The Best American Short Stories 2020

by Curtis Sittenfeld

  As we neared the end of Avenida Bolivar—​the rest of the Crazy 9 almost out of sight and with no intent to wait for us—​I told Ramoncito, “Look, Ramoncito! It’s the Children’s Museum!” and I pointed at the huge logo of a boy riding a rainbow. He had long curly hair and a big smile. By the front doors we saw a group of little kids, younger than Ramoncito, in their red school shirts. They formed a line, one behind the other, waiting to go in. They were happy and moved their heads around in awe and excitement. Two teachers tried their best to herd them. One little girl kept walking away, distracted by a planter full of flowers, or a pigeon eating trash, and I wanted to scream and say, “Little girl, obey your teachers! They’ll get mad at you and slap you!” but I didn’t, and the teachers never got mad, they just gently pushed her back in line and placed her hands on the shoulders of the boy in front of her. Her eyes still followed the pigeon, but she held on to those shoulders. The teacher was so gentle. Her hands must have felt so soft and clean.

  I looked at my own hand. The one that wasn’t holding up Ramoncito. My nails were long, the tips of them as black as wet dirt. My palms were covered in stains, a landscape of brown and black. When I opened my hand and pulled my fingers apart as much as they would go, the landscape cracked and revealed the cleaner tone of my own skin, hiding underneath.

  And then I heard the rumble, which shook me and gave me purpose. It came from deep in my belly—​a wet groan so loud that Ramoncito could hear it. “I’m hungry,” I said. “Me too,” he said.

  We turned onto Avenida México, which was narrower and dirtier. It led to Museum Square and then to Parque los Caobos, my favorite place in the world. We arrived at Plaza Los Museos, large and round, with its tall palm trees. Street vendors eyed us and no longer fell for our tricks. Today was no trick, of course, because Ramoncito was really sick, but many times one of us would pretend to be in peril or pain, or cause a scene, while the others snuck behind the vendors and stole their things. We are so crazy.

  We walked past the plaza, past the Natural History Museum with its tall columns. “Let’s go see the elephant statue!” I told Ramoncito, and he smiled and the color came back to his face, but it might have just been the sun shining through the tall canopy of the caobo trees, brightening Ramoncito’s cheeks with specks of light.

  The temperature was colder in the shade, with the breeze rushing through tree trunks. It smelled like wood and dirt—​but the good dirt, the kind you want to stick your hands in and feel for worms. I wanted to run through the boulevard that split the park in two, veer off into the brush and pick up a stick and go hunting for dinosaur.

  A few months ago they brought plastic replicas of the great beasts into the park. There was a tall one with a crest on her head, she looked like a chicken with no feathers; there was a fat green one with spikes on its back (but the spikes didn’t hurt, we knew because we surfed down its spine); there were brown ones and red ones; little baby ones hatching from plastic eggs; and there was the big ferocious one eating a stupid fat one that got caught. The short ones were already starting to wear out because on weekends the parents lifted their sons and daughters and gingerly placed them on the dinosaurs’ backs. They took out their phones and started snapping photos. But all the parents were working today, and all the sons and daughters were at school. We have no school, and we are no sons of nobody.

  I helped Ramoncito walk to the statue while my mind stalked reptiles. Its gold glinted through the thick greenery as we rounded the dense bamboo, until finally his huge head greeted us. It always shocked me, his size, the way he sparkled. His ears were open, like the wings of some gold-scaled dragon. His trunk fell, curving gently inward, between two massive tusks. The elephant walked in the middle of a large shallow pool, the water lapping at his wide ankles. Only his front left foot was visible, stepping on a small hill of rocks that came out of the water. Ramoncito let go of my shoulder, taking a few short steps toward the edge of the pool. He knelt on the ground and placed his elbows on the rim, so he could rest as he stared at the statue. Ramoncito looked like he was praying. I stood next to him and put my arm around his shoulder. “He’s so beautiful,” Ramoncito said. “Do you think they’re mean in real life?”

  I didn’t know. I knew that there were people who rode them, or at least I remembered a story my grandmother once told me about that. My abuelita never said if they were nice or mean. But I knew Ramoncito wanted to hear a good story, so I told him, I said, “They are the nicest of all animals, little boys ride their tusks like swings and fall down their trunks like slides and run races through their fat legs.”

  He climbed on the edge of the pool, weak and unsure, but I didn’t pull him back, and without taking off his beat-up sneakers he walked into the shallow water. It came up to his shins, and every time he shuffled closer, the water rippled and traveled all the way to the pool’s edge in tiny little waves. Ramoncito placed his hand on the elephant’s haunches and stroked him kindly. He whispered something to him and rested his hollow green cheek on its golden surface. I was mesmerized by Ramoncito and his massive pet, this gentle giant, and I knew what I had told him was true. That somewhere far away someone like Ramoncito—​someone like me, maybe—​hung from an elephant’s tusk or took a shower from his trunk. But the spell was broken by a yell coming from the other side of the bamboo.

  “Hey, you! Boy! Get out of there right now!”

  Ramoncito’s body spun so fast that his weak legs couldn’t hold his balance, and he fell ass first into the water with a big splash. I could see the policeman heading toward us in a sprint. He was big and ugly, with a thick black mustache and hair coming out from wherever his clothes didn’t cover his skin. He held a wooden club in his right hand, and even from the other side of the pool I felt his anger in the way he gripped the handle.

  I jumped into the pool quickly and ran to Ramoncito to help him up. He was sobbing, saying, “Sorry. I’m sorry.” But all I wanted was to get us out of there. The bottom of the pool was slick with green gunk, and as I pulled Ramoncito my feet flew from under me and I landed right on the small of my back, which sent a ping of sharp pain all through my spine. I tried to push my legs and pull Ramoncito’s weight toward the edge of the pool, but in the confusion I couldn’t see the man anywhere—​just the huge elephant towering over us both. I wanted him to come to life, to swerve his enormous head, and lift his heavy feet, and shelter us under his golden belly. To blow his trunk at the hairy man, yelling, “You don’t mess with the Crazy 9!”

  But he didn’t do anything. I felt the man lift me up. The elephant’s four massive feet stood still, indifferent to the waves from our thrashing as Ramoncito and I tried to escape the man’s grasp.

  My arms and legs dangled, and I felt the collar of my shirt tighten around my neck. A big hole in my right sole let all the water that had gathered in my shoe out in a stream. I reached up with both hands and tried to pry the man’s fingers open, but they seemed made of cement. I kicked my feet as hard as I could, finding only air, water dripping everywhere. Ramoncito had slipped from his hold, and I saw him crawl to the roots of a caobo.

  “¡Quédate quieto, coño!” the man screamed, but I kept wriggling. I felt his breath for the first time. It carried the warmth of fish empanadas and strong coffee. Finding no way to loosen his grip, I jabbed my fingernails into his hand, but instead of releasing me, he slammed me hard against the ground.

  It was like all the air had been sucked from the world. I opened my mouth and tried to gulp in life, but my insides were a dried raisin. The back of my head felt wet, but it wasn’t the same kind of wet as the water from the pool. It was warm. Sticky.

  The policeman stood like an angry ape above me. His hat had fallen on the ground, revealing all his features. A thick stubble covered his face, starting just below the eyes. His ears were big and meaty. His nose wide and crooked in the middle. The only place not covered in hair was his balding dome. He held his hand up to his mouth, sucking on the wound I had caused. When he removed i
t to talk, I could see a trickling of blood on his lower lip.

  “Motherfucker, hijo de puta.” He spit blood and it landed next to me. “I hate street children, all you fucking do is make my job harder. Why can’t you just fucking disappear, huh?” He took a step toward me, but my breath had not come back yet, and my vision started to blur. I tried to crawl away but was too weak.

  “Now I probably have to get a shot. God knows the filth you have in those fingers.” He lifted his booted foot and pinned my leg down. It felt like my shin would split in two, and for the first time since he had thrown me to the ground air rushed into my lungs, only to escape again in a scream. I didn’t cry, though.

  The pain sharpened my thinking and I remembered the knife. I always kept it in my right pocket. My hand searched for it and couldn’t feel the wooden handle, the small metal dots that felt cold when you gripped it tight. It wasn’t there.

  And then I heard Ramoncito. “Let him go!” he screamed, and stood in front of the huge man, his legs spread apart, his arms stretched out away from his chest, his two bony hands holding on to the knife—​a stick figure facing off against a giant. “The Crazy 9 never give up. Never surrender!” he screamed, tears falling down his face.

  The man released the pressure on my leg, but I knew why. He lifted his club and walked toward Ramoncito. The policeman’s eyes fixed on the knife and nothing else. I stood. As the man swung the weapon, I rushed him with all my strength and flung my body at him. It felt like running into a wall, but the club missed Ramoncito. He remained on his feet, holding on to the knife, and I was back on the ground, recovering from the impact.

  Ramoncito was really crying now. Sobbing. But he wouldn’t move. He clung to the knife so tightly that his whole body shook except for his hands and the blade. They remained perfectly still. Park people had started to gather around. Not a lot, but a few. One woman walked toward us. She was old, her skin the blackest I’d ever seen. She had kind, sad wrinkles across her face. She wore a gray shirt and a beautiful long skirt with colorful flowers stitched on it. Two golden disks, as bright as the elephant still towering above us, hung from her ears.

  “Stop!” she demanded. And the man did. He stopped and looked around as if he had awakened from a dream. His chest rose and fell quickly, but his eyes had moved from me and Ramoncito and scanned the faces around us, especially the woman’s. “Have you no shame?” she asked him softly, and I could see the man affected by her words. She knelt by me and held the back of my head. “They are just children,” she said to him. And the man finally lowered his club and let it hang from his side, the leather band clinging to his strong wrist. And I could see something happening to his face. Some transformation. Like he felt sorry for us all of a sudden, or sorry for himself, or sad at himself, rather. I didn’t have a word for it, but it felt like that one time I stole a box of leftovers from the old homeless man, and he didn’t even have the strength to yell at me. When I sat down to eat the food all I could see were his milky eyes looking at me. I ate the food, but felt really bad eating it.

  Ramoncito dropped the knife. He was still so afraid. He mouthed a silent, “I’m sorry,” and ran off the way we had come. I have no idea where he found the strength. It was probably fear fueling him.

  The woman sat me down and inspected my wounds. “Me llamo Belén,” she said, and she kissed me on the forehead. We sat together at a table and we talked as the dizziness passed. I wanted to go after Ramoncito, but Belén’s kindness held me near. She cleaned my wounds with an embroidered handkerchief and clean water from a plastic bottle. We shared her lunch of hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, broccoli, and sweet plantains. “I can get you help, you know?” she said. “There are places that can take you and your friends in, people who can care for you, feed you.” But I also saw how thin she was, I could recognize her own hunger behind the eyes. I recognized it because I saw it every day on the faces of my friends, because I could feel it inside of me. It had already been a sacrifice to share the little she had. Plus I had heard stories about these places that take kids like me in. They were never good stories.

  “I have to go find Ramoncito,” I told her. And she didn’t try to stop me. She didn’t push. “Vaya con Dios,” she said. And as I walked away I heard her say, “I’m here most afternoons, come see me if you change your mind.”

  My torn T-shirt and my shorts had already started to dry, but every time I took a step my wet shoes sploshed and left a wet footstep on the boulevard leading out of Parque los Caobos.

  * * *

  So I searched for Ramoncito. I went back the way I came. It hurt a bit to walk because of the bump in my lower back, but I also felt stronger from my lunch with Belén. I was having fun using my tongue to free the little bits of food from my teeth, and there was one piece of plantain that made me smile because it was pretty big. I asked the newspaper vendor in Avenida México if he had seen Ramoncito go by. He said he had seen a young boy walking sleepily about thirty minutes ago. He checked his pockets as I walked away, fearing my tricks.

  When I got back to our spot, Ramoncito was there. He was lying in a patch of sunlight, dirt and debris all around him. He lay on his side, like he was a little baby, or still in his mama’s belly, and he faced a little yellow flower that sprouted next to him. His eyes were wide open. But when I called out, “Ramoncito!” his eyes didn’t move. His body didn’t move. He lay frozen.

  I knelt next to him and shook him, and his eyes remained open like he was still staring at that little flower even though he now faced me. “Ramoncito! Ramoncito! Don’t play games,” I told him. I thought it was all just a bad, stupid joke, so I pinched his nose and counted to ten, to twenty, to thirty, to forty, and then I knew that he was dead because no way Ramoncito could hold his breath for that long. And then I let his head drop on my lap. And I told him how much I liked him, and how he had been such a good friend, and that the Crazy 9 would never be the same without him. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t even have one tear come down, even though I felt that lump in the throat I always feel when I think I’m going to cry, like I swallowed a rock that didn’t want to go down all the way.

  Now I’m here with dead Ramoncito. I think maybe I should wait for the rest of the Crazy 9 to come back and help me, but I don’t know when they’re coming, or even if they’ll come at all. We have sleeping spots all over, and sometimes when we go to our dumpster we stay in the Metro station with the nice lady who lets us in after they close. And also they’ve been so mean to Ramoncito, maybe he would want it just like this. Just the two of us.

  There’s a wooden pallet that floated to our spot four days ago. Tomás told us, “I’m going to build a boat with this, and then I can sail all down the Güaire. I can bring my line and hook and I can fish and bring us back food,” and we all liked the plan, so we’d been collecting supplies, more wood and nails and an old hammer so we could make him a boat that would last. But Ramoncito is more important than the boat, I think, and I don’t care if Tomás gets mad at me. So I carry Ramoncito and put him on the pallet—​well, I’ll call it a raft now, because it floats. I pick the yellow flower and tuck it right behind his ear and I tell him, “Vaya con Dios, Ramoncito, you were my best friend,” and I kiss him on the forehead. He tastes like dirt and old sweat, like rotting mango, like salt, like the sound my knife makes when it sticks to gray bark, he tastes like Tomás laughing in the wee hours, like sour milk, like Belén’s hard-boiled eggs, like my grandmother’s voice telling me stories before bed, like loud police sirens in the night, like a piece of meat found in a trash bag that I know is starting to rot but I eat anyway, he tastes like my mother’s hand after she’s slapped my face bloody, like a white crane flying low skimming the brown river looking for fish, like the bubbles in a just-cracked can of Pepsi, like the boy that got hit in the head by a tear gas canister and just lay there, like the sharp end of a belt, like a limp mother with a needle in her arm, he tastes like Pollos Arturos, he tastes like loyalty, and like a brother.

  I let the raft
go. It starts slow, but as it gets farther away, into the middle of the brown river, it goes faster and faster. And then I don’t see him. I imagine the river taking him farther and farther from me. Away from the Crazy 9. Maybe El Güaire will take him all the way out of the city and he will arrive in some beautiful meadow, with flowers, and real elephants, and mango trees that always have fruit on them.

  ANNA REESER

  Octopus VII

  FROM Fourteen Hills

  Tyler caught himself leaning against the white wall and pushed back, leaving a handprint of sweat. It occurred to him that today might be his peak, but that was pessimistic and insane, something his dad would think. He’d finished installing the octopus for Art Murmur and its wire tentacles sprawled across the concrete floor. It looked good, throwing sharp shadows in the constant light. Tyler watched Kelsa from across the gallery. Her dress was the same color as her giant yellow canvas with stylized mountains and a sun flare smeared in oil paint, titled Instant Nostalgia. She was the most intimidating artist Tyler had met during graduate school, let alone dated. After this gallery opening, they’d be back in her bed, an easel just inches away, the smell of sex mixing with mineral spirits.

  She walked over, echoing in combat boots that offset the little dress. When she touched a wire tentacle, Tyler felt a jolt up his spine. “Looking good,” said Kelsa. Her voice was low, a little sleep-deprived grit in it. “Did you oxidize it?”

  “Yeah, thanks. But your painting’s the best thing here.”

  She grinned, slipped her fingers around his shoulder, then, as the gallery owner clipped through the room, Kelsa pulled away and echoed back to her painting. They’d been sleeping together for a few weeks and Tyler felt overwhelmed every time he saw her, and even though people said this would wear off, he didn’t think it could.