There was a chill in the air at the story’s conclusion, an eerie sense of familiarity.
Before, all I’d done was wreak havoc with my friends, having no care in the world. We would hang out at this park after hours, horsing around and being stupid. Sometimes the other guys would drink a beer or two, or smoke up. The one time I tried a hit I got busted, hence Arrest Number One. Another time we were trying to sneak into a bar—not that I even drank, it was just something to do. The cops caught us, and this led to Arrest Number Two. And then came the Situation, aka simple assault, which led to Arrest Number Three.
None of my past could be filed under the fine label of “peer pressure.” It was all my own doing; I just hadn’t cared. I hung with guys who were questionable and troublesome, and I took part in their shit. My third arrest could’ve been avoided had I kept better company and made smarter choices.
My parents were already fed up with my shit by that point. Staying out late, skipping school, getting into fights, and being just a grumpy asshole, to say the least. This last Situation was just the cherry on top of the sundae of my screwed-up deeds.
My gaze fell to the tabletop. I thought about my time away, my fear of going back, of the loneliness that kept me up at night. I can’t do that again. “Who I was before—I can’t escape or erase that. Who I’m going to be is entirely up to me. I take full responsibility for my actions. I won’t make the same mistakes—I can’t afford to. I learned my lesson, and from here on out, I can only hope to right my wrongs and change opinions of me.”
Mrs. London offered me a smile. “That’s what I want to hear. Welcome on board our team, Guillermo.”
She placed a beige tote bag on the table and slid it to me.
Inside were a couple of folded yellow T-shirts with the word RESPECT in all black caps. A peek at the tag showed the right size.
“If they don’t fit, let me know and I’ll go into our closet and grab you another size,” Mrs. London said. “When you wear that shirt, Guillermo, you are not only representing this program and Briar Park, you are representing a goal—a goal to grow and have not only respect for the community and those around you, but for yourself as well. Is that understood?”
I looked from the shirts to Mrs. London. “Understood.”
As she went over my responsibilities at the center, I told myself I could do this. That I could turn myself around and better myself. Knowing what was at stake, I had no choice but to silently swear this oath.
No shitty friends, no trouble, and absolutely no girls.
Regan
I had just enough time to eat a Toaster Strudel before leaving for the community center Saturday morning.
I was standing at the island, icing my strawberry strudel, when my father entered the kitchen, prepared to drop me off. I took a nervous breath.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my attention on my pastry.
“Morning,” he replied.
He came to the counter and refilled his mug with coffee. I wrinkled my nose. The smell was always warm and delicious, but the taste was just plain bitter and disgusting.
My hand shook as I anticipated his next move. My gaze stayed glued to the packet of icing so I didn’t make eye contact with him.
“So,” he said, leaning back beside me, “how’s accounting going?”
I swallowed the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. “G-good. Great.”
At school, thanks to his pushing, I was taking a vocation in Accounting 101.
Truth was, I hated accounting, but I couldn’t tell him that. Some parents wanted their kids to be doctors or lawyers. My father was very insistent on my becoming an accountant.
He nudged me, a gleam of joy in his eyes. “You keep at it. You ace the course and you’ll breeze through college with no issue, and the next thing you know, you’ll be working up at Sherry’s firm with her.”
Right, my aunt Sherry, his sister who owned her own accounting firm. Not only that, she was good friends with Clarence Jordan, Troy’s uncle, who owned a bank.
My father was proud of his sister’s success, so much so, he was determined to make sure I mirrored it.
He was just so passionate about the idea that, whenever I wanted to tell him I didn’t want to be an accountant, I fumbled, unable to stomach letting him down. Unable to come up with an alternative path to forge.
Our dog, Tanner, sauntered into the room, wagging his tail with the happiest grin on his face. I reached into the cabinet under the sink and grabbed him a “Tanner treat,” as we called them, and fed him the pepperoni stick.
We spoiled his six-year-old butt rotten, allowing him on the couch in the basement, and I let him sleep on my bed in my room. He was a tan mutt who was blind in one eye, and the tip of his tail was crooked. He even had his own signature scent of old dirty socks. We’d gotten him from a home giving away puppies, noticing him right away due to his tail.
Our other family dog, Kandi, hadn’t taken a liking to him. Tanner was so friendly and always wanted to play, and even when a bad fight early on left him with the blind eye, he never gave up on her. I’d done a lot of research into training them to live together, and eventually Kandi had decided she could tolerate him. She was gone now, having passed away four years ago, and Tanner and I were as close as could be. Altogether his quirks just made me love him more.
I petted his soft fur coat while internally cursing the whole topic of accounting.
Tanner’s food dishes were by the basement door and, seeing that he was getting low on water, I went into the fridge and grabbed one of the gallons of purified water I insisted we buy for him and filled up his bowl.
“Rey? Did you hear me?” my father asked from behind me.
There was no escaping it.
“Can’t wait,” I said to appease him, turning and giving him a tight-lipped smile.
I focused on shoving the Toaster Strudel in my mouth to keep from having to say more. Luckily, it worked, and before long he was dropping me off.
On weekday mornings, the Briar Park Community Center front desk was run by adult volunteers, and teens manned it in the afternoons. On weekends like this, teens were given the option of a morning shift. Even if it was almost 11:00 a.m., way too early to be up on a weekend for my taste, I didn’t mind so much. Sometimes I used the center as a refuge, a place to get away from it all: my father and his love of accounting, and Troy and his love of that next step.
I entered the center with a faux cheerfulness. As much as I loved my job, I was dreading that evening’s party plans. My best friend, Malika, wanted to go all out with hair, makeup, and outfits, but I feared giving Troy the wrong impression. There were always girls around Arlington High’s star players who seemed full of confidence, aware of who they were, owning themselves, flirting with the boys and probably doing more than just kissing.
I was the only one being prudish, as far as Troy was concerned.
Honestly, if I had to go to the party, I would rather wear jeans and a T-shirt than show any skin and give Troy ideas.
After punching in at the center, I plopped down at the front counter, prepared to do a little more studying.
“Uh-uh.” The loud arrival of my mother halted my plans. She came around the corner and over to the front desk with the echoing clicks of her heeled shoes. “Park duty, Rey.”
I groaned. “Mom.”
Our playground was situated behind the center, along with a skating area for the preteen and older crowd. Park duty meant babysitting and keeping an eye on the kids as they ran around, making sure no one got any scrapes or bruises. Way too loud and chaotic to get any studying done.
My mother arched a brow, and I knew not to test her.
Park duty it was.
With a heavy sigh, I left my books at the front counter and prepared to go out back.
“Troy nervous about the game this evening?” my
mother asked.
I looked over my shoulder. “He was born ready.”
My mother chuckled before going to collect the day’s mail.
Riotous screams flooded my ears as I neared the side exit that led to the playground.
Park duty sucked.
As I opened the door, a trio of girls no older than seven rushed by, palms out as two boys chased them with something in their hands.
“Eww!” one redheaded girl cried.
“Gross!” another screeched.
Watching to make sure no one fell, I chuckled. That was a situation waiting to—
“Crap!” I yelped, stumbling over a heap of trash bags just outside the door.
Who in their right mind would block an exit like this? I squatted down and started picking up loose wrappers and empty soda cans that had fallen out of one of the open black trash bags.
Slowly, a pair of white tennis shoes and an old rake met my stare.
My gaze ran up dark jeans to a T-shirt, until it found who they belonged to. I paused, leaning back on my haunches, and shivered.
A boy peered down at me, an impassive look on his tan face.
Stoic expression or not, he was gorgeous.
All I could do was stare as I took in his yellow RESPECT T-shirt, the special one all probationers in the outreach program had to wear while they worked at the center. He smelled like sweat and outside, with a faint hint of cologne.
The boy was athletically built, his grasp on the rake making the veins in his forearms bulge just slightly. His stance above me wasn’t intimidating, but the sharp features of his face definitely were. Thick brows over serious eyes, full lips pressed into a fine line, and a small bit of facial hair that only highlighted how handsome he was. I could see he’d tied his dark hair back in a small bun at the nape of his neck. For some reason, it worked for him, complementing his hard image.
I was frozen, holding his gaze. One second I could’ve sworn his eyes were pure black voids, emphasizing his overall dark presence. And then, they became a pretty shade of brown, reminding me of the color of tea with lots of sugar.
The more he stared at me, so focused and intent, the more I forgot to breathe.
Whoa.
Guillermo
Damn.
She knelt before me, wide-eyed and frozen. In fear? I wondered.
I hoped not, because I did not want to be feared. Especially not by this girl.
Her long dark hair framed her brown face and fell just past her shoulders. She wore a cream-colored sweater with light blue jeans and white sneakers, and looked so innocent and clean that I wanted to tell her to get up. She was too nicely put together to risk getting dirty.
She nervously got to her feet. Then she smiled, revealing dimples in each cheek—dimples deep enough that someone might want to poke their fingers into them just because. There was a radiance to her.
Hermosa.
“I...I’m sorry,” she stuttered, then released a light chuckle.
I swallowed, finding my words. “It’s okay.”
She peered up at me with what I thought might be wonder. “I’m Regan.” Her gaze fell to my tee, where I wore one of those Hello, My Name Is... stickers with my name written on it. Seeing a crease of confusion on her forehead, I was tempted to step forward and wipe it away.
“Guillermo,” I told her to clear things up. “It’s Spanish for William.”
Her mouth formed an O, and she bobbed her head. “Okay.”
“Most people call me Memo.” Most people being my family. Others had either learned to pronounce my name or opted to call me Mo. In juvie, there were even a few who had gone with my last name and shortened it to Lo, which I hadn’t minded as my life had hit an all-time low.
Regan released her dimples once more as she grinned at my name tag. “Gee-yehr-mo.”
I watched her mouth as she uttered the syllables, making each one sound pretty.
Bad idea, Memo.
Loosening up, I nodded. “Right.”
Regan rocked onto her heels. “Well, Guillermo, it’s nice to meet you. You must be new.”
I wanted to make up some corny lie about volunteering, but I had an idea she knew what my T-shirt represented.
There was no pretending I wasn’t a fuckup.
I glanced at my shirt, still wanting to explain somehow. “I—”
The back door opened and Mrs. London stepped outside. Her gaze went from Regan to me, her face instantly drowning in disapproval.
Regan blinked and ran a hand through her hair. “Mom?”
My gaze darted to Mrs. London, who was crossing her arms. There was a slight resemblance.
She cleared her throat. “Attend to the kids, Regan.”
Regan conceded and offered me a wave before stepping around the trash bags and making her way toward the playground. Once she reached the blacktop, she peeked back at me.
“She’s off-limits,” Mrs. London announced.
I faced my supervisor. She would know, being Regan’s mother and all.
“I just thought I would make it clear now, seeing that this kind of thing...” She trailed to a stop.
Seeing that this kind of thing was the reason I was on probation.
I got her message, loud and clear. “Understood, ma’am.”
Mrs. London glanced at the trash bags. “You can come back to this later. For now, come with me.”
After moving the bags out of the way so no one else could trip over them, I followed her back inside the facility.
“I mean no harm or malice, Guillermo,” Mrs. London continued. “I just think it’s best to set things straight right away. Rey has a boyfriend, and you’re going forward, not back.”
Maybe it was a cover for not wanting her daughter talking to a delinquent, or maybe she was looking out for me. I left it up in the air.
Going forward, I had bigger things at stake. Cleaning up my image was my number one priority. Regan was gorgeous and seemed nice, but no way was I getting mixed up with another girl, especially one who had a boyfriend.
“There’s...something else.” Mrs. London paused, holding up a finger. She turned and kept walking past the front desk while I shadowed her. We walked down a long corridor until we reached a set of double doors.
Mrs. London opened one for me to enter first.
Inside was a rec room, complete with a pool table, air hockey, foosball, and couches, chairs, and a TV. A few empty tables were scattered throughout.
“This is where most of the big kids hang out,” Mrs. London explained. “When they show up during the colder months.”
“Nice,” I decided to say.
“Come, there’s more.” Mrs. London turned off the light and we went back into the hall. She opened the door across from the rec room, revealing an in-house gym. “One positive way to channel aggression is to work it off.”
A few people were using the gym, jump roping, walking or jogging on the treadmills, or lifting weights. The smell of sweat hung heavy in the room, mixing with the clinking sounds of the steel of the weights being raised and lowered.
Mrs. London led the way to a punching bag and patted it with her fist. “Know how to work one of these things?”
I was good at punching people; how hard could punching a bag be?
Tío Mateo was a big fan of boxing, especially cheering on contenders from Mexico. In the basement at his old house, he’d had an Everlast punching bag. It was so hard and intimidating, I’d never taken a swing at it for fear of breaking my hand.
I joined Mrs. London at the bag. Quickly, I fed my fist into the equipment. The sting of the punch burned, but it felt good.
Angst?
Aggression?
Anger?
Yeah, I had some of that.
Maybe it would do me some good to channel it elsewhere.<
br />
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Mrs. London asked as she observed from the side. “Whenever you’re free, you’re more than welcome to blow off steam here, or hang out in the rec room. Rehabilitation isn’t only about lectures and misery. You can enjoy yourself, too, as you get back into the swing of things.”
I jabbed the bag, almost laughing at her. “‘Enjoy’ myself, sure.”
She reached out and gently touched my arm. “You’re not a monster, Guillermo.”
Tell that to the system.
My parents.
Tynesha.
Mrs. London held my gaze, demanding my attention. “You. Are. Not. A. Monster.”
She said the words with care.
I wondered how many times she would have to say them before I believed them.
* * *
My parents were unpacking the living room when I arrived home. Yesenia was bouncing around as my mother listened to an old album from her youth.
“Can we get a puppy?” Yesenia asked my father.
My father was dusting the fireplace mantel, where my mother was preparing to place our family photos.
I wondered if mine would be put on display. My parents had visited me only twice while I was locked up. That first visit, my mother had slipped me an old family photo, something I’d taped to my wall to look at on all those lonely days, grappling with despair.
My father turned to answer my sister and caught me lingering in the doorway. “No, mija.” His dark eyes flickered over me. “You show up?”
“Of course, Papá,” I said. “I’m not going to mess this up.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He returned to dusting. “Go and finish unpacking your room.”
Yesenia frowned briefly before offering me a small smile. She still believed in me, still wanted to be close. She was innocent in that way. At thirteen, she still saw good in the world.
The Right Side of Reckless Page 3