by Amber Hart
“My turn,” Faith says and goes straight to the bathroom.
I flip on the television and wait for Faith to finish. When I don’t find anything on, I look in the cupboards for something to eat. I find beans and rice. In the fridge I spot a block of cheese, a tomato, and a couple jalapenos. I get to work cooking enough beans and rice for Faith and me. By the time I’m finished, I have two bowls of steaming white rice and black beans topped with diced tomatoes, chopped jalapenos, and shredded cheese.
“Hungry?” I offer when Faith returns.
“Very.” She eyes the bowls in my hands. “Smells good.”
“Hope you don’t mind that I helped myself.”
She plops down on the couch and pats the spot next to her for me to join. “ ’Course not.”
The Faith I used to know was controlled by the fear that she had to be perfect for everyone else. The Faith I’ve seen over the last few days isn’t the same person. She’s more relaxed. She’s living on her own terms.
Faith takes the bowl I offer.
“So,” Faith begins. “Do you want to talk about things?”
Yes. “I don’t know.”
I take a bite. It burns my tongue.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your cancer?” she asks.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
It’s a conversation that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue. Waiting for Faith to open up. Tell me why she was happy and never bothered to call. Maybe if she had, she would know my story already.
“I didn’t answer because I was upset about everything that had happened,” Faith says.
“But you’re happy now. How can you be happy?” I ask, confused. “I mean, I’m glad you’re doing well, but the last I saw, you were devastated. Diego was gone and you needed to get away. You came here and stopped answering my calls. I’m trying to understand,” I say. “I really am, but I don’t get it.”
“What if,” Faith says, eyes on the ceiling, “you lost the best thing that ever happened to you? Would you be answering calls?”
Probably not.
“I needed you,” I whisper, almost ashamed.
I needed my best friend. I wanted Faith to tell me that my diagnosis was okay and that I’d get through it and that everything would be all right. I would have believed her.
Faith winces. “If I had known . . .”
But she didn’t. It’s done.
“From now on,” I begin.
“I’ll always answer,” she finishes.
Bygones.
“I was diagnosed with cervical cancer six months ago,” I tell her. “They took out everything. I can’t have kids. I have to take hormone pills to regulate my body. I’m a shell of what I used to be.” I swallow. Beg my heart to slow down. “They took pieces of me, Faith. I’ll never be whole again.”
I finally say the words aloud. I’ve thought them no less than a million times, but I’ve never—not once—admitted how hollow I truly feel.
“Melissa,” she says. Sets her bowl down on the coffee table next to mine. “You are still here. I know what it’s like to lose pieces of yourself. I nearly lost all of myself, would have if it weren’t for you. You told me to break free. It’s your turn.”
Free, free, free.
“How?” I whisper.
“By being happy,” Faith says. “What makes you happy?”
Family.
Life.
Javier.
“Did I tell you that I’m with Javier?”
A smile inches up Faith’s face. “Javier might have mentioned that.”
“He’s amazing,” I say. “I think I love him.”
I know I do.
Faith wraps her hair in a bun. Legs crisscross on the couch.
“Why do you say that with a frown?” she asks.
Am I frowning? Probably. Because Javier’s in a gang. Because his future is too bright to be weighed down with violence and drugs and weapons. I thought that was why he left Cuba.
“Because,” I say, giving in. “He’s messing up.”
I play with the string on my pajama pants. Decide that I want to trust someone.
“You know how that gang kept hassling Diego? The one that set him up in the end?”
Faith sucks in a breath. “You know about that?”
“Yeah.” I let it out. “Javier joined the gang to find the guy who set up Diego.”
“Shit,” Faith says.
“Exactly. And he won’t quit looking for this guy, Wink. I tried to get him to back out.”
Memories of Javier kissing me, touching me, introducing me to his family.
“I don’t want to see him go down like that. I’m worried,” I admit. “And he won’t stop.”
I need to say the next part. I don’t want to say the next part.
“I’m terrified that he’ll end up like Diego.” I try to breathe. “He’s lying to them. Making MS-13 think he’s one of them. What happens when they find out that he’s lying? That he wants one of their members dead? What then?”
Faith curses some more. Paces the room.
“There’s really only one way to fix this,” she says.
“How?”
I’ll do anything. I’ll pull down the sun and stop time from turning and give myself infinite moments to figure out an answer.
“With the truth,” Faith says.
She looks guilty and frustrated and what is the truth?
“Which truth, Faith?”
I’m impatient to hear her answer.
“The truth that there is no reason for Javier to get revenge. He’s putting his life, his life, at risk. Does he understand how dangerous they are? I saw them smile when Diego was shot. Wink was happy to watch Diego bleed. And Javier wants to find him? No. He can’t. He just can’t,” she says. “It’s all for nothing.”
She pauses. Finally stops pacing. Looks me in the eyes and whispers words that slice me right in half.
“Because Diego isn’t dead.”
46
javier
A roar rattles the wall. Pain and shock and total confusion in his expression.
Wink falls to the ground, another agonized cry rolling off his lips. Hands clutching his thigh where I’ve shot him. Blood. So much blood.
“Pendejo estúpido,” he hisses.
I catch his curses with my ears and smile.
A real, finally-found-you smile.
Wink reaches for his gun.
Did you really think that would work?
I’m too quick for his labored movements. I snatch his gun and slide it across the floor to the other side of the bathroom. Punch him in the face. Watch his head snap back. Take a hit from his left hook. But I’m faster. I whip Wink’s hands behind his back. Tie them together with my bandana. Pause at the irony of it. The colors of my fake affiliation are securing my enemy in place.
I stand up and look at the damage I’ve done.
Wink, sprawled out on the floor, wincing in pain. Shot. Dark stains pooling beneath him.
“Who the hell are you?” Wink spits.
I wonder if Diego’s blood pooled like that, too. I wonder if he was able to speak after being shot. Rage rushes through me.
“You don’t remember?”
Wink clutches his injured leg, jeans ripped.
“Or maybe,” I say, “this will refresh your memory.”
I step closer. One word out of my lips.
“Diego.”
Wink’s face changes. Something like a memory. He takes a moment to process it. “I shot you.”
He means outside of the club the night me and Diego fought Wink and his gang.
Now we’re even.
“Yeah, you shot me,” I say. “And you got my cousin killed.”
The last words are bitter. Clogging my throat with pain and anger.
Wink has the nerve to smile. Looks down at his leg. Mocks me. “I would say I got the better end of the deal.”
Because he’s not dead. Because he hasn’t been shot t
hrough the heart.
“I can change that,” I snap. I pull my gun back out and aim it at his chest.
His smile slips. Turns into a scowl. “If you’re gonna kill me, do it already.”
My biggest wish.
“That would be nice,” I reply. “But too good for you.”
What I want to do and what I’m going to do race for first place.
“No,” I continue. “I’m not givin’ you an easy way out. You’ll pay for Diego’s death.”
I’m running out of time. My absence for this long won’t go unnoticed. With my gun focused on Wink, I unlock the window. Push it open for an escape. I can’t go back to the room now. MS-13 won’t be happy that I’ve shot one of their leaders. I’m wondering if anyone’s noticed Wink’s absence. I’m wondering if gunshots can be heard over the pounding music.
“We’ll see how well you do in prison,” I say. “One tip to the police, and you’re there. You’re a wanted man. Maybe now that arrest warrant will actually mean somethin’.”
I know there’s a warrant out for Wink, but the police didn’t bother to invest their time in a worthless gang member who got a former cartel member killed. They figured Wink would turn up somewhere eventually, and then they’d lock him up.
I’ll make sure that he turns up today.
The cops don’t care that Diego is dead. They don’t realize that he was a good person with a hard life. How can they possibly understand that he made the best of what Cuba handed him?
They can’t.
So they’ve never found Wink. They haven’t cared enough to look.
I think back to the word justice.
Justice, I reason, is what will happen to Wink after this moment.
I pull out my phone. Dial. Listen as the police answer. Watch Wink’s face turn murderous. I keep my gun on him. I cannot afford to slip for even one second. Wink will take any opportunity to run. Any opportunity to grab my gun.
I let Wink hear my every word, the tip I call in. The part about how there’s a gang meeting in the back of the club. The other part about how one of them is tied up in the bathroom. I leave out the part about how I am one of them. Because, truthfully, I’m not. The police don’t have to know that I’m involved. I could be anyone. A person at the club who overheard something, who saw the gang, anything. Safer that way.
It’s a strange feeling. Knowing that I’ve finally found Wink. Knowing that he will suffer many years in prison. I shouldn’t like the feeling coursing through me. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t.
I do.
The darker parts of me like knowing that he will suffer. That Wink will be bossed around. Told when to shower. Served food he doesn’t pick out. Left chained and waiting, wasting his life away.
I hope the wait drives him crazy. I hope that looking at the same enclosing walls will never be comfortable for him. I hope that Wink’s future is as bleak as my cousin’s.
He deserves no mercy.
Forgiveness is a word that I don’t know the meaning of.
His home will be a cell.
It’s still better than being six feet under.
I try not to think about that. I hang up the phone. Flash Wink a cruel grin.
“I hope you rot, puto.” My words feel good. My job here is done.
I think of Diego.
For you, I tell him.
Para tí.
My time is up. There’s a knock at the door. Knob jiggling. Another knock. Someone calls for Wink. The butt of my gun comes down over Wink’s head before he can answer. Knocked out.
The person on the other end of the door knows that something is wrong. They’re banging on the door now. Pushing against it to open it.
I hoist myself onto the window ledge. Look back at an unconscious Wink.
Someone shoots the lock.
Uno, dos, tres.
Jump.
The fall isn’t far. I hear the sounds of whooshing wind in my ears, and I’m off. Running. Hoping to get lost in the streets. Dark alleys. Midnight wraps a cloaking hand around me, creating the perfect disguise.
I look back only once. See a face in the window. Hear yelling. I’ve been spotted.
Guys jump out of the window. I’m not prepared for pursuit. I was hoping they wouldn’t see me. Too late.
I pick up my pace. Buildings blur past. There’s chipping concrete and innocent bystanders and too much open space. I slip into a tight alley. Hop over trash bags and around homeless people. I navigate through constricted walkways.
Pop, pop, pop.
Someone is too close. Firing bullets. Missing me by mere inches. I’m full of luck and hope. Just a little bit farther. A bullet strikes the brick building ahead of me. I duck. Twist around corners. So close.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
I should fire back but I’m afraid that I might hit my mark. Then what? I’m a murderer, too. No.
Pop.
I need to keep going.
Pop.
There’s more than one of them chasing me now.
Pop.
I need to move faster.
A guy comes out of a side alley. I don’t see him at first. By the time I do, it’s too late.
Pop. Pop.
I fall.
Time jumbles everything around me. Sirens and sounds. Shouts and echoes. Garbled noises like voices near me.
“Javier.”
Someone else, opposite direction, says my name. My real name.
Crack. My eyes open. Just enough to see Monkey take aim. Shoot two MS-13 members. Dead.
That can’t be right.
Silence falls and it feels like lights out. I glance at my stomach, dowsed, coated in blood.
“Javier.”
Again, my name. From Monkey’s mouth. How does he know?
“Stay awake,” Monkey says.
“What’s goin’—” Pause. Breathe. Pain. “On?”
Two lungs. Too many breaths. Not enough air.
“How did you know,” cough, “that I ran here?”
My lungs burn like matches lit within.
“I traced your cell from the call you made,” Monkey says.
“But I called la policía.” I cough up something wet. “How could you trace—”
I trail off.
No way, I think.
No puede ser.
“You’re a cop,” I say, understanding.
“And you’re Diego’s cousin,” Monkey replies.
I try to stay awake. I try even harder to breathe. Each attempted breath rips my chest in two. My mouth tastes like blood.
“Stay awake,” Monkey repeats.
Too hard. My world flips.
“Can’t,” I rasp, letting my eyes rest.
And I know it then, how serious my injuries are. I don’t know how many times I’ve been hit. I don’t know why I can’t breathe. But I do know this:
I’m dying.
I feel it in my bones. I know it like I know the curves of Melissa’s body. I know it like I know the pain of missing Diego.
“You need to stay awake,” Monkey continues. “Because Diego isn’t dead.”
Suddenly what I understand, I don’t actually understand. What I know is wrong.
Like this: Monkey is a cop.
Or this: I will soon be gone.
Or this: Diego isn’t.
But those last words coming out of Monkey’s mouth, the ones about Diego, I must be imagining them. Because they can’t be true. But in all the agony of being shot, I see why I’ve heard the words.
Because they are the only good I can imagine in the face of so much pain.
47
melissa
Because Diego isn’t dead.
I think about Faith’s words. Decide she must be kidding. But I don’t understand why she would joke about it.
“Come with me,” Faith says.
I follow. Numbly. Move my limbs. Try to reason how Diego could possibly be alive.
Faith looks at me nervously. “Are you all ri
ght?”
No. “Sure.”
“You’re lying,” she says.
Yep. “Nope.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I should be saying the same thing to you,” I reply.
Because she’s been lying one way or another. Either Diego truly is alive, and she’s lied about his death. Or he’s dead and she’s lying now.
Faith leads the way down a narrow trail. Branches and shade and prickly grass. We stop under a canopy of leaves. And I see truth with my own eyes.
Diego is here.
He’s sitting on the ground. Eyes closed. Head resting against a tree. I can almost believe he’s dead, he’s so much like statue. But then Faith speaks, startling him.
“Hey.”
Diego smiles at first, happy to see her. He blinks and reaches toward Faith. Real, real, real. He’s real. He’s alive. Faith steps aside. Reveals me standing behind her. Diego’s face instantly changes. Angry. He stands abruptly.
“What have you done?” he asks Faith.
“I had to,” she tells him.
Diego runs a hand down his face. Through his hair roughly. Paces, shaking his head in a silent no.
No one is speaking to me. I feel like I shouldn’t be here.
“She needed to know,” Faith tells Diego.
“You’ve put them all in danger,” Diego says. “My whole family. We agreed to tell no one.”
“You don’t understand.” Faith steps closer. Takes his hand. “They already are in danger.”
Diego’s head snaps up. “No.”
Despair paints his face.
“Tell him,” Faith says, this time to me.
“You’re alive,” I say. “Why would you let everyone think you’re dead?”
Diego finally turns to me. “If I tell you everything, you gonna do the same?”
He needs to know why his family is in danger. I hold the answer. I think of Javier. How he’s joined the gang. His need for revenge.
For nothing.
I look at Diego. I look at him because I still can’t believe he’s here. I look at him and trip over the fact that he’s alive. I choke on questions that beg to be asked and words that press against my lips.
I push the heels of my hands to my eyes and wait. Because how, how, how can this be real?
Diego is still in front of me, wanting an answer.
I drop my hands. I’ll give him his answer. And he’ll give me mine.
“Yes.”