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 against the driveway. I'd 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 towards 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, 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 non-stop.   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 cream-colored 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'd piled in seven at a time and ridden around the block like a one car parade. I got to sit up in the front on my mom's lap, and Tere was sent to the backseat—she was known to have a thing for car horns. Every time we'd pass the house we'd wave at the cousins and tíos still waiting for their turn and they'd wave back to the boat full of Cuban refugees. That Cadillac was the only thing us kids could talk about all afternoon and night, until a fake Santa would show up around midnight. It was all about who-got-what presents and guessing which tío they'd suckered into wearing that hundred-year-old Santa costume after that.

This was also going to be the first year that the five of us probably wouldn't show up together. Teresa schemed on coming later with her boyfriend, Ruben, who I guess was actually her fiancé now that he'd given her a ring. They'd been going out for three years—I'd been calling him Ruby for at least two—but still, Papi had never let him come to Noche Buena before, saying he just wasn't part of the family. He hadn't been allowed to meet all the extended people until things were serious between them, and serious in my family means prometida with a ring to prove it.

Papi never figured that Tere would even try to miss our family's Noche Buena to go to Ruben's instead—that's just not done—so when my mom warned him two nights ago that Tere planned to ask him for permission, he started planning in his head all the reasons why the answer was No. He rehearsed them that night with my mom at dinner, when it was just the four of us, since Tere was at her night class at Miami-Dade.

—She's been going to our Noche Buena for twenty years, Papi said, cutting up his chicken. I don't see why that has to change now.

He had no shirt on because he'd come late from work. He'd been too hungry to shower and change before eating, so the dirty shirt got thrown over the back of the couch as he'd stomped in.

—Manuel, Mami said to him, She wants to come, but she wants to spend some time with his family, too. I think we have to compromise with her, Papi.

My mom scooped rice onto my little sister's plate, more than she'd be able to eat. Gisela sat swinging her legs under the table, trying to kick me.

—She has to do what I say, Papi said.

—Of course she does, I'm not saying she doesn't.

Mami finished serving Gisela and then started filling my plate with rice and chicken. When my dad's pissed, it's like no one's at the table except him, his food, and maybe my mom. We just watch him chew.

Mami said, Last year you told Tere that when things were more serious with Ruben, you would think about Noche Buena.

—You can't get more serious than engaged, I said, pushing my rice around.

My dad let his fork hit his plate but he didn't look at me. Like always, my mom kept talking to keep him calm.

—Ruben's family has invited her the past three years. They even asked us to come.

—I ain't going to that shit, I said. Gisela's foot finally hit my knee. I bit down on my bottom lip and looked at her until she looked away. She'd almost slid under the table to reach my leg, and she stayed there to hide from me.

—Ya, Manny. No one is talking to you, Mami said. Sit up, Gisela.

Papi just kept eating—got the food into his mouth fast, packed it in, like the rice could move from his mouth into his ears and plug them up, so he wouldn't have to listen to what Mami said. After dinner, Gisela took the dishes from the table to the sink, and Mami brought out a plate with the postre—guayaba and cream cheese on Cuban crackers, Papi's favorite. Mami had already put the cream cheese on the crackers for him.

When she brought over the plate, I could smell the perfume of the soap she's used for at least as long as I've been alive—a smell like lemons and baby powder that announced to the world Smell me, I'm clean.

—Things are different now that she has that ring, Mami told him. She let her hand fall from the back of his head to his bare shoulder.

My sister would be Mrs. Ruben Gutierrez in less then a year, and her new husband would be the first guy in our family to have ever gone to college. Ruben was at Florida International getting a degree in business or business management or something with business. So when Papi would come home from work smelling like burned paper, with tar on his pants, and if Ruben was over, he would ask him, How's business? Business okay? and he'd laugh and pretend to choke on the smell of Ruben's cologne, and Tere would get all mad.

Cracker crumbs floated in Papi's grayish goatee.

—I want her at Eva's house by seven, he said while Mami rinsed dishes in the sink, Even if she has to miss the dinner at that boy's house. She eats with us at seven.

I grabbed a cracker and a chunk of the guayaba off his plate, but he didn't say anything. I could hear him chewing hard. Mami came over and put her wet hand on his. The chain of bubbles from the dish soap slid off her hand and disappeared into a spot on the tablecloth.

Papi didn't move, but he kept chewing. Mami smiled at me. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, but coarse pieces sprung out around her head like thin wires, like her shadow was about to jump her. I smiled back, proud I'd asked Papi about driving the Integra myself, rather than going through Mami, like we always did, because she looked so tired just then.

…

On the morning of Noche Buena, I woke up and went to the kitchen, where Mami was cooking congrí and frying croquetas even though my Tía had told her not to bring anything. Gisela was picking out clothes and taking outfits, still on the hanger, to the kitchen to show my mom. She'd just turned ten, and so she took how she'd look at Noche Buena serious because she still made out with a lot of presents. Teresa had woken up early to blow out her hair and put big rollers in it so it would look straight. Mami stood behind Tere, with a thick chunk of my sister's hair in her hand and fifty pins in her mouth. She twisted Tere's hair around Velcro rollers, big as spaghetti sauce jars.

—Mami, come on. You're gonna get hair in the rice! I told her.

—Cállate, Manny, said Tere, not moving her head.

—You shut up, I told her.

—Ya, Mami said, drawing out the A. She held the pins between her teeth.

—I'm just sayin', I said, opening the fridge.

—Manny, please take a shower, Mami said. And make sure you shave. I don't want anyone saying you look dirty. And don't forget to take your senior class pictures to give to people tonight. I have too much to worry about. You don't forget.

She sounded like a pirate in the movies because of how she couldn't move her teeth.

—Alright, alright. Calm down, I said. Where's Papi?

—He went to your work to get stuff to clean the tires of the truck. I don't know why he always has to wait until the last minute to do everything. I told him we had to be at Tía Eva's by two. It's twelve thirty and he's cleaning tires!

Gisela brought in a thin purple dress and Mami shook her head No.

Then Tere made a sucking sound through her teeth because Mami had pulled too hard on her hair. Her head jerked forward in a reflex and one of her long fingernails scratched at the tugged-on spot. Tere's eyes even watered.

Mami said, Ay Dios mío, Teresita, this wouldn't hurt so much if you would just stay put.

I showered and shaved like Mami told me to, but kept a goatee, which she said was fine because it didn't look raggedy now that the lines between the mustache and chin had grown in. Eighteen years and lots of frijoles to get those to grow, she said. She had Gisela wearing a red velvet-looking dress with white ribbons all over the front, and now Mami was braiding her hair and tucking little white plastic flowers into the crisscrosses.

—She looks like a present, like she got wrapped, I said to Mami.

Gisela stuck her tongue out at me, which was her latest brat thing to do that she thought would keep her cute. I gave her the finger and Mami yelled at us both to stop. Then Mami told me to change my clothes.

—You look like a gangster. Put on a nice shirt, she said.

—This is a nice shirt.

I had on my favorite threads: a Miami Hurricanes jersey, home colors, and my new size forty-two jeans, and I even had a belt on to keep them up.

—Pónte the shirt your Abuela gave you for your birthday, the blue one with the long sleeves, and some decent pants. The black ones you use for church. Apúrate, que Papi's almost ready to go.

I changed without arguing, because we had this fight every year and every year I lost, even though wearing a long sleeved shirt when it's eighty-five degrees outside on a Miami December night just to look nice for people I see two or three times a month anyways was crazy.   Just when I had the last button done, Papi rushed by my room, keys in hand, ready to go. I could smell his Brut cologne coming and going. I threw on some Polo Sport, grabbed my Canes cap and the graduation pictures off my dresser, and followed him out to the truck.

He'd left the Tahoe right in front of the house. Papi climbed in first, careful not to touch anything but the handle to the door. He unlocked the rest of the doors from inside, and I got in and sat in my seat, behind his. My mom and Gisela came out of the house, and Mami, whose hands carried food, had Gisela digging in the purse to find the house keys.

I leaned forward, over my dad's right shoulder. His cologne was so much stronger than mine—his nose had to be burning from it.

—Hey, Papi, come on. Lemme take my car, I said.

—Manny, ya te lo dijo que we go as a family.  

I sat back, crossed my arms, and slid down in the seat. My dad adjusted the mirrors even though no one had touched them. He looked in the rearview and ran both hands through his hair, then looked down at his fingernails. He looked at me in the reflection, but moved his eyes away quick when he noticed I'd caught him watching.

—Put on your seatbelt, he said.

Right then, I hated riding in the back seat more than anything. There was no room for my legs, even with the extra room Teresa not being there gave me. Back in the days, I got in trouble because Tere would tell my dad that my knees were touching hers, like I was doing it on purpose. I'd tell her, My legs are long, and she'd say, Well maybe you need to stop growing then. And Papi would yell, Stop fighting or I'll leave both of you out in the street to walk home.

I wanted him to turn on the radio so it could stop being all quiet. But I could hear Mami getting closer, whatever she was saying muffled by the closed car doors. She had a huge square aluminum dish full of congrí in her arms, and Gisela was carrying a big plate covered with foil in one of hers.

I finally said, But you let Teresa—

 —Open the back for Mami, he said, not looking at me.

I opened my door and got out.

—Because your Tía Eva never gives these things back. Every year I ask her for them back and every year she forgets. Thank you, Papito, she said as I opened the back for her.

When I got back in the truck, my dad was looking for the Spanish radio station. I put on my seatbelt. My mom and sister climbed in.

—Don't touch the glass, he said to them.

Gisela held her hands out, fingers spread apart, then rested them on her lap. The locks slid shut.

—That food's not gonna spill back there, is it? Papi said.

—No, Manuel, vámonos, we're late already, Mami said. Her hair was smooth and down—she'd used the rollers after Tere took them out. She lowered the visor, looked in the little mirror, and started putting on her lipstick. When she was done, she stuck her whole finger in her mouth and pulled it out, and I had to look away out the window.

As we drove away from our house, I saw my Integra parked under the aluminum roof, which is where Papi normally parked the truck. I'd left it parked on the other side of our fence, where I always leave it, but Papi had moved it without saying anything. Gisela tapped me on my hand, and when I looked at her, she stuck her tongue out at me. I turned back to the window and kept looking at the shade around my car until we turned off the block.
. . .
Click here to purchase your copy of
HOW TO LEAVE HIALEAH
and read the rest of "Noche Buena."