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‘Are we gonna have a problem?’
Bruno started out of his daydreams, dishcloth in one hand, pot in the other. He turned, dripping suds on the kitchen floor.
‘You got a bone to pick?’ Leaning in the doorway was Camilo; arms crossed, smirking. Baiting him. Bruno groaned internally.
‘You’ve come so far, why now are you pulling on my di–’
“Milo, please don’t swear,” Bruno sighed, stacking the pot on the draining board with the others. “Your Mamá still hasn’t forgotten that you copied me calling Diego Londoño an ‘impatient cabrón’ when you were three.”
It was true. Diego Londoño was an impatient cabrón. Not that that mattered to Pepa, of course. She’d brought that little incident up within a few days of him being back.
“A-and I’m not singing. It's too early. You can’t make me.”
“Aw, c’mon, Tio!” Camilo said, deflated, as Bruno turned back to his dishes. “I brought the gramophone an’ everything.”
He disappeared for a moment, returning with the squeaking, rickety old trolley that Mamá’s old gramophone sat on. Resting against it was a bright blue record sleeve, depicting three girls in different coloured sweaters, brandishing mallets. Camilo put the needle to the record, already sitting in place, and it blared into life – the twang of the singer’s ridiculous accent, the blast of the saxophones. Something a little like temptation flickered to life in Bruno’s brain.
Bruno loved singing. Even though he was, objectively, terrible at it. His range was about four notes. Anything above that and his voice faltered, wobbled, cracked. Which, you know, was fine. But when you lived in a house with this particular familia – people who could find an excuse to harmonize reading off their to-do lists for the day – it could make a guy a little insecure. Hey, not his biggest problem. Not by miles. But still. Bruno mostly kept his singing for long baths in an empty house. Until Camilo, that is.
‘I’d normally slap your face off,’ spat the girl on the record.
‘And everyone here could watch,’ replied Camilo, smirking.
Oh hell. Why not? Call it family bonding time.
‘But I’m feeling nice,’ Bruno said as he whirled, tossing the dishcloth in the sink, ‘here’s some advice…’
‘Listen up, beeyotch!!’ the two yelled together as the music blared into life.
For, like, three weeks when he first came back, Bruno had been wary of Camilo. The kid was confident, sociable, outgoing; everything Bruno had failed to be at fifteen. But then, he was also sarcastic, slightly obnoxious, the bane of his parents' lives – or at least Félix’s, who often wished his son had a little more tact. And that was little too much like Bruno. It made him nervous. Like he was walking on rocky terrain. It made him think of the cocky, dangerous boys of his own teenagehood; Bruno never knew if they’d leave him be or make his life a misery. Better to spend his free time with shy Antonio or lovable Mirabel, and dodge the attempts at conversation from his oldest sobrino. He was never sure exactly how many genuine barbs his mocking held within it. Then, when Camilo’d caught him belting out that song about how nobody, in all of Oz, no wizard that there is or was, was ever gonna bring him down (when he was supposed to be polishing the bannisters) he’d almost felt…guilty? Like he’d done something wrong? He was The Madrigal Who Couldn’t Sing, he’d never hear the end of it…
The kid had just stood there, mouth open, gawking. Until the harmony hit. Then he scrambled up onto the staircase alongside Bruno and started keening about how no-one mourns the wicked. And that was it. The pair had a shared hobby. Butchering showtunes.
They switched parts midway through verses, fighting for the best lines. They missed their cues, but danced anyway. Bruno ground his knuckles into Camilo’s scalp on the line ‘’course, if you don’t care, fine – go braid her hair’ and Camilo knocked his uncle with a hip on ‘you just gotta prove your not a loser anymore’; stupid in-jokes, over-played and probably not funny to anyone else anyways, but they did it every time, so they did it now. It was the closest to masculine roughhousing Bruno had ever been.
Their favourite part was the call-and-response.
‘You can join the team –'
‘Or you can bitch and moan.’
‘You can live the dream –’
‘Or you can die alone!’
On this part, their choreography was always immaculate. They'd practiced it enough, after all. Shifting their weight from one hip to another, hands in the air, feet moving back and forth perfectly on beat. Bruno grinned down at his sobrino; his eyes closed, feeling the music, just enjoying himself. It was good to see a Madrigal kid just…yeah, enjoying themselves. Not feeling pressured to make every single moment of a day important, or meaningful, or productive. Just having fun in the kitchen with his dorky tio. It was nice.
‘Veronica, look,’ Bruno simpered, hands clasped under his chin, eyelashes fluttering. ‘Ram invited me to his homecoming party! This proves he’s been thinking about me!’
Neither Camilo nor Bruno had any idea what half those words meant in context. But the important thing was that meant he was giving Camilo the best bit. The really, really loud bit. ‘I’m sooo happyy!’
Camilo beamed, clambering up onto the kitchen counter. ‘Whhooaahoooaaaoooah-woaah,’ he sang, knees bent, hands splayed to the sides, rising as the pitch did, ‘Honey whatcha waitin’ for –”
“AY DIOS WILL. YOU. TWO. SHUT. UP?!? IT IS EIGHT O’CLOCK ON A SATURDAY. A SATURDAY!”
The pair winced.
“I should…” Bruno said, guiltily gesturing at the dishes languishing in the sink.
“Yeah,” Camilo muttered, eyes widening for a fraction of a second as he slipped while climbing down from the counter. “I gotta…chores, you know.”
In the hallway, the record kept playing.
‘It’s my candy store, it’s my candy…
It’s my candy store, it’s my candy…’
The pair shared a look, before leaping into position, back-to-back, hands on hearts. Their combined singing, miles outside either of their ranges, sounded like two cats with their tails set on fire.
‘It’s my candy store, it’s my candy stooooOOOOORRREE!!’
“I DON’T CARE THAT WE’RE FAMILY I'M GONNA THROW YOU OFF THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN.”
“Run,” Bruno laughed, pushing Camilo out the kitchen, “they’ll have to catch us first."