PROLOGUE
February 2017“This fucking city,” Camila breathed, rolling her eyes that way she did, fast and loud—like this fucking city.
She shifted, trying to turn to look behind us. The end of her spine dug into my thigh at a painful angle. “Sorry, Libertad,” she said, squeezing my wrist. I could taste the vanilla in her perfume, sweet but sharp in my mouth.
I followed her line of vision. We watched the cop walk back to the police car, Miguel’s student ID in hand. There was something measured in the way he moved his body. An evident relishing in the flow of his stroll.
My older brother, Maynor, often said Tegucigalpa was best understood by a single rule: la ley del más fuerte,
the law of the strongest. The refrain came to him often while driving—when it was clear that stoplights and traffic regulations were not the dominant language in the streets of la capital. Rather, it was the driver with the biggest car—or least scared of a wreck—who set the pace.
In the driver’s seat, Miguel also turned his whole body around to look at Carla and Valeria in the back seat. Valeria was trying her best to keep it together—lips pursed and long, thoughtful blinks, like she was finding a way out of this behind her eyes. Her parents, like my mother, would kill her if we ended up having to call them.
Miguel shrugged. “I told y’all I didn’t have a license.”
The streetlight caught the upper half of his face, emphasizing the sharp bridge of his nose.
“Why don’t you just call your dad and put him on speaker? He can tell the cop he let you borrow the car. And that you turn eighteen in, like, three weeks,” Carla suggested. The mascara she had applied minutes before brought out the desperation in her eyes.
“I’m driving at night without a license, in a car not registered to my name, with four underage girls.
And just look at y’all.” Miguel ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. His eyes swept the car. “I can’t even tell him we’re driving home. We clearly look ready for pijín. Oh, and Camila’s sitting on Libertad’s lap in the passenger’s seat—neither of them wearing a seat belt. That’s, like, at least four violations.”
“Okay, okay,” Valeria said, turning around to look at the police car. The cop stood next to la patrulla, leaning against the driver’s door, plugging Miguel’s student ID into some system in his car. “Just give him what he wants.”
“I don’t have that much money on me.” Miguel sighed. “So unless all of you help me come up with at least two thousand Lempiras—we’re fucked.”
“Fine.” Valeria shoved at the boxes pressed against her hip. She and Carla barely fit in the back seat around all the junk, hence the seating arrangement with Cami in my lap. “It’s better than the alternative.”
El chepo strolled back to the car and knocked on Miguel’s window. Miguel rolled it down so quick the squeaking of the handle barely registered. The breeze of the night hit Camila’s bare thighs. She rubbed her arms—up and down. Behind the cop, the city lights of Tegucigalpa blinked its hundred eyes.
“Bueno,” the officer said, handing Miguel his student ID. “You’re not supposed to be driving without a license, and I don’t believe you’re eighteen. I don’t believe
any of you are. Also, what these two señoritas are doing”—he gestured toward Cami and me in the passenger’s seat—“is dangerous. I’ll need to impound the vehicle and detain all of you until your legal guardians can claim you.”
Miguel took a deep breath. I wondered, then, if he wished there was another guy in the car—someone who might help him do the talking. The police officer’s eyes moved between us girls, a glint of hunger in his gaze. Miguel swallowed.
“I understand, Officer Ortiz,” he said, glancing at the silver name tag clipped to his left pectoral. “But that’s a lot of paperwork for you. And we’re just kids, you know?” Miguel stopped for a second to scratch the back of his neck. “We’re not up to nada malo. The girls and I were talking, and maybe we can fix this another way. We know how poorly the government pays hard-working police officers . . .”
Ortiz’s eyes lit up. Bingo.
“¿Qué proponen?” Ortiz leaned in, pressing his left arm against the top of the window frame. His breath reeked of stale cigarette smoke and onions.
Miguel pulled back a little. “How about . . . two thousand Lempiras, for your trouble? And I promise I’ll get my license sorted out soon. We’re not going far. My friend here”—he gestured to Camila—“just didn’t fit in the back. But it won’t happen again.”
Ortiz stared into the car for what felt like a minute but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. He licked his lips. There was a frogginess to his features.
I dug my nails into my palm. If he didn’t go for it, we were screwed. Add attempted bribery to the list.
Ortiz heaved a sigh and pulled away from the car. “Bueno,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “If that’s what you can offer . . . I’ll take it.”
There was a defeated annoyance to his tone, like we had swindled him, made him waste his time.
I wondered what Maynor would say about the law of the strongest right now. Was money the exception to the rule? Or did money determine who the strongest was, who held all the power in any given situation?
Miguel reached for the wallet in his back pocket. He had to lift his body from the seat to get it, bending his head to avoid hitting the roof.
“Come on.” He turned to the rest of us. “It’s four hundred each.”
My shoulders dropped. Yes, this left me with less than a hundred crumpled Lempiras for the rest of the night—but still, better than the alternative. The four of us handed Miguel the purple and yellow bills, wrinkled from being shoved in pockets or pressed against waistbands.
The cop grabbed the cash and shoved it into his front pocket, not bothering to count any of it.
“Buenas noches,” he said, slapping the roof of the car twice before turning back. Miguel started the engine. As he moved away from the curb, Camila turned the radio’s volume back up. Reggaeton filled the car, pierced by Carla’s and Valeria’s exploding laughter. Warmth rushed through my veins.
“This fucking city,” Cami repeated, laughing this time.
“Guess I’m not drinking tonight,” I said. “’Cause that was all my money.”
“Same,” Valeria echoed.
“We’ll figure something out.” Carla shrugged. “Además . . . una aventura es más divertida si huele a peligro, right?” She loved quoting that Romeo Santos song.
Maybe it was the tamarind Quetzalteca shot we all had before getting in Miguel’s car. Or Camila’s weight and exposed skin on mine. Or Carla’s laughter soaring out the windows. I found myself saying, “Right. Ahuevos, maje.”
Copyright © 2024 by Bessie Flores Zaldívar. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
