North Of Happy

CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments: (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#uda688454-fc94-5f12-a98e-eb95253a8a72)

THE PERFECT TACO

2 ounces pork al pastor

1 teaspoon lime juice

1 slice pineapple

1 pinch chopped onion

1 pinch chopped cilantro

1 warm corn tortilla

Salsa, to taste

METHOD:

The day before Felix died, he’d flown in from Asia craving tacos.

As usual, the two of us and Mom went to our favorite taco joint, a chain in a neighborhood near our house. It was one of those places that offered English menus and had TVs in overhead corners. We gorged on every kind of taco on the menu, made hungrier by Felix’s cravings.

But when the waiter cleared our plates, Felix wasn’t satisfied. The tacos, he said, were overpriced and bland, the atmosphere too sterile. “You love food so much, I’m shocked you still come to this place,” Felix told me casually. I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but I also knew I’d never be able to enjoy the restaurant again.

“Meet me outside of school tomorrow. I’ll find us some real tacos.”

And the next day, there he was, wearing that threadbare once-white shirt that seemed on the brink of disintegration. Even now that he’s dead, that same shirt stained red with his blood, I always think of it as it was then: colored not by the violence of Felix’s death, but by the shape of his life. He claimed to wash it in the shower himself, which grossly explained the yellowish hue of old sweat and cheap soap. In that one color I can still see my brother in all his exuberance.

“So, where we going?” I asked. I’d been antsy all day, eager to spend time with him before he ran off again to wherever the hell he was going next.

Felix just smirked and led us toward the hospital down the street, where there’s a “secure” taxi stand everyone from school uses. Instead of asking for the price to a certain destination, though, he took us past the huddled taxi drivers and around the corner, into unexplored territory. The neighborhood around the campus was not particularly safe. Rumored to be gangland, even. The bodyguards who hung out outside my international school were a constant presence, though Felix always insisted it was rich-people paranoia.

“Uh, where we going?” I instinctively reached for my phone. I’d heard teachers got mugged here on the way to the subway. One of the houses on the walk was rumored to be a drug dealer’s, painted bright blue to stand out against the drab gray buildings around it.

“There’s a taco place I saw on the way up here. I bet it’s way better than that shit we ate last night.”

I readjusted my backpack. “I thought you used to like Farolito.”

“Sure, when I was in the bubble.” Felix slung an arm around my shoulder, slight pang of body odor coming off him. “The world is a much bigger place than you realize,” he said with a smile. “We’re going to explore it.”

We sat down at one of three plastic-tablecloth-covered tables, and a small, smiling man walked over with two menus. Felix waved him away, calling out our order: two tacos al pastor, everything on them (pineapple, onion, cilantro, salsa; I’m sure the words strung together could make a poem).

Then he asked me for a pen, and took a napkin from the metal holder in the middle of the table. He drew three imperfect columns, labeling them Restaurant/Stand, Location, Reaction. “One taco each per spot. We don’t stop until we find the perfect one.”

I could almost see the day ahead as if it were shot by the Food Network, some Anthony Bourdain–narrated exploration of the city. I tried to contain my glee.

The tacos arrived and Felix clapped his hands, smiling warmly at the waiter/owner. The man smiled back and asked what else he could bring us. I was about to stammer some apology for only getting one taco, maybe cave in and get something else, but Felix spoke up. “Nothing today, thanks. We are on a quest, un tacotón.”

We paid the miniscule bill, recorded our reaction (meh), followed the curving street down to a massive set of stairs and then to a subway stop. It marked the first time I had ever been on the metro, I was embarrassed to realize. To my surprise, the metro was not the dangerous hellscape I’d envisioned. It was actually kind of soothing—to move around the city without the ubiquitous traffic, the manic chorus of horns employed at the slightest annoyance or whim, to disappear into a station and reemerge in a part of the city I barely even recognized.

Toward the southern end of the city, in a neighborhood called Coyoacán, we sat at a small place with red plastic tablecloths and a taco named the Chupacabra. “We should get that,” I said. “It’s their specialty.”

Felix waved the little columned napkin in my face. “Important research going on here, man.” He turned to the server, again asked for two al pastor, everything on them.

I rolled my eyes and asked for a beer, since I was with him and it seemed to fit the mood.