“Yes, sir.” I wait for further information. I wait longer. I get bored. “Captain McCann, you’re supposed to tell me when he’s driven away, too.”
We can’t have a battle until Diego’s dad has left for work. He probably wouldn’t like our game. He is the maintenance man at the school, and he gets angry at kids for breaking things and making messes. Actually, he doesn’t like kids playing any games that are too loud, and it turns out every game we ever play is too loud. My mom says he fought in Vietnam and it hurt his head, so we should stay away from him.
“I’m well aware of that, Sergeant Salazar,” Wolf says. “It’s just, he forgot something and went back inside the house.”
“Ugh. What’s with him? He forgets something every single day.” It’s so frustrating. Didn’t his mother yell at him not to forget things like my mom does? Wouldn’t he know better now that he’s a grown-up? Some mornings I want to yell at him because I know he’s forgotten something, but I don’t dare. “Well, what is it today?”
“His lunch box.”
Wolf waits and watches for a few moments, and then makes a quick hand signal with his fist to announce that Diego’s dad is finally gone. Wolf said we needed to have hand signs, even though we can hear each other in the trench. He says you never know when you might need to communicate without making a sound. What you do is squeeze your fist fast, and then drop it down like you’re pounding an invisible bug.
09:42. Diego runs out of his house, carrying a big plastic bag. He carefully slides into a little trench in front of his house. Jaime, who lives around the curve of our street, suddenly appears, running toward Diego’s trench. He jumps inside with Diego. They may be conspiring against us, but their trench is not as big as ours and maybe only half as deep. This is excellent because it means we are twice as likely to hit them with our mud balls.
10:15. “I am Fernando Valenzuela, with the strongest pitching arm in Major League Baseball,” Diego shouts while Jaime cheers.
“What are you talking about?” I lift my head up out of the trench and yell.
That’s when the crashing begins. We discover the contents of Diego’s plastic bag when a soft, heavy, round, pink balloon ruptures upon contact with the top of my head. Water splashes all the way down my face. This initial projectile is followed in short order by a wet blue bomb ricocheting off our tin roof and bursting all over Wolf. And then another hits right near our trench and sprays water and dirt all over my shirt.
Wolf and I had only thought of battling with dirt and mud. We are entirely unprepared for a water balloon strike, and who knows how many more are in that bag.
Wolf raises his hand straight up, and then turns his wrists back and forth twice in what is probably our most important hand symbol, which means Let’s get out of here, quick!
Wolf rushes to top of the ladder and rolls to the side on the grass. “Hey!” he calls to me. “Hand me some mud balls.”
I send up four big ones that he protects under his body. A huge green balloon lands right on his back and explodes. Wolf lets out a small scream, and then a bunch of laughter.
“Come on, Sergeant Salazar. It’s our turn now. Let’s go get ’em.”
The truth is that no kid in Los Angeles in July can resist the feeling of a water balloon splattered all over them. It’s really hot, and the one city pool where we live is too crowded. So once you get over the humiliation of being hit, the cool water is a kind of heaven. But still, we have to get these guys back.
Wolf loves to run. He has long thin legs that don’t fill up his pants. I know about the way Wolf’s legs look because I am always running behind him, trying to keep up. My legs are short by comparison, and I run much slower than he does. I breathe in the smog as I run and my lungs feel too tight, slowing me down even more. This could be why I am getting hit by so many more balloons—one, two, three, four direct hits to his one. We’re both totally soaked by the time we make it to the other small trench and launch the four mud balls.
Jaime and Diego bend over and try to cover their bodies with their arms while they laugh their heads off. They jump out of their trench to pursue us as we run away. The four of us run and run, following the massive figure-eight bike track, until Wolf, without warning, shouts, “Oh yeah, I’m Steve Sax, stealing home base again for the Dodgers.” He slides long into the mud puddle in front of Mrs Vega’s house.
This causes a big pileup.
“Well, I’m Pedro Guerrero.” Jaime laughs and squeezes his bicep. “And I can hit more home runs than all of you combined.”
Wolf reaches under Jaime’s flexed arm and begins tickling him. Jaime jerks his body back, trying to defend his armpit and belly, and ends up splashing more of the cool, wet mud on top of us.
“Hey, watch it,” I complain.
Diego jumps me and tries to pin himself on top of me.
“What Dodger are you?” he asks, trying unsuccessfully to keep me pinned down and tickle me at the same time.
“Alejandro Peña,” I say between giggles.
“Ah, he isn’t as good as Fernando,” Diego insists.
“He’s more fun to watch, though, squeezing his little bag, patting the dirt with his cleats,” I answer.
“It’s true that you’re as slow as him,” Diego counters.
“He’s just taking his time,” I explain. And then I push with all my strength to flip Diego over. “He pitches when he’s ready.”
I feel a pain in my chest as it hits against Diego’s shoulder. It’s been hurting ever since school let out last month. I bring my left arm back to protect it from getting bonked again, but this leaves me only one arm to fight with.
Wolf sees me struggling and jumps up and tackles Diego, only to get tackled in turn by Jaime. I wish I wasn’t always on the bottom, but I can’t grip anything to pull myself up. Everything is slippery and sloshy. Wolf manages to stand up and starts flexing his muscles.
“I am the fastest man alive,” he announces with a big grin. “I’m Carl Lewis and I’m going to leave the rest of you in the dust.” He starts singing the Olympic music from all the TV commercials at the top of his lungs.
It’s so corny that we all crack up before he bounces on top of us again.
I don’t feel so mad at Diego today. Throwing mud at each other really makes you feel better. This is what it’s like between us. We get into an argument, and then we make competitions or battles, and then it seems better. Fun even. Maybe it’s because Diego lives right across from me and that’s too close to not get on each other’s nerves. Maybe it’s because I beat Jaime in math class, and Wolf beats Diego in sports. Maybe it’s because no matter how many competitions Wolf and I win, everyone thinks that Jaime and Diego are cool, and that we’re kind of dorky.
Diego finally manages to pull himself out of the pile and challenges, “Okay, get ready for round two.”
And with that, Diego and Jaime run off back to their trench.
Wolf and I pull ourselves up and look at each other. The mud has plastered our clothes to our bodies. I look down at myself and I can see the two new bumps on my chest sticking out a bit under my slick, muddy shirt. The right bump is bigger than the left. I quickly pull my shirt away from my skin. As I walk back to our trench, I hold my shirt out so it doesn’t cling to my chest. I don’t want anyone to see my bumps, but walking like this looks weird.
Wolf holds his shirt out, too. “Why are we doing this with our shirts?” he asks.
“It’s good to air out,” I say.
“Right,” he says and pulls his shirt all the way off. He lays it on the grass next to the trench to dry out.
I look at his flat, regular-sized nipples for a second and miss the way mine used to be. I keep my shirt on as I climb back down into the trench. It’s wet and kind of miserable, but at least it’s dark enough in the trench that Wolf can’t see my chest very well.
Anyway, we’ve already got new incoming rounds of mud and water balloons, so thankfully, there’s no more time to think about my stupid bumps
. We engage in eight more such battles. Either Diego and Jaime throw their balloons at us until we jump out and run while they chase us, or Wolf and I launch our mud balls at them until they can’t take it anymore and jump out and we chase them. After a couple of hours, Wolf and I lie filthy and exhausted at the bottom of our trench. We point our feet at opposite ends so that the tops of our heads rest together in the middle.
15:00.
“We need a good name for it,” I say, jotting ideas in my field notebook. Wolf told me I wouldn’t have any time in our trench for writing, but unless you write it down, nobody will even know it happened.
“For what?” Wolf asks. He gets to his feet and climbs halfway up the ladder. He starts scanning the street with my binoculars once again.
“For the war,” I explain.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “We could spend the whole summer at war. It’s momentous. We better make it a good one.”
“The Sidewalk War?” I suggest.
“Nah, sounds too gentle and nice. Warriors don’t use sidewalks,” he explains. “How about the Battle of Muscatel?”
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea. Muscatel is the name of our street, but my nana said it’s also the name of cheap wine. It would be weird to name our war after wine.” I shake my head. “Teenagers could show up with the wrong idea.”
“Good point,” Wolf says. “We don’t want that.” Then a smile spreads across his face and he proudly rhymes, “Street War of Eighty-Four!”
I nod. “I like it.”
chapter 6
LONG ENOUGH
We only stop battling when we see my mom’s car round the corner onto our street and wobble slowly through the mud toward us. My mom pulls into the driveway, opens her door, and grabs her stuff from the back seat.
I turn to Wolf and put my finger over my lips, making a silent Shhhhh.
We stay hidden and quiet until she goes inside, and then we creep out of our hole in the ground. I know my mom won’t be happy with the mountain of mud on my clothes. I take a deep breath and open the front door.
Luckily, my mom is busy looking through the mail, so I motion for Wolf to follow me toward my bedroom. But just when I think we’re safely out of sight, my mom says, “Alex?”
“Yeah?” I answer from around the corner.
“Did you put the chicken in the oven?”
“Oh no.” I cringe. “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot.”
“It’s okay, honey, but you know it means that we need to wait another hour or so before we get to eat.”
“I’m okay with that. I’m not hungry yet, anyway,” I say, and inch closer to the safety of my bedroom.
“Well, can you put it in now?” she says. “I’ve got a couple of calls to make.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, while Wolf is frantically pointing at the bathroom. I nod at him, understanding. “Oh, um, I just gotta go to the bathroom first.”
At that moment, Johnny emerges from his bedroom, looks at us dragging our muddy bodies down the hallway, and starts cackling.
I put my hands together in fake prayer and whisper, “Please, please don’t tell,” but before he can answer, I hear my mom’s loud voice behind us.
“What is going on?! What happened to your clothes?!”
My nana appears behind her and gasps. “There was a collapse in the caves?”
“What caves?” my mom asks.
“The caves in México,” I answer quickly. “When she was a little girl, and the armies were bombing—”
“She sought shelter in the caves. Yes, I know. I know that story,” my mom says, exasperated. “But what does that have to do with all the mud on your clothes?”
“Um, just a little street war against Diego and Jaime?” I try to say nonchalantly.
“A street war?!” she yells.
“You know, mud and water balloons and stuff like that,” I try again.
“And Wolf, too?”
“I’m on Alex’s side, Ms Salazar,” he answers earnestly. “And I do believe we have the upper hand.”
My mom sighs. “All right. Wolf, I’ll call your dad to see if you can stay for dinner. In the meantime, both of you get these clothes off and into the washing machine.”
I start toward the bathroom, but Wolf doesn’t follow.
“You too, Wolf,” my mom insists.
“I’m okay, Ms Salazar. I’m used to the mud.”
“That may be,” she says. “But my house isn’t used to the mud.”
“Really, I can just brush it off outside,” he insists.
“If you want to war around with Alex in the mud this summer,” she threatens, “you two are going to have to wash your clothes.”
“But I don’t have anything else to wear,” he pleads.
“Alex, loan him a shirt and pants,” my mom says. “Wolf, tomorrow bring two sets of your uniform so that you can be more comfortable, okay?”
“I don’t know.” Wolf looks down at the crusty mud on his fatigues.
“Look at me.” She catches his eye. “We’ll get these cleaned before bedtime, and I promise not to tell anyone you ever had them off.”
Wolf wears a lot of dirty clothes. He didn’t used to. When we were still in school, the girls would fan their noses and say he smelled bad. Wolf pretended not to notice. I don’t think his dad knows how to do the laundry, because I’m pretty sure Wolf stopped having clean clothes when his mom died.
Wolf hesitates but hands over his rumpled pile of clothes. I choose my gray corduroys and a blue shirt, and he finds a white T-shirt and jean shorts in my drawers. Wolf looks at himself in the mirror in my bedroom for a moment, and then his shoulders hunch over.
“They fit you perfect,” I offer.
“I hate them,” he answers.
“Jeez, and that’s one of my better T-shirts,” I joke. “Only two stains on it.”
“Whatever,” he says curtly.
For the next couple of hours, Wolf slouches and looks smaller and not as strong as he does when he’s wearing his uniform. I try to get him to talk, but he ignores me. I try to cheer him up by sneaking us chocolates after dinner. He eats them but doesn’t look any happier. He asks my mom if he can watch television with my nana until he has to go home. Since it’s a boring history show, I follow my mom to her bedroom, where she is primed to hang out for the night with one of her mystery novels.
I jump onto the bed next to her, but she looks at me suspiciously over the top of her book. “You’re not going to wiggle are you?” she says.
“No, Mom, I promise not to.”
“You always promise not to.”
“This time I really promise not to.”
She extends her arm so that I can lay my head across her shoulder and snuggle up. “I know you’ll still wiggle,” she tells me.
“Yeah,” I admit.
She puts her book down and starts moving her fingers through my hair. “What’s wrong, mija?” she asks softly.
I didn’t really know something was wrong until she asked. “Well, me and Wolf had fun all day …” I begin, my tummy feeling shaky.
“I could see that from your clothes,” she can’t resist saying.
I give her a dirty look for not letting me finish before I’ve barely started. “But anyway, now all of a sudden Wolf won’t talk or hang out or anything. Like he’s mad at me or something.”
“Oh,” she says, “I don’t think he’s mad at you.” She moves up on her elbow beside me. “You know, since his mom died—”
“But that was a long time ago,” I interrupt, frustrated.
“Two years is actually not a long time when someone dies.”
I don’t say anything. I want her to take my side, not Wolf’s.
“It’s probably my fault,” my mom says. “I made him take off his uniform. He really didn’t want to do that.”
“Yeah, but it’s just for a couple hours. I’ve had to wear things that I didn’t like before. Like when Dad was still around and you made me wear those dumb dresses to c
hurch all day long.”
She smooths my hair down. “It’s not as hard to wear dumb dresses when you’ve got your mom with you.”
Actually, it is hard to wear dumb dresses, with or without a mom. I’m glad we stopped having to go to church when my dad left. I hated sitting on the church pew in yellow-and-white-flowered laciness. Wolf must feel awful when he doesn’t have his uniform. I shouldn’t be mad at him. He doesn’t have his clothes, or his mom, to protect him.
And then I get scared. I imagine what it would be like if my mom left me, too. I can see myself in a horrible dress at church, alone. I grab her and hold on tight.
“What’s wrong?” she says again, startled.
“I don’t want you to ever die, not ever,” I say, my mouth muffled by her shoulder.
“No, mija. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want you to ever move away either.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
I lay my head on her big, soft arm.
“But Dad left one day, just like that. And I don’t know where he is or why he did that.”
“I wish I knew, honey,” she answers.
“Maybe he was mad at me for making too many messes around the house or something?” I propose.
“No, honey, no.” She looks me straight in the eyes for a moment. “He wasn’t upset with you.”
I look back into her eyes and try to believe what she’s saying. “Well, then, why would he leave?”
She turns away. “I think he was having a hard time …” Her voice drifts off.
“Like hard how?” I ask.
“You know it upsets me to talk about him, Alex,” she cautions. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Well, then, what if you have a hard time?”
“Listen to me,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere, not for a long, long time.”
She reaches out to pet my hair again, but her arm accidentally brushes against my chest.
“Ow,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no,” I lie. “I just scratched my toe against my leg. That’s all.”
The Street Belongs to Us Page 4