No More Us for You

by David Hernandez

  “Not long. About two months.”

  Heidi raised a closed fist to her mouth and yawned with great exaggeration like a mime at a kid’s birthday party.

  The phone rang. “Go ahead and check out the exhibit,” Vanessa said before picking up. “Long Beach Contemporary Museum,” she said in this sophisticated voice.

  I turned to Heidi. “Come on.”

  Heidi had this I’m-so-bored-already-I-could-slit-my-wrists look on her face as she pushed away from the counter and followed behind me.

  The first thing we checked out was this huge rag doll wearing a pair of ratty-looking boxing gloves. His eyes were two Xs, his brown hair was made of yarn. The artist had painted a row of red dots across the forehead.

  “Is that supposed to be Jesus?” Heidi asked.

  “Looks like him to me.”

  “If my dad saw that, he’d freak out.”

  “Mine would probably laugh.”

  There was a large painting hanging on the wall covered with black paint. Heidi pointed and said, “That’s art?”

  “I guess so. We are in an art museum.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “There’s actually names on it,” a voice said from the corner. I turned around. It was the museum guard, a boy about my age wearing a blue suit. His hair was short and wavy brown, his skin the color of butterscotch. I thought he was kind of cute and wondered if he was Carlos, the boy Vanessa wanted me to meet. He motioned toward the painting. “I thought it was just a black canvas too until I looked at it up close the other day.”

  Heidi and I both walked over to the painting and leaned in. It was true. The names sat on top of the canvas like black lily pads on a black pond.

  “Oh yeah, now I see them,” Heidi said. “Sergeant Lee…Butler.”

  “They’re overlapping,” I said. “Captain…Gary Eckhart.”

  “Benjamin…Ed…something.”

  “Lance Corporal…Adam…”

  “Captain John…Martinez.”

  “Staff…Sergeant Maurice…” The last name was illegible, tangled with another’s first name.

  “Why did he make the names so hard to read?” Heidi wanted to know.

  “He probably did it on purpose,” I said.

  “But why?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The painting reminded me of my father’s electric typewriter that I used to play with when I was a kid. I’d run my fingers over the keys, press my palms down again and again, and the typewriter would pop like caps. When I’d reach the bottom of the page, I’d feed the paper back in and do the same thing—Pop pop pop!—typing right over the letters.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out who all these names painted on the canvas were, what war they all died in, which faraway country. It was another cause of death that was excluded in the “Risk of Death” chart. I figured War was somewhere between Airplanes (747 annual deaths) and Drowning in bathtub (402). But I was just guessing. It could have been more than that for all I knew. That’s the impression I got from the painting, anyway.

  “Look, a woman.” Heidi’s finger hovered inches from the canvas. “Sergeant Monique Brown.”

  “Please, don’t touch,” the boy said.

  Heidi turned around and scowled. “I’m not,” she snapped.

  “Don’t you two go to Millikan?” he asked us.

  I turned around and faced him. “Yeah.”

  “I thought you guys looked familiar.”

  “Where do you hang out?” I asked.

  “The bleachers by the basketball courts. Sometimes the fences near the quad.”

  Once I realized this was Carlos, I started to wonder if Vanessa had told him about me, if she’d mentioned Gabriel at all. Also, what was it about Carlos that made her think we’d be a good match? I wasn’t ready for a boyfriend yet, let alone start dating again.

  “Wait,” Heidi said. “Aren’t you friends with Jeffrey McKenzie?”

  He smirked. “I call him Snake.”

  Heidi nodded. “I know who you are now. I mean, I don’t know your name or anything.”

  “Carlos.”

  “I’m Heidi. And this is Isabel.”

  I waved at Carlos and smiled. He was definitely cute.

  “Isabel,” he said slowly.

  I smiled again and pulled some of my hair behind my ear.

  “Call her ‘Is’ for short,” Heidi said.

  “Isabel’s better,” Carlos said.

  I could feel myself blushing a little.

  Vanessa walked into the room all bouncy, her hair swaying at her shoulders. “The phone just won’t stop ringing.”

  “Are these your friends?” Carlos asked.

  “They sure are.” Vanessa stood at my side and gave me this little, goofy hug. “He’s cute, right?” she whispered into my ear.

  I shushed her.

  “Oh my God, that’s hilarious,” Heidi said. She was pointing at a pink neon sign on the wall that said NO MORE COITUS FOR YOU in this swirly font.

  “That’s my favorite one,” Carlos said. “The artist is a really cool guy too.”

  The phone rang again at the front desk. “See what I mean?” Vanessa said, hurrying to answer it.

  Heidi meandered off to inspect a pile of green sand in the corner and I lingered around the middle of the room, hoping Carlos would talk to me.

  Then he did.

  “You want a Red Vine?”

  Carlos reached into his jacket pocket and slid the bag of licorice out. When he pulled a red braid from the opening, I got this chill on my scalp and arms, and again I felt like my life had already been filmed, that this was fate and everything was already determined. I must’ve made a strange face or something because Carlos said, “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re going to think this is weird…” I said.

  Carlos chewed on a Red Vine and nodded for me to go ahead.

  “I’ve been craving those the whole way over here.”

  “I always crave them,” he said.

  And then he held a coiled piece of licorice out to me like the stem of a flower.

  CARLOS

  When I got home from work I had zero messages on my answering machine. I took off my jacket, untucked my shirt, loosened my tie, and slipped it over my head like I was removing a noose. I turned on my computer and checked my email. Just some spam with the subject heading that read: ADD 4 INCHZ TO YR P3N1S IN JUST 1 W33K!

  I leaned back in my chair, feeling sorry for myself, wondering why Mira was going out on me. There had to be a reason, and it didn’t take me that long to figure it out. From the beginning, her main complaint about me—the only one, really—was how apathetic I was, how little ambition I had. Most of the time I was content just lounging around the house with her, watching television and munching on pretzel sticks. Let’s get out of here and do something, she often said. And my response was always the same: Do what?

  My dad stood in the doorframe and knocked on my door. “You hungry, guy?”

  “A little bit,” I said.

  “Your mother and I are thinking of going to Enrique’s.”

  The thought of hanging out with my parents at a Mexican restaurant on a Saturday night depressed me. I sat on my bed and kicked off my shoes. “I’ll just eat something here.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, kiddo,” he said.

  It was obvious he knew that Mira and I had broken up, that I was hurting still, but offering me wisdom on matters of the heart wasn’t one of my father’s areas of expertise. All he could do was call me “kiddo” and curl his lips inward as if he were trying to swallow his mouth.

  I unbuttoned my shirt and shuffled to the kitchen in my wifebeater, socks, and blue slacks. I opened the refrigerator and took out some sliced turkey and French’s mustard. I heard my dad in the living room muttering something and my mom responding with, “¿Por qué?” Seconds later she was in the kitchen holding her purse and wearing a gray sweater. “You don�
�t want to come with us to Enrique’s?” she asked.

  I opened the cupboard and took down the loaf of wheat bread. “I don’t feel like having Mexican.”

  “But you love their carne asada.”

  “You and Dad go. I’m just going to have a sandwich.”

  She stood beside me. “You want me to make it for you, mijo?”

  “I’ve got it, Mom.”

  She placed her hand on my back. “You haven’t heard from her?”

  I shook my head no and laid some turkey on a slice of bread. She didn’t know the whole story. I had just told her that we split up and Mira was now seeing someone else, some guy on the track team. I left the part out about her cheating on me.

  “She’ll regret it,” my mom said. “I won’t be surprised if she dumps this other guy and asks you to come back.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” I said.

  “You don’t know.”

  “What if I don’t want her back?”

  “She’s a sweet girl.”

  I squirted mustard on another slice of bread and spread it evenly with a knife. “That’s questionable.”

  “She is, mijo. She was always very courteous and thoughtful. Remember she bought your father and me those nice suede slippers for Christmas? She didn’t have to do that.”

  I exhaled heavily and continued sliding the knife around.

  “Maybe you should write her a nice letter or send some flowers?” my mom suggested.

  That was it—my breaking point—and I tossed the knife into the sink. “She was screwing another guy,” I finally said.

  My mom gulped air as if she’d been holding her breath. “That tramp.”

  I heard the garage door grumbling, the car door opening and slamming shut. “Don’t keep Dad waiting,” I said. “Go.”

  “We won’t be gone long,” she said before dashing to the garage.

  I took my sandwich and a Sprite to the couch and channel-surfed. Car bomb in Iraq, Blind Date, Hurricane Katrina aftermath, The Simpsons. I took a bite, a sip, and flipped to MTV, to Madonna in a skimpy pink suit and heels, stretching out on a ballet floor and slowly gyrating her hips. I finished my sandwich and clicked off the television and went to my room to check my email again. More spam on how to lengthen my penis, this time with an herbal pill that was scientifically proven.

  I crashed on my bed and looked at the calendar thumbtacked to the wall. Valentine’s was three days away. I opened the drawer to my nightstand and took out the red leather box with Mira’s gift inside—a silver bracelet with green stones. I hadn’t bothered to keep the receipt since Mira had pointed it out two weeks earlier, told me Valentine’s Day was just around the corner, wink-wink. If only I’d known she’d been flirting with someone in her history class, that days later she would swing by his house to pick up his notes on the Battle of Gettysburg and Sherman’s March, that minutes later they would kiss and a few minutes after that stumble into his bedroom. If only I’d known, I would’ve had an extra $48.38 in my checking account.

  My cell rang and before I checked to see who it was, I wished it was Mira and then, half a second later, wished that it wasn’t. The digital display said SNAKE.

  “What’re you doing, douchebag?” he said.

  “Just kicking it,” I said.

  “You’re going to Christopher’s thing tonight, right?”

  I faked a yawn. “I’m pretty wiped out.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You’re going. We’ll come pick you up.”

  “We?”

  “Will’s here.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering if Will was still angry with me, or disappointed, or whatever it was he felt when he’d walked down the hallway as I was calling his name. “Let me talk to him for a second,” I said.

  Snake passed the phone to Will. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, I have the money if you still need it,” I told him.

  “I don’t, but thanks anyway.”

  “Sorry I didn’t say yes when you asked me. I felt like an ass afterward.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “Don’t sweat what?” I heard Snake ask in the background.

  “Don’t tell him,” Will said before passing the phone back.

  “Don’t tell me what?” Snake asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Bitch, you better tell me.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Are you gay or something? Is that why Mira left you?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it,” I said, but what I was thinking was this: Because she was bored out of her mind with me. Because I’m a slacker, an idler, a pair of shoes knotted together and hanging from a telephone wire. Stuck. Swaying in the breeze. Because I don’t know what the hell I want.

  “I’ll get your ass drunk tonight and get it out of you,” Snake said.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Come on,” he begged. “There’s going to be a lot of honeys there. You know Christopher.”

  “I’m just going to stay in tonight.”

  “And mope around like a little bitch?”

  “I’m not moping.”

  “You’ve been King Mopeyhead for four straight days,” he said. “Screw her, man. I’m telling you, the best thing for you to do is get out there and bone another hoochie.”

  “Sage advice,” I said, all sarcastic.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Forget it. I’m not going.”

  Snake palmed the phone and said something to Will I couldn’t make out except the words “bitch” and “mope.” Will said something back and then Snake removed his hand. “Whatever, douchebag,” he said before hanging up.

  The following Monday I heard all about Christopher’s party, how many people were there, how many girls, how much beer and vodka and tequila, the constant whirring of the blender in the kitchen, how loud the music was thumping from the living room, the bong hits by the swimming pool, the stoned German shepherd wobbling around the yard, and finally the cops that arrived to end it all and send the smashed kids home.

  “I was so hammered,” Snake said, swiveling his head slowly.

  “I had the worst hangover,” Will added. “Felt like someone was tapping the inside of my skull with a mallet.”

  It was just the three of us on the bleachers, the day overcast and a breeze playing with our hair, the folds of our shirts. The basketball courts were empty except for a few seagulls milling around like windup toys. A dented soda can seesawed on the blacktop whenever the wind bumped into it.

  “Who got the dog lit?” I asked.

  “I have no idea, but that shit was funny,” Snake said. “He almost fell into the pool.”

  “Christopher always has the best parties, man,” Will said.

  “Too bad the cops busted it up.”

  “Stupid cops.” Will hawked a loogie onto the blacktop. “Did you see that one with his hand on his gun the whole time? I wanted to smack him. What was he going to do, shoot us?”

  “Like Dick Cheney,” I said.

  Snake turned toward us. “What do you mean?”

  “Cheney went quail hunting and accidentally shot his friend in the face,” Will said.

  Snake chuckled. “Oh man, what a dick.”

  “Dickhole Cheney.”

  “Did he die?” Snake asked.

  “He’s in the hospital. He’s got buckshot inside his face and neck.”

  “That must’ve hurt like hell,” I said.

  “Like my hangover,” Will added. “Man, my head was just pounding.”

  A seagull lifted into the air and the others followed, banking around the parking lot and over the administration building, and I wondered if the followers knew where they were going.

  “Where’s Suji?” Snake asked.

  Will hawked another loogie onto the blacktop and said nothing.

  “Did you guys break up, too?”

  Will scratched the side of his head. “Something like that.”

  I looked a
t Will. His eyes were somewhere on the basketball courts, perhaps on the soda can that rocked silently on the blacktop, flashing its dull light.

  Snake leaned back on the bleachers, his elbows resting on the aluminum slat. “What happened?”

  “None of your business,” Will said coolly.

  Snake stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. He was wearing his red Converse with the flames he drew on them with a Bic rising from the white soles. “Whatever,” he said.

  The school bell rang, a harsh sound that sent the seagulls back to us, white wings against the charcoal sky. They sailed down and landed on the courts, their heads jerking left and right. One snapped fiercely at another. The bird sprung up, squawked, then landed beside the same gull as if nothing had happened between them.

  “I can’t wait to graduate and get the hell out of here,” Snake said. “I’m sick of Millikan.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Millican’t, more like.”

  “I take it you’re going to your next class,” I said.

  “There’s some chick I dig that sits next to me. She has blue-ribbon tits.”

  “I think you should tell her.”

  “Yeah, right.” Snake climbed down the bleachers and lifted his middle finger. “Later, bitches,” he said. As he crossed the blacktop, he veered to the right and stomped down on the soda can. It curled around his heel, clamping onto his shoe, and Snake continued to walk with it across the basketball courts, limping slightly, his right foot clanking each time he brought it to the ground.

  “What an idiot,” Will said.

  “You think he’ll graduate?”

  “In five years.”

  “I say six.”

  A plane roared in the sky, but I couldn’t see it.

  A breeze hit us and Will shivered.

  Before I could figure out if he wanted to talk or not, he said, “She’s ignoring my calls.”

  I scooted down so we were sitting on the same row. “What happened?”

  “She didn’t want to go to Christopher’s thing. She wanted to be together, just the two of us, and talk about what we were going to do.” Will paused and looked at the track houses on the other side of the soccer field. “I said I needed to get hammered, and she got pissed and said I didn’t care about her. I told her that wasn’t true and to calm down, but I really needed to cut loose and not think about it for one night. She said I shouldn’t be thinking about anything else.”