by JB Salsbury
A few kids from school say hi, while some of the more cowardly pretend I’m not there.
“Want a drink?” Carrie pulls open one of the two doors on the fridge. “There’s beer, vodka, wine . . .”
“Wine? Who the hell drinks wine?”
She turns to me and holds up one finger. “I do. My parents let me have a glass on holidays.”
“Huh . . .” My dad made me drink a fifth of Cuervo on my fourteenth birthday right before I got Latino Saints tatted on my chest. Same thing, no? “Beer’s fine.”
Whereas most high school parties have a warm keg in the backyard, freakin’ Aloysius the Third is handing out actual bottles of premium booze. I hold the beer bottle to the light to study the label.
“It’s Belgian. They really do make the best beer.” She waves her fingers at someone walking by, making me wonder if those soft hands have ever done a day’s work in their lives.
“If you say so.” I take a long pull off the cold brew and shrug. Tastes like Tecate.
We head outside, where Keaton and Seth are hanging around a few guys from the football team.
“Here, sit.” Carrie nods toward a patio lounger nicer than my couch at home.
I straddle the thing to sit and avoid putting my feet up because my abuelita would’ve kicked my ass if I’d put my shoes on something this nice.
I expect Carrie to sit on the one next to it, but she straddles the seat with her back toward me and leans back to rest against my chest.
I tilt my head and watch her sip from her beer bottle, those thick lips wrapping around it and forming a perfect suction. I shift in my seat. “How much have you had to drink tonight, princesa?”
As flirtatious as she’s been at school, with her boldness tonight—first with the side-mouth kiss and now planting herself between my legs—she’s taking things to the next level.
“A few beers.” She wiggles closer and tilts her head to look back and up at me. “Why?”
“You seem . . . different.” I sip my beer as her gaze moves around my face as if she’s trying to memorize me. I suppress the urge to lean away from her scrutiny and instead watch the crowd rather than her.
“Maybe I am.” She sighs and turns to face forward again.
She’s disappointed I’m not falling all over her. I suspect my “whatever” attitude in response to her flirting is something she’s not used to.
If this were an LS party, I could respond the way I want to. I could make out with her right here in front of God and whoever else wants to watch. My entire life, I’ve seen couples in every variation of sexual contact, sometimes three or four at a time, but as I shift in my seat and take in all the eyes subtly glancing our way, I’m reminded I’m as far from the LS as I could possibly be.
I’m also a legal adult. That reminds me . . .
“How old are you?”
She bites her lip, and I try to force my body under control. “I’ll be eighteen next month.”
She attempts to scoot closer, but I hold her back, which turns that seductive smile upside down.
“You trying to get me locked up?”
“No.” Her full lips puff out into a pout.
I set my beer down on the table beside us and put my lips to her ear. “Listen . . . if we were anywhere else, I’d probably risk it. You’re pushing all the right buttons, and you’re probably not used to being turned down.” I run a finger along her neck and move her hair out of the way just to make sure she’s hearing me clearly. “There are people here who would love to catch me doing something illegal, yeah?”
She shrugs. “Probably.” Her head falls to the side as though she’s expecting me to kiss her neck.
I don’t. “So we wait.” As beautiful as Carrie O’Hare is, ain’t no girl worth jail time.
“But if we were alone, somewhere safe, then maybe—”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Keeping Carrie close, I look up to see that rat-faced Frank staring down at me, repulsion pinching his silver-spoon features.
The Jay-Z wannabe taps the toe of his Timberlands, and even the puff of his chest doesn’t fill in his shirt, two sizes too big. He flips his Chicago Bulls hat backward, which almost makes me laugh. “You invited the janitor to my nana’s house, Carrie?”
She sits up quickly, and I’m grateful for the space. “You don’t get to control who I hang out with, Frankie!”
I recoil at the whiny way she says his name but recover just in time to see him advance a step. I push up to meet his stare head on and sense bodies from around the backyard closing in on us. “You got something to say to me, puto, just say it.”
The kid who probably craps golden eggs curls his lips. “Puto? You’re in America. Speak English.”
Damian’s voice comes from my side. “Piensa lo. Este pendejo no vale pena volver al bote.”
He’s right. This asshole ain’t worth getting arrested for. Another downside of being a legal adult in a world of minors is that I can’t beat the piss out of them even if they ask for it.
“Oh, real nice.” Frank throws his hands in the air and glares at Carrie. “None of them speak English. How convenient.”
I step into his space and grin through my clenched teeth at the way his head tilts back to look up at me. “I speak English, fucker.” I reach forward and pop up his collar. “But let me translate. My cousin said if I break your face open on your pristine marble floor, he’d be happy to mop up the blood with your ass.”
A hand grips my bicep. “Milo—”
I shrug Carrie off. “You think Nana would be pissed if I split your head open on her precious Oriental rug?”
“I could . . .” His throat bobs with a thick swallow.
Where’s your tough-ass wannabe gangster now?
“I’ll have you arrested for threatening me.”
I sniff and touch the tip of my nose with my thumb. Then I smile. “Can’t arrest me for asking a question. You won’t be a minor forever, puto.” I eye Seth and Keaton and a couple guys from the football team who’ve gathered close. “I’m done here.”
“Don’t leave.” Carrie hugs my arm, and I pull her off and press her to my chest. With my fist in her hair, I tilt her head back and crash my lips to hers.
She gasps, and when her lips part, I invade her warm mouth. Her mouth tastes like beer, and her lip gloss is sticky as hell, but I suck her tongue into my mouth anyway. Her nails dig into my arms, and she whimpers when I pull away and leave her staggering.
“Later.”
“Thanks for the beer.” Damian drops his on the patio, shattering the bottle and spilling what’s left all over the deck.
“That was a bust,” I say as I push through the crowd toward the front door.
“We lasted longer than I thought we would.” Damian chuckles. “I was shocked we even made it inside.”
Keaton pulls up beside me. “Tell me she tastes as good as she looks.”
My cousin claps me on the shoulder. “Tastes like prison, eh Milo?”
Stupid! I was an idiot to kiss her in front of everyone, but I wanted to put that asshole Frank in his place. Can’t imagine anyone would kick up drama about one kiss with a girl only weeks before she turns eighteen. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “That crap on her lips is like superglue.”
“I know of a party on the west side.” Seth pulls his keys out. “My brother said it’s goin’ off.”
“Now you’re talkin’.” Damian pulls out his phone. “The night’s still young.”
“Yeah.” My phone vibrates in my pocket with a new text, but I ignore it. “These burb kids are getting on my damn nerves.”
Milo
MY ABUELITA USED to say Saturday nights were for sin and Sunday mornings for confession. I’m feeling her words in a big way when I roll out of bed, but I’d argue Sunday mornings are for hangovers.
After leaving Aloysius’s party last night, we went to a kegger in Long Beach where we only knew the crew we came with, but Seth’s brother introd
uced us to a few people.
They were playing great music, the beer was cheap and cold, and with the words of that punkass kid still playing in my head, I had plenty of irritation I needed to drown. I didn’t realize I’d gone over my limit until my head hit my pillow and the room started to tilt-a-whirl on my ass.
My head feels as if it’s filled with little men beating the snot out of my brain with sledgehammers, so yeah . . . ouch.
I sit on the edge of my bed still wearing my jeans from last night and grip either side of my skull. As much as my brain feels like roadkill, it’s my bladder that’s about to burst inside my body. I stumble outside to the tall hedges rather than risk running into the parentals in the main house, smelling like stale beer and smoke.
I’m rolling my head around on my neck, trying to work out the kink that was probably caused by me passing out on my stomach, and I catch something out of the corner of my eye. Peeking through the bushes, I see Mercy’s bedroom window is wide open, and she’s standing there looking right at me.
“Shit.” I fumble with my jeans to avoid embarrassing myself when I remember what Laura said about her eyesight. The blank look on her face proves it . . . She can’t see me.
But I see her perfectly.
A slight breeze blows her hair off her shoulders to billow behind her back. She’s wearing a thin white T-shirt and shorts the color the sun. She tilts her head back, exposing the pale underbelly of her throat, and it’s completely free of color or marks of any kind. I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my hand around it and feel her pulse throb against my palm. She closes her eyes, and the corners of her lips turn up just slightly. Her arms are out to her sides, and her palms open as if she’s trying to make contact with the air on every available surface of exposed skin. The breeze blows her thin shirt against her chest, showcasing the outline of her full breasts. Her arms are thin, not in a sick way, but I doubt the girl has ever played a sport or seen the inside of a gym. Her window is darkened by the early-morning shadows, but if she were in the sun, she’d practically glow like some kind of mystical fairy. The thought of what that would look like has me sucking through my teeth, and a need to pull her into the light overtakes me.
All too soon, she jerks her head around as if someone called her name or walked into her room, snapping me out of my daze. I blink and slap my cheeks, hoping the sting will bring me back to myself. Hiding in the bushes and spying on one’s foster sister is so not cool. I turn to leave but decide on maybe one more look—no! This is so wrong.
I zip up my jeans and head back into my place, slamming the door harder than necessary. My heart’s racing, and my palms are sweaty. I pace the room a couple times, willing my body’s reaction to her to chill. I blame the hangover.
Feeling like shit for a half dozen different reasons, I strip down and throw on my running clothes, hoping to jog off last night’s booze as well as my regrets, which include spying on Mercy.
Sicko.
“WHAT DO YOU mean you’re going to church?” I stare between my brothers in their khaki dress pants, collared shirts, and sneakers. I haven’t seen them dressed this nicely since our abuelita’s funeral. “Did someone die?”
I down the rest of my orange juice and rinse my cup out in the sink. Even after my shower, I’m still sweating from my run. I just pray no one gets a whiff of last night.
Miguel swipes his bangs off his forehead. With all his black hair slicked back, he looks like a young version of our dad. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why he always has it hanging in his face. “Laura asked if we’d want to go. We have nothing else to do, so . . .”
“Plus . . .” Julian finishes chewing and swallowing a spoonful of Cheerios. “Mom liked it when we’d go to church.”
My stomach sours, and that has nothing to do with last night’s party. Our mom did love it on holidays when Abuelita would insist we go to church. Those were the only times El Jefe didn’t throw a fit about going.
My mom left home at a young age and had no contact with her family. Apparently, her dad used to knock her and her mom around. I think that’s why she fell so hard for El Jefe. He swore he’d take care of her, keep her safe. No one would ever hurt her again. He was unclear about the details, though. What he meant was no one but him. She wanted us to be in Mass every Sunday, but El Jefe made it clear the only thing he’d worship was the LS.
“Morning, Milo.” Chris walks into the kitchen smelling of special-occasion cologne and dressed similarly to my brothers. “I’m happy to see you’re joining us for church.”
“Huh?”
Julian smiles up at me with milk dripping off his lower lip, and even Miguel looks hopeful with his eyebrows raised.
Chris pours himself a cup of coffee then looks with confusion at my hair, which is still wet from the shower. “You’re coming, right?”
“Uh . . .” My gaze swings back to my brothers, and as much as I’d rather go back into my room, put on some music, and veg out in front of the TV all day, I can tell it means a lot to them. It would mean a lot to my mom. “I guess so.”
Laura comes racing into the kitchen, wearing her more formal work-week slacks and button-up shirt. She has a clip in her mouth, and she’s pulling back the sides of her hair. “You guys ready?” she says around the hairclip before sliding it behind her head with a click and grabbing the cup of coffee Chris hands her. “Oh, Milo, you’re coming. Great, Julian can sit in the front with us, and you and Miguel can sit in the back with Mercy.”
I feel a little sick at the sound of her name after having spied on her during what seemed like a private moment in the window this morning. “I can drive myself—”
“Nonsense. There’s no need.” She smiles widely, and I know she’s loving the idea of the whole family in one car. “I’ll go see if Mercy’s ready, and we’ll go.”
I head out to my place, change my shirt, grab my keys and wallet, and do it all while cursing up a storm before locking up. I could’ve just said no and spent the day napping and watching movies. When I make my way up the driveway, everyone is filtering out toward the car.
My gaze immediately finds Mercy, who stays close to Laura. She’s wearing that same ratty sweatshirt—some no-brand gray hoodie—but this time, she’s wearing a long black skirt that flows down to her generic white sneakers.
Miguel and I head to the back door on the driver’s side while Mercy and Laura go to the passenger’s side with Julian. I open the door for my brother so that he can sit bitch—
“Mercy, honey, why don’t you sit in the middle. Milo and Miguel are too tall to fit there.” Laura opens the door for Julian to crawl into the front, and Miguel walks around to the passenger side to follow Mercy into the backseat.
This shouldn’t be a big deal. I sit by women all the time. Hell, just last night, I had the hottest chick at Washington High sitting pretty between my legs. So why in the hell am I suddenly sweating at the idea of touching shoulders with Ghostgirl?
I’m the last one to get in, and when I slam the door, it hits me in the shoulder, forcing me to scoot so close to Mercy that her hair brushes against my bicep. Even with my head turned away as I stare out the window, I’m all too aware of how close she is—the heat of her hip on mine, the citrus scent of her skin swirling around the cramped space—I can even feel her breathing.
Chris backs out of the driveway, and Laura asks Julian about school. Every corner has me tensing to hold myself up to avoid leaning into Mercy, and she seems to do the same. I imagine her ass is sore as hell from gripping the seat to keep from falling into me or Miguel.
After I sit for a few minutes with my head turned toward the window, the kink in my neck from earlier flares up. I turn forward, only to feel Mercy staring. At first, I think she’s staring past me and out the side window, but when I lean forward to adjust my position, her eyes follow.
She’s less than a foot away and staring right at me.
Or rather, at my neck.
Hoping to throw her off, I turn and stare d
irectly into her eyes, raising my eyebrows in a silent Do you mind?
Clearly she does not, because after her icy blues track to mine, they go right back to my tattoo.
“Jesus . . .” I mutter in frustration.
“No, not him. Mary.” The Mother’s name from her lips is soft but powerful, with not a hint of the nervousness I’d expect from her.
Then again, why would I make her nervous? I’m not the one who looks as if I’ve been dead for three days.
She doesn’t take her eyes off me, and by the time we pull into Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral, I’m feeling like a specimen under a microscope. The lot fills quickly, and people stream like ants through the enormous double doors. As soon as the car is in park, I pop the handle and jump out, needing to put some space between us. Mercy pulls her hood up over her hair and dips her chin to hide, I assume, from probing eyes—ironic since she visually stripped my skin from me on the way over.
“Come on, guys, the bells already started. We need to skedaddle.” Laura herds my brothers and Mercy toward the door, and Chris and I follow. Inside, the place is darker than the bright Los Angeles sky and dimly lit with candles and sun-soaked stained glass. Bowls of holy water stand to the side of the interior doors, and some people dip their fingers in, while others just pass by. I dip my fingers in and do the sign of the cross just like Abuelita taught us. Miguel does the same. I can feel Mercy’s eyes on me even from beneath the shadow of her hoodie. When I turn to look at her, she slowly slides her gaze away as if she’s bored and studies the paintings of the Stations of the Cross lining the walls. Chris motions for us to fill an empty row, and in all the hustle to get seated, I find myself once again sitting next to Mercy.
Laura, who is on her other side, leans and whispers, “Are you comfortable here, honey?”
Ghostgirl nods then tilts her head back to look up at the mural on the ceiling. It’s a painting of a blue sky and puffy white clouds filled with what must be close to fifty angels. Bright sunlight shines through the clouds, and the angels seem to be playing in the light as if it were water. Tilting my head from side to side gives me the sensation that they’re moving. My neck starts to cramp, and I look back at Mercy, who still has her chin aimed at the ceiling and is squinting her eyes so hard that I wonder if she’s trying hard to see what her weakened eyes won’t allow. She’s completely fixated. Fascinated.