The Total Eclipse of Nestor Lopez by Adrianna Cuevas

Author:Adrianna Cuevas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

CHAPTER 13

I’M GETTING ANSWERS TODAY. No matter what.

Dad calls this forward observation. When they come across a bomb that’s been hidden in a building or buried on the side of the road, they send in a remote-controlled robot to investigate the area. I got to drive one at a family day at Fort Carson. It had a camera on the end that let you see exactly where a threat was.

Unfortunately, I don’t have an EOD robot to run around the woods behind Abuela’s house. Dad and I started to build one with parts we’d ordered little by little, but the unfinished pieces are scattered among a handful of boxes in my closet. I’m going to have to stomp around out there, not knowing if a giant snake is curled up in a cedar tree, ready to give me a death hug. Or if a wolverine is hiding behind a mesquite bush, waiting to sharpen its claws on my stomach.

I plan to round up Talib and Maria Carmen. Safety in numbers.

But first, breakfast.

I head downstairs and pause at the bottom step. I can hear Mom talking to Abuela in the kitchen, her voice tight. It makes me nervous.

And think of Dad.

“Lupe, what’s going on?” I hear my mom say. “Some random woman came up to me in the grocery store yesterday, ranting about how you needed to stay away from her chickens. She said she saw you running around between her yard and the woods. I had no idea what she was talking about.”

“No es nada, mi amor. Just talk. Nothing to worry about,” Abuela replies.

“Well, she practically rammed me with her shopping cart. Not sure why she would be so mad about nothing.”

I round the corner, clearing my throat as I enter the kitchen. “Morning, Buela. Morning, Mom.”

Abuela and Mom stop their conversation and smile at me, Mom’s lips a tight line across her face.

I walk over to the stove, where Abuela is frying ham croquetas, the breakfast of champions. I pick one up and start to pop it in my mouth.

“Dejalos en paz. They’re still hot,” Abuela says beside me. Her yellow daisy housecoat swishes back and forth to the sound of Celia Cruz’s “Quimbara” playing from the small radio in the corner of the kitchen.

I put down the freshly fried croqueta, the crunchy bread crumb coating sticking to my fingers. I can practically taste the salty ham filling, making me forget about my scaly visitor last night. At least for a few seconds.

The doorbell rings, and Mom rises slowly from the kitchen table, still tired from her overnight shift at the hospital.

“How much longer?” I ask, my mouth already watering.

Abuela clicks her tongue. “Ay, sin paciencia.”

We hear a thud come from the living room, followed by Mom’s shouting, “No! No!”

I look at Abuela. She drops her wooden spoon, and we race out of the kitchen. Mom is crouched on the floor, hugging her knees, muttering no over and over.

At the front door stand two men in uniform. My heart jumps into my throat, and I run over to Mom.

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