Burro Hills

by Julia Lynn Rubin

  And when he saw me, he walked over so fast and pulled me into a hug. I was too shocked to respond, to hug him back.

  I don’t remember much about the drive home. I think I dozed off.

  All I remember is Dad didn’t ask me anything, didn’t yell at me, didn’t say a word, and for that I was grateful. And he played the radio softly, my favorite station, and hummed along softly as he merged back onto the freeway.

  51.

  It was all over the news—local, even national.

  One of the biggest drug busts the police had seen around here in recent years.

  D’Angelo and Gabriel and the uncle and most of the men from the garage, all of their mug shots were displayed. The newscaster’s voice was low and rumbling, telling us that these local drug ring leaders had finally been caught after “what police believe to be a brutal gang-related attack on a local teen.” A reporter standing in front of Toby’s crumbling house, all blonde hair and white teeth and an approved-for-TV face of concern, telling us about this unassuming house in an otherwise quiet neighborhood. Yellow caution tape surrounded the property. DEA officers were everywhere.

  The police wanted to talk to me again the next day at the station. This time, Dad went with me. He asked me if I wanted a lawyer, but I said no. I didn’t need one. I didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t question me. He just sat in the waiting room, reading a newspaper while I ratted out the boy who’d called me his brother to the local sheriff and a detective.

  I told them everything I knew about that night, about Toby, about his family and the bits and pieces that I knew of their drug business. Things I’d seen over the years, things I’d witnessed. I left out my own involvement, of course. But it felt good to just talk, to let it all out.

  And as it turned out, all of my stories corroborated with Toby’s. He’d ratted out his entire family to the cops, told them everything he knew. My testimony might actually help him.

  I should’ve hated Toby. I had every reason to. I should’ve wanted him dead.

  But I didn’t.

  I told Alvaro everything too, as quickly as I could, standing in the station parking lot while Dad went to pick up a six-pack at the corner store next door.

  I thanked him for saving our lives, for giving me his number.

  “Seriously, I owe you.”

  “Anytime, kid,” he said.

  “When can I see him? How is he?” Connor’s phone had gotten smashed sometime during the fight. I’d called the hospital a few times and asked to speak to him, but both times they’d said he was sleeping.

  “He’s alright. You can go see him anytime, Jack,” Alvaro said. “You don’t need my permission.”

  52.

  I didn’t think I would cry, but I did when I walked into his hospital room. I just broke down at the sight of him.

  His face and arms were bruised, his hand was bandaged, one eye was swollen shut, and everything was covered in hospital white, a white of death and loss.

  He reached out to me, and I collapsed into him, my body wracked with sobs, crying even though I wasn’t the one who should be, feeling humiliated and relieved all at once.

  “Hey,” he said, pulling my face to his. “Jack, It’s okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said between gasps for air. I felt exposed, stripped to the bone, like all my wounds were naked and raw in this cold and uncomfortable room. “I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

  “Jack,” Connor’s voice broke through my thoughts. “It’s not your fault. Just sit down and listen to me for a second.”

  I sat down on the side of his bed, but I couldn’t look at him. “Seriously, look at me,” he insisted. He touched my face and turned it towards him. “It’s not that bad. I know it’s grisly, but just look at it.”

  I felt like I was out of my body, looking at the scratches on his neck like something had clawed him, the deep purple bruise on his collarbone, his one open eye glittering green.

  “You can’t be afraid of this,” he said, gripping my arms, shaking me a little. “You have to let go of the fear. You can’t live like this. I told you. You’re letting them win. Look.” He grabbed my hand and put it on his chest, right over his heart.

  “Do you feel that? It’s still beating. I’m alive.” I nodded. I laid my head down on his chest and closed my eyes, letting him run his fingers through my hair, letting him comfort me, even though he was the one with the beat-up face and body. I could’ve stayed like that forever. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “About me.”

  I waited while he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath me.

  “I have this…compulsion, for lack of a better word. I do things sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Really dangerous shit. I get into these situations where I could die, where everything could fall apart at any minute, and it’s almost like, that’s when I feel the most alive.”

  I didn’t speak. I just listened.

  “I almost just ended it all, a few years ago. I wanted to kill myself.” I swallowed hard. I’d known about the cutting, the burns on his wrist, but I hadn’t known he’d wanted to take it that far. “I knew that if I took a bunch of pills and didn’t wake up, I wouldn’t really care. But then I thought about birth. It was weird. I don’t know why, of all the things I’ve seen, that came into my mind. When I was really little, I saw my baby cousin being born, and her eyes were shut tight. I asked my parents if they’d been sewn shut, like if God had done that. Maybe He didn’t want her to see us, I don’t know. But when she opened them, and they were so beautiful, like almonds, I felt this joy, this joy I can’t explain. I don’t know if I’ll ever really feel that kind of raw joy again, though I try to come back to it through memories.

  “Anyway, I was debating on how I’d do it—whether I’d slit my wrists or not—which might be easier since I was so good at it—from all the practicing, you could say. For years I felt like I’d been swallowed into some black hole, and I couldn’t breathe or see, like that baby, and I think that’s when I thought of the birth, how somehow, through the blindness and the darkness, she came out…and she opened her eyes, and everyone loved her. That’s when I decided not to do it, I think,” he said. “But in a way, I haven’t stopped trying since then. I never really stopped trying. But I’m done now, okay? I’m done trying to kill myself.”

  “How do I know that?” I asked. I remembered the way he’d called out the Rudoy brothers in the auditorium, even though they could’ve done the same thing to him that they did to Riley. The way he’d punched Toby. The way he’d burst through the door and into that garage full of criminals, ready to fight anyone and everything, ready for everything to explode.

  He brushed away the wetness on my face.

  “I guess you don’t,” he said sadly. “I guess I need help. I need to go back to therapy or something. I hated therapy, but I promise will. I promised my uncle. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I really want to live.”

  “Mr. Orellana?”

  I sat up as we turned around to face the doctor, a kindly looking older man with wire-rimmed glasses. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” he said. “Some pain in my shoulder, but I’m feeling a lot better. The morphine drip doesn’t hurt.”

  “Well that’s good to hear,” he said. “And you’ll call the nurse if you need more, yes?” Then he nodded in my direction and offered me a friendly smile. “And uh, are you his brother?” I wondered for a moment if he’d seen my head on Connor’s chest, his fingers threaded through my hair, and a part of me wanted to hide. But I shook my head.

  “No,” I said. “I’m his boyfriend.”

  53.

  Dad let me take the next few days off of school. He even called Principal Oliver on my behalf, told them I’d been present for the incident at the garage and that I needed some time.

  I wonder what Oliver thought of me, of my and Connor’s involvement. But I guess he wasn’t angry about it, because when Dad got off the phone with him he just shrugged
and said, “You’re good.”

  Jess agreed to bring me the homework and assignments that I’d missed. Not that I’d really be reading or doing them, but it was the thought that counted.

  She showed up at my house at two p.m. on Monday with her backpack full of papers and this smile on her face that said everything was going to be okay. We retreated to my room.

  It was a beautiful, blue sky day. The air was cooler, cleaner, and I had my window open to let in the breeze. I’d cleaned up before she came, put away dirty socks and clothes, wiped some spilled soda stains off my bedside table. I’d even done a load of laundry.

  “Looks nice in here,” said Jess, nodding her approval. She tossed her backpack on the floor and flopped down on my bed. I half-expected her to launch into her usual saga about what everyone was up to at school, the fights and the drama, but instead she got really serious.

  “We do need to talk,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Will you at least roll me a joint first?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You’re not the only one who smokes, you know.”

  I laughed and got out my rolling papers and grinder and the little bag of weed I had left. I’d resolved to quit after I ran out of the last batch Toby had bought for me, but part of me knew that was bullshit.

  I was probably always going to be a stoner.

  Jess ran her fingers along the zigzag patterns on my bedspread. “Can you do me a huge favor and not say anything until I’m done?”

  I mimed zipping my lips shut and nodded. She sighed and spoke to the zigzags.

  “You hurt me, Jack. You really did. And I know you know that. But you have to understand, what you did at that party was unbelievably wrong. And selfish. And cruel. You violated my body, and you violated my trust. I don’t really care if you were trying to work out your sexuality or whatever. That’s not an excuse. I also don’t care if you felt like Toby and Max were holding your feet to the fire. Or that you were drunk. Or that I was drunk.”

  I licked the glue strip on the rolling paper and nodded, waiting for her to continue. Her words hurt like hell, but they didn’t kill me. I could hear this.

  “And I don’t need another apology. I know you’re sorry. What you do going forward matters more than what you say, in this case. And…when Toby…when he got on top of me and tried to rape me, I thought back to that night, and you. And how maybe I could never really be friends with a guy again. Like every guy I thought I could trust was eventually going to hurt me and use me. And it was the worst fucking feeling in the world. I just broke down. And I couldn’t tell my friends, not Skye or Anna or Lizzie or anyone. I was like, embarrassed. Which is weird, right? What did I have to be embarrassed about? I thought, maybe I’d led him on. Maybe it was my fault. But my mom wouldn’t stop asking me what was wrong, why I wasn’t sleeping, why I looked so miserable all the time, so I finally caved and told her. And you know what was amazing? She listened. She didn’t tell me what to do. And she cared and was like, ‘Jessica Michele Velez, this is absolutely not your fault.’ And she asked me what I wanted to do. And I said I wanted to go to the police and report it, even if it meant people at school were going to call me a slut and a liar. And I did, even though I could tell the police didn’t really take me seriously, and they probably just wanted to talk to me to get whatever info I had on what I’d seen in his house, which I gladly gave them. But I’m also glad I told people.” She finally looked up from the zigzags. “Anyway, I’ve decided that I’m going to give you another chance. Even though you can be a clueless, self-centered asshole. And I don’t want you to tell me you’re going to be a good friend to me. I want to you show me, okay? No more bullshit.”

  I offered her the freshly rolled joint. She grinned as I placed it between her lips and lit her up. She inhaled deeply, like a pro. Didn’t even cough.

  “You can talk now,” she said, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “I’m done. And a little stoned.”

  “Already?”

  We both laughed.

  “Okay,” I said. “No more bullshit. Agreed.” I chewed at my thumbnail. “You should know though.” Just say it, I thought. Just tell her.

  “Jess, I’m in love with Connor.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said. She reached over and touched my hand. “I know.”

  54.

  I went to visit Mom at the Castle Motel on a day that the sky was thick with storm clouds. The humidity clung to the air, leaving a sticky, sweaty residue on my skin.

  Summer was coming up, which meant no school for a few months. Which meant I probably should take summer classes, or at least get a job of some kind if I had any hope of getting out of here, or—maybe, just maybe—going to college someday.

  It was the same motel Mom had taken me to when I was little, when I thought she was rescuing me from my father by whisking me away to the magic castle.

  There were leaks in the ceiling, prostitutes hanging around outside. Cockroaches skittered around the dirty tiles of the bathroom floor. It was definitely no castle, and nothing like I’d remembered it. But she seemed happy. Her face was bright and clean, and she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She looked years younger.

  I sat down with her on the bed with the broken box spring and took her hands in mine. “Mom,” I said. “I miss you. You should come home.”

  She gave my hands a squeeze. “I can’t do that, sweetie. You know, I’m going somewhere great. I’m going to go see the world, Jack. You have to understand that I need to go. And I can’t take you with me, baby.”

  She really meant it. She really thought she was going to go on some grand adventure. Or at least, that’s what she wanted me to believe.

  I kissed both of her hands. “I love you, Mom. Promise you’ll come visit sometime, yeah?”

  She grinned that knowing grin of hers. “How about you come visit me when I make it rich and move to Vegas, huh?” she asked, pressing a handful of lotto tickets against my chest. I didn’t ask where she’d scrounged together the money to buy them. It didn’t really matter.

  She said she wanted to see the bison in Wyoming, the Rocky Mountains, and the Statue of Liberty. She promised she would write me and text me photos of everything new along the way. And that she would visit me. I swallowed hard to stop myself from crying and hugged her goodbye, telling myself it was better this way, even though it hurt more than I thought it would.

  A few days later, her brother drove down from L.A. to get her. Dad said she’d be staying with him for a while so he could get her some real help. He had the money and the means.

  Dad was still drinking, but he was calmer now that Mom was gone. Quieter. He didn’t yell or come home blasted drunk anymore. He fed and walked Gunther and did the dishes and even the laundry. For a solid week, he went to work, came home, and watched TV before going to bed. One night we even watched Pulp Fiction together and laughed at all of the same parts. I cooked a few times, or at least I tried to. Not that Mom had ever done much cooking. Mostly we ordered pizza and Chinese and ate frozen dinners.

  It was good. It was fine. I didn’t explain anything about Connor and me or the night of the attack, and he didn’t ask. Maybe, I thought, he didn’t really want to know.

  There were rumors at school that Jess had been the one to seduce Toby and then called the cops after he’d dumped her to get revenge. Others whispered that Toby was a serial rapist and a kingpin and was probably going to prison for at least twenty years.

  The truth was, Toby was in deep shit—like, really deep shit—but not twenty years deep, exactly. He’d gotten a good public defender who’d convinced the court that he was just a minor, just a pawn in a much bigger chess game. My testimony had apparently helped him. And he’d willingly told the cops everything about his involvement in the family business, all of that distribution and trafficking he’d been linked to.

  As for the attack on Connor that night in the garage, well, Con
nor didn’t want to press charges. He just wanted the whole thing to be over with.

  Toby was sentenced to juvie until he turned eighteen. Then it was the county men’s prison for the next three to five years. But he could be paroled for good behavior, could get his sentence lessened. He could appeal. I read all about it online, in a bunch of forums and sites where people were absolutely obsessed with his family and the case.

  I thought about visiting him, asking him why he’d done it all to me. I thought about being a witness at one of his trials or appeals.

  But I decided that it was over. I was done. I stopped reading the forums and the articles.

  I didn’t owe him anything.

  But I did start talking to Max again. He’d called me a bunch of times since the night of the attack to see how I was doing, to make sure I was okay. I was still kind of mad at him for all the shit he and Toby had pulled together, but I couldn’t really fault him for it. I’d done some terrible things myself.

  Connor’s return to school wasn’t a total disaster. He insisted on going back as soon as he was well enough to leave the hospital. I stayed over at his house the night before, and we stayed up all night and talked about it, like how things would be from now on. In the morning, Jess picked us up and drove us to school in her brand-new Toyota Corolla, courtesy of her hoity-toity mother.

  It was 6:30 a.m., and dark bruises were blooming across Connor’s cheek. His swollen eye was just starting to open. It hurt when he breathed. One of his fingers was broken and in a splint. But he was healing, and he was going back. We were doing this together, even though it made me so nervous I thought I’d throw up right in Jess’s brand new car, which she couldn’t stop raving about, blasting rap music as we pulled up to the school. There was a sizable crowd forming out front, waiting around for the first bell. My stomach dropped at the sight of them.

  “We’re gonna be okay,” Connor said, and leaned in to kiss me for the first time in front of Jess. It didn’t help the thumping in my chest.