Bacon Pie Read online

  Evernight Teen ®

  www.evernightteen.com

  Copyright© 2018 Candace Robinson and Gerardo Delgadillo

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-596-8

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For pie lovers everywhere

  —Candace Robinson

  For Don Mario, my father and friend. Q.E.P.D.

  — Gerardo Delgadillo

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  We would first like to thank Evernight Teen for taking a chance on our book, and for Stacey Adderley for being on top of things. We'd also like to thank our awesome editor Audrey for catching all the small details that we weren't able to. Next we'd like to thank our beta reader, Amy Mathew, for helping us correct the things that our computer-exhausted eyes couldn't catch. Also, there were no armadillos harmed in making this book.

  Now, it's me Candace! I'd like to thank my family because without them, I would be totally lost most of the time! I love you Nate, Arwen, and Mom! Also, my sister-in-law Vic for always listening to my book talk!

  Now, it's me Gerardo! I'd like to thank my wife Gaby for understanding my passion for writing, and my teen children for being my constant source of inspiration.

  BACON PIE

  Candace Robinson and Gerardo Delgadillo

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  Kiev + Vikings

  Denmark makes me think of Vikings.

  It’s so stupid, but that’s what my crazy brain thought after reading Hamlet’s full title on my phone: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

  But Hamlet’s time period happened centuries after the Vikings, so no tall, muscled guys. Which is good for me, because it increases my chances of being in my high school’s production of Hamlet.

  A metallic noise turns my attention to the cage by my desk. I squat in front of it and open its door. Pepe, my pet, scurries out and sniffs at the carpet.

  “What do you think, Pepe?” I ask him. “Do I look like a Danish Prince?” I doubt I look like one with my short, light-brown hair, gray eyes, and lack of muscled limbs and battle scars.

  Pepe points his long snout to me and wrinkles his tiny nose, as if saying, “I don’t know, Master. I don’t know.”

  I drop my shoulders. “That’s what I thought.”

  He blinks his tiny black eyes, then gives me an “I’m hungry, Master” look. The little dude is always craving for worms, insects, or whatever shit he can find on the floor. Yeah, Pepe is an unusual type of pet, but I like him that way.

  “I just fed you, Pepe.”

  If he could shrug, he would. Instead, he turns around and crawls underneath my bed.

  Back to the task at hand. Hamlet is, by far, the play of plays, and it’s my senior year, which adds up to the get-ready-for-college equation. I take a breath and check my phone, thinking about which character I want to audition for. Not Hamlet, for sure. I scroll through the cast list. Claudius, the king? Too old. Polonius? Too pompous. Horatio? Hamlet’s best friend and amazing narrator. Hell, yes.

  Since Pepe owns a ferocious appetite, I go to Wal-Mart to buy pet food. Then I spend the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom, studying the script, and paying close attention to Horatio’s lines. When night arrives and the room goes dark, a weird sensation fills me with doubt—like when your stomach shrinks and your chest feels tiny. Insecurity takes hold of me—a sense of failure.

  Failure.

  No. I’m being freaking stupid again—I’ll be fine. I turn on my side table’s lamp and unlock my phone. I scroll to the beginning of the play to read it again. A moment later, my phone vibrates with a text from my sixteen-year-old sister.

  Vi: Dinner’s ready.

  For a second, I consider skipping dinner, but a break can clear my full-of-doubt head. Besides, it’s almost nine PM, our usual dinnertime. I walk to her bedroom across the hallway and knock. No answer—so typical of her. I rap on the door. Again, nothing. Enough with me being civilized. I open the door and poke my head in.

  Vi lies on her stomach on her bed, facing the other way. She holds her beloved phone with both hands, as if it has the meaning of life.

  I clear my throat, and when that fails to get her attention, I say, “There’s this thing called mouths we humans use to communicate with.”

  She cranes her neck and stares at me with her dark-brown eyes.

  I lean against the doorframe. “You look so ready for dinner.”

  “You look so ready for dinner,” she says in a deep voice, mimicking me, then turns her attention back to her phone.

  Trudging toward her, I tickle her ribs. “Let’s go.”

  She swats my arm. “Stop it!”

  “Okay, okay.” I raise my hands. She used to find this funny, but lately she’s become this unrecognizable, always-in-a-bad-mood creature. Every time I ask what’s bothering her, she waves me off. It’s one of those life mysteries.

  In the kitchen, I find Dad setting a plate on the table.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He straightens his six-four frame, towering over me by a good six inches. “Hola, Kiev.”

  I motion at the pan on the stove. “That smells good.”

  “Español, muchacho.” Dad insists we speak Spanish at home because it’s his native language—he emigrated from Mexico before I was born.

  “¿Qué es?” I ask what it is.

  He glances over his shoulder at the stove. “Carne a la mostaza.”

  Steak with mustard and jalapeños—his specialty. I take a seat. “Delicious. Er, I mean, que rico.”

  Vi lumbers into the kitchen and tugs at her blouse before dropping on a chair. “That gives me heartburn.” She wrinkles her nose.

  Dad walks to her and squats, dark-brown eyes locking with hers. “Español, mijita.”

  She crosses her arms and looks away.

  After seconds of uncomfortable silence, Dad sighs and caresses her jet-black hair. “I love you, Vienna,” he says in Spanish. He kisses her wrinkled forehead and adds that he likes it better when she speaks his first language.

  Vi’s shoulders tense. “I’m not hungry.” She stands and storms out of the kitchen.

  Dad rakes a hand through his now-gray hair, which used to be as black as Vi’s before Mom left us two years ago. That took a heavy toll on him—on us. I suspect Vi’s drastic change is related to Mom, but for the life of me, Vi doesn’t open up, not even to Dad.

  Dad turns to the stove, grabs a plate, and puts a yellow steak with a side of refried beans on it, then sets the meal in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say in Spanish. “Vienna also loves you, Papá.” I use her full name, the way he likes it.

  Dad blinks and gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

  We eat in silence, lost in our own thoughts. But with her reaction, the mustard steak I like so much tastes like paper, as if my taste buds went numb.

  When we’re done eating, Dad asks me about the audition, and I confess I’m nervous.

  He smiles, showing his uneven teeth, and says not to worry.

  As I head back to my room, loud music resonates through Vi’s closed door, her way of letting us know she wants to be left alone. I head into my bedroom, close the door behind me, and step to the window. I look
out at the backyard and beyond. Moonlight illuminates a deserted view, which is literally deserted, as in desert and dust and more dust. And tumbleweeds.

  I like it this way.

  Outsiders don’t see the beauty in all the brown dominating my West Texas little town. It’s so peaceful. Way down there, close to some bushes, I found Pepe, my pet armadillo. After a heated discussion with Dad, he agreed to adopt him with a reluctant, “But I don’t want him in the house.” I replied with, “Si, señor.”

  Of course I didn’t keep my promise, and Pepe sleeps in my room inside his foldable cage, which reminds me that it’s time to put this little buddy to bed. I lure him to his cage with a dry bug. Once inside, he devours his snack, then looks at me with his small eyes, as if saying, “I need more food, Master.”

  “Don’t be a glutton,” I say.

  He sniffs around and turns.

  “Good night, Pepe.”

  I need to go back to Hamlet and Horatio. I grab my phone and unlock it, but the script becomes this mess of letters. I can’t concentrate, distracted with thoughts of Mom. I don’t understand why she left us. I need to stop thinking about this because I’m being dramatic. Well, that’s why I love theater, I suppose.

  Sighing, I slap on my pajamas, get in bed, and put my phone under my nose. I squint at the script and read. But my eyelids keep closing. I shake my head and slap my cheek, in an effort to stay awake.

  I scroll to Horatio’s first piece of dialog and read out loud, “Friend to this ground.” Scroll down to his next line. “A piece of him.” Next one. “Tush, tush, ’twill not appear.” And on and on, which helps me stay awake.

  When I’ve read the script twice, I drop my shoulders and yawn. I’ll read Horatio’s opening lines again tomorrow morning. Putting my phone away, I turn to my side and shut my lids as an image pops up in my mind: Vikings dancing and drinking in a tavern, all blonde, all super-muscled, all looking the opposite of me.

  ****

  The next day, I wear an audition-appropriate t-shirt to school that reads: I Put the Shake in Shakespeare. I skip lunch and head to the open area outside the cafeteria to study my lines again. I know them now, but you can never be sure. I sit on an ugly-green bench and pull out my phone.

  Cole—my closest friend—walks toward me, wearing his usual loose shorts and basketball t-shirt. Sliding next to me, he asks, “Ready for your audition, Mr. Kiev Jimenez?”

  “Kinda.” I shrug. “What’s up with you?”

  He rubs his face and yawns in his hand. “I executed an all-nighter and failed mission impossible.” He blinks. “It sucks when teachers give you a one-day notice to finish homework.”

  I’m sure he procrastinated. I shrug. “Happens all the time.”

  Cole gestures at my phone. “Last-minute activity of the mission impossible kind?”

  I nod. “Studying for Hamlet.”

  He smirks. “Are you playing Ophelia?”

  “Ha. Ha.” I shove him. Cole knows too well about Ophelia, a.k.a. Lia, the girl in government class who loves to wear ripped jeans, loose t-shirts, and baseball caps backward, auburn hair falling down to her shoulders. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she frowns at me for absolutely no reason.

  Cole shoves me back. “One cannot deny Lia is cute in a tomboy kind of way.”

  I wave him off. “She’s all yours.”

  “Not quite right for my tastes,” he replies. “You know that.”

  “Oh, I forgot you like short girls with dangerous curves.”

  “Correction: Mexican girls. They cannot resist me.” He motions at himself.

  Let’s face it—Cole isn’t model material with his snow-white skin, dirty-blond hair, blue eyes, and excessive baggage. The detail is—he loves junk food, and his curved belly shows it.

  I give him a once over. “I think they can resist your charms. Besides, your Spanish sucks.”

  He scoffs. “That is a despicable lie.”

  I stare at him. “Say that in Spanish.”

  He clears his throat. “That’so a despicablo lio.”

  “See?”

  He crosses his arms. “You say it.”

  “Es una mentira despreciable,” I say, staring at him.

  Cole scratches the top of his head. “My brain was incapable of understanding a single word.”

  “Point proven.” I nod. “So, what were we talking about?”

  “That I like Latinas, and about Lia. Mmm.” He looks up at the blue, cloudless sky.

  I wait for a minute. “Mmm, what?”

  “For Lia, I can make an exception.” He wolf whistles. “A hot girl hides under her baggy clothes.”

  I frown. “You have a wild imagination, Cole.”

  He nods. “Wild, I am.”

  A tanned-skin girl wearing a pleated red skirt and an almost too-tight white halter top strolls by, silencing us for a minute. We follow her with our eyes—she’s an eye magnet.

  When she disappears through the door, Cole puts a hand to his heart. “Three words, Mr. Kiev Jimenez: Wow, wow, and wow.” Typical Cole, always salivating over girls.

  “How is it we always end up talking about girls?”

  He glances at the entrance. “How is it that schools have door handles placed at an impossibly low reach?”

  “Answer my question.” I glower at him.

  He stares at me. “Answer mine first.”

  “Fine.” I point at the glass doors. “Most freshmen start at that height.”

  “Good answer.” He straightens in the bench and cracks his knuckles. “Let me answer your question: we talk about girls all the time because ours bodies are made of hormones, pheromones, and things that create wild chemical reactions of the sexual kind, driving us crazy.”

  “That’s a mouthful.” I motion a hand down. “Breathe.”

  He inhales deeply, holds the air for a couple of seconds, and exhales.

  “Enough about girls.” I unlock my phone. “I need to go through my dialog again.”

  “Sure.” He leans back on the bench. “And you are?”

  “A guy who dislikes girls wearing backward caps,” I blurt.

  “Not that.” He rolls his eyes. “What character are you playing?”

  “The one who hates chicks with messed-up auburn hair.”

  “Ha!” He grins. “I knew it.”

  I lift a brow. “Knew what?”

  “That.”

  “That what?”

  “You like Lia.” He shakes his head. “No, not like. You have the body trembles for her.”

  “Hell, no!” I shout so loudly a couple sitting on another bench look in my direction. “No, no, and no,” I add in a softer voice.

  “Yes, you, Mr. Kiev Ji—” Cole starts.

  “Stop it.” I check the time on my phone. “I’ve got ten minutes to audition.”

  “I shall use my investigative skills to find out the truth about Lia and you,” he says.

  “Whatever.” I give him a dismissive wave.

  “Whatever it is.”

  I’m not sure why Cole and I have these difficult-to-follow, ADD conversations. But it is what it is. Sighing, I concentrate on my phone and read my lines.

  After a minute, he leans toward me, blocking my phone’s screen.

  I lower it. “What now?”

  He motions at my cell. “Don’t tell me you’re playing Horatio.”

  “Is that a crime?” I cock my head.

  Cole wrinkles his forehead. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Kiev Jimenez.”

  My mind spins at those words. “How bad?”

  His forehead wrinkles. “Horatio, that character, is already taken.”

  Shit!

  Chapter Two

  Lia + Pie

  Click, click, click. “Come on, stupid Mario,” I growl at the television screen in my bedroom as Mario leaps through the air. I should have picked the Princess instead—her ass always floats through the air when I hold the button down and make her jump.

  “
Keep working it, Mario. Keep. Working. It,” I grunt. A knock at the door pulls me out of my intense concentration, and I pause the game. “Dang it.” Slamming down the remote control, I hurry toward the door and swing it open.

  Barnabas Lao, my best friend, chooses the worst times to come over. He pushes his chin-length, black hair behind his ears. “So, it’s after school and you’re not at the Daddies today?” He refers to my two dads as “the Daddies” since, well, there are two of them.

  “No, I wanted peace and quiet for a while since Mom’s working late tonight,” I say, closing the door after his tall frame steps through.

  “What a shame. I love listening to the Daddies rant back and forth over anything.” Barnabas grins, and his brown eyes seem to smile just as broadly.

  “If you love them so much, you can head right back over there, I have a game to beat.”

  “Maybe I will. They were cooking something fishy, and it smelled on point.” Barnabas closes his eyes as if he’s imagining eating it.

  “You’re sick. I think I just vomited a little in my mouth.”

  “Why, because fish is amazing?”

  “No!” The taste of fish literally makes me want to hurl.

  Sitting back down on my super comfortable beanbag chair, I pick up the game controller and press the “start” button to get my game going again. It’s frozen. I throw the controller against the floor and groan toward the ceiling. “You did this, Barnabas.”

  He lets out a loud snicker. “Your fault for playing those super old video games. Get with the program, Lia—buy something from this decade, please.”

  “I thought you were cool, Barney, but you really aren’t,” I joke. Anytime someone calls him Barney, he says their ass is grass.

  “Hey, I’m gonna let you have a pass on that one since I made you pause the game, but just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I won’t slap you silly for calling me Barney.” He gives a false shiver like the name itself is disturbing, which it really is if you think about that terrifying purple dinosaur. I shiver to myself, thinking of that horrific creature. Can I slap my past self for being a Barney fan when I was younger?