I’m itching to escape to the dance floor. To let the bass travel from the floor, through my shoes, into my bones. To pulse with the vibrations . . . oohm, tss, oohm, tss, oohm . . .

  Aida walks to the restroom and I jump up from the couch and conveniently have to go, too.

  I whisper to her while we wait in the hallway for Belen to come out of the restroom. “Aida, it’s getting late. We’ll be at the club for less than two hours before we have to leave.”

  Aida has been having a little too much fun curling up to Alejandro, who’s been flashing a proud, wide smile all night. But I know Aida loves to dance.

  A techno-pop cumbia starts playing on the radio, and Aida and I simultaneously gawk at each other. Aida takes to head popping and taps her foot. My hips begin to sway, and my hair tickles my waist. Soon we’re full-on dancing and snorting out laughter in the hallway. Beto and Alejandro, on their way back from the kitchen, stop to catcall and banter. I catch Mauro craning his neck from his spot on the couch.

  When Aida comes out of the restroom, she marches to the living room. “All right, guys, let’s get going to the disco,” she yells over the group. “Vámonos a bailar,” she singsongs.

  The group replies with a collective Let’s just hang out here in both English and Spanish.

  Aida shrugs and gives me an I tried look. My spirits tank.

  An old grandfather clock in Alejandro’s living room announces it’s one a.m. Zulema, who drank the most, is fighting to keep her eyes open. She falls asleep, leaning on Mauro. He inches his way from underneath her, replaces himself with a pillow, and leaves her lying on the couch. His eyes meet mine. He lifts his eyebrows and nods toward outside.

  Mauro walks out and I follow. Aida, now in Alejandro’s arms, giggles when we walk past her.

  Outside, we lean against Aida’s car.

  “Que bonito cabello,” Mauro says in a dreamy voice. What beautiful hair. “Y largo.” And long.

  “Y el tuyo,” I reply. And yours.

  What? So we notice each other’s hair. It’s a hair-person thing.

  “Me gustan las chaparritas,” he says.

  I laugh because I have no reply to his thing for short girls.

  He switches to English. “Rosa. Pretty name.”

  All right, dude, stop the compliments while you’re ahead.

  He slides closer and his soft-looking lips are irresistible. I lean in. But just as he moves in, there’s movement to the right of us. Zulema has woken up and she’s stomping our way. I brace myself for whatever garbage is going to spew from that mouth of hers, because it’d be hard to miss the compromising position Mauro and I are in. Instead, my mouth drops when she digs her fingers into his arm. “I was looking for you,” she growls, dragging him away.

  Mauro looks torn but lets himself be dragged away.

  I’m left alone in the ultraquiet neighborhood. What am I doing out here? Trying to get with a jerk when I really just came to have a night out with the girls, that’s what. The magic bubble pops in my face—the one that must’ve been surrounding the guy. No amount of gorgeous hair, lips, or eyes is going to take that pitiful scene out of my mind. If I’m a big faker, this guy here says move over.

  Heat builds up on my neck and rushes to my face, some kind of shame for being so gullible, I guess. It feels almost like whenever I see that look in Mom’s eyes. She truly believes that I’m lost to this world, convinced her newfound faith can save her from whatever pain and suffering she’s ever gone through. I try not to be hard on my mom. It’s so unfair, though. Why does she have to fall into something that mandates blind obedience, even when it’s clearly not right? Why does she have to start morphing into the exact opposite of who I feel I am?

  I suddenly feel really tired. I’d rather be home now. We’re obviously not going to the club anymore.

  Aida comes out of the house with wide eyes and a question-mark face. “What happened?” she asks. “Zulema’s in there yelling her head off at Mauro.”

  I shrug. “She came and dragged him away.”

  “Oh, snap!” Aida shakes her head. “He doesn’t even want her anymore. How embarrassing. Que vergüenza for her.”

  To me it’s Mauro who needs to stop being so wussy about telling this obsessed girl the truth. Gosh, she is totally obsessed. And, as Aida mentioned, she does look so bad doing it. Meanwhile, Mauro was out here all sneaky trying to get with me. My stomach knots again. I feel kind of bad for Zulema now. “I’m done, Aida. Ya vámonos.” Let’s go.

  “Okay, okay.” Aida shakes her hands in front of her. “I’ll make the girls leave.”

  I pop open the trunk to grab another pan dulce while Aida goes back into the house.

  “Let’s go, bitches!” I hear her shouting inside, using her signature musical tone. It’s followed by boos and something unintelligible from Zulema.

  There’s only one lamppost out here so I pull out the Tupperware from the trunk to get a better view of what’s left. In the moonlight, something gleams inside the trunk, something nestled inside the hollow of a tire that the container was resting on. I move my fingertips in to touch the tip that juts out and feel cool metal. My arm jerks back and a strange half squeal, half squawk escapes me. Like a lurking crocodile, there lies a rifle—a gun inside of Aida’s trunk.

  A chill races over my body in spite of the heat. I take a step back and look around me. Does Aida know?

  The realization hits me like I’ve been slapped. My parents were talking about this last month as the news ran on their usual Spanish network. The newscaster on Univision spoke about people in trouble for carrying a gun into Mexico. I only remember bits of their conversations, something about a new law or stricter laws, not sure. But there was jail time involved.

  Mom’s voice booms in my head. “It’s getting more dangerous across the border,” she’d said, worry creasing a storm on her face. And then there was yesterday’s sermon about something bad happening to me if I kept acting like a wild child.

  “Crap,” I mutter and my surroundings start to spin. I could be at home asleep. I could be finishing up an extra-credit assignment and then waking up to the smell of the chorizo and eggs Mom makes on Sunday mornings. I think of my cat, who’s probably curled up on my bed, waiting for me at home right now. Mom let me keep her when she showed up at our door, begging for food. Mom has always let me keep animals and bought me plenty when I asked. Even back when we were so poor that we had to get help from the government to have food to eat. I bet every bag of food for my many cats, guinea pigs, lizards, hamsters, hermit crabs, fish, turtles, and rabbits—even though she bought the cheapest kind—was hard for her to come by.

  Instead of snuggling with my cat tonight, I might end up in jail. Great. Just great.

  I hold on to the car while the world comes back to focus. Aida walks out with Belen. Zulema is behind them, pulling Mauro along. I open my mouth to tell them about the gun, but then stop, not sure if Aida will freak if she isn’t aware of it. I push the rifle down, deeper into the tire center, and slam the trunk with shaky hands, then hop into the back seat.

  We wait in the car while Zulema continues showering Mauro with kisses outside. I’m not even annoyed anymore. That smooth metal is the only thing on my mind. My heart palpitates in my chest.

  Zulema slurs. “Promise you’ll call.”

  “Sí, mujer, yo te llamo,” Mauro replies with stiff lips. Yes, woman, I’ll call you. He nudges Zulema inside the car.

  “Adiós, chicos,” Aida says, gliding her hand back and forth theatrically as we drive off.

  “Can’t believe you made us leave so early, Aida.” Zulema’s like a lethargic, fire-breathing dragon. If it were winter, the window that she’s mean-staring out of would be fogged up. “Next weekend, we’re coming back and getting here earlier,” she proclaims.

  Aida rolls her eyes. “We can’t all get home past three a.m. like you.”

  As we get closer to the border, we go through streets so dark they feel like tunnels, weak little lampposts flickering at their ends. I almost expect el Cucuy to jump out of a corner and get us and never let me get back to my friendless but safe existence back home.

  “Man, it’s scary on these streets,” I whisper.

  Belen punches my shoulder semi-playfully. “Stop scaring me and shit.”

  Nearing the bridge, the street vendors push their two-wheeled carts mighty close to the cars.

  “Call one of them over so I can buy some Chiclets,” Zulema says.

  “No way. You buy from one and we’ll be mobbed by the rest,” Aida hisses.

  Belen the gum expert jumps in. “Why you even like that gum? That shit’s nasty. It gets rock hard after like three chews.”

  “Yeah, but those three chews are the bomb,” Zulema answers.

  Secretly, I like Chiclets, too. I even like how the gum becomes hard for some reason. I want to buy some, but, by the way Aida’s hunching over the steering wheel and revving it up anytime a vendor gets near us, I dare not ask. The vendors continue flashing their boxes of gum, salted pumpkin seeds, chili-powder-sprinkled fruit, and more, right up to the windows. My puppy eyes follow their tasty treats as we roll past.

  With all the grumpy Zulema, scary streets, and vendor drama, I almost forget about the gun. A prickle runs through my spine as I imagine it there, simmering in the darkness of the trunk.

  “Aida, would your dad freak if he had to come get you in Juárez?” I ask.

  Aida grimaces. “What? That came out of nowhere. What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, I was just wondering if he’s all strict cuz he’s a cop and all.”

  Aida eyes flicker. “Well, duh. Yeah, he’d whoop my behind.”

  I go silent. Maybe I messed up majorly by not saying something about the weapon back at Alejandro’s house. I had panicked. But the car pulls up to the bridge and it’s too late.

  My heart races out of control as Aida drops coins into the pay booth. The guard lifts the crossing gate, she drives the car onto the bridge, and the eternal wait begins, prolonging my desperation. I just want us to be on the other side now and safe. Inch by inch, the line of cars moves toward the citizenship-checking station.

  Zulema tries sleeping, but Aida shoves bottled water onto Zulema’s lap. “Drink this. I ain’t carrying your ass to your door. You better be able to walk.”

  Ahead of us, cars are already shuffling, trying to move into the quickest lane. I peer at the dashboard. The car’s fuel gauge is dangerously low. A rush of sweat drenches my armpits.

  Two cars before it’s our turn, Aida starts straightening up. She glares at Zulema. “Don’t even open your lips. And try not to have drunk eyes.”

  Zulema takes another sip of the water and straightens up as well. We know intoxicated underage teens get detained sometimes, and their parents are called before they’re allowed entrance into the US. The immigration agents at the bridge let a lot slide, unless you’re slurring heavily or falling over on your ass, but not always.

  Aida rolls her window down and we all say “American” loudly when the agent looks in. The pudgy man bends down and leans into Aida’s window. His gaze jumps from face to face, finally landing on Aida. I swear if he pays attention, he’ll see my heart trying to rip out of my chest.

  “You ladies live in El Paso?” he asks. Since it’s not really ideal to try to distinguish USA citizens from noncitizens based on looks on the border, sometimes they ask extra questions to make sure you’re not a passport-less or permit-less Mexican citizen trying to sneak over.

  “Yessir, just going back home after a night of partying,” Aida cheeps in a perfect Chicana accent. We find it’s quicker to get through if you’re honest.

  He speaks through a lazy yawn. “Pop your trunk open, please.”

  I just about pass out. Inspection of the trunk is occasional. They’ll either search it if you look suspicious, or randomly—about one in every five cars—just so no one tries to smuggle drugs, people, or restricted items.

  Aida pulls the lever and sighs deeply, looking very bored as the trunk clicks open. The flow of blood booms in my ears. I look through the rearview mirror at the agent standing behind the car. Even though I’ve crossed the border hundreds of times, my mind spazzes and I can’t remember whether food can be crossed into the US. Or is it only some types of food that are restricted? If he doesn’t lift the plastic bin to search underneath it, he might take it out completely to dispose of the bread and see the weapon. My knees clack together.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Aida narrows her eyes so much, they almost disappear behind rows of thick eyelashes.

  “Nothing. I just . . . it’s just . . .” I turn to my side and roll the window down, pumping my arm frantically at the manual lever. My head and shoulders come out the window. “Please don’t throw away our pan dulce, sir. We bought it at Bowie Bakery but forgot to take it out before we left home,” I holler. “You can have one, though,” I say and wink at him.

  The girls go into a fit of roaring laughter. “Geez, you love that bread, Rosa,” Aida snorts.

  The agent walks back to Aida’s window with a bizcocho in hand, beard dusted with sugar. His previously stern face has produced a small grin. “Move it along, ladies. Drive carefully,” he says and waves us ahead.

  “Chica, I didn’t know you were hilarious,” Aida exclaims.

  We drive away, the girls still cackling, while I slump and hold on to my stomach.

  We’ve just crossed a gun across the border and an agent had his hands inches away from it. The bread I ate tries to come back up my throat. Don’t, please don’t, I plead with my body.

  Aida’s smile drops. “Hey, girl, you all right?”

  “Just . . . keep . . . driving,” I say, out of breath. We’re still too close to the agent station. If we stop suddenly, there’s no telling if they’ll send a patrol after the car to check us out.

  “That’s what too much pan does to ya,” Zulema tsks. “Especially when it’s got nowhere to go on that skinny body.”

  I breathe in and out deeply and look up to the car ceiling. After another four blocks, I throw the door open.

  “¡Ayy!” Aida cries out and pulls over. “What are you doing?”

  My vomit splatters onto the pavement while the car rolls to a stop.

  Aida goes off as I wipe my mouth. “This bitch. Seriously. Warn me!”

  I take a few more breaths and look up at her with watery eyes. “There’s a gun in your trunk.”

  Aida blinks. “What?”

  “There’s a gun in your trunk, under the pan dulce.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Is that why you’re acting all sorts of weird? It’s just my dad’s hunting rifle he uses to shoot rattlesnakes in the mountains.”

  Belen, who unsurprisingly has unusual tidbit knowledge, jumps in. “Dude! They’ll throw your ass in jail if you cross a gun into Mexico. Haven’t you heard? It’s all over the news. This guy from Lubbock, and some other people from Ohio or somewhere like that, crossed over with guns and were in the Juárez slammer for like months, or a year!”

  Aida squints. “Seriously?”

  “Does it look like I’m kidding?” Belen replies, opening her eyes wide.

  “Oh,” Aida says again. “Well, we are technically on the US side now. If anything, when we crossed over to Juárez, or on the way back at the pay booth while we were still in Mexico, is where they could’ve gotten us. Maybe.” She stays quiet for a few seconds before speaking again. “It probably would’ve just gotten me in trouble. You all are under eighteen. Or my dad maybe, since it’s his car and gun. I dunno.”

  I blow air out. She might be right. And I feel really stupid for not having thought this all through more. The thing of it is, Aida has always been smarter than she gives herself credit for. Either way, I don’t want any of us in trouble. I’m just glad we’re almost home.

  Aida has a faraway look now, like she’s not here in the car. Around us, the dim streets are quieter than the desert before a thunderstorm and the air is heavy with the bittersweet scent of mesquite trees. Aida turns to Belen at a red light. “So why is Mexico not allowing guns in?”

  Belen shrugs. “It’s like some new ban. The drug cartels are going crazy, killing each other even more or something like that.”

  Zulema whips around looking spooked, and I get a heavy feeling from head to toe. Mom wasn’t just worried about the disappearing women. There was so much more.

  “You watch the news?” I ask Belen, thinking about how much my parents like to watch their nightly news.

  “Sometimes,” Belen admits sheepishly.

  We ride quietly with only the radio playing dance music that doesn’t seem so fun right now.

  “Drop me off last,” Zulema orders.

  In the rearview mirror, Aida’s eyes look back at me. She makes another turn before speaking. “Nah. Rosa’s gonna stay at my place for a bit. Don’t wanna send her home sick.”

  I don’t see what kind of face Zulema makes, but her body shifts in place.

  Aida drops Zulema off first. She teeter-totters to her door without saying goodbye, her blouse pulled up and scrunched up all wrong. Next, it’s Belen. “Later, losers,” she chirps and makes a peace sign with her fingers before running to the side of the house, pushing a window open, hoisting herself up, and sliding in. I chortle.

  “You all right to go home?” Aida says. “I just had to get Belen home and Zulema out of our hair first. But we can hang if you want.”

  “Eh, I’m good. It’s late enough as it is.”

  We cruise down to my house—only a two-minute drive from Belen’s—and Aida pulls the vehicle up in stealth mode.

  “Hey, you wanna go to One o’ One next Saturday?” Aida asks as I get out of the car. 101 happens to be one of my favorite dance clubs here in El Paso.