Chapter One

(As written in Son of a Mujeriego)

“A man without two girlfriends is not a man.” My father’s favorite Dominican idiom rings in my head. I flex my wrists. I wonder what he’d say about a man in handcuffs.

I glance over at Esmeralda. He’d probably say that hiring my bougie ass half-sister was my first mistake. “Women don’t argue, they nag.” Another one of his favorites. Yeah, I don’t think he’d approve of a female lawyer. But, I mean, what else was I to do? She kinda just showed up. And at free-ninety-nine, she’s the only lawyer I can afford.

“Listen, Mr. Estrella.” She lets those three words linger for a sec, making sure I acknowledge our distant relationship and her professional approach to the matter. Or recognizing my recent eighteenth birthday (which she didn’t congratulate me on). The latter is a long shot, though. ’Cause yep, she still hates me.

“You keep repeating you don’t remember and that you must be innocent. I get it. But…” Esmeralda tilts her head towards the guilty side of the scale.

“But nothing. Don’t you dare say it. Guilty or not, that’s not what you’re here for,” I say.

“You’re right. I’m not here to pass judgment. But let’s talk about what you do remember. How about that? Start with the party.” She crosses her legs.

I lean back to look under the table. “I see. So that’s where the fish smell was coming from.” I hold tight onto my laugh, but her riled-up expression causes me to bust out in laughter.

“DANNY.”

“Okay, okay.”

She is so uptight. This is all a mistake. I was nowhere near Hawk Union High School last night…yet I’m here. Same way me and Esmeralda were nowhere near each other for most of our lives…yet we’re here. Two half-siblings in a tiny interrogation slash visitation room in Hawk Union’s police station.

“So, as you may or may not know, I was dating this mami chula with the finest ass for about three years.” I attempt to shape out an hourglass figure, but the cuffs don’t let me round out the booty. “Top three at Hawk Union. No debate. Type of girl that is worth all the time in the world. Type of girl that—”

Esmeralda slaps her forehead, then slowly massages exactly where her horns used to be. “Can you act serious for once? Look around. This could be your new home.”

What is she talkin’ ’bout? Did she not hear me earlier? I was nowhere near Hawk Union High School last night. So, I’m…wait. Is that a tear squeezing out of her stern, glass-half-empty eyes?

She crosses her arms and looks away towards the double mirror.

Wow, that’s crazy. She really going for an Oscar nomination. I didn’t even know she cared. Last year at our father’s funeral—the last time we spoke—she said she resented me for popping into her life and ruining her perfect family. As if I chose to be the bastard son of a top-class mujeriego. As if I had a say in his romantic entanglements. Makes no difference, though. She still blames me for her parents’ divorce. When it happened, we had just met. She was sixteen, and I was eight. It also didn’t help that, as the only son, I received everything in our father’s will.

I’d leap across the table to hug her and tell her she’s the sister I’ve always wanted…had. Have? I’ve missed annoying her, which is why I can’t help the jokes. It was the only thing I remember from our brief siblinghood that ended when she went off to college. But we’ve never done that before. Show affection, that is. To annoy is to love, right?

I correct my nonchalant posture. “I’m sorry. You need to realize that this is how I tell stories, so bear with me.”

As she continues to face the double mirror, she takes a deep breath and nods.

“So, I was dating this girl for three years, but then we broke up. And after two months without social media and repeated one-sided conversations with Drake, Romeo Santos, and Ana Gabriel, I decided it was time to go out. You know, be single. So I hit up one of my boys, who is always throwing open-cribs and basement parties.”

“Wait, before you continue,” she takes hold of her tablet and stylus, “what’s his name? The party guy.”

“Eldon. Jamaican dude. Throws all the bangers in Hawk Union.” I peek to ensure her spelling is correct. “So yeah, I’m on the way to this party…”

***

The Uber driver honked and vroomed through traffic. He was rooting for me, like he knew I was going to bag some shorties. And that was the goal.

“Ayo primo, let me see that AUX cable,” I said. I pressed play on Bad Bunny’s “Soy Peor”.

The driver started dancing; he was doing the most. He thought I had tip money, and I didn’t blame him because my outfit was on point: all white everything, so the ladies knew I came in peace. But I needed him to slow down. Because it wasn’t just the streetlights that blurred with each additional pound of pressure exerted on the gas pedal, it was my anxieties too. Was there going to be a fight? Was the condom in my wallet still good? Was I ready to be single? Was my ex going to be there? To think, I’d still get nervous before a party like I hadn’t been to dozens of hooky parties, telly bashes, and basement bangers. I even spent half the day grinding with the Swiffer and shadowboxing in front of the mirror to prepare for this party. It all felt new, even the car ride.

“Papo, this the address?” the driver said.

With the window down and one arm hanging out, he stared at two girls young enough to be his daughters. Licking his lips, his stalker-gaze confirmed that he indeed was rooting for me. Perhaps he wished he were me. Young and well-positioned to pick on the ripest of fruits—unlike the bruised and rotting one he avoids at home. I do it for old men like him. Like our trifling father and cheating uncles, it’s in my blood.

I pounded my chest twice, then kissed a peace sign to the ceiling. “Sammy Sosa all day, baby,” I said to myself. My way of pumping myself up. My way of digging into the batter’s box.

We were in front of the address. As I got ready to get out, I fumbled my phone and wrestled with the seatbelt. The driver observed me through the rear-view mirror and scoffed at my clumsiness. Probably thought I was a palomo, but that’s far from the truth. Nervous, that’s all. But still, I tripped out of the car like the non-suave Fresh Prince of Nowhere.

The car peeled off. I swiped five stars but left no tip ’cause he was low-key hating on me. I applied ChapStick, bit into a fresh stick of gum, brushed my patchy beard with a bristle brush, and adjusted my white bucket hat.

The two mami chulas that captivated the Uber driver sat on the stoop smoking cigarettes. A dead turn off, but as I approached, one of them glanced at my crotch. She didn’t even try to hide it. But who cares? As long as she found what she was looking for without squinting, I take no offense.

Standing in front of them, Birdman-rubbing my hands together, I said, “Y’all names must be Bella and Linda, ’cause y’all look it.”

Sadly, that couldn’t be further from the truth. By the time I got close enough to accurately assess them, I was too committed to spitting game—being near-sighted is the worst. Plus, those the girls you hook up with after all other options are exhausted.

One of them giggled, while the other said, “Well, thank you.” She looked me up and down. “What are you supposed to be…a saint?”

“I can be.” I licked my lips. “But something tells me you rather me be a sinner.”

Smooth shit, right? My uncle-cousin, Martín, taught me that line.

Anywho, the cigarette-ugly…I mean cigarette-fea—sounds better in Spanglish—replied, “Mmm, I like that.” She bit the side of her bottom lip, which was impressive considering she managed to balance the cigarette on the other side.

“Well then, I hope to see y’all ladies inside,” I said. But of course, I didn’t. If I noticed them inside, it meant I struck out for the night. But they could at least help me reach the quota. When Pops would say his “a man without two girlfriends” quote, he never mentioned they had to be bombshells. The quality is in the numbers.

Aight, so then I proceeded towards the basement entrance. Looked at my spiked Gatorade bottle, two gulps for confidence. When I opened the door, an escaping tornado of trapped heat, clearance-rack fragrances, and weave smacked me off balance. My guess was the party remained at a standstill because if people were dancing, a hint of booty-sweat would have slapped me too. And I was right!

But man, before I strode down them stairs, I got nervous again. Should I have come? Was it too soon? Was my ex downstairs? It was a local party, so she surely got an invite.

It was the point of no return.

Inside, the lights were off, but nobody was dancing. And the odor situation was worse than I thought—the basement was damper than the middle of a dryer-cycle. Though from the hair lengths and heights of the dark outlines, I estimated an even male-to-female ratio—a rarity for a party of this sort. Mainly because parents were stricter on their daughters.

“Oh. Who. Is. THAT?” a prospective rebound whispered in the darkness.

Dressed in all white, I must have looked like the mystery-flavor Airhead. Too bad I couldn’t locate her, as my eyes gradually adjusted.

“YER.”

“Yer.”

“YEEEERR.”

A bunch of yers came from all directions. The music was low, so those indoor yers reverberated like every New Yorker’s dream yer. The exaggerated welcome added to my zamn-zaddy appeal. But it also added to my who-the-heck-is-this-bozo factor; a few male-haters jocking the walls looked unimpressed. My friends—correction, my party acquaintances and best friend, Rubio—rushed to greet me.

“It’s about time!” Rubio hugged me. “Missed you, bro.” By the embrace, I knew he meant it.

Can you believe Rubio was the only person to hit me up when I was depressed, karaoke-ing Usher all summer? All the wingman-ing I’ve done for them clowns, and I couldn’t even get a text. I heard one of them dared to holla at my ex, too. But, whatever…in the case of friends, it’s quality over numbers.

“Missed you too, Rubio.” I scrambled his blond, corn silk hair that was easy to reset with a few touches. Everyone else got a distant hand wave ’cause I wasn’t about to forget their fakeness. But that didn’t stop them from being fake.

Encircled, they pulled, pushed, and shoulder-massaged me forward towards the table with all the liq. And I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but a creepy roach feeling came over me when I saw it was Rubio behind me. The hug, cool. But the direct path and distance from my butt and his penis…yikes.

He has a secret that he’s never told me. Early summer, the day after I broke up with my ex, there was this feeling of freedom that came over me. Like a burden had been lifted. So I holla’d at some shortie. Some sophomore that I heard had a thing for me. During our first (and last) chill sesh, she confessed that one of her friends, who had class with Rubio, saw him using an app called Grindr. It’s basically Uber but for a different type of ride. Now, I’m not homophobic per se, at least I think I’m not, but it’s weird to know I can hit him with sexual harassment when he touches me. Honestly, with all these new gender classifications, he should just come out already. Gay sounds as normal as straight.

Shit. Am I a fake friend too? Is it my fault I can’t shake off the cringe? It’s not like I hate him or anything. Again, he’s my best, and likely, only friend. But I had to do something to shake off the roach.

“Ayo, get y’all dirty hands off the white.” I jumped forward, loosening their grips—more specifically Rubio’s grips.

The bottles at the table were lower than what my older cousins called bottom-shelf. Bunch of vodkas in plastic bottles mixed into Tampico and Minute Maid juices. Several MD 20/20s and Four Lokos. Nothing appealing enough to commemorate my first party back. So I poured myself anything that would do the job.

“Tonight, we drink to a new man. Me,” I declared.

And I felt like a new man. For the first time in three years, nobody asked me, “Did your girl invite any cute friends?” For the first time in three years, I could ask an annoying, “Where the bitches at?” Although only cornballs would ask such a question. And one did.

“Ayo, Danny-boy. Where the bitches at, though?” one of my fake friends said as he hung an arm over my shoulder. He was pressed up in my ear. Hot breath and everything.

“At your mom’s place. Now get out of my face.” I shrugged him off with my shoulder.

“Wow. You’ve changed, Danny.”

Yeah, yeah, whatever. None of those goons were gonna ruin my night.

For the first time in three years, my girlfriend—now ex-girlfriend—was not around; at least I didn’t see her at the moment. I scanned the basement for her presence, but confirming her absence didn’t bring me the comfort I expected. ’Cause low key, I was there to win her back. But I couldn’t count on that. So leaving with two new shorties was still the primary goal. I was playing for the consolation prize, not the first-place trophy.

So we took the shot. I winced as the liq burned its way past my mending heart and down to my empty stomach. Oh, and I drew a crown on my red Solo cup; a king stays king, even without a queen.

The fellas then dragged me to the beer pong table. It was clear they volunteered to chaperone my whole night—not because they actually cared, though. Now that I was single, they knew I was out for fresh blood. And they all wanted to be a part of the hunt. ’Cause that’s what fake friends do: they show up for the good times, never the bad. “Don’t worry, we going to let you win,” one of them whispered. Another pointed at the next-to-play list with his lips. “We gotchu.”

On the list, two female names were up next. I missed my first five shots thinking about how pathetic this was. Accepting charity from fake friends was not like me. Neither was scheming for girls. Yeah, I chase skirts, but I never sucker them. I always make sure they come to me on their own volition. I’m a man, not a savage. Unfortunately, my partner carried us to victory before it became obvious that the opposition was throwing the game. So I had to play along with the desperate scheme.

Now, two potential cuties stood across the wet fold-up table as our new opponents. And I say potential because I held off on looking at their faces; if they matched their jeans, I knew I’d fall in love. One of them had Colombian jeans accentuating her wide hips. The other had Fashion Nova hugging her culazo. I knew the brands because that’s where my ex shopped. I licked my lips. Something about tight jeans sitting on hourglass hips and plump derrières that resurface animal instincts.

“Let me know if you need backup. I’ll take the one you don’t choose,” a member of the losing team said as he brushed past me. Making me want to give up. Too much scheming, too much scheming, too much scheming. Women are to be enamored, not duped. And again, no more wingman-ing for fake friends.

The party remained in a nervous stage, but I couldn’t front. My first night back was setting up real nice. We continued to play pong, and I continued to play coy. I also plotted a less predatory scheme: if I won, I could approach them later with a, “How about we get a rematch on the dance floor?” If I lost, I’d say the same thing. We lost.

Relegated to the sidelines, the ideas kept flowing. Nobody was dancing, but it looked like everyone had caught the eye of someone. Only the atmosphere wasn’t right.

That’s when I found an unattended Jose Cuervo bottle on the liquor table. And if it’s on the table, unclaimed, it’s fair game. I poured out a dozen shots, and passed them out in a discriminatory fashion, ignoring the majority of male hands reaching out for one.

“Yo! What about me?” one of my fake boys said.

“What? This?” I focused in on the plastic shot cup. “Yeah, you don’t need this. What you really need is…” I leaned closer for a whisper. And I’ll admit, I was getting a little saucy at this point. I didn’t give a fuck. So I leaned in and whispered, “…to get out of my face. Now go fuck yourself.”

Good thing it was one of the soccer players. If it had been one of the football heads, I might’ve gotten stomped out for that. But I’m cool with most of the school. Someone was bound to help out. If not, it would have been me and “Ride or Die” Rubio, back on back, defending ourselves.

After the shots, I connected my phone to the Bluetooth. Bachata was the perfect warm-up to the perreo. Immediately, Fulanas grabbed a Fulana.

One second ago, they were in dull conversations—probably about Fulano, who had not replied to their texts. Now they were roach-stomping bachata moves like their boyfriends cheated on them with another dude, and the floor was their dicks. They even twisted their feet into the tile floor at the pause-step.

I looked around for Rubio. Even if he was sus, he still a kickass dancer and wingman. But he was nowhere to be found. Instead, I located a random sophomore to take under my wing. I elbow-nudged the fellow sucio and pointed at two baddies.

I slow whined forward onto the dance floor, the back corner of the basement. I couldn’t control it. She was rocking the boat and working the middle so well, it lured me closer.

I pulled up my shorts right before connecting my swaying pelvis onto her butt. I was an airplane docking at a gate. And I swear her butt sizzled more than a burger patty flung onto a scorching grill.

She looked back at me.

I winked.

She smiled.

Her friend in front of us gave a quick glance of approval.

Score! I was in. And the booty was soft too. Made me wish I had pajama pants on. Matter of fact, someone should have handed me a blue You-Should-Be-Here sign. Pirates yearn for booty like that, and what Sirena wouldn’t enjoy lying on my girthy rock?

Just kidding. I’m not that conceited. But…I did think it. Perhaps it was the liquid courage.

But as if she heard my inner thoughts, she abruptly turned around, ready to slap me. “Oye fresco, you know this is bachata, not reggaeton?”

She disengaged and danced with her friend again. The end.

Eh. Well, I guess there is more. I’m here, aren’t I?

After the failed dance, I wasn’t discouraged. I repeatedly tried to grind on something until the next thing I knew, my ex was there with some herb-ass-chump. Boom! The curtains fell. That was the end of the party for me. This morning, I wake up here at Hawk Union Police Station. With a crazy hangover, zero girlfriends, and no idea why I’m here.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

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