by Ginger Scott
“The owner was just having some measurements taken to see how far he could expand and where his property ends, and that’s when…” The detective doesn’t finish. I’m glad, because hearing him talk about my mom as if she was some fossil that they found, or a missing coin, is gross.
My dad just keeps nodding.
“Did you catch who did this?” My dad looks up at the detective who’s now standing beside his chair. The guy wants us to leave. He’s done his good duty, giving us some empathy and letting us take our time—a whole two hours—soaking in the brutal truth. It’s time for us to head on home.
“Mr. Rojas, we’re investigating, but there’s not a lot to go on, and to be frank…we find bodies around here on an all-too regular basis. The gangs are a real problem for us to track,” the detective says, and I scoff, standing and pushing in my chair.
“Then maybe you all need to do a better fucking job!” The man’s eyes flare when I shout, but only a little. He’s been yelled at like this before. My dad reaches for my hand and grabs my wrist.
“Riles,” he says, as if I’m the one who needs to settle down. In fact, maybe everyone needs to be a little more upset—why isn’t everyone outraged right now?
I literally bite my tongue and fold my arms, squeezing at my sides with my hands. I want to go home. I want to erase this part of my day. I can’t though, so I’ll settle for screaming and kicking, for taking it out on the world and building a massive grudge against it.
I lean against a post by the detective’s desk while he hands my dad a series of papers, one at a time, a few that my father signs. I’m sure one of them gives up our legal rights somewhere. The last thing he gives my dad is his card, telling him to call at any time. What’s really left to ask?
When my dad’s done talking, we’re escorted to the elevator and left to find the rest of the way out on our own. That’s it. Two years of living with some lie equals two hours of truth in a police precinct with a man whose last name is Stone and whose first name starts with a B. That’s all I could read on his badge, and it’s all it says on his card above the word DETECTIVE. He said his name at the beginning, but I can’t remember that now. I think I’ll just call him Bob.
My dad is incredibly silent all the way to his car. He doesn’t even ask me to drive, just getting in the passenger seat and handing me the keys without looking before he closes the door. I wish that this could somehow just give us closure, but instead it’s opened up so many new wounds. My dad hated my mom for leaving, only she never really left at all. They had their problems. He didn’t think she worked enough, she thought she worked too much. It was always fights about money. We reported her missing, and there were half-hearted searches, but my dad always believed she just got sick of bickering. I still loved her, but that wasn’t enough to save her. And she died in a place where murders just…happen.
She wasn’t even buried very deep.
I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine, the radio barely a buzz. I turn it up to fill the silence, but my dad leans over and shuts it off. Nothing is ever going to be the same…again. I’ve done this before. I wish I was better at it.
The drive home is long, traffic snarling the streets around the precinct, office workers rushing off for lunch and construction trucks pulling in from the night shift. This place is almost normal, like any other urban spot, only it has this underbelly that’s pure evil.
That’s the thing that’s hovering between us—my dad and me. That pure evil has a name in this county—The Fifty-Seven. My mom was caught in a place she shouldn’t have been, some innocent casualty that got covered up so gang members could just go on with their day. The detective wouldn’t go too in depth, but it was clear that gang activity is their first, and probably only, assumption.
Gang activity. This is why we drive in silence, why I’m wrecked with guilt that’s battling out inside my heart and head. How could one member do something as awful as taking my mom away from me forever and then Tristan be so good? The only answer I come to is Tristan’s not. It’s like he’s been saying to me the entire time—he isn’t good.
He’s one of the people who do things like this. He swore he never has, but men like him—they lie.
I don’t see Tristan sitting in our driveway as I pull up. He’s waiting for me, his back leaning against the metal door. My dad sees him, though. He sees him first, and he kicks open his door before I’ve fully stopped and rages at the boy I thought I could love—that I do love, or that I did.
“You get away from this house!” My father’s voice is a growl and his neck is red.
Tristan stands but he’s too slow to get to his feet and my father’s hands wrap around his neck, pushing him into the wall as he tumbles on top of him. Tristan struggles with him, squirming to break free as my dad’s weight takes him to the ground and they roll several feet on the concrete.
“Dad! Stop! Tristan…don’t!”
I’ve left the car running with the door wide open, and I’m waving my arms at the grown men wrestling. Grief and hate take over and punches are thrown, and it takes me several seconds to sort out which fists belongs to Tristan, and which ones are my dad’s.
“You son of a bitch, you take your poison away from my daughter! You leave my house!” My dad is sitting on Tristan, smashing into his chest, while all Tristan can do is cover his face and roll from side to side. Eventually, my dad grabs Tristan’s arm and stretches his hand back to expose his wrist above his head.
“This! I know what this means. I’m not stupid, son! I’m not fucking stupid, and I know that this means you…you did something awful to earn this!” My dad spits out the words, and they hit my gut just as they suffocate Tristan, his eyes glassy with this horrid truth being leveled at him.
Through it all, though, Tristan isn’t fighting back. I know he’s not because there is no way he isn’t at least twice as strong as my dad. He’s letting my dad hurt him. I let them go for almost a minute until my dad’s arms tire, and both of them are puffing for air.
“Dad, get off…” I say, wrapping both of my hands around my dad’s arm. I pull him until he stumbles off Tristan’s legs and completely collapses on the driveway, whaling moans as hot tears gloss his red face.
Tristan scurries back until his shoulders hit the wall of my house and he holds his knees close as he tries to catch his own breath. His face is pale, his eyes are void of everything, and his body is shaking.
“Come on, Daddy. Let’s get inside,” I say, helping my dad to his feet. After a minute, I feel Tristan’s body near mine, and before he can touch my dad I turn my head and glare at him, mouthing “Don’t.”
I manage to shield him from my father’s view as I walk Dad inside, not wanting another trigger to hit my dad today. He’s had enough. We’ve both had enough. I guide him to the kitchen and fill a large cup with water and force him to drink.
“You should take a shower. I’ll call the school district, let them know you won’t be in,” I say, preparing for my dad to protest. He’s always known best; that’s his role as the parent. He gives over completely to me now, though. He’s in mourning.
I’m in denial.
I start the shower and lay out a clean towel and his pajama bottoms, the only thing I could find in his room, then I shut the door behind me and give him privacy. He’s going to grieve, and he’s going to pray. He’ll beg for forgiveness for hating my mom for so long, and then he’ll wonder if it’s his fault. He’ll think he’s being punished. I know this, because it’s what he did the last time—when he thought all she did was leave.
With the sound of running water vibrating the hallway wall, I walk back to the front door where I left Tristan to suffer alone. I know he’ll be there because as much as I want to hate him for all of this I also know none of it is his fault. He’s a symbol for our grief, and it isn’t fair. I also know he won’t leave, because he hasn’t let me take it out on him yet. He’s too good not to sacrifice his soul to me.
The door is cracked
open just as I left it, and when I step outside, Tristan’s legs are pulled up the same way they were before. His face twists toward me, his eyes panicked as if he’s been caught by a hunter’s rifle. His muscles tense in an instant and I halt in the doorway, letting my mind run through the horror story I’ve just survived.
A surveyor was measuring land outside the dump. He stepped in some loose dirt and the surrounding rocks and clumps started to slide down the hillside. He fought to stay on his feet, climbing through the slipping dirt until he saw a bone that looked like a finger. That finger—my mom’s finger—was attached to a hand that was part of an arm that would lead to unburying her entire body.
In the news, this was just another story. BODY FOUND ON COUNTY LAND NEAR DUMP. If I think hard enough, I can almost remember hearing the reporter say the words on the nightly news about two weeks ago, just after we moved in.
They matched the body with missing-person reports. It took them days to come up with a short list, and then it took them until yesterday to confirm the dental records and DNA. My dad was called at work. He picked me up, and I knew the minute I saw him crying in the chair outside Ms. Beaumont’s office. It took us another hour to leave the school, to drive to the police station. We were done before lunch.
My mom’s death was covered in the span of a single morning. I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t know what to say, who to trust, or how to fight back. But I know that Tristan didn’t do this. He wouldn’t. I need him too much to hate him right now, even though he has to leave. He’s innocent—I feel it, but him being here is also killing my father. It’s because of what he is, what he represents because of a mark on his skin and the place he grew up. This place. The land of The Fifty-Seven.
“Riley,” he says my name quickly, rushing to his feet and grabbing under my arms just before I collapse. He holds me to him, and I sob. I stain his shirt with my tears, grabbing at the color and stuffing the material into my eyes. I want to stop it from coming out, but I can’t—it’s an avalanche.
His hand cups the back of my head and I cling to him, gripping new places on his body every few seconds as I try to choke out words. I haven’t told him about my mom yet. We didn’t get that far—our love was still so new. He’s going to have to learn this part of my story like this though, starting from the end.
“My mom…she was murdered…” I gasp, coughing and fighting for more air. My face is wet and my lips rest against his neck as he squeezes me to him tighter. “They found her. She’s dead. She isn’t missing; she’s just dead.”
In a few weeks, Tristan has become my person. He’s the only one I have for this, and the irony is pure evil—because he probably knows who put my mom in the ground. Yet I hold onto him anyway. He’s all I have. He is the only soul who understands.
Chapter Seventeen
Tristan
* * *
A week has passed.
I haven’t called or texted because I don’t know what to say. Things are different in the moment, and I was the only person there when her world was falling apart. She needs to take care of her dad now, though. She needs him. He needs her. There isn’t room for me in their space as it is.
Ms. Beaumont was able to suspend our games for a week. It’s not like we play in a tough conference or anything. Most of the schools have to piece together teams just like us, so rescheduling this week’s game to the end of the season wasn’t really a big deal. I don’t even know if we’ll get to next week’s games though. I’m not so sure there will be a team here when Riley decides to come back to school.
I’ve held practice for the last two days trying to keep it together for her, because that’s all I can give her right now, this team. Lauren was the only person to show up yesterday, and I’m not shocked when she’s the only one to walk through the gym doors now.
She hates me, too. She hates me because I stayed in—because she couldn’t parent me the way she did her cousin and brother. She’s right to; I should have listened to her. If I had a time machine I would fire it up and visit my five-year-old self, the one who got mad at Lauren for snagging the last cherry popsicle, and I’d tell him to suck it up and let her have it because he owes her his life. She didn’t keep me completely out of the gang, but she did keep me from falling in so far that I lost sight of what’s right. I see that now.
“Just me and you again,” I say, my voice echoing in the empty gym. She picks up a ball and dribbles toward me.
“Uh huh,” she says with a roll of her eyes.
I smirk and kick away from the bleacher seats, walking closer to her.
“How long are you going to hold this grudge? You know I’d erase my whole life to fix this, right? Isn’t that enough?” I reach in to grab the ball from her and she pulls it around her body. I chuckle because somehow, in the middle of all the shit that has gone down, she’s gotten better.
“I know,” she says, her tongue pushed into her cheek.
I hold her eyes and drink in the pity. It’s there, just a little. I can’t handle it for long, though, and I look away and move at the ball again, stealing it this time. Her hands fall on her hips, one leg off to the side as she grimaces at me.
“You don’t guard the ball very well,” I shrug.
“I just don’t give a shit,” she fires back, holding an open palm out for me to give the ball back. Her fingernails are a bright orange, like fire. She’s tougher than she lets on. She’s tougher than most of them.
I roll the ball into her hands.
“She’s not mad at you, you know,” Lauren says, her eyes drifting from mine to the ground as she bounces the ball a few times and backs a step or two away.
“You said that.” Lauren’s talked to Riley a few times this week. She’s been taking her homework and letting her know about the basketball schedule and stuff.
“I did, but you’re slow to listen to me—so I figured I had to say that shit again,” she says, turning and jogging to the hoop. She lays it in, and it’s actually a pretty shot.
“You’re getting better,” I say.
“I know,” she says, her tone bossy.
Maybe she doesn’t hate me anymore. I smile, and her lips pucker to mask hers.
“Let’s play,” she says, nodding for me to step closer.
I let her take the ball out first, and she goes for a smart shot, but misses off the rim. I dribble out and do the same, my shot sinking easily. We don’t keep score, and the play isn’t very competitive. We burn off stress; we laugh; we dance around saying things that are on both of our minds. We do this for twenty minutes until I just can’t take it anymore, and I hold the ball under my arm and sigh.
“I’m just not into it,” I say.
“It’s fine,” she says, slapping the ball from my hands and hugging it at her chest off the bounce.
I glance up at her and we both dash our eyes away, back to the ground. The silence is thick, the tension thicker. I’ve been thinking this for so long, and it has to happen. It won’t go well, but it almost doesn’t matter anymore. I need to say it to someone—I need to say it to Lauren. Maybe she can help.
“I want out,” I say.
She doesn’t react. She’s heard that before, just not directly. But it’s more than just wanting.
“I’m getting out. I’m…I’m out,” I say, my gaze dragging up her long body while hers do the same. We stare at one another’s blank faces for several breaths. She knows what this means. It means I choose death over the gang. It means I would rather die.
My mouth pulls at the corners, the weight pushing my lips down, the trembles fighting to get out. A rush of air leaves my nose as I fight to hold it in, but I can’t. My eyes begin to fill, and I don’t stop them. The first tear hits my cheek, and I keep my eyes open on Lauren. She scans the side of my face, and her tears start too.
“Okay,” she nods, dropping the ball and stepping into me. She pulls me into her arms and wraps me up in home, in the good and familiar. She loves me like family, and she is loyal. This
is what loyalty is supposed to be.
“I’m scared,” I say, nodding against her neck as she does the same.
“I know,” she croaks, her voice hoarse with tears. My hands grab at her back as hers do the same to me and she holds onto me tighter. I start to laugh from the mental strain of it all, of this moment and every moment that’s led up to it.
“I have hugged more people this month than I have my entire life,” I say, pulling a sad laugh from her that shakes her body. She slaps my back with her palm.
“Shut up you big, dumb, boy you,” she says, quaking with more tears. “Just shut up and be brave. You got this, and you’re going to be fine.”
I nod against her, but I know that I’m not. I won’t be fine. There isn’t a way to really ever be fine, but there never was. It’s about degrees of fine, and this is a path I can live with.
It’s a path I can die with if it comes to that.
There was no need to practice anymore with just Lauren, so we both left before the sky got dark. She offered to give me a ride, but the long walk was too appealing. I’m not afraid of the streets. I know where to hide, where to run—when to run. There’s nothing to run from right now. Not yet.
It took me an hour to get to Riley’s house, and it took me another thirty minutes to find the strength to go to her door, but now that I’ve knocked and can hear movement inside, I wonder what took me so long. Nothing can rip through me more than seeing her so broken. Lauren promised she wanted to see me. She said Riley just didn’t know how to ask.
Her door opens, and both she and her dad are standing in jackets, keys in Riley’s hands. My eyes meet her dad’s first, and he’s still blank. I can smell the distrust, and I accept it.