How to Leave Hialeah

Noche Buena

6 9 Noche Buena While my dad changed the oil in his brand new ’96 Chevy Tahoe, I asked him if I could ride out to the Christmas Eve party—or like he calls it, El Venticuatro—in my own car. This year, the holiday would take over my Tía Eva’s house, and I wanted to show off the car to my cousins. All of them had gotten stuck with handed-down Mom Rides. But since our Toyota had gone to my big sister, Teresa, I’d been the first cousin ever who had a say in what car they got. So I drove a barely used bright blue Integra, dropped low, with dark tints and chrome spider rims, mostly all paid for by my own part-time job at Discount Auto Supply but also partly an early Christmas present from my dad. I asked for permission while he was under the truck, his back 7 0 N o c h e B u e n a against the driveway. I thought maybe he’d be distracted enough to say yes by accident. —Why? Papi said. Are you taking a girl? His voice came from underneath the engine. I could only see his legs in their work pants sticking out like he’d been run over. I rolled my eyes because he couldn’t see me and said, No, Papi. —Do you have some children I don’t know about that you have to take? He slid out from underneath the truck and stood up. His beige T-shirt had no oil on it, but smudges covered his hands and wrists. He kept them far from his T-shirt. He shifted his weight, leaned on the truck’s grill, and pretended to want a real answer. —No, Papi, I don’t got any kids. Oil stained the driveway, two round spots by his feet. Neither looked fresh. After a second, he stood up straight and pushed at his glasses with the back of his wrist, but he still got a little grease on the bottom of the frames. —Then I don’t see why you need to take your car, if there’s no family you have to take. He turned around and wiped the bumper with a rag. The Tahoe was about the only thing he’d ever owned and owed nothing on. He paid for it in cash, from his smaller roofing jobs—neighbors’ houses, tool sheds. Some of that cash went to the down payment of my Integra, but I planned on paying him back as soon as I got more hours at work. —Besides, he said, still wiping, We are all going to your tía’s house together. —Almost all, I said, to piss him off. It worked, because he kept wiping even though the bumper shined, and he paid attention to some spot that wasn’t even there. He said, Go inside and tell Mami to bring me some café and a glass of water. I kept standing there, even when he walked away toward the garage. I didn’t notice I’d been holding my breath until I closed the front door behind me and yelled out what he wanted to my mom. This was the first year we’d be taking the Tahoe to Noche Buena, N o c h e B u e n a 7 1 and I knew it was a big deal for Papi—he washed and waxed the truck every Sunday the way other people go to church—but it was a big deal when anyone in my family got a new ride. Some years, Noche Buena turned into a South Miami Auto Show. Back when Tía Yola got her Caddy—I must have been eight or nine because Abuelo was alive and still working with my dad—she had rolled up the driveway, honking nonstop. All of us ran out from the backyard to see who it was. And there was Tía, and two of my cousins, Braulio y Mirta, in the backseat, sitting in this creamcolored tank. That Caddy was so bright I had to squint and shade my eyes with my hand. It was just a standard edition, not pimped out—no rims, no CD changer, nothing—but the way we all stood around it, you’d think Jesus was in the driver’s seat. We piled in seven at a time and rode around the block like a one...