warning bell in my head gave a faint tinkle, but before I could ask any more questions, Mari called.

Mari was not the kind of sister you casually forwarded into voice mail.

“Ready for Mari’s Internet Dating Fiascoes, take seventeen?”

She launched into the story without waiting for a response, talking fast while I trailed Papi through the store—he cruised past the coolers, through the foot-care aisle, past the vitamins and fish-oil capsules, right to baby central.

“So not only was he missing a tooth,” Mari was saying when we reached the diapers, “but he was totally married.”

“
Eww
.” It was the only word I’d managed so far, and Mari giggled.

“I know, right? Like he couldn’t get a crown or something?”

“I meant the married part. Hang on.” I covered the mouthpiece and turned to Papi. “Almost done?”

“Ah!” He smiled and pointed to his head. “Wrong aisle. This way.”

“. . . the last guy at least had all his teeth.” Mari chattered on, oblivious. “But he lived in his mother’s basement in Capitol Hill, so obviously
that
was going nowhere.”

“Papi, what are you looking for?”

“Papi’s there?” Mari said. “Let me say hi.”

“We’re . . . shopping.” I left out the part about us standing in the feminine-products aisle, scanning pink boxes as if they revealed a secret code while some poor kid stocking pregnancy tests tried not to stare.

“What else are you guys doing today?” she asked.

“Coffee with the girls. Maybe . . . fishing? I don’t know. What about the basement guy?”

Papi grabbed a box of tampons off the shelf. “Four girls,” he told the stock boy. He waved the pink-and-white box like a flag.

“Who’s he talking to?” Mari asked.

I switched the phone to my other ear and reached into the cart to retrieve the tampons. “Just the stock guy.”