“Dude,” Greg says, “that kid’s not gay. That’s a girl. I mean, I think it’s a girl.”
“Ewwww,” Doug says. And then he stares at me, opening his mouth too wide. “What are you, anyway? A boy or a girl? You can’t decide, or what?”
Greg crouches down even closer to me. “And are you a Mexican? Or are you white? Wasn’t your dad a white guy? Where is he, anyway?”
Wolf steps in front of me to block Greg. “Leave her alone. I’m warning you.”
Doug chuckles. “And you’re the crazy Rambo Boy, aren’t you? Is your family so poor they can’t buy you real clothes?”
That’s when we start firing. We whirl our stinky bombs around and smack them with water balloons. We throw mud balls, we punch, we shout.
They spit down on us. It’s disgusting. They call us dirt. They kick mud into our hole.
But we’ve got a big stockpile of weapons, and we keep throwing. We throw as hard as we can. I’m so mad that every piece of mud that splatters on their bodies feels magnificent. Wolf gets something in Doug’s eye. While he’s trying to get it out, Greg is yelling at him to keep fighting, but he can’t. He is bent over, trying to get the dirt out of his eye.
“Dude,” Doug says, “I told you we shouldn’t have come down here. They’re not worth the dirt they live in.”’
“Yeah, well, it’s our dirt and not yours!” I say.
“Yeah, get off our dirt!” Wolf yells.
“You guys are losers,” Greg says, stepping away from our trench. “Let’s get out of here.”
They pull their bikes out of the mud, jump on their pedals, and ride off our street.
Wolf and I cheer and hug each other, celebrating our victory.
“We did it! We did it! The street belongs to us!”
chapter 13
STREET PARTY
Monday afternoon. 13:17.
Diego walks slowly down the street with a little duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. Under the midday sun, all traces of his swim have evaporated. He is hot and sweaty as he turns the corner back onto Muscatel Avenue.
Captain McCann and I don’t make a sound inside our trench. Wolf watches Diego closely through my binoculars. He lifts his arm, holds his fist out, and opens it slowly. It’s the sign that someone is coming. I reach down into the cool muddy corner of the trench and gently pull up two pink water balloons. I offer one to the captain and cradle the other in my hands.
Diego’s pace slows as he gets closer to home. Now he has to trudge through the soft, baked mud of our street. He takes his shoes off and starts squishing his way past our trench. Wolf signals by moving his whole arm down once, twice, and on the third time, we throw our balloons up in the air and at our target. Wolf’s balloon breaks and splashes down all over both of us, but mine clears the trench and bursts against Diego’s back.
Diego shrieks and we cheer, even though we’re soaking wet, too. When Diego turns around, we brace ourselves for a counterassault. But instead of yelling at us or running away, he lunges toward us.
Wolf raises his hand straight up, then turns his wrist back and forth twice.
At the same time, I yell, “Let’s get out of here!”
But Diego is faster than us and leaps into our trench before we can escape. Each of us scrapes mud off the walls, grabs mud balls, and tries to stomp on water balloons. We are having the biggest mud fight of all time. Diego’s laughing, and so are we.
That’s when we hear Jaime from across the mud road calling, “Diego? Diego, are you there?”
The three of us are giggling hard, but being in a big hole in the ground makes it difficult for anyone else to hear us.
“Diego?” Jaime asks, wandering toward our trench. “I thought I heard you.”
Diego looks at us sternly with his finger over his lips. We are silent.
We can hear Jaime walking slowly toward our trench. “Diego?”
I am trying not to breathe. I look down and spot one last intact pink water balloon. I hand it carefully to Diego. He waits until Jaime is pretty much on top of us, and then flings it across his chest.
“Arggh!” Jaime yells. “You double-crosser!” And then he leaps in on top of the rest of us.
Once we’re all good and muddy and tired and sitting together at the bottom of our trench, Wolf and I tell Jaime and Diego what happened with Greg and Doug Wilson.
“They said we live in dirt,” I say, outraged, covered in dirt.
Wolf shakes his head and adds, “But we beat them and made them leave.”
Diego and Jaime look at each other and nod. “What?” Wolf says.
“This calls for a street party,” Jaime says.
They head off in separate directions to knock on doors, telling everyone that there is going to be an official street party. I run inside the house quick and change my wet shirt for a dry one, so that my puffy right nipple doesn’t show through the shirt for everyone to see.
We claim different parts of the street to set up activities. Jaime says we could run the party as our very own Olympics. The Muscatel Avenue 1984 Olympic Games. I smooth out a patch of dirt near the fire hydrant to make a marble-playing event; Wolf invents speed trench climbing; Diego makes a soccer-kicking challenge; Jaime runs the mud ball throw (with extra points for landing a mud ball clear across the wash and into someone’s swimming pool), and the giant figure-eight bike track remains the most popular attraction. Realizing the financial possibilities of the newly formed mini-Olympics, Clarissa Brown from five doors down sets up a temporary tattoo table; the Vega family decides it’s a good opportunity for a yard sale; Ronny Graham is giving the little kids rides on his bike; my nana reheats some beans and makes a tostada table; and Old Mrs Hoganson from two doors down slices up a watermelon.
When Tony gets home, he wants to set up a break-dancing competition. Wolf remembers the old fence in our garage and we drag it out to make a platform for the stage. This challenges Johnny to make his own entertainment area, which turns out to be a boom box blasting heavy metal. We convince him that it would be cooler to play it down in the wash where it will echo and leave the rest of us somewhat free of all the screaming songs.
I am eating watermelon to cool off beside my marble-playing arena and helping the little kids with thumb shots. There are kids playing and running in every direction on our street, many of whom I don’t even recognize. I move my chin up and down to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” while the break-dancing boys twist their sweaty bodies up diagonally and swirl to the music. They move like the tops you pull fast with a string. Wolf is over at the trench, eagerly explaining mud ball—making to the Wong sisters from the other side of the wash. My nana is on her little lawn chair, smiling and clapping along, watching all the kids at play along our dirt street. Even my mom has taken a seat beside my nana, her head deep in a thick, new paperback.
“Alex, this is a celebration of the land!” my nana yells out to me.
I don’t want to confess to her about the way we beat those awful Wilson boys with mud balls and decided to celebrate, so I just nod. “Yes, Nana.”
“The land wants to be adored,” she explains. “And you kids know best how to do it.” She grins at me.
A big smile spreads across my face. Those Wilson boys and their mean words hurt my feelings, but my nana always makes me feel better.
Monday evening. 20:38.
The street party is loud and full of the whole neighborhood, so I don’t notice anything is wrong until I hear Wolf. I see Mr McCann’s back as he leans over the trench, and I can hear Wolf screaming, “I didn’t do anything wrong!” and “Dad, you’re not listening!” and “It was the Wilson kids that were jerks!” and “No, I’m not going anywhere with you!”
My mom and I quickly move over to the action. She goes to Mr McCann, and I go to Wolf. He is sitting on the bottom of the trench, hugging his knees. I say his name a couple of times, but he won’t answer and he won’t look up.
My mom touches Mr McCann’s arm and he turns to her. His fa
ce is red from the heat, but his eyes are big and confused.
“I got a call from Myrna Wilson an hour ago, saying they are considering pressing charges against Wolf.” He takes a breath. “Seems Wolf punched and threw mud at her boys.”
“But that’s not what happened—” The words shoot out of my mouth before my mom cuts me off.
“Let him speak, mija.”
“The thing is,” he explains, “Wolf’s already on the police’s radar from the incident last year at school, when he threw his book across the assembly hall and it hit the principal in the nose.” Mr McCann tosses his hands in the air. “I don’t know how to control him.”
“But they started it!” I manage to yell out. “The Wilson brothers picked a fight with us!” If I can tell them the truth, Wolf will stop being in trouble.
My mom turns to me. “Alex, even if it wasn’t his fault, it could be bad for Wolf if the police get involved.” She continues. “Sometimes they listen,” she takes a breath, “and sometimes they don’t.”
“How do they decide which to do?” I ask nervously.
“Depends on the color of your skin. Depends on what neighborhood you come from. Depends on whether they think you’re a good type of person or a bad one. Depends on whether they had a good day or a bad day.”
Mr McCann nods.
By now about a dozen kids have gathered around us to lean over the trench and stare down at Wolf. They are asking questions: “What’s going on?” and “Who is that?” and “Is that the crazy Rambo kid?” and “Did you hear what happened to Doug and Greg Wilson?”
I scream back at them, “He’s not crazy! Stop saying that!”
My mom breaks in with a calm but forceful voice. “Can you all back up and give us some room, please?”
She asks Tony to put on a new song so that the dancing can start again. And she instructs me to jump down into the trench to try to coax Wolf out.
I climb into the trench and sit next to Wolf but not too close. “Those kids don’t know anything,” I say. “And Doug and Greg are liars.”
Wolf won’t look at me, but he does nod a little.
“If the cops come, I’ll be with you,” I assure him. “I’ll tell them exactly how everything happened.”
“Okay,” he mumbles.
A police helicopter starts circling over our street, and Johnny screams at it from the wash, “Man, you’re messing up my music. Go away!”
“I think we should get out of here,” I tell Wolf.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Wolf gets up, brushes the mud off his pants, climbs out of the trench, and starts jogging down the street. By the time I pull myself out, he is already halfway to the corner, with his dad hurrying behind him.
chapter 14
THE BUD
Monday night. 21:46.
It’s one of those nights that doesn’t really cool off, and I’m not feeling too well. The street party is over. It never recovered after Wolf left. I don’t know when I’ll get to talk to him to see if he’s okay. I don’t know if the police will try to take him away. I lost my dad, and I don’t want to lose anyone else. I don’t know why Doug and Greg Wilson were talking about my dad.
My nana pours cold water over a washcloth and rolls an ice cube in the middle.
“Are you sick, Alex?” she asks.
“No, Nana. I’m hot from running around outside,” I reassure her.
“When the Spanish flu came around my skin was very hot,” she tells me. “I would lie down all day and watch the white sheet in the doorway, waving in the wind. I could hear the horse carriage coming down our street to collect the bodies.” She shakes her head. “It’s a miracle I survived.”
“Really, Nana, I’m okay, just a little overheated,” I try to explain.
She always tells the Spanish flu story whenever I’m even a little bit sick. It freaks me out every time, thinking I could die.
“You never know when the Spanish flu will hit again,” she warns and hands me the washcloth. “Rub it on your forehead and the back of your neck.”
It feels soothing at first, but then the washcloth slowly becomes as hot as my skin. I go into my mom’s room and lie on the bed beside her with the fan blowing on us. She’s on the phone with her best friend, Carol. They are gossiping about people, and my mom uses initials for names so that I won’t repeat anything in front of the wrong person.
“M shouldn’t have told X about what happened at the street party, but X was still being too sensitive,” she says.
When she gets off the phone, she turns on her side and looks at me. “You worried about Wolf?”
“Do you think Dad is ever coming back?” I ask.
Her head jerks back. “I don’t know.” She strokes my hair. “He wasn’t very good at being in a family.” She sighs. “And he doesn’t like doing things he’s not good at.”
I blink against the wet in my eyes. “I love him anyway.”
“I know, mija.” She squeezes my hand.
I nestle my head in her armpit. I feel her chest rise and fall.
I think about my own chest. My sore heart inside. I haven’t been able to bring myself to open the bag with the medical book. I don’t want to find out I’m gonna die. My mom will be so sad if have to leave her, too.
If I don’t find out, then I can just lie here next to her cozy body. I squish into her and try to fall asleep.
My mom starts snoring.
I really love my mom, but her snoring is annoying.
I push her arm aside and sneak out of the room.
22:04
I find my backpack under the desk in my bedroom. I dig inside and pull out the deed to Aztlán. It’s pretty, with the old-fashioned writing and the shiny gold seal. It makes sense now that it was made by an artist. I like that people dream about Aztlán and it makes them feel safe. I tack it up on my bulletin board.
I have to know what’s wrong with my heart.
I pull the brown bag from my backpack and stick it on my desk. I close my eyes tight and slide the medical book out of the bag. I open my eyes a sliver and peek at the title: THE NEW OUR BODIES, OURSELVES: A Book by and for Women.
I close my eyes again, fast. What the heck? What the heck do women have to do with hearts? The librarian must’ve made a mistake. I don’t want a book about women. Yuck! I’ve gotta hide this and get it back to the library before anyone sees it.
When I turn the book around to stash it back in the bag, I feel a sticky note poking out of the side. Hmm.
I open the page to find the title “Breast Development.” There is an arrow on the sticky note pointing to the line, “A firm mass develops directly behind the nipple. This is called the bud.” Above the arrow, the librarian wrote, “Sometimes this can hurt.”
Oh no! Terrible! Gross! I’m getting breasts like a woman? These things are going to grow big like my mom’s? Like the women on Johnny’s posters? How am I gonna find T-shirts big enough to hide them?
But I’m not a woman. I’m not going to be a woman. I don’t think. I don’t know. Maybe I am. At least I’m not going to die, but jeez.
“Hey, Alex,” Johnny says as he bursts into my room.
I shut the book fast and throw a paper on top of it. I turn around quickly, with the book behind my back. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“Really?”
“Really.” He’s got something dirty in his hand. He’s walking around my room, looking at my stuff.
It’s super weird because he hardly ever comes into my room.
“You know,” he says, “you’re usually only an irritation in my life.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“But I have to admit, I enjoyed that street party,” he tells me. “Hearing Ozzy echo up and down the wash was awesome.”
“Oh, I’m glad you liked it,” I say awkwardly. “Maybe we can do another one next week?”
“No,” he says. “That was good. But it was enough. I’ve gotta rehears
e.”
“Right,” I say.
He is looking around at my photos and drawings when his eyes stop above my desk. “Oh wow,” he says. “Where’d you find that?”
I follow his eyes to the deed of Aztlán. “Buried in a bag next to the rosebush,” I say. “It was really weird.”
“Hm.” He nods. “That makes sense. He put it in with his roses.”
I stand up, a bit shocked. “What do you mean?”
“That belongs to Dad. That’s what he blew all his money on, the night Mom kicked him out.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“Yeah, I guess you were already asleep when he came home.” Johnny stands close to the paper, tracing his fingers over the embossed letters of the deed. “You know how Nana always talks about how important Aztlán is. He thought it was real. He thought he bought us Aztlán.”
“That’s so sweet,” I say, my eyes getting wet.
“Mom didn’t think so,” Johnny says bitterly. “She was ticked that he lost a bunch of our money, so she kicked him out.”
“But I thought he left us,” I say.
“Oh, sure.” He shakes his head. “She only says that so that it’s not her fault.”
“That’s terrible!” I cry out.
“It’s whatever.” Johnny shrugs and starts toward the door but then stops. “Oh yeah, there’s one more thing,” he says.
“What is it?” Maybe he knows something more about our dad.
He opens his hand up and reveals a muddy sock. “I found this in the wash,” he says, kind of puzzled. “I think it’s one of my socks.”
“Whoa,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach. I’m sure he’s going to figure out I turned his socks into muddy stink bombs.
“It must’ve gotten sucked up into the washing machine and squirted out into the wash,” he explains. “Isn’t that a trip?”
“Totally,” I say, relieved.
He turns back around and leaves me alone in my bedroom once more.
I fall down onto the floor and sit there, crying, hugging my legs. I scrunch my hair in my hands over and over and think. So he wasn’t mad at me. But why would my mom kick Dad out? He was only trying to do something nice for us. He didn’t know Aztlán wasn’t real. In my nana’s stories everything sounds real. It’s not fair!
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