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chaos, a temporary relief, false and tricky.
    That’s how El Demonio rolled.

Chapter 5
    “How’d you learn so much about motorcycles?” I sat on the workbench and flipped open a Coke. Now that Emilio had finished the whole bike-whisperer gig, I really hoped my job as silent spectator was over, especially since Papi was down for an afternoon nap and Emilio still hadn’t mentioned yesterday’s Great Tampon Incident, and one more falling feather of silence would crush me.
    Emilio shrugged. “My pops was into bikes. And my uncles. None of my brothers liked ’em, though.” He held my eyes for a second, and something crossed his face like a shadow. Regret, maybe? Guilt? I swallowed back my own, hoping he wouldn’t bring up my sisters.
    “What’s up with your dad?” I said. “Still riding?”
    Emilio wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “He’s in Puerto Rico with my grandma. I only see him for Christmas.”
    “Where’s your mom?”
    “She’s here with me.”
    “They’re divorced?” I didn’t remember Celi saying anything about that. Maybe it was recent.
    “No, still together. They’re just . . . weird.” He looked like he wanted to say more but then the shadow passed and he motioned for me to come closer. “Check this out.”
    I knelt beside him and peered into the guts of the bike. He pointed to an accordioned piece below the gas tank that looked like a giant V capped with twin metal plates.
    “You know why people call Harleys different nicknames, like panhead or shovelhead?” he asked.
    “This one’s a panhead.” I’d looked that up first thing, no way I’d forget.
    “Yeah, but why?”
    I took another sip of Coke, scanning the archives for a clue. File not found. “I forget.”
    “It’s the shape of these rocker arm covers.” He popped off one of the metal plates and handed it to me. “See how they look like pans?”
    I nodded, and he pulled a manual from a stack he’d brought and flipped to a page in the middle that showed all the different models.
    “That’s a shovelhead,” he said, pointing. “That one’s a knucklehead. Valentina’s a Duo-Glide panhead, which means she has the pan-shaped covers and the kickstart. You have to jump on it to get her going.”
    “Like yours,” I said. I’d noticed it when he left here the other day.
    “Exactly. But mine’s an aftermarket addition. It could start with the key, but I like the jump. In sixty-five, Harley rolled out the Electra Glide, which was the first one with an electric starter.” He dropped the manual and pointed again to the bike, his whole face lighting up. “Now the Duo-Glide is an FLH model, the H meaning high compression—more power than the FL bikes. ‘Duo’ is ’cause it’s the first Big Twin with suspension in both the front and the rear . . .” He trailed off and looked away, running a hand through his mop of hair, bandannaless today. His face was still glowing. “Sorry. Your pops probably told you all this, right?”
    “Only a little.” Papi hadn’t gotten into the mechanics or the Harley history, but he’d told me everything else about Valentina. How he’d saved up, searched for months for the right one. “She spoke to me, Juju,” he’d said. “Called my name.” To hear him tell the story, it was no less than magic, an ancient jewel fated to him by the prophecy.
    “Not for nothing?” Emilio said. “It’s cool as hell you guys are doing this. Not a lot of girls would be into it.”
    “Girls can’t be into Harleys?”
    “That’s not what I—”
    “What can we be into? Being barefoot in the kitchen and pining over you?” I’d meant it playfully, but it came out sharp, and Emilio raised his eyebrows.
    “Hey, don’t let me stand in the way of your dreams or anything.”
    I opened my mouth to put that jackass in his place, butinstead of my witty retort, a giant belch escaped.
    “Nice!” Emilio laughed. “You went primal for that one, princesa .”
    “It’s the soda! And