Page 96 of Wild Hit
Finally, I smack my cheeks and say, “no te hagas ilusiones, papá,” as if I was talking to some other dude and not myself.
My heart drums as I get out of the car, forcing myself to move at a normal speed that won’t betray my excitement and nerves. I grab my duffel bag from the back, stuffed with dirty clothes I wore for practice earlier, and more empty food and drink containers than a regular person would believe. The Mario Suarez tune escapes from my lips as a jolly whistle, and I manage to key in the door code without fat fingering.
A blast of entirely different music hits me as I walk in.
My—er, the two girls who currently use my last name are in the middle of the living room. They’ve cleared out the coffee table and are jumping around the carpet… dancing? And doing some more of that singing that is a mix of words and sounds. The TV screen behind them shows a music video from the South Korean boy band they don’t get tired of. Glad that the events that happened yesterday didn’t ruin the band for them.
I close the door behind me with my butt, standing here, wondering if they’ll notice me or if I should sayhoney, I’m home. That would probably make them both grimace in secondhand embarrassment, so I stay mum. And they still don’t notice me.
That’s great, because I’m gathering fodder for teasing them in the future.
Amusement spreads across my face as the two of them, their backs turned to me, keep shaking everything they got to an upbeat rhythm. They’re still doing the air microphone thing, pointing it at each other in turns. Then, while shaking her bootie, Audrey finally turns and spots me.
She chokes on her spit.
That gets Marty’s attention who peeks over her shoulder. “Oh.” She slows down. But even while she tries to act cool, I’m her father. I know what the hotter cheeks mean.
I’m full on grinning now. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Marty nudges her grown friend. After a few more coughs, Audrey finds enough strength to say, “Welcome home, Miguel.”
The duffel bag slides off my grip. The pretty boys singing in the background dampen the sound of it landing on the floor.
Heat explodes within my chest, spreading to every corner of my body and even deeper, finding a hole that I didn’t know I had. A hole in the shape of someone I can love.
“H-Hi.” Now I’m the one struggling for words.
Meanwhile, Marty bends down to pick up the remote and bring down the volume. As she rises back up, she opens her mouth to talk when something unexpected—and horrible—happens.
Whatever’s in her stomach rises back up.
She barely manages to hold it in with both hands.
Now no one’s amused. Everybody’s eyes are wide like saucers. Another wave hits her and Dad instinct kicks in. I rush toward her and lift her up. “Hold on, Marty! Keep it in!”
She makes muffled sounds but her little body makes another attempt to empty itself, this time on me. Audrey’s steps follow closely behind. I make the decision in a split second—this isgonna be a very stinky welcome, but we won’t make it if I try to get us upstairs to Marty’s bathroom. Audrey’s it is.
Bless the heavens, for the doors are all open. My sneakers screech to a halt in the pristine bathroom floor tile, and I manage to set Marty down. I press my hand against hers on her mouth as I turn her to aim, and thankfully Audrey has already lifted the toilet lid.
Rainbows explode out of my daughter’s mouth.
I blink a couple of times to clear my vision, just in case I’m hallucinating the whole thing. But nope. All sorts of colors keep coming up. My poor kid’s about to fall into the toilet, so I wrap an arm around her and with my other hand I clumsily gather her hair.
“Erm, there, there. Let it all out,” I mumble, not knowing what else to do. I glance up at Audrey but the confusion, even the worry I expected in her face, isn’t there.
Instead, she looks like she’s about to throw up too.
I know she loves green, but I’ll never tell her she looks kinda like it right now.
I swallow hard, which is a feat when the air is permeated by regurgitated rainbow. “Um…” My voice trembles. I’m hoping that she doesn’t projectile vomit on us, but if that’s how it’s gonna be, then I guess my fate is sealed. Miguel Machado, record-breaking All-Star hitter, dead by drowning in puke.
Somehow, I manage to jerk my head at the shower. “Maybe try going in there?”
The poor woman has tears in the corners of her eyes as she nods. She squeezes in by me, pushes the curtain aside, and off she goes. I lean for a peek and, sure enough—more rainbows.
“What the hell did you two do?” I ask, half scared and half intrigued. The only response I get for a long while is the sound of more arching, barfing, and groans of pain and suffering.
Yep, this is officially a family, a’ight. Nothing like being sick together to real bond.
