Burro Hills

by Julia Lynn Rubin

  “Can I ask…where were you before? Before you lived with your uncle? I know you said you were in the foster system, but where exactly?”

  He laughed shortly. “What are you, a fucking journalist?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just curious. I mean, I tell you everything about me, about my family. I barely know anything about you. And you just—you just always seem so together. So impossibly…perfect. I know, that sounds dumb. If you want me to stop, just say it.”

  He finally turned around to face me. I expected some anger, some agitation, but he looked like he’d been trying not to cry. Then he flinched and straightened out his expression, looking away again like eye contact was physically painful.

  “It’s okay, man. I get it. I’ll leave now if you want,” I told him.

  He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “No. I know you’ve heard rumors. How I punched a principal at St. Francis, how I started riots, sold drugs, slept with every girl under the sun. But all of them are a crock of shit. They don’t even come close.”

  He opened his pack of cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth, then opened the sliding door to the backyard. “You coming or what?”

  I followed him outside into the cool haze of dusk, a dull lullaby of crickets like surround sound, the sky a milky blue. We sat in the grass and stared at the lush expanse of lawn before us, at the looming pine trees with their scarred trunks.

  He lit his cigarette, not offering me one like he usually did. “Okay, fire away. Ask me anything you want.”

  It had been so different when he’d said that to me up in his bedroom. Now he wasn’t even looking at me. I kept my gaze on the trees, feeling hesitant about prying. I’d never seen him like this before, and it scared me.

  “I did get kicked out of St. Francis,” he said. “Then I transferred here, and it was all because of my uncle. He helped me when no one else would. He moved here for me. He can do that with his job. He can work anywhere.”

  “Why did you get kicked out?”

  He took a long drag off his cigarette before answering. “I beat the shit out of this guy. He wouldn’t leave this kid alone.”

  “What kid?”

  “Just this kid at school. This kid who wouldn’t stand up for himself. Who couldn’t stand up for himself. And seeing that happen, day after day, eventually I just snapped. I punched that asshole dead in the mouth, and I just kept going. I couldn’t stop. It was like this wild rush, and I blacked out or something. All I remember is feeling my fist connect with his face, how good that felt. I fucking liked it. Can you believe that? But then some teachers got involved, tried to break us up, and apparently, I elbowed one of them in the face. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. But those fucking teachers, man. They’d seen it. They’d seen what he did to that kid, every single day, and they never did or said anything.”

  “So…you transferred here. Why here?”

  “It was the only school in the area that would take me. My uncle just wants me to finish high school, you know? This is like, my last shot, short of getting a GED.” He laughed even though it wasn’t funny. “He and my dad, they came to America when they were little kids. But my grandparents moved back to Santiago, to be with family before they…before they died. And my parents got caught up in some shit, meanwhile. And then they went to prison. And by that time my uncle was back in Santiago, organizing the funeral for my grandparents, doing everything, while my fucking parents were at the federal courthouse for months, begging to be let off easy. And I was in the system. With no one. I eventually contacted him, my uncle. I tracked him down online, found his LinkedIn, sent him a bunch of emails. I was so desperate. And I asked him to get me out. And he did. He came back for me. So, I kind of owe him my life.”

  I tried to choose my words with care. “Where exactly did you live before you lived with your uncle?”

  “A group home.”

  “What was that like?”

  He scoffed. “Fucking pizza party every day, man. Up to my ass in pretty girls. Heaven on Earth.”

  I couldn’t think of something else to ask, so I just sat in silence as we listened to the crickets for a while before he spoke.

  “I’ve been in and out of a bunch of different group and foster homes pretty much my whole life. My parents got arrested pretty early on. But there’s stuff I haven’t told you. Like, in one of the foster homes, it was five of us kids. The woman in charge had this boyfriend, this older guy, this fucking asshole who lived there and acted like he owned the place. He liked to slap us and her around for like, everything. He pushed one of the kids down the stairs once and broke her leg. For some asinine reason, I’m sure. I lived there for three years.”

  He took a hard drag on his cigarette. The tip glowed like a firefly.

  “He tried some shit with me, some of it I don’t care to remember. He liked to touch me at weird times, in strange places. He also liked to beat me with a belt. I knew he liked it, fucking loved it, that sicko. And he liked hitting me in particular. I would try to avoid him, but he always found some way to get at me when I was alone and defenseless. So at school I’d go to the weight room and pump iron every day, until everything burned. I never got that big, but I got stronger. One day I came home and he was shoving one of the kids around, and screaming at them. I yelled at him to stop and he went over to hit me. So, I grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall. Told him if he ever put his hands on me or one of the other kids again I would fucking murder him. I would tear his throat out. It was like I had this superhuman strength inside me all of a sudden. I’ll never forget that look on his face. Pure terror. They had me placed in another group home, but for the last few days I was there he didn’t go near me, wouldn’t even look at me. I was fourteen.”

  He flicked the butt on the ground and stomped on it, then turned to look at me. “So, what else you want to know, Jack?” Then his voice softened. “I’m not perfect, okay? I’m not even close.”

  “I can tell you my earliest memory,” I said suddenly. The words just spilled out of me. I wanted him to keep going, to tell me everything, but I wanted to share something too. I hugged my knees to my chest, suddenly feeling lonely, even sitting here with Connor. “I was probably like, three or four? Three, I think. My dad was really drunk, really angry. He was going to get fired. I remember that. My mom was mad too. They were throwing shit. There was broken glass. And screaming. So much screaming. And my mom, she must’ve been so scared. She just grabbed me and threw me in the car, and she drove away. We went to this motel, this place that looked like a palace. I thought it was a castle. Like she’d saved me from him and taken me somewhere far away. Eventually he came to get us and I was screaming and begging not to leave that shitty motel. I wanted to live there forever. Part of me wishes we did.”

  Then I felt Connor’s hand on top of mine, our fingers interweaving. And we just sat like that for a while, him smoking another cigarette, me staring out into the endless twilight.

  34.

  Toby wouldn’t stop kicking my chair.

  It was nine a.m. on a Monday and I was bleary from lack of sleep. Kick, kick, kick. I turned around and frowned at him, mouthing, Knock it off. He just grinned. I gave him the finger before turning back around.

  I was trying to concentrate, I really was. I liked English, especially Mrs. Flores. She was young but really knew her stuff. She’d go on tangents about Gothic literature or some other cool thing, and while most of the class threw things at each other I’d sit there entranced, amazed at the scope and history of it all, wondering if I was the only one in this class who appreciated that she was too good for this shitty school. Today she was talking about the Harlem Renaissance.

  Kick, kick, kick. I tried to focus, tried to ignore it and take notes. Finals were coming up and I didn’t want to fuck up again and end up back in this section with all the morons.

  Mrs. Flores turned off the lights and flipped on the projector, showing us slides of Harlem in the 1930s, explaining how black peopl
e used art and music and literature to challenge racist stereotypes. It was so cool. It had absolutely nothing to do with our curriculum-mandated reading, but she never seemed to care and no one ever noticed. Every now and then her eyes would pass over me diligently writing things down. She’d smile at me, and I’d smile back. It was like our little secret, my own private lesson while she spoke to a bored audience and pretended she was lecturing at a private university. I wondered how she’d ended up in this shithole.

  Kick, kick, kick, kick. The kicks got harder, more intense. I turned around and punched Toby’s desk. He just laughed, loudly, enjoying himself. “Stop it,” I said.

  He smirked and turned to Jerry Rudoy. They exchanged an eye-roll and chuckled at my expense. Toby continued kicking, steadily and gently. “That a better rhythm for you? That how you like it?” he asked, moaning softly. Jerry cackled.

  Mrs. Flores cleared her throat loudly. “Can I help you, boys?”

  “No,” Toby said, still looking at me. “You’re good.”

  “Toby won’t stop kicking my chair,” I said, then realized how whiny I sounded. Someone laughed.

  Mrs. Flores sighed deeply. “And why are we having trouble keeping our bodies to ourselves, Toby?”

  Toby shrugged. “I think you should ask Jack that.” Jerry and a couple of his new buddies burst out laughing.

  “Well, if you don’t quit being a smartass, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave my classroom and spend the rest of the period sitting outside Principal Oliver’s office. Would you like that, Toby?”

  Toby slid his foot out from under my chair and put his hands up. “Continue, please. I’m sorry to have interrupted your stimulating lecture.” More laughter rippled through the room.

  “There’s no need to be rude, Toby,” Mrs. Flores said. She glanced at the clock on the wall wistfully, as if reluctantly accepting the inevitable bullshit that came with teaching this class.

  “What the fuck was that?” I snapped at Toby the moment the bell rang and everyone was pushing to get out.

  Toby just laughed and waved at Jerry and company. “Don’t worry about it. We were just fucking around.”

  “Bullshit, Toby.”

  He put his arm around my shoulder and shook me. “God, you’re so sensitive! Chill out, man. I’m just messing with you. That class is boring. Anyway, you want to come smoke with me and Max?”

  He kept walking, but I stopped in the hallway, ignoring the asshole Brett that bumped into me on purpose.

  “Faggot!” Brett sang, his deep voice resonating down the hall.

  That stopped me cold.

  “Toby,” I said. “What the hell?”

  He looked at me and shrugged. We stood there like that for a moment, silence filling the emptying halls.

  I walked numbly to my next class, the weight of my backpack feeling heavier than ever, like I was treading through deep mud. But I had to focus. I had to pay attention. I couldn’t let them get to me.

  I had to finish junior year.

  35.

  “Wakey, wakey.” I woke to Connor leaning over me, his hoodie pulled up over his head, bright green eyes staring into mine.

  “Hey,” I said, pulling on one of the strings hanging down. I had never been so happy to wake up.

  “Hey.” He leaned in and kissed me.

  “What time is it?” The clock read noon. It felt so good to sleep in on Saturday, and at his house no less.

  He grinned. “I got you something.”

  I started to sit up as he tossed something into my lap. A bagel with egg and bacon wrapped in paper.

  “Damn, thanks,” I said. “You are by far the world’s best alarm clock.”

  He laid down next to me and pulled a fucking protein shake out of his bag.

  “Is that all you’re gonna eat?” I asked, tearing into my sandwich.

  “Hey, hey, crumbs,” he said, handing me a napkin.

  “Seriously, do you ever try real protein?”

  He shrugged and took a sip. “I don’t eat that shit until afternoon, man.”

  “You are so weird.”

  “I can get weirder.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  So we did. Connor had the keys to his uncle’s souped-up Jeep for the week, a prospect that absolutely amazed me. I’d learned to drive on Dad’s clunky old Kia, and not very well. We could go anywhere, do anything.

  Connor looked good behind the wheel, looked so right wearing his designer black sunglasses, a black tank top, and a pair of board shorts. He steered with one hand, and I sat back and let the sunlight hit my face as we sped down the highway, Yeezy’s latest tracks blasting through the speakers. And man, they were sick speakers.

  “One day I’m gonna have a car like this,” I said, watching Burro Hills fade away in the rearview mirror.

  “You and me both.”

  “As long as I don’t end up a total drunk deadbeat like my dad. Or fail out of school.” I laughed, but he didn’t say anything. It was hard to gauge his expression from behind those shades.

  We were getting closer to the ocean, the air balmier and the breeze stronger.

  “I know this place,” Connor said. “It’s a little cove. No one goes there.”

  Hours later, we sat in the warm sand, reveling in the hot and salty breeze of the beach.

  “You wanna go in?” Connor asked, smiling at me from behind his Ray Bans.

  I said sure. I’d do anything he wanted to do.

  The water was cold at first and jolted my nerves awake. We waded in deeper, past the breakers that pounded against our bodies as they smacked the shoreline. The ocean was navy blue against thin clouds suspended in the bright sky. I went under, letting the water fill my ears and drown my thoughts and senses, then surfaced and swallowed the fresh air, so much cleaner and easier to breathe than the dead, dull air of Burro Hills.

  “Let’s never go back,” I said.

  Connor laughed and splashed me. “What would we do?”

  “Sleep under the stars, learn to eat sea grass.” I splashed him back, harder.

  He pulled me in close and kissed me.

  I leaned my head back and let the sun hit me full on, heat sliding across my face. “You know,” I said. “I always hated vacations.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, not the vacation itself. More the time in between that you spend thinking about going home, back to bland, dull real life.”

  “Back to the grind,” Connor echoed. “Back to nothing.”

  “Yup.”

  We swam around for a while in silence, letting the cold water engulf us with each rolling wave until it felt as warm as the air to our skin.

  Afterwards we dried off and spread out on one big towel, watching the sun begin its descent to the fringes of the sea. Connor sighed and laid his head on his hands, his face towards me. Even in the fading light, he was so beautiful, innocent even. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Connor, why do you like me?” I asked. I’d been holding the question inside for so long the words nearly burst out.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why me? Of all the…people at school.”

  I sat up and played with the sand, letting it fall through my fingers and breaking apart the little rocks of them that stuck together.

  He was thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Because you’re beautiful.”

  I felt my face get warm. “I’m not a model or anything.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant.” He looked me in the eye. “I mean don’t get me wrong, you’re definitely easy on the eyes, cute, handsome…” I laughed bashfully and he laughed too, reaching his hand over to stroke mine. “But I mean you’re…I don’t know…you just get things. You have this energy; fuck, I can’t explain this very well. You see the world as it truly is and understand the pain of it, past the bullshit and the hype, behind the lies and forced smiles and fake laughs. You’re a rea
l person Jack. You’re beautiful.”

  The emotions I experienced then and there, on that beach, were so intense, so indescribably exciting and strange and blissful and scary as all hell that I kissed him. I wrapped my hands around his neck and pulled his hair, moving on top of him, our naked stomachs pressed together, his breathing growing hard and fast. I kissed his hot, wet skin tenderly, noting his surprise at my sudden aggressive maneuver, and we shed what remained of our clothes and made love right there on that empty beach, under a fiery setting sun.

  36.

  Mom was more restless than I’d ever seen her. That glazed look in her eyes had been replaced by a permanent scowl, her lips smashed together. She no longer wore any makeup, just sat at the kitchen table or in front of the TV in her bathrobe, chain-smoking, biting her nails. Pacing from room to room.

  Dad was going out more and more and coming home less and less.

  I tried to do little things for her. I brought her flowers, a bouquet of white lilies, and she lit up for a moment and touched my cheek. But just like that she was back to watching re-runs of Wheel of Fortune and Judge Judy from morning to night. She didn’t laugh like she used to or make comments about all the people on-screen. She barely spoke.

  Gunther seemed to sense the change. When I got home he looked up at me expectantly, hungrily. Mom wasn’t feeding him anymore or buying him food. I started leaving him in the yard while I was out so he could relieve himself, even though I was worried about the coyotes. I could hear them screaming and moaning at night, mimicking the cries of babies.

  Then one Sunday morning I woke to the smell of blueberry muffins, classic rock reverberating through the house. I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head, trying to go back to sleep. No such luck. Whatever Billy Joel concert or bed and breakfast had infiltrated my home was clearly not going away anytime soon.

  I pulled on a t-shirt and sweats and hobbled sleepily downstairs. What I saw made me question whether or not I was still dreaming.