“You won’t show me the video on the game, and half the team is trying to beat me up. That is what the matter is, sir.” I gave the word sir a hint of sarcasm. A month ago, I would never have spoken to a coach or teacher in that manner.
“You watch your tongue, young man.” The sneer was gone, and a flash of unabashed anger took its place. “Like I told you before, forget about the video. Do you hear me? Forget it.” The coach was all but shouting.
I leaned forward a bit. In my mind, I was begging him. “Please, please, take a swing at me. Please.” For the moment, the door was still open and more than one set of eyes were sure to be on us. I kept pressing. “Jamel attacked me, and there were plenty of witnesses.” I figured as crowded as the hall was, there had to be someone there who didn’t care if the football team won or lost.
“And what about Lance?” He leaned toward me, too, but he had to crane his neck up to look me in the eye.
“What about Lance? I didn’t even know he was in the hall.” I knew Coach was referring to my ambushing Lance outside, but I also knew there weren’t any witnesses.
“You are skating on thin ice, mister.”
There was a statement begging for a smart-aleck reply if I ever heard one.
Instead, I asked, “What’s going to happen to Jamel for attacking me? Or is that okay?”
“You don’t look any worse for wear.”
I asked again, only louder. “What’s going to happen to Jamel for attacking me?”
Coach reached around me and closed the door. “I suggest you let me take care of that.”
I reached behind my back with my right hand and opened the door. “Are we done, Mr. Newcomb?”
“For now,” he said.
I couldn’t resist one more dig. “Do you think the school can protect me from further attacks, Coach, or should my dad contact an attorney? One goes to my dad’s church.”
Jamel’s father was Coach Crockett, Coach Newcomb’s friend and first assistant. I thought, once they thought it over, they’d both rather drop the whole mess. And who knows? With any luck at all, the coaches might tell the team to ease up on me.
»»•««
I decided to call Lisa, but I’d forgotten to get her phone number the last time we talked. Fortunately, there were only two Brazos listed with Branard information, a Beatrice Brazo on Jasper Trail, and an Alfonzo Brazo on Cherry Orchard Way. I dialed the number for Alfonzo. That had to be it.
“Hello, Al here,” a man answered.
“Uh, is Lisa there?” I asked.
“Who’s calling?” asked the gruff and gravelly voice.
Who’s calling? Why is he asking that? Is it so he can tell her who’s calling? Or maybe, he wants to know, so he can decide if he wants her to talk to me. Was I supposed to ask permission before even talking to her on the phone?
Lisa said her dad was old-fashioned, but just how old-fashioned was he?
“This is Todd Nelson, sir, a friend of Lisa’s from her work.” I don’t have a clue as why I said that. Maybe I thought Mr. Brazo would somehow be less offended if he thought it was work-related.
“She’s not home yet. Isn’t she there at work now?” he asked.
“No, uh, I mean, I’m not there now. But if you don’t mind, I can call back later.” I started to ask him what time she got off work, but if I worked with her, as I led him to believe, I ought to know. What a tangled web we weave, indeed. What was I going to say to Lisa when she asked me why I lied to her father? I am so stupid.
Next, I called Law. “What do you know about Lisa’s dad?” I asked.
“Lisa’s dad? Why?”
“She said he was old-fashioned. What do you think that means?”
“I guess it means they are a very traditional Mexican family. Maybe they are into old-school Mexican culture.”
“What does old-school Mexican mean?” I asked.
Law said, “I was talking to a girl in my English class about you and Lisa, and she said…”
“You were what?” I shouted into the phone. “What were you doing talking to someone about me and Lisa?”
“Calm down, Excitement Boy.” Law was laughing. “She knew you and I were buds, so she asked me how you were holding up. She said Lisa was hoping you’d call before long. That’s all.”
I settled down and asked, “And?”
“And what?”
“And what did she say about Lisa?”
“I was just getting to that. Juanita mentioned that Lisa was going to be in her cousin’s quinceañera. It’s one of those old-school traditional Mexican cultural things. Maybe you ought to look up Mexican culture on the Internet.”
“Good idea.”
The Call Waiting beeped. Dad. He said he had a meeting with the church board and might be home late. He suggested Josh and I could find supper for ourselves.
“Can I use your Visa card to call out for a pizza?”
“We have three or four frozen pizzas in the freezer. They say on TV that they are just like delivery.”
“Have you ever tried one?” I asked.
He admitted he hadn’t.
“Dad, I hate to break it to you, but not everything you see on TV is real. Luigi’s Just-a Like-a Mama’s Pies, aren’t.”
He didn’t laugh. “Work it out. You’re a smart guy. I’ve got to go.”
For supper Josh and I ate microwaved corndogs with chocolate milk, and for dessert, we had popcorn topped liberally with ribbons of caramel sauce. Not the healthiest meal we’d ever had, but I suspected until Dad resolved whatever problem he was having with the board of deacons, Josh and I would be on our own a lot.
I reminded Josh, “We are dropping off the stuff you stole at the police station next Saturday.”
“I thought you said you were taking it to Pastor Brandon.”
“He said he’d tell where it came from if they asked.” I lied. I hadn’t called Brandon. I’d been busy with my own problems. Dad was right about one thing. Once you start lying, it gets easier and easier. Before you know it, you find you’re doing it without giving it a single pause.
Josh pleaded, “I can’t go with you. They’ll know it was me.”
“It’d serve you right. Josh, what were you thinking?”
He shrugged and hung his head.
I asked if he had called his pal Kevin, “Did you tell him to gather up his part of the loot?”
He said he had.
“Tell him I’ll be by there Saturday morning at nine to pick it up.”
Josh moaned, but agreed.
“You can tell him too, if you guys fight me on this, or if I find out you’re holding something back, I swear I’ll turn you in to the cops myself. Do you understand?”
“What if the cops hold you for questioning when you turn it in? You’ll cave, and I’ll go to jail.” The little cretin had a point.
“How ’bout I take the stuff to Brandon Lupo and ask him to turn it in?”
“I thought you said he’d tell.”
“I’ll make sure he’s not there when I drop off the stuff. I can leave it by his office door with a note.”
My idea seemed to dispel Josh’s concerns. Since Ken Archer, our youth pastor, resigned several weeks ago, the teenagers from our church had been meeting with Brandon every Saturday afternoon at Grace Community Church on Bolton. Josh was twelve and not part of the regular youth group, but he knew Pastor Brandon. Once a month, Brandon invited the younger kids to the youth meetings. He had a reputation as being a good guy, the sort of man you could trust to keep a confidence. Still, concealing a felony is a big deal, and it’s illegal.
I wished there was a way our church teens could keep attending the combined meeting. Eventually, Dad would hire another youth pastor, and we’d be back doing our own thing. I’d never admit it to Dad, but Pastor Brandon’s High NRG Saturdays, as he called them, were a lot more interesting than the youth meetings we used to have at our Church. For one thing, Pastor Brandon set aside fifteen to twenty minutes every meeting as a g
ripe session.
We could complain about anything we wanted, and the other kids would join in, saying, “Yeah, my parents do the same thing,” or maybe, “I think you’re wrong. Your parents are just trying to do what’s best for you.” Afterward, Pastor Brandon would give his opinion and tell us what the Bible had to say on the subject. I appreciated the way he never put us down or made us feel stupid for what we said.
I made Josh sit at the dining room table while I did my homework. He claimed he didn’t have any, but I made him sit at the table just the same. After a half-dozen sighs and twice that many mumbles of “I’m bored” under his breath, he went to his room and got his math book. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. I do have some homework to do.”
Imagine that.
We had one computer at our house. Dad was adamant about that. He said, “I don’t want you boys spending hour after hour surfing the Net or playing video games.”
He allowed us one hour of free TV or computer time each school day and two hours on Saturdays and Sundays. Josh and my friends thought we were the most mistreated kids ever. Those had been the rules as long I could remember, so it seemed almost normal.
At our house, we rode bikes, shot hoops in the driveway, and played board games like Fact or Fiction, and card games like Four Walls and Rook. We went on family camping trips, and once Josh and I were old enough, we fished in the pond at a neighborhood park near our house in Houston.
I wasn’t into online multi-player games all that much anyway, and social websites like Fiddle and Yo-Yo-Yo were more for the younger kids. The time limit wasn’t that big of a deal to me, but for Josh, it was a different story. Behind his back, Josh called Dad the Jailer, and our house the Hole. My guess was that much of the time Josh spent at Kevin’s hadn’t been spent practicing karate, but playing Urban Scavengers, and following its example in real life.
I used my computer hour to Google “How to date a Mexican girl.”
I got a zillion hits, but settled on one called Mexican Culture and Dating, Seven Essential Rules. I was surprised at just how old-school they were.
Rule One: The boy must ask the girl’s father for permission to take her out.
Check.
Rule Two: The father will instruct the boy how to treat his daughter. The boy must be respectful and patiently listen. He must honor the father’s instructions.
Rule Three: In a few ultraconservative Mexican families, teenage girls are not permitted to go out alone after dark unless accompanied by a chaperone.
Are they serious?
Rule four: The boy always pays 100 percent of the tab for dinner and entertainment.
No prob.
Rule Five: He should bring some small, romantic token of affection like a stuffed animal or a rose along on a first date.
Rule Six: He should make all of the plans for the date, even ordering for the girl at a restaurant. Some more modern-thinking girl might be offended on this point. In that case, the boy should ask, “Do you know what you want, or would you like for me to suggest something?”
Rule Seven: To impress the entire family, the boy should show up at the girl’s home with a guitar and serenade her.
I think I’ll skip that one. I don’t play the guitar anyway.
Some of the rules were ridiculous, but some weren’t. If I were a dad, I guess I’d want to know the boys my daughter was dating.
It’s as Mom used to say, “Before asking a girl out, remember—the kind of girls you date will one day determine the kind you fall for and marry.” I guess the same would apply to the guys a girl dates.
Chapter Sixteen
Armed with willful determination and the seven rules, after school on Wednesday I knocked on Lisa’s front door. Mr. Brazo opened the door six inches and peered out. He sported a bushy upside-down horseshoe mustache and a scowl. The first thing that popped into my head was his resemblance to a picture in my world history textbook. Had he been dressed in full early-1900s Mexican regalia, a dusty sombrero, and crossed ammunition belts over his shoulders, he would have been a ringer for Pancho Villa.
With a face of weathered leather, Mr. Brazo bore little resemblance to Lisa. His dark eyes were the color of coffee—quite a contrast to Lisa’s eyes, light and bright like polished amber.
“What do you want?” Mr. Brazo’s gruff greeting held a faint hint of Hispanic accent, mixed with a bit of southern drawl. To say his tone was less than warm and welcoming would be a gross understatement. Although I stood six inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than Alfonzo Brazo, I was as nervous as the last chicken leg at a church picnic.
“Sir, I am Todd Nelson. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yeah, you said you worked with my Lisa.”
“I, uh, well, uh…I don’t work with her. I just know her from where she works. I meant that I knew her from her work…not our work. I’m sorry if I misled you.” I was a little surprised at how shady I sounded.
“Ump.”
I went into full formal mode. I’d rehearsed the words a dozen times. “Mr. Brazo, I am here to introduce myself to you and to ask your permission to take your daughter out on a date.”
The cock of his head and scrunch of his face led me to believe he was puzzled by my request. Either that, or some chorizo he’d eaten for dinner hadn’t agreed with him. Either way, I expected him to invite me inside. He didn’t. He did, however, open the door another four inches.
I guess that’s progress.
I suffered through the rest of my speech, hitting every point. I had used CORSET as an acronym to help me remember what I wanted to do. Be courteous, on point, respectful, strong, eloquent, and trustworthy. CORSET wasn’t a great acronym, but it was the best I could do at the time.
Mr. Brazo kept looking at me as if I was crazy. He didn’t say much. Our conversation was mostly me talking and him grunting. At one point, I wondered if he had understood my words, but he finally said, “Young man, if my daughter wishes to go out with you, I guess it’s all right with me.” He nodded good day and shut the door.
Whew, I’m glad that’s over.
I checked the time as I returned to my truck. It was a quarter to five. I drove straight to Benny’s, hoping to get there before the dinner crowd hit. Lisa hadn’t said so, but I suspected there to be a bit of a lull between the after-school rush and the fast-food dinner bunch.
Three blue-haired grannies sat at the table nearest the door. They were cackling and eating soft-serve sundaes. A teenage couple was in the rear corner booth. The guy would whisper something in the girl’s ear, and she’d giggle. They’d kiss, and start the cycle all over again.
For once, something went right. Business was slow.
I saw Lisa at the service counter. She looked beat. She leaned across the counter, her elbows crooked, and her face resting in her palms. She gave me a slight smile when I came in but didn’t straighten up.
“Been working hard?” I asked. Brilliant, Todd. Go for the obvious.
“You don’t know the half.” She didn’t move. “Bend down here if you want to talk. This is the best my back has felt in hours.”
I squatted a bit and leaned forward, putting my face even with hers. “What do you say we start all over and try this going out thing again?”
“Right now, I’m so pooped I can hardly think.” She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. “When were you thinking about us going out?”
She didn’t say no, but she didn’t say yes either.
“How about Friday?”
“Well.” She paused.
This can’t be good. Pausing meant thinking. Thinking isn’t good.
She said, “I’m scheduled to work the late shift on Friday. I wouldn’t get off until almost ten.” My heart sank.
“How about the next Friday?” I asked.
“I’m scheduled to work late that Friday too, and I have a cousin’s quince on Saturday, so I have to get up early.”
Think, Todd, think. You can’t let circumstances ruin your chance to date an angel. I aske
d, “Would a weeknight work better?”
“It really would. Or…” She paused. “We could go out tomorrow if you like. I don’t work at all on Thursdays.”
I love Thursdays.
I bit my tongue to keep from yelling, “Yippee!” and calmed myself. “Tomorrow? You want to go out tomorrow?”
Maybe there is a God after all.
She stood straight and said, “Yes, if that would be okay?”
I took in a slow shot of air. “Tomorrow will be fine.” I may have been suave and calm on the outside, but I was doing cartwheels and backflips on the inside. “Can I pick you up at seven?”
“Seven’s good.” She smiled and added, “Be sure to come in. Like I said, my dad is sort of old-fashioned.”
“I get it.” Aside from the seven rules, I had read dozens of articles on traditional Mexican culture. I now considered myself a bit of an expert. I asked, “Is there anything particular you would like to do?”
“No, not really. I’m too tired to pick. Why don’t you surprise me?”
Surprise? I don’t know what she likes or doesn’t like. Wow, the pressure is on.
We didn’t have much time to talk. The front door swung open, and four preschoolers burst in, followed by a man in a burnt orange University of Texas cap and a woman in mom jeans and a white T-shirt with a faded “Hell Yeah” emblazoned across the front. Four kids, all under six? Maybe she should have said “Hell No” a little more often.
Manager Terry gave Lisa an “Ahem.”
She didn’t stir.
A few seconds later, he did it again. “Ahem.”
“I get it, boss.” She straightened and rotated her back. “Tomorrow at seven, then.”
I said good-bye and floated out to my truck. The pressure was on. I had to create the perfect first date.
Chapter Seventeen
“Aunt Sue, this is Todd.” I figured if anyone knew something fun to do on a date it would be my Aunt Sue. She was a fun person, and she’d dated a lot since her last husband, a professional magician, took off. As she put it, “The only things he ever successfully made disappear were my diamond tennis bracelet, my Louis Vuitton travel bag, and my new laptop.”
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