Oscar Mancinas

Lupe & Lupe: Stuck on the Road to UnCool(idge)

What is it about grown-ups that makes them do certifiably uncool things? It’s a question that’s plagued kids for as long as we’ve had to coexist with our older overlords. For instance, rather than let you eat a bowl of cereal with chocolate syrup for extra flavor whenever you want, adults push produce on you and call you a “huerco ingrato” if you don’t scarf them down with a grin. Otherwise, you might get a lecture about how, when they were growing up, they had to learn to like what they got because better stuff didn’t exist. How many times have I heard that?

Or when you come home from school and want to watch Luchadores all afternoon—because you never know when Santos and El Serpiente might finally team up to defeat the dastardly Hermanos Bobos and become the Tag-Team Champions of all time—but your amá has taken over the TV to watch telenovelas with your tías. (And not even the cool telenovelas, like Hijos de Su Padre—where four brothers form a gang to take back their father’s rancho after he was killed by their sinister uncle, Don Cleofilos. In one episode I watched, Tomás, the oldest brother had to ride his horse, El Guapísimo, across el campo to rescue kids from the schoolhouse; Don Cleofilos had paid a bunch of henchmen to explode a local dam and flood the area, hoping to drown the schoolchildren and their teacher, Señorita Ana, which would have also forced the school to shut down, so he could sell the terreno for profit. But Tomás and El Guapísimo weren’t having it! It was great…at least, until Tomás had to ruin it by letting Señorita Ana kiss him…actually, if you promise not to tell anyone I said this, I didn’t mind it too much, but my younger sister Lupe said, “Yuck. Those two have no respect for personal space or preventing the spread of germs.” I laughed and said, “I know, right?” but only so Lupe wouldn’t think I wasn’t on her side. We’re like that, and not just because we’re both named Lupe, but I’ll explain after I get back to the important stuff I was saying).

Who knows why, but adults love to ruin a good time. So maybe I shouldn’t’ve been surprised when our apá burst into our room early Saturday morning and said, “Ya levántense y pónganse listos. We’re driving down to Coolidge to help your ma’s Tía Gertrudis move her inventory into her new store.”

Before I could even get to the “h” in “what?” he followed up with, “And don’t make me come back here to tell you chamacos again!” 

THWMP. He slammed the door. 

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I looked up at the top bunk, then turned to pick up my phone and check the time: 6:00am.

“How long have I been saying it?”

“Huh?” I responded to Lupe’s disembodied, groggy voice.

“How long have I been telling you: we gotta unionize this bedroom, or else we’re just gonna keep getting pushed around like this.”

*

I guess before we go any further—by the way, you should relax, there’s really nowhere we’re headed in any hurry—I should tell you more about us. My name’s Lupe. I’m thirteen-and-a-half years old, and I live in El Valle, Arizona with my amá, my apá, and my nine-year old sister, Lupe. 

Bet you’re wondering how it is we’re both named Guadalupe. It’s actually pretty boring: when I was born, amá really wanted to name me after La Virgen de Guadalupe, because she said I was a blessing from Her. But apá isn’t so hot on Catholicism—it all goes back to the way Catholics first arrived on our anayáwari’s betechi (yeah, I’m not totally sure what that means, either, and searching online hasn’t helped, but I know it’s important by the way apá says it, so I don’t ask any questions)—so he kept saying “no” to naming me Lupe until he and amá reached a compromise. The deal was if they ever had another kid, he'd get to pick the name, and she wouldn’t get to say “no” no matter what. So when my little sister was born, apá named her Guadalupe. He said it was to reclaim the name from those who’d try to take it away from us; and he also said he’d had a tío he liked named Lupe, so he wanted to honor him. 

See, boring, grownup stuff.

Back to where we were. Or, I guess, back to where we’re stuck: on state highway 87, just south of El Valle, because, unbeknownst to anyone in my family, something important’s happening in Casa Grande, which is a town near Coolidge, which is where amá’s Tía Gertrudis lives, which is where she also owns an antique store, specializing in collections from México and other nations that once were in Arizona, and it’s that collection in that store in Coolige that she needs help moving into a new store and storage space. 

That’s where we come in. Except we haven’t

“Hola, tía, it’s Joya. Sí, sí, we’re on our way to Coolidge, but there’s heavy traffic aquí por el 87. And—”

I won’t bore you with anything else amá said to her tía, mostly stuff I already told you. Besides, Lupe and I figured out why there was so much traffic. Lupe had tried to tell apá for thirty minutes. 

“But apá,” she whispered so as not to interrupt amá’s fruitless phone call. “Lupe’s girlfriend, Josefina, texted him and told him it’s because there’s a big movie being made in Casa Grande right no—.”

 “She’s not my girlfriend!” Blood pumping in my ears, I reached from the backseat and yanked Lupe by the neck of her shirt. 

Apá’s head snapped back. “Hey! You two quit messing around! Your amá and I are trying to think!”

We sat straight up and were still until apá turned back toward the line of cars ahead of us. 

Lupe rubbed her clavicle. “That was not cool, bozo!” she whispered. “I meant she’s your friend who’s also a girl! I got girlfriends and boyfriends, too; you’re not special. Geez!” 

My face and neck burned. I wanted to tell Lupe I was sorry and to tell apá that she was right: my friend—friend, not girlfriend—Fina had sent me a message a half hour earlier, after I’d woken her up with a totally innocuous conversation starter.

 I hope ur having a better saturday than me haha 

(sent 6:20am)

I WAS until you woke me up at 6:30 for some reason…

(sent 6:35am)

What’s up?

(sent 6:37am)

oh haha my bad. nothing major. just getting dragged to coolidge by my folks at the buttcrack of dawn. (sent 6:38am)

but if that weren’t enough to sog my cereal, we also ran into some gnarly traffic. am I the luckiest guy who ever lived? X_x 

(sent 6:38am)

my bad for waking u. 

(sent 6:39am)

It’s cool. But you’re gonna be stuck for a minute so settle in.

(sent 6:45am)

what? how do u know?

(sent 6:46am)

duh. don’t you read the trades?

(sent 6:46am)

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/studios_announce...

(sent 6:48am)

I tried to click the link Fina sent, but reception wasn’t great, the page wouldn’t load. 

I can’t see it. what did u send?

(sent 6:50am)

A movie, Lupe. They’re filming a big movie in Casa Grande.

(sent 6:50am)

what kinda movie needs to film in Casa Grande in November??

(sent 6:51am)

Ugh. If you kept up with the trades, you’d know! It’s like way way behind schedule, so crews are gonna be out there all winter and spring.

(6:52am)

I gotta go. My mom heard me texting and she’s making me help her clean the house. 

(sent 6:53am)

I hate you! 

(sent 6:53am)

Good luck!

(sent 6:53am)

As I wondered which was truer—did she hate me or did she wish me luck?

Amá got off the phone, and she and apá devised a plan to make things worse.

“Bueno, mi tía says she’s fine for now, and she can wait to move most of her things until we get there,” amá turned back to look at us. “But what did I hear about Lupe’s girlfriend?”

Magma pulsed through my neck and felt like it might spew from my mouth if I spoke. If only I could spit it out, then I’d burn a hole into the floor of our stupid, old car and escape. 

“Yeah, amá, I said I got lots of girlfriends,” I heard Lupe say, and I looked up at her. “Melina, Patricia, that nice old lady who hangs out at the mercado and gives me tips on which produce is freshest. You know, my girlfriends, my people.” 

She smiled at amá, and amá, confused, smiled back. “Of course, mija. Tus girlfriends.”

I could’ve hugged Lupe, but she would’ve hated that. Instead, I knocked her thigh with my fist. She pretended not to notice. 

“Bueno,” amá said, turning to apá. “Ray, how long do you think we’ll be here?”

Apá kept his eyes ahead. “Pues, I think I heard something about a pinche movie—”

“Ray!” Amá swatted his shoulder, “no seas grosero! How many times do I have to tell you to watch your language around the kids?”

Apá barely acknowledged amá’s words or swat. “—and so, they’re either filming coverage for some scenes or they’ve got a second unit getting establishing shots of the O’odham Jeved.”  He sniffed. 

The three of us exchanged looks. 

“Hey, apá,” Lupe said. “How do you know so much movie stuff?”

“Yeah,” I chimed in. “I thought you always said movies were a waste of time?”

He glanced at us through the rearview mirror, then looked back at the unchanged road ahead. He cleared his throat and sniffed again. “Our time’s being wasted right now, sí o no?”

He had me there. 

“And I know because I know,” he continued, “¿Por qué? Porque sí.”

The ultimate dad punctuator.

*

An hour later, the only evidence our car had moved was the exit for Sacaton Road, advertised as only 1 ¼ miles away, as opposed to 15 miles away. Meanwhile, I had come up with 10 anagrams for the license plate ahead of us, including: H4PL355, PL345, H3LP, and L345H 4 54L3. In my head, I wrote a story about a doomed dog in search of a good leash for sale. 

Lupe, meanwhile, explained to amá how it wasn’t too late for all of us to pull off at the nearest exit and call it a well-earned Saturday.

“I’m just sayin’, amá, I, for one, understand the importance of setting aside our own wishes for the sake of family, especially our dear, dear elders. So, what do you say you consider this lesson learned, and we go home? If we head back now, Lupe might still have a chance to patch things up with Fina. Whoop—”

I snapped out of my dumb, doomed dog dream. 

Amá also turned to look at Lupe.

She covered her mouth with both hands and forced herself to look out her window. 

No one spoke. The first person to draw would have to make sure they had something good, otherwise, they were toast. 

Apá cleared his throat. We all turned to him: for escape, for purpose. 

“You know what,” amá said, “Lupita, you do deserve some kind of treat for how good you’ve been through this traffic jam.”

Lupe and I leaned forward. She was planning something, but what was behind this smokescreen? 

Before I could give it another thought, amá launched her attack. “Ray, why don’t and Lupe stay here—and talk—while Lupita and I walk to Sacaton to get some snacks?” Amá caressed apá’s shoulder, her voice like rain drops on cactus needles.

Divide and conquer. 

Lupe and I held our breaths, our fate in apá’s hands.

He sat there. He sat and sat, occasionally releasing the brake, letting the car lurch forward a distance he seemed to have programmed in his brain. Far off, I thought I heard a drum, but it was probably just my heart. 

C’mon, apá, don’t fall for this.

He cleared his throat again—why are grownups always so full of phlegm?—and said, “Bueno, bring me back un elote, if they got any.”

Game over. 

“Claro que sí, amor,” amá said. “Lupita, mija, come on. Let’s go. Lupe and your apá can have some time together to talk about…oh, you know, important things for hombres y jóvenes.” 

At these last words, apá jostled in his seat, and looked at amá. “¿De qué rayos hablas?”

But it was too late. Amá was out of the car. Before she joined her, Lupe gave me one last look—frowning, but with her chin up. She pounded her chest with a fist, scooted out of the backseat. 

I watched them walk until they disappeared behind a row of cars. 

Then, it was just us two. 

Careful not to make sudden moves, I slowly leaned back in my seat and turned toward the window. Maybe we could just sit here. Do nothing. Silent. Still. In. Vis. A. Bl—

Huh-pmmph. I sneezed—like a total doofus. 

“Salud,” apá said instinctually.

“Gracias,” my own instincts prompted. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. 

*

I don’t know how long we stared at each other in that mirror. It might’ve been an hour or thirty seconds, but each moment stretched into its own, agonizing infinity: an endless row of cars crushing me, moving just enough to notice but not enough to mark any hope for relief. Without the hum of our engine or sounds of animals or street life outside, we had to fill the void.

“Lupe,” apá sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah, apá?”

“¿How’re you, este, como va…” he cleared his throat, “school?”

I sped-run through my mind, searching for the answer that would engage the question satisfactorily without prompting follow-ups. 

“Fine.”

Apá nodded. 

Not too bad, not too bad. At that moment, I figured I could return his serves for a little bit until my responses were more boring than anything else going on around us, and he’d go back to contemplating the road until amá and Lupe got back. Yessir.

Clearing his throat again, apá lobbed another: “¿y te gusta? School? You like it?”

 “Yup.” Easy peasy.

More nodding.

Killing it.

“¿Y, este…you got…a girlfriend?”

Kill me.

“What?”

“If you got a girlfriend, una novia, pues. ¿No me escuchas o qué?” He raised his voice but not in a way that made him sound mad—he sounded worried, like maybe he thought I did have a hearing issue all of sudden, maybe one requiring medical intervention. 

I said nothing but could feel time inflating the silence in the car like a balloon: either it would pop, or I’d have to. I shrugged my entire body, my knees to chest, my palms against the ceiling, in the hopes apá would hear my response without making me speak. 

He nodded and let out a breath. 

“Bueno, mijo, that’s—that’s good. School is important, like your amá is always saying, ¿qué no?”

“Yuh huh.”

“Pues,” he stretched his arms in front him, pulled some invisible rope toward his chest, rolled his neck, contorted his back, interlaced his fingers, pushed his palms out in front of his face and—I wondered if he would pop every bone and joint he had before uttering another word—let out one huge breath I don’t remember him inhaling before he finally said: nothing. 

It took me a second, but apá had no follow up. I leaned forward just in case he needed me to show him I was still waiting, but he didn’t, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him. It was like I had vanished, or like he’d lost interest. And maybe this should’ve come as a relief—a weird mercy my dad was showing me for the first time ever, at least as far as I could remember—but I got annoyed. 

He’d woken us up at an ungodly hour on a Saturday, made me and Lupe sit in the back of the car while we were stuck on the road to Coolidge, and now he had nothing to say? I don’t know what force took over, but I had to let the man know I was there and deserved some words. 

“¿Sabes qué, apá?” I could feel my chest swelling, “I don’t have a girlfriend, but that’s because you and amá freak out anytime Lupe or I show any signs that we’re actually our own people with our own lives and interests, and and and…” 

Something else took over me, then, something competing with the annoyance I felt: I didn’t want to talk about this either. I wanted to run, to hide, to scream, but not talk—at least not with my apá. 

My heart pounded in my ears, against my throat. I’d never raised my voice like that before. What would apá do?

Finally, he turned to look at me—his face like a sphynx. He opened his mouth. I braced. He took a breath. I clenched. 

BWWNNNN. BWWNNNN.

I jumped.

The car behind us honked again. 

BWWNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN.

Apá looked up at it, and I turned to see, too. The driver waved at us from his seat. 

I turned back to the road ahead. The cars were moving. 

I turned to look at apá. 

“Let’s go get your amá and sister, ¿te parece?” He said, his face softened. 

I nodded. 

I sat back in my seat, turned to see the desert pass us at a steady pace. I thought about Fina, wondering whether I could text her or if she was still mad at me. 

“Give my thanks to your amiga for keeping us in the loop,” apá said

Our eyes met briefly in the rearview.

“Sí, apá. I will”