Page 1 of Capicú Summer

PROLOGUE

The past…

Adriana

Quinceañera Summer

Summertime in Altura is the season that I wait for all year. Nothing beats the BBQs, the fireworks, the late nights with friends while the city hums like it’s alive. Altura Heights is the city that never sleeps. A little island, home to anyone who knows how to make noise—play good dominoes and eat good food.

That’s the law around these streets.

Every summer, we host the ultimate block party and the Domino Tournament. Each street sends players to represent them, and the games go on until the last capicú. For as long as I can remember, it’s always come down to us—the Santos and the Cruz families. Which created a rivalry as old as my Abuelo⁠*. And this year I’m fifteen, finally old enough to join the block party instead of watching from the sidelines.

I smile at the thought.

My gaze falls to the bodega across the street. My heart fills with joy. Small bubbles of anticipation tingle through me. Finally, I get to play against Lenny. He’s a year older and so cool. And I’m totally obsessed.

Usually I have to sneak around, find a real excuse to be around him. But with the game going on… I wouldn’t need one. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t be allowed to even look his way. Our families can’t stand each other. His family owns the bodega right across from ours. We’re practically born rivals. They’re Puerto Ricans, and we’re Dominicans. We say concon, they say pegao. That alone is enough to spark a rivalry. I’m not really sure when it all started, all I know is that this beef is older than my mother. And despite the tension between the two families, we always come together when it matters.

Around here, they call us La Pequeña Isla.

And today it’s the first day of summer, which means I have ninety days to make Lenny fall for me.

I stretch before my closet, feeling the tension leave my body as my eyes scan for something to wear. It needs to be hot enough to turn heads but comfortable enough for me to double-dutch with the girls. Excitement tingles beneath my skin, making it hard to stand still. I’m so jittery that my fingers tremble. Reaching inside my closet, I settle for a black skort and a white halter top with red gems that spell out the word ‘Bebe’ on the front. My toes wiggle against the beige shaggy carpet, the small fibers tickling my skin. The smell of salami frito that drifts from downstairs, mixing with the fresh-brewed coffee, makes my stomach rumble, causing me to frown. Good thing there’s food, I’m starving. Quickly, I begin to get dressed. There’s no time to waste when you’re running on limited time.

Picking up my brush, I start to part my curls, making sure to smooth gel over the front and pull back just enough to make a little headband out of my own hair. The rest I leave out. Next, I bend down and grab the mousse, scrunching it through my curls until they bounce. Lifting my head, I repeat the same motion, allowing them to fall at the middle of my back. My gold hoops go in last—the big ones that spell out my name in cursive—Adriana.

“ADRI!” my mom shouts from downstairs, the early morning hustle in full swing in the Santos household. I hear my older brother shuffling through the hall before he knocks softly.

“Adri, you gotta hurry,” Neno yawns, and through it continues, “We gotta open the bodega for Abuelo today.”

My shoulders sag; so much for double-dutching and trying to get Lenny’s attention. I huff out a breath of disappointment. All I wanted was to jump and look cute for the hottie across the street. What a drag. But you know what they say, everything happens for a reason…

And boy would I later find out the reason…

You see, if I had been double-dutching… I would have changed my love story. How naive of me to think this summer would be the same. Holy shit was I wrong. That day changed everything for me.

Boring.

This is why I hate opening the bodega. There’s nothing to do after the morning coffee rush except for cleaning and waiting around for the next customer. Which could take forever, since they just opened up that fancy gas station up the street. It’s been three hours since we opened the shop, and I’m bored out of my mind. I hum to myself, trying to get myself going while watering the pothos plants that adorn the front.

“Pero corazón, eres el domino,” I sing out the lyrics, spinning around using the tip of the hose like a microphone. “Y tu partida el Capicú.”

With that, I whip my head back and forth, feeling the rush of excitement course through me. I finally managed to find the best ending hook to the song. It’s corny, but it matches the vibe. And since it’ll be my first time performing in front of everyone, I want the song to be unique and perfect. I practically buzz with anticipation.

Heat pricks my skin. Sweat trickles down the length of my spine and temples. It’s unbearable today, the summer sun roasting us alive. Raising the hose, I bring it to my face and wet it, as I continue to sing to myself.

Once I’m done with my imaginary performance, the beat of the song, “La Sensasion Del Bloque,” brings me back to barrio and the plants I’m sure I’m overwatering. I move my hips, pretending that it’s Lenny I’m grinding against. Lost in the rhythm, unaware of my surroundings, because obviously, I’m just killing time, waiting for my mom to get back with Abuelo so I can leave.

The thing is, fate has a funny way of setting the pieces in place long before a match is about to start.

“Yo, watch it.” A deep voice pulls me from my dance, strands of curls sticking to the thick gloss on my lip when I stop. I look down at my hose, then see a pair of black Air Forces I’ve just soaked. Something tugs at my chest, causing my pulse to skyrocket. The nerves have me biting down on my lip and fighting the urge to laugh. Mentally preparing myself to meet the stranger’s gaze, I slowly let my eyes travel up, only to be met with a scowl.

One that sends my heart into sudden stop, drop, and lock, before shifting into an accelerated race. I swallow hard, trying to get a hold of myself, because what the actual fuck. Matching his scowl, I arch a brow and pop my hip to the side. Using my best nonchalant tone, praying that he can’t see the blush I feel creeping up my cheeks, I ask, “Why are you standing there?”

Molten lava floods through me when he lifts his left brow, one that sports a gnarly scar. Jagged and white against his tan complexion. Annoyance flashes over his rich brown eyes. And I melt like butter on a hot sunny day.

“Why am I standing here?” He points at himself. “Me?”