Free Surviving Santiago by Lyn Miller-Lachmann

name is Frankie Zamora, and he’s 18. I erase and write 16 . There are things I don’t want my mother to worry about.
    I check my watch. Just one hour until Frankie picks me up. I fold the paper in half, slide it under the letter I just received from Petra, and stack books on top so no one can see it’s there. I weave my hair in front into small braids like Petra does. Then I shake out the braidsbecause they look better with long natural-blonde hair than they do with layered dark brown hair. I think a ponytail would be more practical for riding Frankie’s motorcycle, but it takes me three tries to get rid of the lumps.
    Picking an outfit is even harder, and by the time Frankie rings the bell at the gate, rejected T-shirts and sweaters cover my floor. I kick them under my bed in case Tía Ileana looks in my room. I don’t want her poking around my stuff.
    Downstairs, Papá’s already seated at the table, and Tía Ileana’s putting two fish fillets in the microwave. I give my aunt a quick hug, then my father.
    â€œDo I get to meet this boy?” Papá asks.
    I sniff alcohol on his breath. “Maybe another day. We’re rushing to catch a movie.”
    Papá scrapes his chair back. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.” He starts to stand, but his face goes pale and he collapses back into his seat. “Leg spasms,” he says, his voice brittle. Tía Ileana rushes to him.
    â€œI already talked to him, Chelo,” she says as she unsnaps his leg brace and massages his calf. He groans and writhes in his chair. My aunt turns to me. “Bring me his pills.”
    The bell rings again. I grab the bottle that Graciela prepared that afternoon and hand it to Tía Ileana on my way to the front door. I poke my head out. “Just a minute, Frankie. We have a little problem.”
    â€œTotally understand,” he responds.
    When I get back to the dining area, Tía Ileana holds the bottle in front of my father’s face. “It says take with food. If you go drinking with the guys after work, eat something or the new medicine isn’t as effective.”
    â€œI can’t. My—” He sucks in his breath with a moan, then grabs his leg with his good hand.
    â€œChelo, I don’t know what to do with you.” My aunt places a pill on his tongue and tips a water glass toward him. “Your stomach hurts because you drink and don’t eat. You need to start taking responsibility for your own health.”
    I clasp my hands in front of me. “Guys, Frankie’s waiting. Can I go now?”
    â€œIt’s all right.” Tía Ileana crouches in front of Papá. “Francisco said his parents voted for the ‘NO.’ His father’s PS,” she says, referring to the initials of the Socialist Party. “But not active because he’s sick.”
    Sick like Papá’s sick?
    Papá grips my forearm. “Fine, go. Home by midnight.”
    Tía Ileana watches me leave. I know those same eyes will be on me when I walk back through the door tonight.
    Outside under the streetlamp, Frankie kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say and switch to English. “My father had, like, this small seizure.”
    â€œEs okay. You look beautiful.” Tonight he wears a green-and-white striped scarf over his leather jacket, and a white shirt underneath with a brown tie. Insteadof his usual blue jeans, he has on dark brown corduroy pants. My insides relax and my jaw falls slack. I didn’t expect him to dress up this nice for me. And I don’t feel like a kid in high school anymore.
    I slip on my helmet. “Where are we going?”
    â€œI know a good restaurant in Providencia.”
    The Providencia neighborhood is a twenty-minute trip with stoplights and traffic. It was the fancy neighborhood when I lived here, and I’m guessing from the way Frankie is dressed that it still is. One- and