LBYR YOUNG ADULT CHAPTER SAMPLER LBSchool LittleBrownSchool lbschool LittleBrownLibrary.com LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Copyright © 2021 by Laekan Zea Kemp Cover art © 2021 by Poppy Magda. Cover design by Karina Granda. Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc. Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Little, Brown and Company Hachette Book Group 1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104 Visit us at LBYR.com First Edition: April 2021 Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Kemp, Laekan Zea, author. Title: Somewhere between bitter and sweet / by Laekan Zea Kemp. Description: New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2021. | Audience: Ages 12+. | Summary: Told in two voices, Pen, whose dream of taking over her family’s restaurant has been destroyed, and Xander, a new, undocumented, employee seeking his father, form a bond. Identifiers: LCCN 2020012182 | ISBN 9780316460279 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316460316 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316460323 (ebook other) Subjects: CYAC: Restaurants— Fiction. | Cooking, Mexican— Fiction. | Fathers— Fiction. | Family life— Fiction. | Illegal aliens— Fiction. | Mexican Americans— Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.K463 Som 2021 | DDC [Fic]— dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020012182 ISBNs: 978-0- 316- 46027-9 (hardcover), 978-0- 316- 46031-6 (ebook) Printed in the United States of America LSC-C 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL SomewhereBetwe_HCtext3P.indd iv 8/15/20 2:38:15 PM 1 Pen GREASE HISSES AND POPS beneath the staccato drums ticking from the speaker above my brother Angel’s head. The song fades beneath the clank of metal and the sound of his voice calling orders across the kitchen. “Adobada. Mole verde. Guiso de flor.” I hear him through the crack in the back door of the restaurant, my forehead pressed to the cold metal as I count my breaths, the beats in between. Go inside. The res- taurant is descending into chaos. You don’t have time to fall apart. But the voice in my head isn’t alone. There’s another voice, biting and cold and cruel. You’re a mess, Pen. You’re just going to make a mess. I call it a liar, I pray that it is. Then I grit my teeth and yank the door open. In the kitchen, glass bowls full of garlic, cilantro, and 1 LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL SomewhereBetwe_HCtext3P.indd 1 8/15/20 2:38:15 PM guajillos slide across the counter, crashing against the faded Spanish labels pressed to jars of canela, anise, and comino. The glass jar of cumin tumbles, exploding against the con- crete floor like a flash of orange gunpowder. The impact ignites a thousand memories. My father’s pipe speaking in tobacco apparitions. The knock and twist of the molcajete, the slap of my mother’s bare feet on the kitchen floor. “Volver Volver” low and stretched like dough as my father hums it over the sound of the radio. Even when they’re not here, their love is still the heartbeat of the place. “Comin’ in hot!” Angel slams a slab of meat down on the cutting board. “I need runners!” He slaps the counter, summoning the waiters who are dripping in sweat and try- ing to remember to smile. But that’s hard to do when you’re slammed and short- staffed. Not to mention the fact that the number of free meals my father’s been doling out has nearly doubled, which means fewer tips but twice the work. Glass shatters and I rush into the dining room. Gabby, the new girl I spent six hours training this week, is on all fours. When she sees me, she cowers. I don’t just forget to smile. When I’m at the restaurant my face is physically incapable. She scrambles to scrape up the broken plate and slices her hand. She winces, but I’m not sure if the tears are from the pain or my proximity. My other half, Chloe, abandons the hostess stand and steps between us. “Try using a broom next time.” She helps Gabby to her feet before trading her hand for the broom. 2 LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL SomewhereBetwe_HCtext3P.indd 2 8/15/20 2:38:15 PM While Gabby cleans up the mess, Chloe pulls me aside. “It was an accident,” she says, reminding me that these kinds of things do indeed happen and that I should defer to her in moments requiring human compassion since she is much better equipped for them. Which also reminds me why she’s my best friend. “Besides, half the people in here are so drunk they didn’t even notice.” Chloe’s right. We’ve reached that point in the night when we’re slinging more drinks than tacos, and the Frankenstein monsters on our menu—which I’d created specifically for the inebriated—are flooding the line. There’s the fried egg pork carnitas perfect for a pounding headache, and the bar- bacoa with bacon and refried beans that soaks up alcohol like a sponge. I watch as one of the waitresses carries out a stack of corn tortillas filled with tripas and potatoes smothered in queso blanco— the holy grail of hangover remedies. Chloe pushes up her glasses, using her shirt to dry the bridge of her nose. “You okay?” Beneath the buzz, her voice sounds far away. It still stings. But just because Chloe can sense something’s off with me doesn’t mean anyone else can. Seeing my anxiety grow fangs is a privilege reserved for exactly one person (and only when we’re spoon- deep in a carton of Amy’s Mexican vanilla ice cream and there’s no one else around to see me cry). “I just took a quick break,” I say, eyes trying to steal back more questions. “I’ll be fine.” I’m not exactly sure what fine even means, but it’s good enough for her to let me walk away. For now. On my way back to the kitchen I’m stopped by one of 3 LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL SomewhereBetwe_HCtext3P.indd 3 8/15/20 2:38:15 PM our neighbors, Mr. Cantu. His baseball cap is covered in paint, and that’s when I notice the spray can in each hand. “Pen, is your father here?” “He’ll be back in the morning. Is there something I can help you with?” He deflates. “I’m here to paint the sidewalk. He said he’d pay me fifty bucks.” I look from him to the crowd outside the entrance. The sidewalk’s full of people. “Tonight?” “Well, tomorrow morning. But it’s just that I could really use the money now.” He motions to the parking lot. “My wife’s right outside. She already had the stencils made. We can get started right away.” Mrs. Cantu can draw almost anything— caricatures, animals, flowers. She turns her sketches into stencils and her husband paints them into custom house numbers. I didn’t know my father had commissioned them to paint the sidewalk outside the restaurant, but it doesn’t surprise me. There’s someone doing odd jobs around here almost every day, not because we need the help but because they do. “We’re really busy tonight, Mr. Cantu. .” “I can set up cones. I can work around the crowd. Just give him a call,” he pleads. I lead him back toward the entrance. “I’m sorry, but he’ll meet you in the morning. Like he promised.” He stops. “Then an advance. You pay me now, and I’ll get to work as soon as the sun comes up.” He’s got a death grip on both paint cans, his eyes red like he hasn’t slept in days. “Please, I have to have the money tonight.” I lower my voice. “Or what?” 4 LBYR REVIEW MATERIAL SomewhereBetwe_HCtext3P.indd 4 8/15/20 2:38:15 PM He lowers his too, glancing at the faces nearby. “Or he’ll take something else.” The look in Mr. Cantu’s eyes spurs my pulse, then my feet. I make my way to the bar, knocking on the counter where Java, one of the bartenders, is flirting with some girls from a bachelorette party waiting to be seated. “I need fifty from the cash register.” I motion toward Mr. Cantu. “Another side job.” “What about when I come up short tonight?” I sigh, taking the cash. “I’ll figure it out.” He nods, relieved. Because I always do. That’s who I have to be when I’m here. Pragmatic. A problem- solver. Even when my brain is quicksand and no amount of medication can drag me out.