Cuco

It’s hard to do last-minute homework an hour past midnight when your Mexican neighbors drink, shout, and blare mariachi music all night long. The bass shakes the house. Their laughter slips between the beats. Yet you can’t help but nod your head and tap your feet to the rhythm.

I cannot.

Even an hour past the essay’s due date, I whistle along the music, letting it carry me far from homework...work...life. The world runs on its own schedule, always in a hurry, with no regard for whoever it tramples over—so cold and merciless. Yet I can’t crumble. I don’t have the privilege. So, for a moment, I’ll brush aside life and flow with the music—let my soul dance freely. A moment can be beautiful...

Until it is not.

The music stops. The bass softens. The laughter dies.

A scream rips through the house. Blood-curling. Sudden. I slam my laptop shut and leap from the chair, racing down the hallway to my little brother’s room. I push the door open to find him thrashing beneath his Spider-Man blanket, screaming. “David!” I shout, yanking the blanket off him. His arms flail, his body jerks, and I wrestle his arms into my embrace. He’s soaked in sweat, but I don’t care. “David,” I repeat softly, rocking him, my chin resting in his hair. His eyelids flutter. Slowly, he wakes up.

I pull back and meet his gaze. Confused. Scared.

“¿Qué paso?” I ask.

He frowns and buries his face into my chest again. “El Cucuy,” he whispers. “He’s going to take you away—everybody.” His body shakes. Sobs wreck him.

I hush him, pressing him closer. “It’s okay. Estás bien. I’m here.”

The hallway light spills into the room. Shadows stretch across the wall. I turn around to see Mama y Papa standing there. Mama, wearing her pajamas; Papa, wearing his work uniform. Creases line Mama’s face. She hurries to the bed, takes David from my arms, and holds him tight, showering him with kisses. I step to the doorway beside Papa. Next to him, my shadow seems small while his stretches long, broad... heavy.

For a moment, we stand in silence, watching Mama comfort David. He turns to me—his eyes tired—and asks, “¿Por qué llora?”

I shrug. “El Cucuy.”

Papa laughs, soft and warm. “Ah ha. El Cucuy.”

I wake up to dawn’s blue light. The weight on my eyes fights to keep me down, but I push myself to my feet. The clock reads six—thirty minutes until the bus arrives. Fifteen is all I need. I spit out the last of the toothpaste, comb my hair—maybe I’ll save some money for a haircut—and head downstairs.

Mama is awake, still in her pajamas, cooking eggs and fixing up a salad. Papa sleeps, working nights, and sleeping during the day. David sits quietly at the table, hair neatly combed, polo shirt ironed, rosary around his neck, slouching slightly as he sniffs back tears. I pat his back as I pass, heading to the refrigerator for bread and jam, then toward the toaster.

“He’s still crying?” I ask Mama.

Her back is to me as she flips eggs. “Yeah, he doesn’t want to go to school.” She turns to him. “Vas a ir a la escuela, eh.”

David cries, “No, Mama! Please! El Cucuy—”

“¡Ya!” She throws her hand with the spatula up. “No más. You’re going to school, and that’s final. Now quiet. You’re a fifth grader—a big boy. Look at Fredo. He doesn’t cry.”

I pause, toast in my mouth. Mama glares. I turn to David and flex my arms. “Mm Mm Mmm (I’m a big boy).”

David laughs, and I drop my toast. Mama smacks my arm. “Watch it!” she scolds. She finishes cooking, serves the plates, and we eat quickly. The clock reads six-twenty. I sling on my backpack, kiss Mama’s cheek, and wait by the door for David. He takes a while gathering his things.

By six-twenty-five, we’re ready. I grab his hand, and we walk briskly. Passing the neighbor’s house, we nod to Señor Hernandez, sitting on his porch with coffee in one hand and a revolver in his lap. He’s never spoken to us but gives a silent nod. The Mexican flag waves proudly beside him. I wonder what he’s thinking, but I never have the time to ask. When we reach the bus stop, it’s a ghost stop. Only one other kid waits there—brown hair, blue eyes—a nice kid named Max. He’s usually talkative, but today he doesn’t even look our way.

The bus is late. The sky hangs a twilight hue. The wind sings the morning blues. It’s cold. David trembles beside me, hands stuffed in his pockets, hood pulled tight over his head. I check my phone. Five minutes late. I glance at Max—still turned away. Then I feel a tug at my hoodie. I look down at David.

His brown eyes flutter. His lips quiver. “C-Can we go home, Free?”

I sigh and peek once more at the brown-haired boy. Nothing’s changed. I turn back to David, crouch to his level, take his hands in mine. “Déjame preguntarte algo,” I say softly. “Why don’t you want to go to school? It’s just eight hours. Then you’ll be back home.”

David’s eyes widen. He turns away, silent.

“It’s because all of our friends are gone.”

I spin toward Max. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “They just stopped coming. The teachers say it's because their families moved, but I don’t believe them.”

“El Cucuy se los comió,” David says. “He ate them. H-he's going to eat Miguel too, then he’s going to eat you, papa, y mama.”

An all-black SUV with dark window tint cruises past us, an American flag sticker slapped on the back window. We all track it as it passes. Then the school buses arrive. David’s bus pulls up front of mine. The bus door hisses open. The driver waves. I straighten David’s hoodie and pat his head. I search his eyes, trying to find the right words to say. In the end, I find nothing. “Ándale pues.” I nudge him forward. He doesn’t move.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to. I’m scared.”

I freeze, unsure of what to do. Then I crouch to his level and take hold of the rosary around his neck, lifting the crucifix to his face. “You see this?” I ask. He nods. “Dios will protect you as long as you carry him in your heart.” I tap the crucifix against his chest. “Okay?”

He nods again.

“Now go learn,” I say. “Be safe.”

He hugs me and runs onto the bus. At the top step, looking back to me, he says, “Te quiero mucho.”

I watch the doors fold shut. “Te quiero mucho.”

The sun sits high in the sky. Its warmth is pressing on my skin as I wait for David at the bus stop. Yet the neighborhood is still silent, still sleeping, or perhaps hiding. Señor Hernandez passed by earlier as I exited the bus. Not sure where he was heading, but he seemed occupied mentally. Maybe he simply needed a walk. Maybe I simply need to walk. Yeah, I’ll do that this afternoon. Max’s mother—a middle-aged white woman—stands beside me. I’ve tried to make small talk but I’ve yet to succeed.

We wait in silence.

The bus arrives and the door opens. Max walks straight to his mother, who grabs him by the hand and walks home without a glance in my direction. David walks out. He’s slouching, his hood covering his face, and walks right past me without a word. I catch up and walk beside him. I don’t say anything. We just walk, walk, and walk like our parents did before us.

As we arrive on our street, Señor Hernandez’s Mexican flag stands tall beneath the sunlight. A bird perches on the pole, picking at its feathers. Across the street, the Ochoa’s mariachi music spills through the street. Those people are always partying. Cars and trucks crowd their driveway, their lawn, and even the curb.

I notice a familiar car parked in front of our house. It belongs to Tía Ophelia.

David says nothing. He’s usually exited to see our aunt, but today that light is gone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping in front of him.

He stops and pulls his hood back. Tears stream down his cheeks.

“No fui Miguel a escuela...” He clutches my hand. “Let’s leave... with Mama y Papa...let’s go somewhere far away. Ask them to take us to Mexico. They listen to you. Please, Free.”

To Mexico...

David and I have never been there. Our family has never been able to afford the trip. We speak the language, but our Spanish is broken. We were born here. Our friends, our family—our lives—are here. Mexico feels like a story told to us, not a place we belong. Yet would we have to flee to that story to feel safe? Leave everything we know and run toward uncertainty?

I look at the rosary around his neck.

“Let’s go...”

David’s eyes widen.

“Let’s go inside the house,” I say. “Our home.”

I pat his shoulder and take his hand. It’s all I can do for him. I’m not Superman. I don’t have a cape to shield him from bullets. All I have is a hand to guide him through the world.

Our front door is open. Only the screen door separates the outside from the living room. Inside, Papa sits in his armchair while Mama perches on the armrest beside him. Across from them, Tía Ophelia and Tío Jessie sit on the sofa near the window. They all turn toward us as we step inside.

“Hola,” I say, hugging my aunt.

She pulls me into a tight embrace, kissing my cheek. “Oh, mi guapo sobrino. ¿Cómo has estado?

“¡Bien, tía!” I kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful as always.”

She blushes. “Gracias.” She turns toward my uncle. “You should take notes, cabrón. Say hi to your nephews.”

As she moves to hug David, I walk toward my uncle. He stands—only a few inches shorter than me—and ruffles my hair.

“Damn fool, how tall are you now? How have you been?”

I brush his hand away playfully. “I’m good. Just focusing on school.”

We laugh and talk about school, girls, and my future before he turns his attention to David. I glance toward my parents, surprised to see Papa home instead of work. He looks relaxed, content with a beer bottle resting in his hand as he watches television. Mama, though, fiddles with her fingers; her face is tight with worry as she watches my aunt and unclefuss over David. Her eyes look drained from behind her glasses.

I open my mouth to ask what is going on. Mama beat me to it.

“Take David to the park. The adults need to discuss important things.”

I start to protest, but the glare she gives me shuts my mouth. I run upstairs, grab my soccer ball and cones, and hurry back down. By the time I return, all the adults are seated again, and David waits by the door. I open the front door and motion for him to step out. As I pull the door close behind us, I hear my uncle say one phrase:

“La Migra...”

At the park, I stand in goal while David pretends to be Chicharito playing in the World Cup final for Mexico. On the walk here, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grows up.

“I want to be like Chicharito,” he said. “And win the World Cup for Mexico.”

"What about USMNT?” I asked.

“No. Mexico.”

So, I let him be Chicharito. I let him represent Mexico. I let him score the game-winning goal that makes Mexico champions of the world. He runs arcross the grass with his arms spread wide, shouting, “!Goal!”

I celebrate with him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the all-black SUV cruising down the street. It’s the fourth time I’ve seen it pass since we’ve arrived at the park. David and I are the only ones here. No parent brings their kids to parks anymore. The SUV turns the corner and disappears. I tell David it’s time to go home. He frowns but doesn’t argue.

The park is a ten-minute walk from the house. We walk in silence along the sidewalk.

Behind us, the SUV follows at a slow, creeping pace. I sneak a glance at the occupants, trying to see their faces, but they wear masks and dark glasses. David’s hand trembles in mine. I tell him to keep his head down, and I do the same.

A shout erupts across the street. It’s Señor Hernandez. He screams obscenities at the SUV in Spanish. For a moment, he stops and locks eyes with me. A smile forms across his wrinkled face. He gives a short nod before returning to his shouting.

The SUV speeds forward and stops just short of the old man. Multiple armed men in masks jump out, guns raised, yelling for Señor Hernandez to get on the ground.

David whimpers and scrambles to the other side of me. I pull him close, shielding him the best I can.

Señor Hernandez keeps shouting—about his rights, about serving in the army, about how he’s done more for this country than those “bastards.” One masked man tries to restrain him, but the old man shoves him off. Another man, gun trained on him, yells for him to stop resisting. A third tackles him to the pavement. Now two men are on him.

They punch him. Kick him. Pistol-whip him.

Señor Hernandez curls into himself, trying to shield his head, still shouting, still fighting. David and I are nearly around the corner when the man holding the gun suddenly yells, “Gun! Gun! Gun!” over and over—then unloads his gun into Señor Hernandez.

I clap my hands over David’s ears and pull him into my chest as we turn the corner.

The gunfire stops.

The shouting stops.

The fighting stops.

The world settles back into its familiar silence.

As we arrive on our street, the mariachi music keeps playing. Cars crowd the neighbor's house just as before. The Mexican flag lies crumpled on the pavement, riddled with bullet holes. A bird pecks at it.

Our front door hangs open, splintered, and broken.

Inside, furniture is overturned. Pictures are ripped from the walls. Vases lie shattered across the floor. On the armrest of Papa’s chair, Mama’s glasses sit untouched. On the coffee table beside it, Papa’s half-empty beer bottle waits where he left it.

David hurls his rosary onto the floor, then buries his face into my shirt and screams.

I stare at the rosary. Every part of me wants to scream too.

But it’s hard to cry when the neighbor’s mariachi music keeps playing.