Family

Lalo jogged up the familiar stairs to his cousin’s place, noting some new stains on the brown carpet and a vague feeling of dampness that had been added to the bouquet of sensations that dominated the common area. He could hear an excited buzz of conversation spilling from various apartments, along with loud television sounds and at least three different kinds of music – the telltale beats of dembow, some super romantic R&B turned all the way up, and some kind of obnoxious techno thing. The entire place smelled of onions, peppers, and garlic.

Ever since he had upended his own life, Claudio had been inviting him over to make dinner together once every week or so. Prior to that, they’d been sort of estranged, Claudio having been the black sheep of the family while Lalo was the goody-two-shoes. It felt so good to have rekindled the friendship they had when they were kids.

“Where did you put the beer, papi?” His cousin’s voice cut through the blend of noises, echoing down the stairwell.

“In the freezer!”

“What? They’re definitely gonna freeze!”

“You know I like it cold, baby!”

Lalo couldn’t help grinning to himself. He reached the correct floor and rapped twice on apartment 4B before turning the handle and stepping in. Instantly, he was accosted by a small yapping dog.

“La-li-to!” Claudio called out in a sing-song voice, peeking out from the kitchen. “Come in, come in! Sen Sen, quiet!”

The little dog stopped barking, licking her chops as she looked up at Lalo, the entire rear half of her body wriggling in excitement. There was a clicking of claws as Claudio’s other dog, Ramiel, an aging German Shepherd mix, came wandering toward him, tail wagging languidly.

Lalo knelt to pet Sen, who put her little paws on his knees and tried her best to lick his face. Ramiel, meanwhile, stood by patiently until Lalo had a chance to properly scritch him behind the ears and under the chin.

In the kitchen, Claudio, in an old hoodie and pajama pants, was adding cilantro to the rice and beans. Leslie was dressed up, as usual, in a crisp short sleeve button up and pressed slacks. He was wearing a blue apron with a cartoon shark on it to protect his perfect outfit as he fried up hot dogs and onions in a cast iron skillet.

“What do you need me to do?” Lalo asked.

“Can you chop up those tomatoes for the salchichas? Add them to Leslie’s pan.”

They worked together to make the full meal: rice and beans, hot dogs with fried onions and tomato, a bit of salad greens with papaya seed dressing, fried plantains, and corn tortillas. Leslie forgot about the beers in the freezer, so they had to wait for them to thaw before they could drink.

After dinner, they squished together on the couch to watch a sci-fi anime adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo. Lalo thought it was an eerie and beautiful show. The animation style was different than anything he’d seen before, full of interesting colors and patterns. Their beers were slowly thawing, and he kept tilting his bottle back to shake slushed alcohol into his mouth.

“The Count is so hot,” Leslie said.

Lalo looked over at him. “You haven’t seen this, either?”

“Oh, I have. I introduced Claudio to it, actually. Our tastes were kind of opposite when we met, but we learned to like each other’s stuff, didn’t we?”

“Ugh,” Claudio said. “Leslie’s such a pretentious anime fan, Lalo.”

“I am not! I just happen to have taste. Just because I find fan service to be obnoxious doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a wide variety of media.”

Lalo wished he had someone special to nerd out with. At least he had Claudio and Leslie, though. That was special enough.

Claudio gasped, springing off the couch so suddenly that Sen and Ramiel both lifted their heads to look at him from their doggie beds by the television.

“Leslie! I can’t believe you didn’t remind me!”

“What?”

Claudio ran from the room without explanation. Leslie gave Lalo a quizzical look and then grabbed the remote control off of the coffee table, pausing the DVD. A moment later, Claudio returned with two books in hand. He handed them to Lalo with a flourish.

Lalo’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Kitchen Boy Losange Volume 1 and Volume 2, both in pristine condition. The second volume featured another portrait of Losange, this time in profile as he faced the chef, their bodies too close together as they looked into each other’s eyes. He took them from Claudio’s hands reverently.

“Where did you find these?”

“My roommate Desmond is selling almost his entire collection,” Leslie said.

“Oh yeah, he’s moving cross-country, right?” Lalo asked.

“Across the pond, actually. Somewhere in Yorkshire, I think.”

“Oh, wow.”

Claudio beamed at him, squeezing back into his spot on the couch.

“I managed to nab them before he took everything to that anime store in Commerce City. There’s a buyer there that’s pretty much an expert, but he doesn’t try to rip you off, either. It’s a great place to browse around, actually. We should go.”

“I, uh, I’ve been, actually.”

“Really?”

Lalo told them the strange story of how he had discovered Kitchen Boy Losange and his subsequent mission to return volume one.

“That’s so adorable!” Claudio turned to Leslie. “We’ve got to go support Geraldine’s Books.”

“Sure thing, darling.”

Claudio turned back to Lalo, who was trying to shake more beer slushie out of his bottle.

“What did he say when you gave the book back? Was it the red-head or the one with purple tips?”

“It was Valentine.”

“Oof,” Leslie said.

“Oh, come on. He’s not that bad.”

“That’s because he’s actually nice to you. He still hates me.”

“He’s the expert I was talking about,” Claudio said, giving Lalo a sly glance. “Pretty cute, too, isn’t he?”

Lalo set his beer bottle down. He didn’t want to care about this, but he still found the question spilling from his lips.

“Is he mean to everyone?”

“Yes,” Leslie said.

“No!” Claudio slapped his arm. “Don’t you be mean. Just because you can’t charm him like you charm everyone else doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

“He’s so rude!”

“Guys, it’s fine,” Lalo interrupted. “I was just wondering.”

Claudio sucked his teeth. “Don’t listen to Leslie. They’re both too pretentious to get along. Just give him a chance. If you give him a chance, he’ll give you a chance.”

A couple of hours later, Lalo was lying on his bed, trying to keep his eyes open as he paged through Kitchen Boy Losange Volume 1, savoring the images now that he wasn’t worried about pawing through someone else’s property. After he’d satisfied his urge to review the beginning of the story, cementing all of the details in his head, he finally opened volume two.

Losange stares at the chef standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The man takes up all of the space in the room, and his handsome looks are tainted by arrogance. He is the very embodiment of every spoiled, rich, rotten-hearted boy Losange had ever known at school. Fancy schools did not always equal fancy souls. His memory is full of taunting faces, every one of them dressed in the same jacket, white shirt, and tie. Losange doesn’t want money. He doesn’t want power. He wants to be as close to the world as possible.

He declares to anyone who will listen, mostly his aunt, that there is more to being alive than what anyone has ever imagined. There is starlight and moonlight and birds singing at dawn in the tree by the window. There is the sun when it is high in the sky. There are the bees buzzing among the wildflowers that grow in the park. There are the ants carrying food bits along the cracks of the sidewalk. There are the earthworms who surface after the rain. There are bites of mille-feuille and sips of coffee, poetry at the café, the scent of a fresh baguette, the rich creaminess of butter...

“I asked you your name,” the chef says, interrupting Losange’s adventures of the mind.

“No, you asked who I was, which is a very different thing.”

“I can already see that you are insufferable.”

“Ah, Chef.” Heloise appears, her hands covered in flour. “This is Losange. His aunt recommended him. You know, Madame Diamant.”

Losange’s aunt knows a lot of people, though most would no longer claim acquaintance with her.

“Losange Diamant,” the chef says.

“My surname is not Diamant.”

The chef narrows his eyes. “Who are you, then?”

“The same question again?”

“I mean, who is your family?”

“What does it matter?”

The chef looks like he wants to commit various acts of violence.

“Get out of my kitchen,” he says, the words thrown across the space between them.

“Maximilian, please,” Heloise says. “Give him a chance.”

“The only chance I need is the chance to escape, madame,” Losange says.

The chef moves aside, motioning to the open doorway.

“Have your escape, then. I abhor layabouts like you. You make the world drag behind what it could become.”

Losange laughs. “You are grievously mistaken, sir. It is men like you who are the ruin of the world.”

Heloise gasps in shock, eyes going wide.