Falling Short

Dedication

Dedicated to everyone who has ever felt like they fall short of what the world expects of them

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Isaac: Chapter 1

Marco: Chapter 2

Isaac: Chapter 3

Marco: Chapter 4

Isaac: Chapter 5

Marco: Chapter 6

Isaac: Chapter 7

Marco: Chapter 8

Isaac: Chapter 9

Marco: Chapter 10

Isaac: Chapter 11

Marco: Chapter 12

Isaac: Chapter 13

Marco: Chapter 14

Isaac: Chapter 15

Marco: Chapter 16

Isaac: Chapter 17

Marco: Chapter 18

Isaac: Chapter 19

Marco: Chapter 20

Isaac: Chapter 21

Marco: Chapter 22

Isaac: Chapter 23

Marco: Chapter 24

Isaac: Chapter 25

Marco: Chapter 26

Isaac: Chapter 27

Marco: Chapter 28

Isaac: Chapter 29

Marco: Chapter 30

Isaac: Chapter 31

Marco: Chapter 32

Isaac: Chapter 33

Marco: Chapter 34

Isaac: Chapter 35

Marco: Chapter 36

Isaac: Chapter 37

Marco: Chapter 38

Isaac: Chapter 39

Marco: Chapter 40

Isaac: Chapter 41

Marco: Chapter 42

Isaac: Chapter 43

Marco: Chapter 44

Isaac: Chapter 45

Marco: Chapter 46

Isaac: Chapter 47

Marco: Chapter 48

Isaac: Chapter 49

Marco: Chapter 50

Isaac: Chapter 51

Marco: Chapter 52

Isaac: Chapter 53

Marco: Chapter 54

Acknowledgments

Excerpt from Efrén Divided

About the Author

Books by Ernesto Cisneros

Copyright

About the Publisher

Isaac

Chapter 1

Marco’s repeated tapping on my window sounds like Morse code—really, really loud Morse code.

I try to open my eyes, but my left one is being stubborn and refuses to obey. Go away, Marco! I say, almost pleading. Five more minutes.

Nope. It’s our first day of sixth grade at Mendez Middle School. You agreed we should get to school extra early. You were very clear and made me promise to ignore anything you said . . . ‘including bribes or threats.’

Marco’s fingertips tap dance against the window. You know I’m gonna keep going until you get up.

It’s not his fault. I did ask for his help.

It’s just hard after last night.

I mean, I know that parents sometimes argue. And that it’s normal. It’s part of life. I get that. But last night, Apa came by to talk with Amá . . . and I had a tough time sleeping through the yelling.

All right, fine. My left eye finally cooperates. I kick off my sheets and walk over to open the window.

The tip of Marco’s nose is squished flat against the glass, almost at eye level with me. This is strange because normally, even on his tiptoes, Marco can barely get his chin past my windowsill.

You know the saying, Good things come in small packages? Well, whoever said that was probably talking about Marco. Fun-sized is what he likes to call himself, which is way better than being called adorable, which he gets a lot. I wouldn’t be surprised if he came home from middle school with bruises on his cheeks from all the older kids—especially the girls—squeezing his face as if he were some sort of stuffed animal.

A word of advice: don’t ever do that. He hates it.

Hates hearing how cute he is. Unless, of course, you are his dad, who refers to him as his own little Juju-bean, after the amazing Jujubes candy—on account of Marco being half-Jewish, half-Mexican. Well, at least that’s what he used to call him, before the divorce.

Anyway, Marco Honeyman is his whole name, and he can’t stand getting picked up off the ground and twirled around like a rag doll—something that happened all the time in elementary.

The thing is, he won’t say anything about it. He’s just wired like that . . . really polite. Really nice. And super responsible. Nothing like me.

I slide the window all the way open. Marco looks wide awake. His hair is slicked and parted, and his shirt is buttoned to the top in Marco fashion. Of course he’s ready.

I reach out my hand, offering to help him in, like I usually do most mornings.

Only Marco holds up his hand. Nope, not today. I got this.

I stand back and watch him leap inside. It’s the most athletic thing I’ve ever seen him do.

Before I can say a word, he leans outside the window and pulls in what looks like a small rolling cooler.

Whoa, what is that thing?

Marco shortens the length on the telescoping handlebar and wheels it over to me.

I look closer. Wait, what? Dude, is that a rolling backpack?

"Not just any backpack, he says, patting down the side. This is a ZÏPPA. Not only will it keep me from hurting my back, it doubles as a chair."

Or a step stool, I say, pretending to step on his ZÏPPA.

Really? Are you height-shaming me? Marco says with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. Because I will leave right now. Immediately, he shoots me a toothy grin.

That’s too bad, I say back, because I’m starting to smell pancakes and bacon coming from the kitchen. And you know how my Amá is always trying to fatten you up.

Marco scratches his chin and pretends to be thinking the offer through. Fine, he finally answers. You’re just lucky I don’t offend easily.

We both laugh.

Come on, I say. Let’s eat.

Sounds good. But, uh . . . maybe you should put some pants on first.

He’s right. I am getting too old to be running around the house in my underwear.

I go over to my desk chair, reach for the school clothes I picked out last night, and spread my new jeans and favorite Lakers Nation jersey along the side of my bed—the shirt Apá got me at the last game we went to together.

Marco comes over and examines my choice of clothes. Wow, I’m really impressed. He holds up my boxer-briefs by the waistband. You even picked out a pair of clean chonies and everything.

Clean? I answer, as straight-faced as possible. What makes you think those are clean?

He immediately drops them, jokingly wiping his hands along the side of his shirt. Dude, that’s gross.

Amá is in the kitchen, sipping on the same iced coffee she makes at the start of every week, only this morning—after last night—she’s drinking it out of an oversized thermos.

Buenos días, mijos, she says, not at all surprised to see Marco joining us for breakfast. After so many years, it’s now kind of expected.

Marco’s eyes double in size and he licks his lips at the buffet laid out before us. Fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, watermelon scoops, and smiley-faced pancakes stacked high—yup, Amá’s definitely gone a bit overboard with breakfast, even for her.

Wow. Are you expecting company? Marco asks.

Amá smiles. Only my favorite visitor.

She leans in and gives him a big squeeze. Marco wraps his arms around her, smiling. My Amá is one of the few adults he gives free passes on hugs.

See, she says mid-hug, Marco doesn’t mind my hugs. Do you?

Apparently, she’s still bitter after I told her I was too big for hugs now that I’m starting sixth grade. Making sure I get the point, Amá comes close and offers me a straight-arm handshake. I go ahead and lock hands, only her mom instincts prove to be too strong and she pulls me in, squeezing me like I’m an old tube of toothpaste.

Fine, I say. You can hug me here at home—just not at school.

Amá crosses herself, promising to try.

I take a seat at the table next to Marco. There’s a second plate waiting for me. It’s a lot of food, but I’m used to it.

Amá’s like that at work too. Always cooking up a feast. When I think about it, I’m not sure she knows how to make a small meal.

If it wasn’t for her, our family restaurant, El Comedor Castillo—well . . . back when it used to be one—would have gone under years ago. She works long shifts and does stuff an owner shouldn’t be doing. But that’s Amá for you. Not too proud to unclog a toilet if needed.

Too bad Apá’s contracting job takes so much of his time. She could really use the help.

Amá hands Marco a bottle of ketchup.

Thank you, Mrs. Castillo.

Amá bites on her lower lip and sighs. Marco, just so you know, I won’t be going by that name any longer. You can call me by my maiden name, Ms. Anguiano . . . or Isaac’s mom—that works too.

My heart sinks. Amá’s mentioned changing her last name before, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. She’s been pressing Apá to sign the final divorce papers, only he keeps stalling. Keeps telling her that they could work things out. Keeps promising to stop drinking.

Well, Ms. Anguiano, I promise to remember.

Amá smiles and gives him a second hug. Me, I fight back the urge to fling a pancake at him.

Hey, Marco, I call out, interrupting the hug, don’t you need to wash your hands before you eat?

I know I’m acting all semi-aggressive, but I just don’t like the idea of Amá and me no longer sharing a last name.

Marco looks down at his hands. Yeah, I probably should . . . especially after touching your chonies. Isaac’s mom crinkles her nose but doesn’t ask.

I’ll be right back. He turns to Amá. Do you mind, Ms. Anguiano?

Sweetie, you practically live here. When are you going to stop asking?

Marco blushes and heads toward the hallway bathroom.

Que niño tan lindo, says Amá. Sure hope you meet more friends like him in middle school today.

Suddenly, we hear a screech, which I assume is coming from Abuelita, who moved in with us after Abuelito passed away.

I rush over and find Marco frozen in place just outside the bathroom. Only the screeching is coming from him, with his hands over his eyes.

Inside, Abuelita is sitting on the toilet. She seems as alarmed as Marco. Fortunately, her long flannel gown protects my eyes.

Sorry, Abuelita, I answer back.

Ay, Dios mío, she answers. ¡Se me olvidó atrancar la puerta!

She says that every time she forgets to set the bathroom lock. I close my eyes and shut the door for her.

¿Amá, otra vez? my Amá hollers at her Amá from the kitchen. How many times do I need to remind you?

I’m not sure why Amá gets mad; it’s not Abuelita’s fault she sometimes forgets. It’s just like when I forget my homework on my bed or like when I misplace my cell phone or forget to put on deodorant in the mornings. I don’t do these things on purpose either—they just . . . happen.

Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Apá forgets things too. Mostly small promises, though. Like his promise to help me perfect that Euro-step all those NBA guys are doing. It’s pretty much a matter of picking up your dribble, taking a long step, then quickly cutting in another direction. The move looks simple enough. Only it’s not. Apá says it’s a tough move to master, but I’m not about to let that stop me. Not if I plan on taking my game to the next level.

The thing with Apá, sometimes the promises he breaks are bigger . . . like the one he made to Amá about getting help. Who knows, if Apá can stop drinking, maybe Amá will give him another chance, like she’s doing with me this school year.

Amá says middle school is my chance at finally becoming más responsable, which would mean no more forgetting my lunch, no more missing homework, no more detentions, no more bad grades. And most importantly, no more tears for Amá—at least not because of me.

That’s why I asked Marco to come over so early—to guarantee I didn’t oversleep and mess things up again. Most of my parents’ arguing is centered around me and my low grades. Apá says basketball is teaching me all about discipline and responsibility, while Amá argues it’s an added distraction.

It’s tough to know who is right. All I know is that basketball is the only thing I’m really, really good at. Hopefully, this year, I can change that by getting good grades and finally become the son my parents always wanted, the son they deserve.

And maybe then . . . we can stay a family.

Marco

Chapter 2

Isaac is so lucky. His mom makes the best food. Real buttermilk pancakes with deli-cut bacon slices as thick as my pinky fingers. And did I mention the freshly squeezed orange juice? There’s so much pulp, it’s like biting into a fresh orange. So good.

After stuffing my face with seconds and thirds, I head back home, where a bowl of soggy oatmeal and a burnt slice of toast wait for me. I take a seat at the table and stare down at my plate.

Let me guess, says Mom, you ate next door again, right?

I consider telling her that I didn’t, but not only would that mean lying to her, it would also mean having to eat her food. And I’m not really sure my stomach can handle either one.

Somehow Mom seems to know the truth, because she leans in and gives me a squeeze. Next time, be sure and bring me back a plate.

I nod and give her a kiss on the cheek. I’m lucky my mom isn’t bothered by her inability to cook. She says that running her own real-estate agency is her way of feeding me.

I check my smartwatch for the weather. My watch predicts an eighty-two-degree day, so I go to my room and trade in my jacket and tie for a simple vest instead.

Isaac’s bedroom light is on. I look over to see if he’s ready. I’m guessing not by the way he’s running around like a madman with a toothbrush dangling from his mouth. Poor Isaac. He gets like this whenever things don’t go as planned. Like last night.

Even with my window closed, I could hear everything his parents were screaming—including the name-calling.

His dad isn’t happy about having to move out or the custody arrangement. Said he wants Isaac on weekdays too. But his mom hollered at him about getting help for his drinking and pointed out how lucky he was to be getting Isaac on weekends.

I can’t imagine what it’s like. No, not the divorce part. I get that. My parents are divorcing too. What I don’t get is the whole custody battle thing. My dad never bothered fighting over me.

Not that I blame him. I’m not the kind of son you can brag about to all your friends. My dad was a star athlete and the most popular kid at school . . . nothing like me.

Mom tries to make me feel better by pulling out old photo albums and reminding me about the stuff Dad used to do with me. Like when I was little (well . . . littler), and he signed me up for a soccer league during my kindergarten year. Talk about being a disappointment. I spent more time on the ground than I did upright.

I can pretty much picture poor Dad having to stand there, pretending to be proud of me.

The only thing