Bad Idea: The Complete Collection

by French, Nicole

  I just snort.

  “That’s not what I wanted to show you, though. C’mere.”

  Flaco leads me to the closet, where a bunch of Layla’s clothes hang. That’s one more thing I need to do: get her stuff together, because she’s sure as shit not coming back here. My shoulders tense as Flaco pushes the clothes to the side. I get a noseful of her flowery scent, mixed with the stale odor of dried blood and sweat already filling the room. It’s a heady combination—not very good for my state of mind.

  With his foot, Flaco toes open an unzipped duffel bag on the floor, just enough so I can see what’s inside. At the bottom, wrapped in plastic, lies at least a key of cocaine, ready to be cut and distributed.

  “Jesus,” I murmur, squatting down to examine it. I glance at my friend. “Coño, you didn’t touch that, did you?”

  Flaco scoffs. “What do I look like, papi, a fuckin’ moron? I wasn’t about to leave fingerprints.”

  I stand back up and turn toward Giancarlo, who’s still watching us.

  “I knew you were into something,” I growl. “I fuckin’ knew it. I ought to beat your ass all over again for dragging Layla into it.”

  “Nah, Nico, don’t,” Flaco chimes in behind me. “He wouldn’t live through it. Yo, man, I ain’t seen you get like that since we were kids.”

  I rub my face, trying to push away the memories from my past that keep bubbling up. Right after I got back from Tryon, the detention center upstate, I was angry. I wasn’t a bully—exactly—but I didn’t shy away from using my fists. My hands clench. My knuckles are sore and will be bruised as fuckin’ hell tomorrow. But right now, I wouldn’t mind giving fuckface another taste of his own medicine.

  “Nico. You don’t want to...”

  Flaco nods at the bag behind me. I know what he’s thinking. It would be easy to leave with it, sell it ourselves. That much blow would pay both our rents for a year in just about any neighborhood in the city. But aside from the fact that it would be risky as fuck—whoever Giancarlo got that shit from is going to want the money it makes, and if the FDNY found out about it, I’d be fuckin’ toast—there’s something better I can do with it.

  I turn to Flaco. “Call the cops. This motherfucker’s gonna get what’s coming to him.”

  Flaco raises a skinny brow. “You sure?”

  I press my lips together and nod. I hate cops. Like every brown kid in New York City, I grew up fearing the words “Stop and Frisk,” especially after I got back from juvie during the mid-nineties. There’s a decent enough chance that just by being here, Flaco and I will both find ourselves with our noses pressed to the carpet, our wrists cuffed together.

  But I’m willing to take that chance to get this asshole off the streets. To keep my girl safe. To help her sleep at night.

  Flaco nods and pulls out his phone. “You got it,” he says and walks out of the room as he dials.

  I pace for a minute in front of Giancarlo. He watches closely, but says nothing. He’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

  Finally, I stop and crouch down in front of him. “You hear that, culo?” I ask him, my voice weirdly even. “The cops are coming for your ass. And I’m gonna tell them everything.”

  Giancarlo rolls his head to the side with a lot more disdain than any guy tied to a heater has any right to be.

  “And what will you say?” he retorts, more sharply than he looks capable of. “Who is the one with half a face right now? Whose blood is on your clothes? On her clothes?” He sneers. “Why do you think I cut myself instead of her, eh?”

  My face twists as I glance at the nasty cut on his wrist. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it needs stitches. It’s fucked up. I don’t even want to think about why he would do that—threaten to slit his own wrist, bleed all over someone else. This guy is sick, really sick. But that doesn’t mean I give a shit about him.

  Giancarlo spits, and it lands dangerously close to my shoe. Murder rises through me all over again.

  “You tried to rape her,” I snarl through my teeth. “We saw it. We all saw it. That’s five people—me, Layla, Flaco, Gabe, Jamie, and Shama—all saying the same thing: that you’re nothing but a fucking woman-beating rapist who belongs behind bars.”

  “She wanted it,” Giancarlo replies and gives a nasty smile, baring teeth slightly stained from the bloody lip I gave him earlier.

  I recoil. I can’t help it. “Fuck that.”

  “She likes it rough,” he continues, sticking his chin out, like he’s daring me to punch him again. “Why do you think she kept coming back to me? I gave her everything you cannot.”

  I lean in. “You need to stop talking now.”

  “And you left her, no?” he continues. He clicks his tongue. “She thinks I didn’t know. I knew. I saw the messages. I saw that you would call. Well, you think she will be the same? I made her mine, and you know it. No matter how many times you try, I will always be there in the back of her head. Every time she shows you her body, you will know that I touched it too. Her legs, her lips, her tight little pussy—”

  I break off his words with an open-palmed smack across his cheek that sends his face flying to one side, his glasses to the floor.

  “Oh shit!” crows Flaco as he strides back into the room. “Puñeta, you just got bitch-slapped, for real!”

  I shake out my hand as I cross the room. “This motherfucker doesn’t deserve a real punch. And he really doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

  When I turn back around, my red handprint glares on Giancarlo’s pale white cheek. It makes me smirk. I like it more than I should. The darkness inside me grows, threatening to take over again. It would be so easy just to let him have it. Cut off that tape and make it a real fight, even though I know he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  His tongue slips out, and he licks his lips, like he’s imagining some kind of dessert.

  “You know it’s true,” he calls to me. “Every touch. Every taste. I did things to her. She will never forget me, no matter what. And when you try to fuck her too, you won’t forget it either.”

  “I said you need to shut the fuck up!”

  It takes me a second and a half to swing across the room, lift this motherfucker up as far as his bound wrists will let me, and shove him against the back of the radiator so we’re nose to nose. I’m shaking, I’m so mad, like a steam kettle about to blow. He laughs. He’s ten seconds from getting me to lose my shit completely and clearly enjoying it.

  But in the end, it doesn’t work. He doesn’t realize that even with the rage the images cause, his words still remind me of the one person who puts it all out. Her face calls me back from the darkness inside me. She’s the light to my dark—just like I am for her.

  “Nah,” I say, releasing his collar. He falls back into the chair with a thump and scowls. “You ain’t worth it.” I turn to Flaco. “You called?”

  Flaco nods. “Yeah, mano. Cops are on their way.” He turns to Giancarlo with a face full of glee. “You goin’ to jail, puto. What do you think they’re gonna do with your Paco Rabanne-wearing ass, huh? What goes around comes around; that’s all I gotta say.”

  Giancarlo turns about five shades of white. He looks at me, suddenly full of desperation. “What do you want?” he asks. “Money. I have money. How much do you want?”

  His eyes, so dark and deep-set, have lost all cockiness, now just scared and knowing at the same time. He looks over my clothes—the scuffed Converse, the jeans that are worn and faded at the knees, the wrinkled t-shirt I grabbed off Gabe’s floor. Even though it’s stained with his own blood, Giancarlo’s own shirt is ironed and buttoned, like a lawyer or a banker, not a twenty-something college student.

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t want your money, you pathetic piece of shit. Nothing’s worth not seeing you locked up.”

  Giancarlo mutters a long string of something under his breath to himself.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He looks up, defiant, haughty even as his end is coming. “It’s Spanish,” he
says. “A language people like you don’t understand.”

  I lean down so my face is by his ear. Shit, Flaco really wasn’t kidding about the Paco Rabanne. Whatever cheap cologne this dude wears, he’s fuckin’ doused in it.

  “Maldita sea la madre que te parió,” I growl. It’s a nice, nasty curse, one I probably wouldn’t be able to translate completely, but which roughly damns the bitch who gave birth to him. Then I back up so he can see my face. “How’s that for fuckin’ Spanish, cabrón?”

  Behind me, Flaco bursts into laughter and long strings of profanity in both Spanish and English, most of which makes fun of the miserable asshole on the floor. A loud knock at the apartment door interrupts his teasing.

  I blink at Giancarlo. “Guess who?”

  Flaco answers the door and ushers a pair of police officers into the bedroom. They take a look at the mess—the ripped sheets, the bloodstains, the guy tied to the radiator, and open bag of coke in the closet—and sigh. One pulls out his walkie-talkie and requests backup while the other turns to us.

  “Well, fellas,” he says. “Who wants to go first?”

  * * *

  The whole thing takes more than two hours. They immediately put cuffs on Giancarlo, but only after they determine that the cut on his wrist is superficial. But between them and the two other officers that arrive later, they take our statements, separately, then together before they switched to cross-examine the details. Flaco went to his apartment to be interviewed the last time, which is where he still is.

  No doubt Giancarlo has some very different things to say about what happened, so I come clean about my part. I tell them about every punch I threw and why we kept him tied up. I tell them everything and hope for the best.

  “Her name is Barros, you said?” asks the cop, the one named Barrett. “How do I spell that?”

  “B-a-r-r-o-s,” I tell him. “She’s at my apartment. I’ll bring her to the station, if that’s okay.”

  The officer frowns. “I can just come to you.”

  I shrug. “Either way. She needed to clean herself up. She was pretty upset.” I’m playing it nonchalant, but having a cop at the apartment is the last thing I want, especially with my mom there.

  Officer Barrett shrugs. “No, that’s okay. If you can bring her, there’s no reason for us to come.”

  He checks that he has the names of Jamie and Shama so he can request their information from Layla tomorrow, then stands up. A few other cops exit the bedroom, carrying the duffel bag in a plastic evidence bag along with a few other things I didn’t see before. A gun. A stash of pills. Another three officers confiscate several more bags from a closet. Jesus. The thought of how much time Layla was spending here makes it hard to breathe all over again. She had no fuckin’ clue.

  “Thank you,” says Officer Barrett. “I think we’re done, finally. You’re good to go.”

  As I stand up, two more cops escort Giancarlo out of the bedroom, his hands still cuffed behind his back. I give him a little wave as they pass. He doesn’t fight them, clearly out of energy after being tied up for half the day and interrogated for the rest. But before he leaves, he struggles against his escort, managing to turn around to deliver one last line in Spanish that turns my blood cold.

  “Tu madre,” he says. “Yo sé.”

  Your mother. I know.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Layla

  I watch a little mournfully when Nico disappears down the dark, narrow hall. I don’t want him to go, but I can also see the pain on his face while his sister applies her makeup to my bruises. I should tell her it’s unnecessary, but what do I know?

  “Where-where did my friends go?” I ask, finally aware that Jamie and Shama aren’t here.

  “Friends,” Maggie repeats under her breath with a knowing look at her mother. Carmen purses her lips and raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. “They went home.”

  The fact stings. But I remember the looks on their faces as they glanced around Giancarlo’s apartment—their shock that I was spending so much time in a neighborhood that didn’t have perfectly pruned trees or buildings that weren’t power-washed.

  “It’s hard for him,” Maggie says as she continues applying her makeup in big, broad strokes. I’m going to look a little like a mannequin when she’s done, painted a completely different color, but I don’t dare stop her. “He’s seen this kind of thing a lot. Too much.”

  She glances at Carmen, who is watching us from her seat on the chair. I wish my Spanish were better. Carmen is so quiet, so I want to know what she’s saying when she does speak up.

  Guilt sweeps through me all over again. I don’t know everything his family’s been through, but I know enough. I know that Carmen has had her share of nasty men around in her life

  “When we were kids,” Maggie says, “well, when we were all kids, not Nico, there was this time, right after he came back from juvie, when Gabe’s dad was living with us.”

  Carmen breaks in suddenly with a quick stream of Spanish, but Maggie just frowns and waves it away.

  “Mami, hush,” she chides her. “She should know. No one is going to think less of you, okay? Just look at her.”

  Carmen mutters something else, but in the end, she nods her head and flips her hands at us, as if to say “Go with God.” Maggie rolls her eyes.

  “Anyway,” she says. “It was Gabe’s father. He’s wasn’t a good person. For a long time, he didn’t treat my mom so good.”

  I stay quiet while she moves down my neck with the sponge.

  “When Nico got out of juvie, David was living with us, and he used to, um, well, he was hard on our mother.”

  From her chair, Carmen snorts, then emits another long string of Spanish.

  I look curiously at Maggie. “What did she say? I couldn’t catch most of that.”

  Again, Maggie rolls her eyes. Their relationship is the kind you’d imagine a close mother and daughter to have. Bickering, but also fond. My mother and I have never had that. She cares, sure. But we don’t joke. We don’t tease. We don’t really know each other.

  “She says if I’m going to spill our family secrets, I might as well do it right. De verdad, Mami?”

  Carmen pushes her full lips out in agreement and gives her daughter a sardonic look. Maggie just laughs.

  Carmen turns to me. “He hit me,” she says in stunted English. “Gabriel father. Here and here and here.” She points to different spots on her face: her eyebrow, her cheek, her chin. “My kids, they see. And my daughter, she...the same.” She opens her mouth, like she’s going to say something else, but instead sits back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap.

  Maggie watches her mother, but her attitude has vanished. She’s clearly used to the matter-of-fact way Carmen has when she speaks, but the candor takes me off guard.

  “It was Nico who stopped it,” Maggie says as she continues applying makeup. “Every time.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “When he was in juvie, he started boxing. Did you know that?”

  I shake my head. I know he likes to box for exercise, but he never said how he started. Nico never liked talking about his past, and it’s not like we had the chance much this year to get into it. I only know a little about why he ended up in detention to begin with.

  Maggie pauses, probably wondering whether to continue. But she keeps talking. “Well, after he got back, he saw David beating on Mami, so he gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

  At that, Carmen breaks in with another long string of Spanish, then nods at me. “Tell her,” she says impatiently.

  Maggie sighs. “She wants you to know that he also told Ma he would take away me and Selena and Gabe if she ever saw David again. We were still minors, you know? And Nico was eighteen, Alba—that’s K.C.’s mother, you remember?—she transferred guardianship to him.”

  I swallow. This is news. I always knew that Nico took responsibility for his siblings’ welfare, but I didn’t know he had legally been their gu
ardian since he was eighteen. I’m twenty, and I can’t imagine having that kind of responsibility. And I definitely can’t imagine threatening my own mother with it.

  “That sounds incredibly hard,” I say. “For everyone.”

  “It was,” Maggie says. “’Specially since five years later, he did the same with me. Told Jimmy if he didn’t get his ass into rehab, he wasn’t going to be able to see me or Allie anymore. And that if I let him back before then, he would call social services and sue for custody.” She emits a heavy sigh. “At first, I was mad. But now I’m glad he did that. It gave me some space, you know? To do what was right for me and my daughter.”

  It makes sense now, as Nico’s words from March filter back to me, asking me all over again to leave Giancarlo. He made me angry. So angry. At that point, he was just one more person who was leaving me, one more person turning their backs, one more person who also thought they knew better. It never occurred to me that he already knew what it was like to watch someone you care about be hurt. And that because of that knowledge, he already knew what was going to happen to me.

  “Do you...do you still see Jimmy?” I wonder.

  Maggie nods. “Yes. But mostly for Allie. I gave him one more chance last year, but it didn’t work out. We aren’t good together because I make him too mad, and he drives me crazy.” She grins at Carmen. “I have a temper. Just like Mami.”

  Carmen snorts again, but I don’t miss the warmth in her eyes as she looks at her daughter. Still, there is sadness there too.

  “We learn,” she puts in. “From family. Your father, he do this too?” She taps her cheek.

  I almost want to smile in spite of the question. She really does know a lot more English than her kids give her credit for. A year ago, I would have said no. I would have said my father wasn’t the slightest bit abusive and laughed at the idea.

  But it would have been an uncomfortable laugh. High-pitched and over-exuberant, it would have been a laugh that covered up the truths of how he treated my mother and me. The insults. The condescension. The control. I don’t know if that makes him abusive. I don’t know what it means. But I do know that he caused us both a lot of pain, and that my mother always took it.