Page 44 of Capicú Summer

I glance at my hand, six- three, three-two, two-two, a blank four, two-five, five-three and a blank six. Not the best, but decent enough. I wait for the right moment to play my tile. When one of the players drops a five-two, right there I slide my six- three into place, locking one end and keeping our sixes open.

“Damn, Adri done blocked him,” my cousin shouts over the music, celebrating with a shot.

My mom claps from the sidelines, cheering alongside my aunt and Rosita. “That’s our girl.”

San Lucas tries to recover, but Yael is already two steps ahead. He plays three-three, cutting through their options. The man curses under his breath, as he reaches into the boneyard.

Don Rogelio chuckles from his chair. “Those two learned from the best.”

Looking up at Yael, I catch his shrug—confirming that Abuelo did in fact also teach him how to play. A question quickly forms in my head, when? If I was the one who taught him every Thursday night. I keep the question to myself, tucking it away to ask when all of this is over. For now, I focus on playing. Four players sit at the table, one from each side, though technically two from the South side. Which is Yael and I, but only one of us is moving forward. Everyone watches the game, even the random bystanders in the streets.

Some shout advice, others laugh between sips of beers.

My gaze sweeps over the players, as their fingers hover, and pluck; mine follow suit. The rhythm of the game is hypnotic—the click of dominoes, the scrape of the chairs, and the hum of the music behind it all. This is home. This is Altura Heights.

We play for what feels like hours though it’s really just a solid hour. This isn’t just a single round—it’s a points match. The first person to reach the target wins, and of course, the runner-up close to it. Out of the four, only two move forward. The winner today will go on to represent every side that makes Altura Heights.

Yael’s hand moves fast, yet deliberately. He plays four-five, then five-five, stacking points like he’s building a tower. The other players try to keep up, but their hands are no good—too many blanks and mismatched ends that result in them digging into the boneyard. The score continues to climb.

160… 175…190.

I’m breathing down his neck. For the first time since our grandparents played, the South Side will face itself in the final tournament. We’re killing the competition, clearing every block, every rival street… In the end, it comes down to us. Yael and I—the last two standing for the hood.

“One ninety five,” Manny shouts. “One more papi!”

We continue to play, when Yael glances at me with that sheepish grin that makes my pulse skip and my thighs clench. “You ready, mi Ciela?”

I nod, sliding my last tile—a blank-six.

“Capicú!” Yael shouts, shooting to his feet, offering me his hand. I take it, rising like a feather caught in the wind. Light with no worry.

He leans in, voice low and teasing. “Open up, baby… time to fill you up.” The way he says it tells me he’s insinuating something far more enjoyable than what he’s about to do. The crowd around us laughs, also catching his drift. My cheeks flush hot, but I shake it off and tip my head back so they can waterfall the Hennessy into my waiting mouth. It’s tradition. The winners must take their Henny Fall.

The liquid burns as it slides down my throat. Everyone cheers, the music swells and Rosita announces that the last pincho is off the grill and it’s time to eat. My stomach growls in protest, the sazón drifts through the air, coating my tongue before I even taste it. Hookah smoke curls upward as we walk toward the small front steps.

Yael grabs a plate, piling it high with food. I mean he’s got sandwiches, three empanadas, four pinchos, ensalada de papa, quenepas—like he likes to call them. I prefer limoncillo but I digress, and at the very top are alcapurrias. The plate looks ridiculous, overflowing like he’s feeding half the block.

He grins, handing me a fork and a paper plate.

“You know I like to eat,” he says, flashing that shit eating grin that makes me laugh even when I try not to. We eat on the steps, plates balanced on our knees, the music pulsing through the block. Rosita passes out napkins, Manny refills our cups, and someone starts a chant that turns into a dembow.

Yael nudges me with his shoulder. “Come, Ciela, eat. I wanna dance.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s already grabbing the plate and pulling me up. The song now playing is “Suavemente” by Elvis Crespo, and the crowd begins to dance. We move together, our hips catching the rhythm, laughter bubbling between us. It’s like all the years we spent apart are long forgotten and now replaced with a comfortable joy that feels endless.

The night stretches well into the early morning. Yael spins me once, twice, and then catches me against his chest.

“Hey,” he whispers, his hand holding on to mine before bringing the heel of my palm to his nose. Inhaling my skin, like a drug. My racing heart settles into a steady rhythm when our eyes connect, and I know now that he’s my home. Not Altura, like I always believed. I’ve been homesick for so long, blinded to the truth that my home has always been inside his heart.

* Comadres - godmother

* “Cuando yo muera, esto es para eso. Curar el dolor con el alcohol.” - This is for when I die. To cure the pain with the alcohol.

* Cabezonas - big headed

* “Tu boca es mala suerte,” - Your mouth is bad luck.

* A mi lado, mi Ciela - Beside me, my Ciela.