He wags a finger in my face. “Do you know what Jack Weigel’s son did this past summer? He worked for a banking firm downtown.”

“Besides playin’ football two times a day this summer, I’ve had a job.”

He shakes his head in disappointment. “You call going to that run-down body shop a job?”

“Sí.”

“Don’t delude yourself. Working at the body shop is a hobby at best, Victor. How much does Isa pay you?” Papá asks. “Minimum wage?”

I shrug. “Sometimes less.”

“You want to make minimum wage the rest of your life?” he asks, disgust laced in his voice. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll build you a choza in our backyard so you can live in it and get a taste of what it feels like to live on minimum wage.”

“She’s familia,” I say, and hope to leave it at that. It’s hard, because my veins are starting to fire up and my body is getting rigid. As much as I tell myself that his words mean nothing to me, my body reacts uncontrollably.

“Isa is trash,” he spits out, his top lip curling.

Stay in control.

I walk past him and step out of the house into the fresh air.

I drive the old rusty motorcycle Isa gave me as payment last summer when I worked for her. It’s not long before I cross the tracks and head to Fairfield, the same town as our rival school. I ride through the streets, completely aware that it’s enemy territory but acting like I don’t give a shit. Well, I actually don’t give a shit. If someone wants to come at me, I’m game. Let’s just say I’ve never backed down from a fight. I may have even started a couple.

Or more than a couple, but who’s counting.

It’s not that I like to use my fists, but I’m used to it. When I was younger, I would cower in fear when someone picked on me. One day I was at my cousin’s wedding, and mi papá pulled me aside after some pendejo at the wedding pushed me. Papá grabbed my shirt and told me I needed to toughen up if I ever wanted to be a real man.

After a while, he stopped being my hero.

And I became an asshole.

“You’re late,” Isa says to me as soon as I step in the shop.

“So fire me.” I slip into my blue work coveralls hanging on the wall by the back office.

She whips a dirty rag at me. “You know I can’t fire you, pendejo. You’re the only one who’ll work for a hot meal, a couple of bucks for gas, and a beat up ol’ motorcycle that ain’t worth the price of gas you put in it.”

Isa looks tough with her hair pulled into a tight ponytail and coveralls that were definitely made for a dude twice her size. That, on top of the Latino Blood gang tattoos she got when she was in high school, makes her look like one tough Latina.

I’ve got to give Isa props, though. She didn’t know shit about cars before Enrique, the guy who previously owned the place, died in some sort of gang warfare. Supposedly he was shot execution-style right behind the front desk of the body shop. In his will, he left the place to Isa. He also left her the debt on the place. Instead of selling it, she’s been determined to learn everything she can about being a mechanic to keep this place running.

Two cars are on the racks. One is an ’82 Mustang needing new brakes, and the other is a beat-up old F150 that needs an engine rebuild.

“Here,” she says, handing me the work orders for the cars. “Start with the Mustang, ’cause that’s a fast turnaround and I can use the cash.” She pauses and then adds, “I’m behind four hundred bucks on this month’s mortgage payment.”

“Maybe stop givin’ me a couple of bucks for gas,” I tell her as I walk over to the tool chest and pull out what I need. I’ll work for free and she knows it. Being at the auto shop is where I want to be whether I get paid or not. It’s my escape. “Or sell the place and move on.”

“I can’t do that,” she says, pushing her shoulders back as if that’ll make her look and act tougher. “I need to keep this place open. For me.”

And for Enrique, but she won’t admit it.

“Don’t stress,” I tell her. “I’ll put fliers around town and drum up business.”

Her harsh features soften just a little. “You’re too good to me, Vic. I don’t deserve you.”

Deserve me? “Hell, Isa, I’m an asshole.”

“I know. But you’re the nicest asshole I’ve ever come across. Now get back to work,” she says as she playfully punches me in the stomach.