Never Look Back Read online

  To music, for always saving my life

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  Chapter One: Pheus

  Chapter Two: Eury

  Chapter Three: Pheus

  Chapter Four: Eury

  Chapter Five: Pheus

  Chapter Six: Eury

  Chapter Seven: Pheus

  Chapter Eight: Eury

  Chapter Nine: Pheus

  Chapter Ten: Eury

  Chapter Eleven: Pheus

  Chapter Twelve: Eury

  Chapter Thirteen: Pheus

  Chapter Fourteen: Eury

  Part II

  Chapter Fifteen: Pheus

  Chapter Sixteen: Eury

  Chapter Seventeen: Pheus

  Chapter Eighteen: Eury

  Chapter Nineteen: Pheus

  Chapter Twenty: Eury

  Chapter Twenty-One: Pheus

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Eury

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Pheus

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Eury

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Pheus

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Eury

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Pheus

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Eury

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Pheus

  Chapter Thirty: Eury

  Chapter Thirty-One: Pheus

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Eury

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Pheus

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Eury

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Pheus

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Eury

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Pheus

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Eury

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Pheus

  Chapter Forty: Eury

  Chapter Forty-One: Pheus

  Chapter Forty-Two: Eury

  Acknowledgments

  PART I

  Inflam’d by love, and urg’d by deep despair, he leaves the realms of light, and upper air …

  METAMORPHOSES BY OVID, TRANSLATED BY SIR SAMUEL GARTH, JOHN DRYDEN, ET AL.

  If God one day struck me blind,

  Your beauty I’d still see.

  “ADORE,” PRINCE

  CHAPTER 1

  Pheus

  If it’s a Saturday, then two things are true. First, trains heading uptown will forever be late, no matter what. Deadass. It’s as if the MTA decides anyone going past 125th Street must not be worth the trouble. So what if you thought the train you got on downtown was an express 5? It doesn’t matter. Right now, it’s a local. No, wait, scratch that. Right now the train you’ve been chilling on for the past half hour has decided to not even enter the Boogie Down. Who cares if you have things to do? Trains heading uptown are bound to be cut off. It’s like living back in the Middle Ages, when people thought the world was flat. The Bronx is like that for most people who don’t live there: the end of the world, the last frontier, the … Whatever. If it’s a Saturday, you are destined to do the MTA shuffle, where you figure out how best to make it to your destination.

  “You’ve got to wait for the four or transfer to the bus,” says the conductor. I wonder how many times he’s had to explain this. He gives me the shrug. I give him the shrug back. What else is there to do? It’s Saturday morning, and I’m bound to be late no matter how early I am.

  Moms hounded me last night right in the middle of my writing session. I had the dopest hook for this new song. It sounds a little like Romeo Santos’s “Imitadora,” but way more sensual. I already have the first verse down. It’s got the perfect combination the girls like—a little vulnerability, a little roughness. Throw in some Spanish, and it’s de lo mío. This summer is going to be me working on this new song until it feels right. Shine them words until they glisten like gold.

  “¿Pero dónde tengo que ir?” An old lady sitting across from me talks to herself. I feel bad. Who knows how long she’s been planning this excursion?

  “Tienes que ir afuera y tomar la guagua, o puedes esperar aquí por el cuatro,” I say. She does a slight double take; it’s subtle, but I notice it. Some people see my skin color and think, He must be Black. I am. I’m also Dominican. I’m the best of both worlds. Just ask Melaina and all them girls uptown I’m about to smash this summer.

  The old lady thanks me for helping her figure out how to get to her stop. I start my own journey and head above ground with the rest of the sad passengers. Sometimes I wish I drove a car, blasting AC and my own music. A summer with wheels. Why can’t I be about that life? I strap my guitar to my back and head out.

  The second truth is, no matter the time, the sun will greet you with a “diablo, hoy te mato de calor.”

  It’s not even officially summer, and this viejo standing next to me on this packed bus is dripping sweat. El viejo decides to provide his own musical accompaniment. He turns up the volume on the song playing on his phone. I recognize the tune right away. It’s a song my pops likes to play when he’s feeling melancholy. “Donde Estará” by Antony Santos.

  Pops taught me to sing that song when I was six. It didn’t matter where we were. In front of the apartment building where I grew up. The park. At the beach. After a few Presidentes he would inevitably hoist me up on his shoulders, and I would sing. This was when my parents were together, before she kicked him out and he headed back uptown to be with his people. I feel sad, too, whenever I hear the song. A reminder of the fam when we were a fam and not this disjointed thing.

  “Yo, Pheus!”

  As soon as my right foot hits the pavement on my pops’s block, I hear from one of my boys. It’s Jaysen. He holds a large cooler.

  “Getting ready?” I ask after giving him the dap.

  I met Jaysen seven years ago when we were about ten. It was my first summer with Pops after the separation, and he was depressed. He didn’t want to do anything, just stare at the wall and listen to boleros 24-7. I couldn’t take it, so I headed to the handball courts, bored out of my mind. Jaysen was the only boy my age out there. I acted aloof until Jaysen asked if I wanted to play. We spent the whole summer beating all them suckers. His father works for the Department of Parks and Rec like my father did before he got on disability.

  “You coming, right?” Jaysen asks. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to squash the heat. His latest tattoo on his arm is the Puerto Rican independence flag. It’s coming in nicely.

  “Definitely. First trip to Orchard,” I say. “Not missing it for the world. I’m probably going to be—”

  “Late. Bro, you always late,” Jaysen says. “Isn’t that Penelope?”

  I turn to follow his gaze.

  “Yo, Penelope!” I’ve known Penelope for as long as I’ve known Jaysen. She lives in the same building as my pops. Penelope is smart and funny. She’s definitely wifey material.

  Penelope pulls luggage from the trunk of her parents’ car. I can’t really make out who she’s with. I guess it’s family.

  “We seeing you today?” Jaysen asks. “Am I right? You’re not missing it? Huh, Penelope?”

  Jaysen’s been bugging everyone via text, making sure we show up. He is relentless. Sometimes I have to tell him to chill the hell out. It never really works, though. He’s a hype man when no one really needs one.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Penelope screams back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe.”

  Penelope turns to the car and holds the door open. A girl about our age steps out. She has a thick curtain of long, coily hair that practically engulfs her. I’ve never seen her before. Penelope hugs the girl, and they walk into the building.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  Jaysen shakes his head. “I don’t know. Penelope’s cousin?” he says. “Let’s hope she’s fine.”

  “For real.”

  “What are you talking about? You got Melaina and every girl on this block who desperately waits for you to write a so
ng about her.”

  I laugh. It’s true. I got Melaina. She’s mean and beautiful.

  “Tas pasao,” I say, laughing. “I’ll see you later. Gotta hit the crib.”

  “Bet. See you later and bring some brews. Don’t be cheap.”

  I head back across the street to the apartment my father lives in. I take two steps at a time and pass Penelope’s apartment. She lives on the second floor with her parents. Her mom works as a secretary in a fabric company in the city. Her father is a UPS guy. It must be nice to have family around. Most of my mom’s side of the family lives in North Carolina. We visit them on Thanksgiving. My father’s side gets me during Christmas.

  I dig in my pockets for my set of keys. The apartment smells of fresh coffee and weed. Pops never smokes in front of me. It’s one of the many stipulations Mom made for my visits. During the school year, I get to see him most Sundays and holidays. Summers are his.

  “Pops, I’m here!” I drop my bag and set my guitar case against a wall. I place my keys on the bowl right next to the ceramic elephant Pops got me on one of his trips to Santo Domingo when I was a little kid. I pat the elephant’s head.

  The living room sofa bed is going to be my new best friend for the next eight weeks. At least it’s an upgrade from the inflatable bed.

  “Son.” Pops steps out of his bedroom. He wears jeans and the Cibaeño T-shirt I gave him on his last birthday. His chancletas hit the hardwood floors. Pops gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How was the ride?”

  “You know. Same ol’.”

  Pops got that Sergio Vargas vibe when Sergio was at the height of his musical reign in the nineties. Pops can basically chill with anyone, but I know for a fact he still carries a picture of him and Mom tucked in his wallet. Is he still pining for Mom to take him back? Mom’s been dating this bank teller for the past two years. Pops doesn’t ask about him. He would never disrespect Mom like that. I want to tell him I think the guy is hella dry, like white bread even though he’s Black, but I won’t do that to Mom either.

  I dig through my bag and pull out the Dominican flag I found at a 99-cent store the other day. I hand it to Pops.

  “Nice. Thanks, son. I know exactly where I can hang it,” he says. “What’s your summer plan? Have you given much thought to what we discussed?”

  Pops wants me to try out for a free after-school program at a music conservatory where students are teamed up with professional musicians. I love music. I do. I can feel it bubbling inside me—a new verse, a melody—and I want to jot it down. Capture the tune and share it with everyone. But music isn’t everything. I’m not foolish. I’m practical like Mom. If I continue with my grades, I can step into a real moneymaking job. I’m thinking more like an entertainment lawyer. Music will not get me where I need to go.

  “I’m thinking about it,” I say and hope Pops changes the subject.

  “The application is due in August. The after-school program is perfect for you.” He can tell I’m trying to shake him off.

  “I promise to give it a look before the end of the week.” I mean this, although I doubt I’ll apply.

  “Found this for you.” Pops hands me a used book, We Took the Streets. Pops always has nonfiction books about history to give me. I’ll devour this one in no time.

  “Thanks. I’ll read it tonight,” I say and give him a quick hug. “We’re heading to Orchard. You want to come?”

  “I got work to do.” With disability, it’s not worth it for Pops to get a real job, so he picks up odd gigs that pay off the books. Money has always been tight for him. Luckily I have my allowance, so I don’t have to ask him for a dime.

  “You’re young. You don’t want this old man messing up your day,” he says. “Be safe. Don’t be stupid.”

  I head to the bathroom to get ready.

  The six-pack I grabbed from the bodega keeps my legs nice and frosty. I keep replaying the new lyrics to my song in my head. I can feel it. This is going to be the summer jam. Can’t wait for my friends to hear it.

  “El Nuevo Nene de la Bachata has arrived!” Jaysen proclaims as I walk over to the group. Everyone from the block is here, including Melaina and her girls. She glances over but doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Not yet. Melaina is cold at first. This is her thing. She’ll warm up later.

  “Here you go.” I hand the six-pack over, and Jaysen tries his best to conceal the drinks. Although the day is just beginning, we still want to feel a buzz. The first suntan. The first taste of freedom. Melaina’s glistening skin. Summer is going to be mine.

  I pull out my guitar and tune it. Pops gifted me the strings when I turned ten. There’s a multitude of musical styles playing around us. Eventually the differing sounds—the rap, the reggaeton—will be pushed aside. When I start to sing, nothing around me matters. It’s just my voice and the emotion I’m trying to convey. How I’m trying to capture beauty, the waves that come and go, the feeling of longing or lust.

  “Stop fooling around with them chords,” Angel, one of the guys from the block, says.

  “Yeah!” Another one joins in. “It’s time Pheus earns his keep.”

  “For real. It’s been a minute since we heard him sing,” Melaina says. “What if he doesn’t have what it takes anymore? What if he sounds like Bad Bunny trying to sing a bolero?”

  Melaina gives me a sexy, mischievous grin. She wears a bathing suit with a plunging neckline. Her hair is slicked back in a tight ponytail. Her lips lined bloodred. Mean and beautiful.

  Those around continue to flame me. I take my sweet time. Melaina pulls away from her girls. Everyone on the block couldn’t believe when she decided I was going to be the one. I knew she was mine by the way she looked at me.

  “Sing to me,” she whispers in my ear. Then Melaina saunters right back to her crew.

  I won’t sing the new song. It’s still too fresh. The lyrics need some cooking. I decide on a favorite. I lean over to Jaysen, and he hushes everyone.

  My fingers strum an A minor chord. A minor is a sad chord, a chord meant to pull on them hearts.

  I sing the first verse to Romeo Santos’s “Propuesta Indecente.” The group oohs and aahs. Families turn down their radios. The girls are sexing me. The guys are looking at me too. It’s the start of the summer. This song is going to be the first of many. Music is sex and games. I’m playing hard, because come September, I’m getting serious about the future.

  “Otra,” Melaina says.

  I sing another and another until the beach closes down.

  CHAPTER 2

  Eury

  “Eury, honey, aren’t you hot?”

  Titi Sylvia talks more to my hair than to me. The first thing she noted after giving me a long hug and kiss at the airport was how long my hair is. Titi Sylvia asked my mother—her sister—whether I ever cut it and how it is I haven’t fainted from the heat. My natural hair is a curtain I can hide under. Mami has tried many times to chop it off or at least have it straightened. I won’t allow her.

  “I like the way my hair covers me,” I say. “I feel protected underneath it. Almost, anyway.”

  I notice the worried look Titi gives Mami. To avoid any more questions, I place my earbuds in and listen to “Sign o’ the Times” by Prince. The song has been on repeat ever since we boarded the plane departing Tampa earlier this morning.

  There are no clouds in the sky. The Weather Channel stated the temperature will be high in the seventies with no chance of showers. Still, I search for signs of him. He’s going to show up. It’s only a matter of time. He’ll surely follow me here. If only my hair could completely hide me from this fate. When? When will he show up? I try to steady my rapid breathing. I can’t afford to lose it in this car. I close my eyes and count backward from ten slowly. Instead of this calming me down, my mind races to how I ended up in the back of Titi Sylvia’s car en route to the Bronx with my mother avoiding telling Titi the truth: that I’m not well and that I’m only getting worse.

  “Eury needs to speak to someone. I
t isn’t like when we were growing up, Danaís. Lots of people see therapists now,” Titi Sylvia says. “These episodes she’s having are not nervios.”

  “Eury is fine. What happened in Tampa was just a little bump. She’s been under a lot of stress to fit in at the new school,” Mami says. “I’ve been working long hours and that’s affecting her too. We can handle this. She just needs to spend time with family. That’s all.”

  Titi Sylvia sucks her teeth.

  “Don’t be so hardheaded, Danaís. So many people who survived Hurricane María are suffering from post-traumatic stress. Being surrounded by family is great, but it’s not a solution,” Titi Sylvia says. Her tone gets angrier. “The incident in Tampa is not the first. Stop taking it so lightly.”

  “We’ve been through this already.” Mami raises her voice to match Titi’s. “Please, just let it go. The doctors found nothing wrong with her. Eury just needs to relax.”

  I turn the volume up on my phone to drown out their voices. The volume is at its highest level, pounding Prince into my eardrums.

  It was Titi Sylvia’s idea to have me stay here for the summer. Titi trusts doctors and hospitals and, above all else, the importance of medicine. Therapy and medication. She loves to proudly state how she had an epidural when she gave birth to Penelope and “it was the best decision of her life.” She’s always been very vocal about trying new things. Titi Sylvia is so different from Mami. Mami says she’s too americana, too willing to accept what any man in a white lab coat tells her.

  “My daughter doesn’t need drugs,” Mami told the doctors who treated me after my “incident” in Tampa. “Nervios, that’s what you are suffering from. When I was your age, I went through the same thing. No drugs.”

  Mom took me to church instead. She said the repetitiveness of the mass will help calm me, and it does. Reciting prayers and lighting candles help a little bit.

  How can I explain to my family that what happened to me wasn’t just a breakdown? It is tied to something way more complicated. Evil. Titi Sylvia won’t understand. No one can help me, not when I’m the only one who can actually see my tormentor.