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Informationen zum Autor Celia C. Pérez Klappentext From the award-winning author of The First Rule of Punk , a dazzling novel about a young girl who learns the missing pieces of her origin story from the family of legendary luchadores she’s just met. Twelve-year-old Adela “Addie” Ramírez has a big decision to make when her stepfather proposes adoption. Addie loves Alex, the only father figure she’s ever known, but with a new half brother due in a few months and a big school theater performance on her mind, everything suddenly feels like it’s moving too fast. She has a million questions, and the first is about the young man in the photo she found hidden away in her mother’s things. Addie’s sleuthing takes her to a New Mexico ranch, and her world expands to include the legendary Bravos: Rosie and Pancho, her paternal grandparents and former professional wrestlers; Eva and Maggie, her older identical twin cousins who love to spar in and out of the ring; Uncle Mateo, whose lucha couture and advice are unmatched; and Manny, her biological father, who’s in the midst of a career comeback. As luchadores, the Bravos’s legacy is strong. But being part of a family is so much harder—it’s about showing up, taking off your mask, and working through challenges together. Leseprobe Chapter 1 I bit into a french fry, one of those tiny crunchy pieces that always make their way to the bottom of the pile, just as Apollo slammed a folding chair across The Eagle’s back. The small TV on the shelf behind the counter was muted, and while I couldn’t hear the whack of metal against muscle, it startled me anyway. I flinched and jabbed myself with a shard of potato so hard that my eyes watered. “Uyyyy,” Alex said. He peered up at the TV from the flat-top grill and let out a slow whistle. “El Águila is getting his butt kicked again, eh, Adelita?” “Yeah,” I said. I ran my tongue over the fresh cut on the roof of my mouth. “Again.” “Maybe he’ll win this one, right?” Alex winked at me and cracked an egg into a bowl. I watched as he attacked the egg with a fork. Alex said the key to making a good scrambled egg was to keep the heat low and to beat the egg before pouring it into the pan. In general, I found the idea of eating eggs gross, but even I had to admit that Alex made a fine scrambled egg. Still, when he caught my eye and motioned to the runny glob he was cooking, I shook my head. Bacon grease popped and snapped on the grill as Apollo smacked the palm of his hand across The Eagle’s chest. A sizzle and the scrape of a spatula accompanied The Eagle bouncing off the ropes, zipping across the ring, and attempting a failed clothesline. My insides jumped as if the mat, which vibrated with each impact, were sitting in the middle of my stomach. On-screen, The Eagle showed no signs of winning this one. He struggled to get up, only to be met with the toe of Apollo’s golden boot. He didn’t stand a chance. “Why does The Eagle always have to lose?” I asked. “Because he’s a jobber,” Alex said, not looking up from the grill. “What’s a jobber ?” “A jobber puts over the other wrestler,” Alex explained as The Eagle tried to untangle himself from the ropes. “Plain English, please.” “It means his job is to lose and make the other guy look good,” Alex said. “He’s not a heel nor a face. Not a bad guy and not a good guy. Just—” “—a jobber,” I finished. Unlike Apollo, who was definitely the good guy. He’s the one you’re supposed to want to win. But Apollo had enough people cheering for him already, so I found myself going for the masked luchador. Mom says someone has to root for the underdog. That someone is me. While The Eagle slowly got up and rolled back into the ring, Apollo climbed to the top turnbuckle and waited like he was the bird of prey. I knew what was coming next. Wrestling migh...
