I take Summerfield out of the apartment complex up a slight hill. I stick to the sidewalk in the shade of big trees. The intersection at Aliso Creek is huge. It looks like a freeway to me. But this is just a street here. Like I said, everything is massive. There are six lanes and so much traffic I’m afraid to cross against the light. I press the walk button and wait for the white walking-man light to come on, and then I cross Aliso Creek to wait again to cross Summerfield. I ride slowly and take it all in. To my right is a big mini-mall, which, signs tell me, is called the Aliso Viejo Town Center. But unlike Taos, where the town center was historical and sort of charming, this thing is brand-spanking-new and all about shopping. There’s a big Barnes & Noble and a PetSmart. It’s all very pretty but so shiny and new and perfect I almost don’t trust it. Compared to the majesty of Taos, this place feels like it lacks a certain kind of soul.
Five minutes later, I spy a mountain range to the left. There’s a layer of smog over the mountains, and I can barely see them. As I ride, I feel blasts of cold, moist air gust over the small hills to my right, from the ocean I have yet to see but which I know is very close. I wonder if there’s anywhere in these mountains or hills I could ride. I’d hate to break my training. I have plans to compete professionally one day, and I don’t want to get soft riding on flat land.
My iPod mix shifts to a Spanish-language song by Maria Matto, a new singer my dad turned me on to but who I really like. She’s soulful and makes me think of home. The song, “Me Siento Perdida,” makes me want to haul, to cut loose and free, but I don’t see anyplace here where I might do something like that; just asphalt and traffic lights. Maybe once I get to the school, there’ll be walls or something to jump. I’ve got days’ worth of pent-up energy in my bones. I need to get it out.
I get to Wolverine Way and turn left toward the school. I know from the map that it’s close to here, maybe two blocks. But what I didn’t know from the map was that the school was two blocks away down a super-steep hill. Yeah, boy! I lift off the seat and let the bike go, zooming. I love the feel of the wind on my face — along with Maria’s big, strong voice, it makes me feel free. I know this hill and I are going to be mad good friends, man. As I zoom down, I pass steep hills on the right, landscaped and leading to what looks like apartments or condos. I could have some fun on those hills, too, and I think that on the way back I’ll give them a shot.
I round a corner and see Aliso Niguel High School at the bottom of the hill. It’s huge, like everything else around here. The main building is brown and gray brick, with the usual barracks on one side and endless playing fields all around. I gasp as I see a huge yellow pyramid behind the school; some kind of a business building built to look like a pyramid. I get chills. That’s exactly the building I dreamed about.
I take a quick look behind me, see that no one’s coming, and jam across the street, hopping the curb with a little wheelie. I stop on a bluff and look down at my new school. It’s pretty, with green grass flowing everywhere. Because it’s Sunday, there aren’t a lot of kids around, but there are a few. Some boys with skateboards do tricks along the walls and steps, in clear defiance of the signs that say no skateboarding. Some kids sit in parked cars doing things they don’t want people like me to know about, so I don’t look too hard. I see guys practicing on what looks like a football field behind the school, and a couple of girls playing tennis. The school is well equipped. It looks like a college campus or a private school. The cars the kids drive are nicer than the cars grown-ups drive back in Taos. I get the sense that this is a school for the rich girls Gwen Stefani and my dad sing about.
I check out the hill I’m standing on top of, a scrappy bit of nature, wild with grasses and an old overgrown dirt road. I don’t know what used to be here. I could take the street down, you know, the easy way? But I’m feeling pumped. I need the feel of the bike bucking under my body like some kind of wild animal. I need the rush of uncertain arrival. I look around for some kind of authority figure who might try to stop me. Nobody’s around. Perfect.
I hit replay on the Maria Mattos song, check the helmet to make sure it’s on right and tight, and crank the song. I’m taking this hill, suckers, and I’m landing on that campus in style. “This is for Em and Janet,” I whisper to myself. “Paski in the house, representing Taos.”
I point my bike into the weeds and grass, right down the hill. It’s steep but nothing like what I’m used to in the Rocky Mountains. I can feel eyes on me, I don’t know where from, as I jump and hop the bike through the plants, over a couple of big rocks. Bike-dancing. I love the feel of my muscles as they flex in symphony. I think my ability to see things in my mind helps me do this kind of thing without disaster, because I just feel where to go. I don’t look, exactly. It’s hard to explain. But I do know for sure that I never feel as alive as I do when I’m taking on the world this way. And I’ve never fallen. Not once.
I squeeze the hand brakes so I can hop the bike sideways down the hill in time to the rocking song. I know I’m good at this, that I’m showing off, but that’s how I am. If I have to go here, I want to own this freakin’ school. I’m not going to let these California kids with their fancy cars and fancy school tell me who I am. That’s what I’m feeling as I zip and flip down the hill. I’m like a top someone set loose. I’m like a wild horse. Almost to the bottom of the hill now, I pull one of my wildest tricks and spin the bike 180 degrees, riding backwards for a moment before flipping it again and doing a wheelie all the way down. I feel heat blast through my abs. Yeah, girl. This is what I’m talking about.
The smooth surface of the road next to the school feels wimpy after the wilds of the hillside. I’m pumped. I loved it. I turn the bike and scale the hill again to repeat my performance. I’m in my element, rocking. I’ve forgotten all about the cramps, my dad, the whole nightmare I’m living.
After the second run, I get off the bike and walk it to the school. I love the power I feel twitching through the muscle fibers in my legs. No matter what happens here tomorrow, no matter how much of an outcast I end up being — and don’t new kids always get cast out somehow? — they won’t be able to take from me the power I feel on my bike. I take off my helmet, yank the rubber band out of my hair, and shake it loose. I remove the ear-buds and stand still to take a look around. The silence is embarrassing. You forget when you’re listening to your iPod that the rest of the world can’t hear what you’re hearing. I listen to the wind. And the other sound, a low constant drone, metallic, motorized. What is it? Traffic. It occurs to me that with all the huge roads and parkways and whatnot here, this low groan must be the backdrop to everything all the time.
“Hey, you,” someone calls. A male someone. I look around cautiously, thinking there’s no way someone is going to be talking to me. I don’t see anyone. “Hey,” I hear again. “On the bike. I’m over here.”
I look as casually as I can to the left and see a guy in faded jeans and a tight-fitting zip-front black sweatshirt, the kind with racing stripes on the sleeves and a turtleneck. The kind that shows off a young man’s muscles if he has them, and this guy does. Wow. He’s straddling a motorcycle, holding his red helmet like a football. He is cute. And not just cute but cute in a way I have never seen in person. He looks like an actor or a model. He has his chin held up high in kind of a cocky pose, but there’s a small smile on his full lips and a big smile in his blue eyes beneath the dark brows. With all due love and respect to Ethan Schaefer, this motorcycle boy is the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen. Something deep in my belly responds to the look of him, and I try to stop my heart from thudding in my chest. My heart keeps beating hard. I’m afraid he can hear it.
“That was pretty impressive,” he says to me. He nods in a sexy way and grins at the hill. “Real impressive, in fact.”
I glance at the hill, too, and try to act casual. “What, that? Me?” I shrug and realize I sound like such a dork. I also realize that it might not be all that hard to forget about Ethan Schaefer.
; “Yeah, girl,” he says, stepping on the pedal to start the motorcycle. I was going to thank him, but I doubt he can hear me now. He doesn’t put on the helmet. Rather, he eases the motorcycle closer to where I am, and once he’s right next to me, he cuts the motor again. He looks me up and down with that cocky smile, and I feel like I’m going to pass out.
“You don’t go here. I’d know if you did. No doubt.”
He smiles, and dimples appear on either side of his pretty mouth. He removes his helmet. He’s tan, with brownish black hair cut in a short style that he spikes up a little bit in front with gel or something. He smells like cologne and summertime. What is that? Coconuts? His hands are large and strong, with perfectly clean, round oval nails. He is gorgeous. I want to touch him.
“I start here tomorrow,” I say.
His nice, friendly, sexy eyebrows shoot up in pleasure. “Yeah?” he asks. “Tomorrow, huh?”
I nod. He smiles and looks down at my belly with a satisfied smile. His eyes drag slowly across my breasts and neck up to my lips. His gaze lingers there, and then he snaps his eyes up to my own. Oh. My. God. He is so confident. I’ve never seen a guy my own age this confident. My hand jumps to my front instinctively, and I’m horrified to feel that my shirt rode up and my belly button is exposed. I pull the cloth back down.
“Aw, don’t do that,” he says, flirty. One side of his mouth rises higher than the other. I can’t breathe right in front of him.
“I don’t usually show my stomach like that,” I say.
“You should,” he says.
“It’s cheesy.”
“Nah. It’s a nice thing to see. Your belly. Believe me.”
I blush and can’t keep looking at his eyes. “Thanks.”
“I’m Chris.” He holds a hand out to shake, like a businessman, never breaking eye contact, and the whole time with that unbelievable grin.
“Paski,” I say as we shake. His hand is warm and I feel prickles of electricity shoot through his hand to mine and up my arm straight to my chest. He is the most alive boy I’ve ever met. I can feel life force in people, creativity, passion, all of that, and this guy has it in excess.
“Paski. Cool name. You have a last name, Paski?”
“Archuleta.” I pull my hand away because it seems like Chris wants to keep holding it. He’s got a real seductive way of looking at me that leaves me nervous. I can tell you right now, this guy has girl experience, and he knows exactly what to do. It’s terrifying. I love it and hate it at the same time, because this guy seems like he could have any girl he wants — and I bet he does, all the time.
“A Latina.” He says the word in a pretty decent Spanish accent, not patronizing or anything. He smiles, and I see that his teeth are whiter than my dad’s new ones, only this guy’s are real. It’s almost like they flash with lights. Like his mom never let him eat sugar. He points to his strong-looking chest and says, “Chris Cabrera.” He pronounces his last name in the same strong and convincing Spanish accent, as opposed to my dad’s strong fake Spanish accent. Other than that, his English is perfect. Perfectly perfect.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “You speak Spanish?”
“We summer in Barcelona.” He uses “summer” as a verb? No one in Taos uses “summer” as a verb — none of the locals, anyway. “My mom’s from there. My dad’s from Mexico City, and we have a house near there, too, in San Miguel de Allende. The artists’ colony?” He rolls his eyes like there’s something wrong with San Miguel de Allende being an artists’ colony.
“You have a house in Spain and another in Mexico?” I ask.
He nods and shrugs like this is no big deal. “Yeah,” he says. “But that’s it.”
I don’t bother to tell him my dad and I are lucky to have an apartment — one single little apartment — here. I ask him if he goes to this school. Chris nods, and I wonder if everyone at Aliso Niguel High “summers” and has more than one home.
“Where’d you learn to ride like that?” he asks me. I tell him I’m from Taos and that I trained in the mountains. He says his family skis in Taos sometimes, and then backtracks to apologize for making fun of artists’ colonies.
“Taos is an artists’ colony, right?” he asks.
“My dad’s an artist,” I say. It’s sort of true.
“Really? My mom’s an art dealer.”
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. Great, your people pimp my people? He licks his lips and asks, “You ever thought of riding motocross? You’d rock some motocross. I can tell.”
I shrug. It’s occurred to me to try my jumping skills on a motorcycle, but we don’t have enough money for that. Chris asks about it as if everyone in the world has that kind of money. “My grandma has a Harley back in Taos.” He laughs like I’ve told a joke. I wish I had. I guess not a lot of people have grandmas with Harleys. “No, really,” I say. “I used to ride that around a little.”
“Motocross is a lot more your style,” he says. “You’d rock.”
I wonder what jumps would feel like on a motorcycle. If we could afford it, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I doubt my dad’s going to spring for one anytime soon.
“What grade are you in?” he asks. He still looks cocky and cute. I tell him I’m sixteen, a junior. He tells me he’s a junior, too, and grins like this means he wants to kiss me all over. I get shivers.
“You do motocross?” I ask. He nods, and I feel butterflies in my belly. In addition to sometimes seeing things that are going to happen in the future, my “vision” lets me know pretty quickly after meeting someone whether or not they’re a good person. I get a very good, warm feeling about this Chris Cabrera guy, even though he is cocky. I have a flash pass my mind of him kissing me, of me on a motorcycle, but I can’t tell whether this is just wishful thinking.
“Well,” he says, looking around like it’s time for him to go, “I know three girls who won’t be happy to know a beautiful girl who rides like you is starting at our school tomorrow.”
“What? Why not?” He thinks I’m beautiful? No. He did not just say that, did he? I’ll have to die if he did. I’m too young to die. Poor Ethan. I shouldn’t even be thinking about another guy like this.
He laughs to himself. “Nah,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know that for sure. Don’t let me scare you. I’m sure you’ll have a good time here. It’s a cool place.” He looks like he might be lying. “Overall.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, but I feel something dark inside me, as if what he has just said makes sense with the dreams I’ve been having.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, putting on his helmet and starting the engine again. I notice that the motorcycle, his clothes, everything about him looks very expensive. Very shiny and new, all of it in just the right place. Like Aliso Viejo. “I’ll look for you tomorrow, Paski Archuleta. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He smiles at me as he drops the clear plastic face cover, then keeps smiling to himself as he pulls away on his motorcycle. I watch him go. He stands and leans in to the hill, his rear end perfectly sculpted in the jeans. Chris Cabrera is not just gorgeous; he’s also graceful. A pro. Seductive, irresistible. My heart, which has recovered from the ride, is still pounding — for him. I can’t wait to tell Emily and Janet. They’d die if they saw this guy. Seriously.
As the smooth roar of Chris Cabrera’s bike engine fades up the hill, I stand alone on the empty campus of Aliso Viejo High School, the sky darkening overhead. The sun is setting. When did it get so late?
I blink up at the soft twinkling of the emerging stars overhead and feel a cold gust of wind come over me, a salty blast of chill straight from the heart of the ocean. Night is coming, and I want to go home. I just don’t know if I’ll ever feel at home here.
6
So, if my dad hadn’t given me good enough reason to resent him yet — you know, ripping me away from my life back home and all that — he has, right now,
just given me another really good reason.
“You what?” I demand.
I’m so angry, I feel the blood rush to my head. I’ve just finished showering, and I’m in my white bathrobe at the dining table, eating the oatmeal he made for both of us. It’s mushy and cold. My dad sucks at cooking. He’s across the table from me, already dressed in his FUBU shirt and baggy jeans. He has some kind of “studio meeting” this morning, and he’s leaving soon, stopping to pick up my necklace on the way. It looks like he tried to put a red color in what’s left of his hair, but I don’t have the energy to ask him. He’s starting to remind me of a really old pop star, like Bobby Brown, who’s trying too hard to connect with the youth.
“I arranged for you to have a peer mentor from school eat lunch with you today.” He takes off the black horn-rimmed glasses and polishes them with his napkin. Is that an earring he’s wearing? A little tiny diamond in his left earlobe. Oh. My. God.
“What does that mean? A peer mentor?” I ask. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
Dad sips his mug of coffee, crosses one leg over the other. He’s got his laces untied like all the kids back home used to. The sneakers look like elephant feet all round. How sad. “It means that the administration has picked a cool kid from your grade to agree to eat lunch with you.”
I choke on my orange juice. “What? Dad! How could you do that to me?” Doesn’t he know that any kid the administration thinks is cool is going to not be?
“I was trying to help,” he says. He uncrosses his legs and sets down the mug. He leans forward with his “listening” face on. He points to his eyes to get me to look at him again.
“Help?” I repeat. “You think that’s helping? By getting some weirdo I don’t even know to eat lunch with me? Why would you do that?”
“It can be really hard to start a new school,” says my dad. He shrugs and plants his elbows on the tabletop. He’s still staring into my eyes with that sensitive look.
Haters Page 5