Burro Hills

by Julia Lynn Rubin

  No, it couldn’t be the whole truth. I wouldn’t let it be the truth.

  I continued down San Juan Boulevard, feeling lost and dazed among the evening crowd. The sunlight was weakening, and everything would be dark and creepy soon.

  I thought about going to Jess’s house. Maybe her dad would let me crash on the couch or sleep in her old room. I remembered it vividly, its mint green walls striped with hot pink, its cushy furniture and big comfy bed. I’d let her paint my toenails once, the day her air conditioning was broken and we watched a cheesy horror flick on DVD in our underwear. I even let her practice doing eyeliner on me, even though she poked me in the eye a few times. I didn’t care. She was the most real friend I ever had.

  I stopped to take a break, setting my bag down a moment to rest my aching shoulders. I sent her a quick text: Hey, can I come over? And I sat on the ground and leaned against the wall of the 7-11. Then I saw him walk out.

  It was the short little man with the twitching eye, the one who’d sold knives on a baby blanket. His scrunched face was dark with sunburn, his clothes tattered and dirty. He hobbled forward and crouched down next to me. His odor was strong, earthy but not unclean.

  “Got any spare change?” he asked me. I heard the thickness in his accent, something South American.

  I shook my head. The sun made its final descent as everything grew dark. People passed us without even so much as a second look. I wondered what it was like to live on the streets, to watch people pass by with their shopping bags full of good food that they’d take back to their warm and safe homes, where they’d resume their normal lives full of endless trivialities that seemed like luxuries to those who had nothing. I wondered what it was like to feel like your life was empty and meaningless, a sad fading light that no one noticed was fading.

  He put something in front of my face that startled me. A photo of a rattlesnake, printed out in black and white on computer paper. I turned to look at him and saw he had a stack of them and was trying to hand them out to people nearby.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  He held it closer to me, urgently. “You need to be careful. This is important,” he said. “It’ll explain everything.” I didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see that big twitching eye. I shook my head.

  “Take it,” he hissed, shoving it into my hands.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “You have to listen to me,” he said, pointing to the snake. His fingernails were caked with dirt and what looked like blood. “They’re coming. It will come after you too.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  The familiar voice made me look up. It was Alvaro, Connor’s uncle, holding a six-pack in one hand and adjusting a pair of Ray Bans with the other.

  “I thought it was you,” he said. “You okay? You need a ride?”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out. “Come on,” he said softly, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here by yourself this late.”

  He tossed my bag into the backseat of his Jeep as I slid inside. “Fasten your seatbelt,” he told me. I followed his order listlessly, letting my head sink into the soft leather as we pulled away from the curb. I watched the twitchy-eyed man stare as we drove until he was out of sight.

  “You know anything about what happened at school today? About the fight?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “You must know something. Must have heard something, at least.”

  “Where’s Connor?” I asked.

  “He’s at the police station, in a holding cell. He can spend the night in there,” he said. “I’ll get him out tomorrow. He has to learn that’s not the way to handle things, punching people in the face.”

  “That’s not fair,” I said. “And it was my fault he hit him, anyway.”

  “Oh, so you do know what went down.”

  “Sort of,” I said. “This guy I know was…saying something to me. Something really awful. And I guess Connor heard him and, well, you know.” I mimed a kid getting punched in the face and tried to smile, but Alvaro didn’t smile back. He just sighed this really deep, tired sigh. “I guess it was kind of my fault.”

  “Hey, look at me,” Alvaro said. I did. His face was set in a stern frown. “Did you punch that kid? Did you break his nose? No? Then it wasn’t your fault. You’re not responsible for other people’s actions, Jack.”

  “And as for fair,” he continued. “You think the system’s gonna go easy on a kid that looks like him? This isn’t the first time, and I’ll be damned if it’s not the last. He is not gonna end up like his parents.” He put his hand to his mouth and grimaced at some painful, private memory.

  I was quiet for a moment, watching the crumbling roads dissolve into the freeway we’d merged onto, the endless landscape of pavement and steel and nothingness. “He’s lucky to have you around,” I said. My throat felt tight and I tried to swallow it down.

  His face softened. “Hey, relax. Look at your fists. You don’t need to be all worked up.”

  I realized I’d been holding onto something tight. I unfolded the picture of the snake that I’d crumpled into my hands.

  It was an insurance advertisement. The guys around here got paid to hand these out. They handed them to everyone.

  They meant nothing.

  I watched where the snake had landed on the car floor. Oddly, I felt a pang of disappointment. Just a moment ago, this piece of paper had seemed so important to that man. Like he was really trying to tell me something, some secret meaning that would make sense of everything.

  The eyes of the snake seemed to glower at me, vague and incomprehensible, the black and white image of the giant cobra so menacing on the clean white piece of paper.

  I checked my phone. Nothing from Jess.

  As we pulled up to Alvaro’s house I could feel the exhaustion sinking in, slowly pulling me under. But I was glad to be here, where Connor lived, with his uncle whose every movement didn’t leave my teeth on edge, didn’t have me waiting for the next sharp word, the next big fight. He was calming. So was the slow, ticking sound of the wall clock, the gentle humming of the fridge. Everything in here was so smooth and clean and quiet. I sat down on a stool at the kitchen island while he sorted through his mail.

  “You want some coffee? Tea?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You must be hungry. How long were you out there by the 7-11 with that creepy guy?”

  “Not long.” I felt embarrassed, having run off like that. Where was I even trying to go? “My dad was drinking and saying all kinds of stuff, so I left.”

  Alvaro nodded and then reached into a cupboard, pulling a tube of Neosporin and a box of Band-Aids. “You mind if I take a look at those hands?”

  I stared down at my bruised, beat-up knuckles. I hadn’t even felt the pain after smashing my fist into that wall. “I think I’m okay.”

  “You mind if I take a look anyway?”

  I shrugged and let him examine my hands, let him apply the Neosporin that burned like hell when it touched an open cut. “So, your dad’s been drinking, huh?”

  “It’s his favorite pastime.”

  “And you just left home? Thought you’d go hang out at the Strip for the night? Hang out with the homeless guys and the hookers?”

  I grinned. “Something like that.”

  “What about your mom? Does she live with you guys?”

  I winced. “Sort of. I mean, yeah. But she went out for a while. I don’t really know if she’s coming back.”

  He tore open a Band-Aid. “I should call your dad, let him know you’re staying here at a friend’s and that you’re okay. I feel like that’s the responsible thing to do here, you know?”

  He offered me the Band-Aid, and I took it and wrapped it around the cut on my finger. It didn’t help the pain, but somehow it made things feel a little better. I gave him my home phone number and my dad’s cell. And it was nice, letting an adult just take over for once.

  I decid
ed to ask for something in return, something that I’d been wanting so badly to know. Maybe if Connor wouldn’t tell me, Alvaro would. “What happened exactly with Connor’s parents?”

  He sighed deeply. “They’re addicts, Jack. Good, loving people taken by the terrible disease of addiction. They’ve been in prison for the past ten years, serving hard time for possession and trafficking.”

  “So, they’re…criminals,” I said, letting the word sink in.

  “Yes, they’re criminals. Listen Jack, I want you to have my number. May I?” I shrugged and handed him my phone, and he entered his digits. “If you ever need anything at all, or you find yourself wandering the streets again, please don’t hesitate to call or text me. Anytime.”

  “Can’t you just go get Connor now? All he did was punch some asshole. Is that really worth spending a night in jail over?”

  “You have to understand, Jack. Connor’s got…things he needs to deal with. Impulses. Dangerous ones. He does things that scare me. Reckless things. Sometimes I think he…” He cleared his throat and shook his head as if he’d said too much. But I needed to know.

  “You think he what? Just tell me. He wouldn’t be mad if you told me.” I didn’t know if this was true, but I didn’t care. I needed to understand.

  Alvaro cleared his throat. “He’s been through a lot. Things I can’t even imagine. Sometimes I think he has some kind of a death wish.”

  I shut my eyes tight, trying to keep the room from tilting, trying hard to breathe. In, out, in out. If I just breathed, it would all be okay.

  “You think he wants to die?” I asked. My voice sounded so small. The room—the kitchen, the house, the stool I was sitting on—it all felt so far away.

  Alvaro’s cell phone rang. We both jumped, and he looked relieved as he took the call and left the room, giving me a look that said we’d talk about it later.

  But I knew we wouldn’t. And that was okay. He’d already said enough.

  47.

  The next morning, I listened to Alvaro’s car pull into the garage, waiting for Connor like an anxious puppy. The door opened and there he was, looking dirty and tired but still impossibly beautiful in an old UCLA sweatshirt. After Alvaro squeezed past us, I hugged Connor, burying my face in the soft fabric.

  “I need to shower,” he mumbled into my neck.

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  He locked his arms around me, and I inhaled his familiar smell.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking pathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, rubbing my back. “Why are you sorry?”

  He pulled away a little to look me in the eye, and then spotted my bruised, beat-up knuckles. “What happened?”

  “Jack, you mind helping me with the groceries?” Alvaro asked, like he’d sensed I didn’t want to answer.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” I said to Connor.

  By the time I came upstairs, Connor was curled up under the covers, asleep. He looked so peaceful. I tried to lie down as quietly as possible, but the second my head touched a pillow his eyes snapped open.

  “Hey,” he said, looking happy to be awakened.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t sleep last night,” I said.

  He shook his head and pressed his face into the pillow, moaning. “Trust me man, you never want to end up in jail. I feel like shit.”

  I stripped down to my boxers and crawled under the sheets beside him. “Does he care?” I asked, tilting my head toward downstairs.

  “No,” he said. “He never comes in here. And he knows.”

  “About us?” I asked. The words were tangled deep in my throat, and saying them aloud felt like melting off the frost. “Did you tell him?”

  Connor shrugged. “Not really, but…he just knows. You know?”

  I thought of my mom. How she just knew. How she just saw me. It hurt so badly to think of her.

  I inched closer to his chest, and he wrapped his arm around me, letting me huddle into the warmth of his body. His breathing was starting to slow and deepen, and in spite of all the anger and anxiety coiled tight in me like a spring, I felt myself beginning to unravel.

  “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

  “Jack—”

  “Can we just lie here like this for a little while? And not talk?”

  He was silent for a moment and then rolled over from me and defiantly went to sleep.

  I lay there listening to him breathe, tracing I love you, too, on his skin with my fingertips.

  48.

  I woke up to Connor bringing me coffee. It smelled good, gourmet. I reached for it gratefully.

  I was groggy and dazed from the nap, the sun already starting to set, but my headache had receded to a dull pressure. Connor sat down on the bed and told me we needed to talk about something, something that couldn’t wait.

  “I lied to you the other day,” he said. “About Jess and I talking in the hallways. It wasn’t nothing. We were talking about…about Toby. About something that happened to her.”

  The coffee burned my tongue. “Why would you lie to me? What are you even talking about?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just didn’t know how you’d react. I barely knew what to do myself when I heard it.”

  “Heard what?”

  Connor sighed and lay down on the bed next to me, examining his nails. “She was crying in Spanish. Like, tears in her eyes and everything, head down on her desk, and she doesn’t really have any friends in that class. And we talk sometimes, you know, about homework and assignments and stuff, and so—”

  “Connor,” I said, putting the mug down and inching closer to him. He never stumbled over his words like this. “You’re making me really nervous. What is it?”

  He pulled a joint from his pocket and lit up, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke that unraveled as it rose to the ceiling. “You’re gonna need a hit or two of this.”

  I took a really long hit.

  “I asked her if she was okay, if she wanted to talk, and she said sure, and we ended up talking for a few minutes after class. Well, mostly I just listened. She told me that something had happened with Toby, something really upsetting, and she felt like she couldn’t trust anyone anymore. I could tell she could barely trust me, but she needed to tell me, you know? She needed to talk to someone.

  “And I just nodded and waited for her to go on, and then she told me that she’d been at his house over the weekend, and they’d started making out or whatever, and then she’d told him she didn’t like him like that. She didn’t want it to be serious or whatever. And then he’d like…gotten really aggressive with her, started feeling her up, even though she was begging him to stop and was crying and really, really scared. And he kept trying to…you know. Maybe he was trying to rape her, I don’t know. She said he was holding her hands down so it was hard to move. But eventually she kicked him hard enough and got him off of her and got away and…shit, I don’t know if I can tell you this. If I should. It’s really personal, you know? But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And so I said, you know, Jess, maybe you should tell someone else. Like your mom or dad or something. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  No, I thought. No no no no no no.

  It was a good thing we were near his bathroom, because soon I was running to it and puking up hot coffee. It burned my esophagus on the way back up. Connor patted my back and made me finish the joint.

  I was shaking and I couldn’t stop. That was why she’d been so upset lately. Because of Toby. I wanted to hit something, someone, anyone. I wanted to find Toby and chop off his dick and feed it to him and hear him cry and beg and scream.

  And it was my fault, too. I’d started all of this. If I hadn’t touched her like that at the party, if we hadn’t had that falling out, Toby never would have gone after her, and they probably never would
’ve started talking or hanging out. And he probably never would’ve—

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Connor said again. He sounded small and helpless, like he was about to start crying. “I wrestled with it for days, trying to think of what I’d want someone to do if it were me. I couldn’t handle telling you. I know how much you love her. I just didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m going to kill him,” I said. “I’m going to find Toby wherever he is right now and beat his ass to death. No. I need to call her. I need to call her right now.”

  “Jack!” Connor said. “Oh God, I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “I’m glad you did.” I reached for my phone and dialed Jess’ number, and it rang, and rang, and rang, going straight to voicemail every time.

  I left a message. “Hey, it’s me. Connor told me about what happened with Toby. And it’s okay if you’re mad at him for telling me, and still mad at me, too, because honestly, I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m here for you. And if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s okay, too. I just hope you’re alright. I’m sorry, Jess. I’m so, so sorry.” I hung up and tossed the phone across the room.

  Then I was sobbing. Deep, ugly, heaving sobs.

  Connor wrapped his arms around me and let me just cry for a while, cry snot and tears into his pillow. It felt like I’d cried more in these last few days than I’d ever cried in my life. And then he asked me, gently: “What’s one place around here that makes you feel really calm? It can be anywhere. Wherever it is, we’ll go there. Right now.”

  49.

  Sunscreen smells like childhood, like sticky-fingered freedom. The burning sun and the coolness of the chemical water, so cerulean, the tinkling of the ice cream truck’s Spanish folk tunes, a call to action for kids to beg their parents for spare change…

  I remembered all of this as I sat there on the cracked concrete with Connor at the edge of the pool, our feet dipped in the shallow water. The freeway roared softly behind the towering bushes that enclosed the tail end of the community center. Crickets and road noise, the smell of gasoline mixed with chlorine, bright sun—that’s what Burro Hills feels like in the summertime. I could feel it coming, the subtle shift in seasons, days stretching languidly, shadows falling longer and later.