Over My Head

by Charles de Lint

  Mamá makes the sign of the cross. She didn't only live in East Riversea with Papá and us. She grew up in a barrio in Mexico. She knows firsthand how the bandas impact the lives of everyone around them. There's no avoiding their presence. All you can do is duck your head and hope they don't notice you. What you don't ever do is report them to the authorities.

  "Josh put an end to it?" she asks, clearly perplexed that this could happen.

  I nod.

  "But he's such a small boy. How could he stand up to them?"

  "I don't know."

  That's true—I really don't know how yet.

  "But he can be very persuasive," I add.

  Mamá is quiet for a moment. She looks at her shrine. The Virgin with her dusky skin. Los santos. The votive candles and her beads. I don't see whatever it is that she sees, but the images seem to strengthen her.

  "You must have had an angel watching over all of you. Your sister has been difficult for a long time now," she finally says. "Ever since the divorce. I know she's been hard on you and some might say that this is something she brought on herself. But mija, we both know what you did was wrong, if understandable. And if she will not accept your apology, you cannot make her."

  "But what do I do?"

  "You could ask Our Lady to help Ampora see that you're truly repentant."

  Like that's ever going to happen, is my first thought. But as I look on the kind features of Our Lady of Guadalupe, I remember how I always loved going to church when I was young. I didn't turn my back on it until Mamá betrayed the family and then turned so fervently to religion when there was no one else she could ask for the forgiveness she craved.

  Today I understand her a little more than I ever have. It's so hard to have done something wrong but know that you'll be dismissed when you try to accept responsibility for what you've done and make things right. When the people you've hurt won't even let you try to make things right.

  I don't really believe praying can make it better. I don't even see it making me feel any better. But it would make Mamá feel better.

  "Maybe I'll try it," I tell her.

  I search her face before I kneel down. But there's no triumph in her features, no sense that she feels she's finally won me back into the fold. There's only sympathy for what I'm going through.

  She kneels beside me.

  "I will pray with you," she says.

  "I'd like that," I tell her, and I'm surprised to realize that I actually mean it.

  The sense of well-being I get in sharing this moment with Mamá doesn't last. How could it? The little girl I once was—the one who went to church with wide eyes and true faith—she doesn't exist anymore. There's only me, and I've already had too many disappointments in my life to believe that invisible spirits in the great beyond look out for us down here.

  After a while I get up. I make the sign of the cross—more out of respect for Mamá than what her shrine symbolizes—and go to my room. I drop my backpack on the floor, walk to my window, then back to the door. When I realize I'm pacing, I force myself to sit down at my desk. There I shuffle books and paper around in a meaningless pattern before I finally turn on my computer.

  I'm not in the mood to work on my blog—not even to answer comments it might have gotten—but if I don't do something to get out of my own head, I think I'll go crazy.

  I consider doing a short post to ask my readers if they've noticed themselves having a shorter fuse, getting more aggressive recently, but I know that's a bad idea as soon as it comes to mind. The authorities probably follow blogs as part of their general info-gathering and who wants them to read anything like that?

  Instead of writing, I look through the new comments. I'm only half paying attention when I come across a post saying that Congressman Householder is coming to town to speak at a "Humanity for Humans!" rally. I click on the link, which brings me to a picture of his hateful face urging everyone to attend and stand up for their rights as human beings.

  This is so awful it literally makes my skin crawl.

  Chaingang

  My phone rings before we can head off to look for Josh. The caller ID shows me it's J-Dog.

  "What's up, bro?" I ask.

  "Where are you?" he asks.

  I tell him.

  "So you're not part of whatever's going down at the skatepark?"

  "What's going down at the skatepark?"

  "Oh, nothing much," he says. "Just a goddamn army of Mexican car freaks having some kind of powwow on our turf, and your little animal boy's right in the middle of it."

  Across the table from me, Cory sits up straighter. He's not missing a word.

  "Let me get this straight," I say into the phone. "You're telling me that the Kings have Josh cornered in the skatepark?"

  "Dwight says right now it's more like they're talking something out," J-Dog says. "Josh and Fat Boy. The other Kings are standing around, keeping watch."

  Dwight's one of ours. An Ocean Aver who likes skateboarding, but also uses the opportunity to deal to the other skateboarders when they're looking for some weed. His own little niche market, I guess. But one day, one of those kids is going to get too whacked-out to do their trick on the board, and you know Dwight won't have their back then. Avers don't mix business and pleasure.

  "What I want to know is," J-Dog goes on, "is this your personal business or should we be saddling up because, I've gotta tell you, I'm in the mood to bust a few heads."

  "It's personal." I tell him. "I'll go deal with it."

  As I stow my phone, I see Cory giving me a measuring look.

  "That was your brother?" he asks.

  I nod.

  "And he knows about Josh?"

  "It wasn't planned. He just found out about me, then Josh came by my crib and J-Dog figured it out. It's cool. He's not going to tell anybody."

  "But—"

  "I've got to motor."

  Cory stands up when I do. "I'm coming with you."

  I shake my head.

  "No, man," I tell him. "I took enough of a chance coming here as it is. Vincenzo was pretty clear what would happen if I talked to any of you. Cruising through town with you on the back of my bike is just begging for trouble."

  "Don't worry about that," Cory says.

  "Yeah? It's not your …"

  My voice trails off as Cory does that Donalita thing and changes from the Indian kid he normally looks like to a long-haired surfer dude.

  "Ohhh-kay …"

  I look around us. Almost stranger than the change in his appearance is that no one even noticed. Cory smiles as though he knows exactly what's going through my head.

  "People see what they expect to see," he says.

  "If you say so."

  But it's still giving me the creeps, Cory's voice coming from this surfer.

  Donalita scampers down the tree and perches on the picnic table.

  "And if you're worried about your grandmother," she says, "I'll watch out for her."

  I make myself look away from Cory and focus on her. "And when she wants to know who you are?"

  Donalita grins. "I'll tell her I'm your girlfriend."

  "Like hell you will."

  She laughs. "Don't worry. I can be good."

  "And what are you going to do if Vincenzo shows up?"

  "I'll teach her the tricks a coati-girl has for hiding."

  I don't have time for this. If Fat Boy himself is having the meeting with Josh, it's serious. I need to have been on my way ten minutes ago. I search Donalita's face. I don't know that I actually trust her, or that I want to trust her, but I take a little comfort in the idea of someone watching Grandma's back.

  "You have a phone?" I ask her as I walk to my Harley.

  "Sure."

  I rattle off my number. "You call me if anything seems off. Anything."

  "Aye aye," she says and throws me a salute.

  "This isn't a time for goofing off."

  "Don't worry," Cory says. "She can be more serious than you think."<
br />
  She flashes me a toothy smile but the teeth aren't a girl's anymore. They're sharp and pointed, and there seem to be an awful lot of them.

  "Okay, then," I say.

  I start up the bike. Cory hops on the back and I take off for the skateboard park.

  Josh

  Fat Boy's name isn't ironic, except in that his bulk isn't so much fat as muscle. The guy's huge, covered in tattoos, and he just seems to get bigger and bigger the closer I get. Bigger than either Tiny or Chaingang, that's for sure. And there's not going to be any taking him down by surprise like I was able to do with Tiny. Fat Boy might be smoking a joint, but his eyes are bright and alert, fixed on me with the unblinking intensity of a snake.

  And of course he's not alone, not with that entourage of classic cars. Three or four bandas spill out of each one. By the time I've reached where he's standing, they're about thirty-five strong, each one a little colder-eyed than the next. But at least none are carrying weapons that I can see, and most of them stay near their cars. Only a handful have joined Fat Boy, one of them being Chico Para, the head guy from the taquería. He's the only one not looking at me. Instead he seems focused on something very interesting on the pavement at his feet.

  I'm a little surprised that they came out in such numbers since I know they're only here to deal with me. The way Fat Boy's staring me down, he probably figures he can do it all on his own without even breaking a sweat. But I guess the gang has to make a show of strength because on this side of Rio Grande Drive, they're intruding on Ocean Avers' territory. With so many Kings here, the Avers would have to come out in full force, and that's not likely since the bandas are here for me and—my relationship with Chaingang notwithstanding—whatever happens to me isn't gang business.

  When I reach Fat Boy I look him right in the eye—or at least I try to. The effect's a little lost since he's so much bigger than me that I have to look up. A lot. I half expect the hawk who's been watching from the telephone pole across the street to come swooping down to stop me, but he remains where he is.

  Fat Boy looks amused at the way I marched right up to him and that's not good. He needs to take me seriously or this is never going to end.

  "You didn't bring enough men," I tell him.

  That takes the mocking look out of his eyes.

  "Listen, you little shit," he starts, but I cut him off.

  "Seriously," I say. "There was a point where I would have let you save face, but you didn't keep your men in line. So I need to draw the line right here, where everybody can see."

  Oh, he doesn't like that at all.

  "Let's get something straight, pendejo," he says. "The only reason I'm talking to you instead of tearing you a new asshole is because Don Goyo asked me to make peace with you."

  I can't help it. I glance at the telephone pole again, but the hawk's not there anymore.

  "Bullshit," I tell Fat Boy. "You don't make peace by having your goons jump my friends after school or by showing up here in force."

  "Don't push it," he says.

  Chico's still not looking at me, but a skinny little guy with a scarred face and mean eyes gives me a glare. His tats cover every inch of exposed skin: haloed saints and a crucifix vying for space with strippers, snakes and barbed wire. I've always liked ink, but this seems like overkill.

  "Let me take him down, boss," he says. "Teach the punk some respect."

  Fat Boy holds up his hand and the guy shuts up. Then Fat Boy fixes his gaze on me. I can see he's making an effort to keep his own temper. It's not something I suppose he has to do often, and it's obvious he doesn't like it.

  "Don Goyo says—" he starts, but I cut him off.

  "I don't care what the uncles say or do. This is between me and you. And your word's no good to me anymore."

  Now he can barely hold back his anger.

  "I never gave you my word," he says through gritted teeth. "And if you keep this up, I never will."

  "Bring it on," I tell him.

  "Look at the kitten," a stranger's voice says from behind me. "Just itching to pop his claws."

  "So fierce," a second voice says.

  "Such a fool," adds a third, and this one, I recognize. It's Tío Goyo. "He fights a battle already won while the war goes on around him."

  This weird sensation comes over me as I hear those voices. All of a sudden it's like I have a map in my head and on it I can place every living creature in the park and along the streets. Des and the visiting girl, Sandy. Her cousin Justine and the other skateboarders. The three hawk uncles and all the Riverside Kings. Even every damn ground squirrel and bird in the skatepark, from the gulls and crows feeding around the garbage can to a pelican flying overhead. But no hawks.

  Of course not, I think as I turn to face los tíos. That's because they're standing right here.

  And they're probably responsible for putting this creepy GPS kind of feeling in my head.

  The two guys standing on either side of Tío Goyo look like they're cut from the same cloth that he is: old, wiry desert rats, dark-skinned and sharp-eyed. I'm hyper-aware of Fat Boy and his gang behind me, but this sensory overload in my head is really freaking me out.

  "What did you do to me?" I ask.

  Tío Goyo's eyebrows go up.

  "In my head," I say. "What did you put in my head? It's like I've turned into a human GPS."

  One of the other old guys snickers.

  "We didn't do anything," Tío Goyo says. "The more you assert your authority, the more changes will come to how you perceive the world and how it perceives you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Perhaps," Tío Goyo says, "you should finish your business with Señor Zaragoza first."

  It takes me a moment to realize he's talking about Fat Boy. When I turn around, whatever machismo I had going for me has drained away. I don't feel like a powerful mountain lion, ready and able to tear into some human punks. The reality of the moment settles into me instead: I'm just some half-assed school kid who's trying to intimidate a big scary Mexican gang leader.

  "Have you assured Josh," Tío Goyo asks Fat Boy, "that you will honour a truce that guarantees the safety of his friends and family?"

  Fat Boy shakes his head. "The little pendejo wouldn't shut up long enough for me to tell him."

  "But now it's all settled?"

  "Of course, Don Goyo."

  Tío Goyo turns to me. "Does this satisfy you, Josh?"

  I have to clear my throat before I can speak.

  "If you're going to leave us alone," I say, "why were your guys waiting for my friends after school?"

  Fat Boy frowns. I don't think he's going to answer, then Tío Goyo says, "The boy has a point, Señor Zaragoza."

  I don't know what kind of a hold los tíos have over the Kings, but clearly, it's strong. I know Fat Boy would rather just beat the crap out of me, but instead he forces an apologetic smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

  "We didn't get word to them in time," he says in a mild voice. "It won't happen again."

  "So we're in agreement, Josh?" Tío Goyo says. "The Kings will leave you and yours alone and you'll extend the same courtesy to them?"

  The skinny guy beside Fat Boy snorts.

  "You have something you wish to add, Señor Delgado?" Tío Goyo asks him.

  Delgado immediately ducks his head. "No, Don Goyo."

  Fat Boy gives Delgado a casual smack with the back of his hand and the skinny guy staggers a couple of steps sideways. Then Fat Boy makes a fist and extends it to me. I give Tío Goyo a questioning look. When he nods, I bump fists with Fat Boy.

  "We're done here," Fat Boy says.

  I nod. I'm not really sure what's going on—why the Kings are so deferential to los tíos—but the bandas return to their cars and I'm left standing with three old men who don't give off a Wildling vibe, but seem just as powerful as the Wildling elders all the same. I watch the Kings—with my eyes and with the new sensory input in my head—as they get into their cars and drive aw
ay.

  "How do I turn it off?" I ask Tío Goyo when the gang's gone. "This thing in my head."

  He shrugs. "I assume you had a similar dilemma when you first changed? All your senses seemed too strong?"

  "Yeah."

  When he doesn't explain any more, I realize what he doesn't feel he has to spell out: learn for yourself how to dial it down. Great.

  I look past the uncles. We're still getting a lot of curious looks from the kids in the park, but with the show—such as it was—over, they're starting to go back to what they were doing before the Kings arrived. Des is walking in our direction, but he stops when that girl Sandy asks him something. I turn back to los tíos.

  "So which of you was the hawk following me?" I ask.

  Tío Goyo dismisses my question with a wave of his hand.

  "I want you to meet my friends," he says, "Benardo and Marcos. They wished to see your progress firsthand."

  "You know I have no idea what you're talking about, right?"

  "And yet," Tío Marcos says, "you are embracing your responsibilities."

  Tío Benardo nods. "Though you might want to temper your enthusiasm with a little forethought. Brute force isn't always the answer."

  "This isn't helping," I tell them.

  "What they mean," Tío Goyo says, "is that forcing your will on others won't necessarily solve your problems. Someone else will always come around to test your right to rule."

  The other two uncles nod.

  "You mean the way I was trying to make the Kings leave us alone? I tried talking to them first and you saw where that got me."

  "Consider the tone of that conversation you were having," Tío Goyo says. "You attract more bees with honey than with vinegar."

  "But you're doing well," Tío Benardo says.

  "Oh, yes," Tío Marcos agrees. "So long as you remember that you are in charge, not the lion under your skin. The lion only chooses between two courses of action: attack or retreat. Your choices aren't so limited."

  "So you're saying I should back off some—communicate better," I say.