“Three guys from Louisiana. Electric guitar, bass, and drums. All have the last name Rogers. They perform in red cardigans. Formed in 1984, broke up and came back for a live concert in 2010? You mean that Metallic Mister Rogers?”
For the first time since I’ve known Amelia, she’s speechless—but not for long. For the next ten minutes, she and Jesse partake in a discussion of music. Although I could participate in some of the sub-categories (classics, indie-rock, reggae), I keep my mouth shut and listen, using my silence as an opportunity to learn a thing or two about my half sister. I learn that, like Jesse, she’s a vacuole of random facts, hers pertaining to the genre of “scientifically improvable musical information.” For example: Termites eat wood twice as fast when listening to heavy metal. Or: Flowers grow faster when listening to music. And: Loud music makes a person drink more in less time. But also: A song that gets stuck in your ear is called an earworm. To top if off, I learn that Amelia likes Broadway show tunes, can name six different jazz saxophonists, and played percussion in sixth-grade band.
When they finish their musical bondage, that endearing misuse of the word attributed to my dear half sister, Amelia turns back to me. “So, Guera, your boyfriend’s not bad,” she says as if Jesse’s not standing there, then she changes the subject. “Now let’s talk about the event.”
“I was thinking,” I begin, but before I can get any further she whips out a notebook and starts firing off questions. “What are the facilities like for cooking?”
“Um, I don’t think there are much for facilities. I think you have to cook at home,” I say, digging my toe into the dirt. I hadn’t actually considered the logistics of the meal besides that there’d be food.
“Fine. I can handle that. What about plates and utensils, glasses, tableware?”
I feel my eyes widen. “I guess you have to provide that stuff,” I say nervously, waiting for her to throw the notebook at me, tell me she’s a chef not a catering company, and quit. “The meal’s in the boardroom. There’s not much of a kitchen. But there is a microwave!” I add as an afterthought.
“Great,” she says sarcastically. “I’ll bring some Jiffy Pop.”
As she chews her pencil, lost in thought, I’m thinking, that’s it. She’s going to bail. No kitchen. No plates. She’s one person, not a catering company. I’m working myself into a mental sweat, when she nods and says, “Okay. Fine. I did the math. You said fifteen people. Gran has enough plates and utensils at home. We’ll borrow what she has. And for the meal? You said they’re thinking of featuring various chile dishes?”
“Actually, that was my idea,” I say hesitantly, unsure if she’ll like it. Before she can give me her opinion, I tell her about Esha’s extra-hot chiles that I want to showcase.
“And how do we get those extra-hot chiles?”
Esha said she’d go up to Ernie’s farm and get them for me, but as Amelia asks the question I realize I could save her the stress of the trip and get them myself. “I have to go up to Ernie’s farm and get them,” I say.
Again, I expect her to protest, to tell me we can’t plan a meal around something we don’t even have yet. Again, she surprises me. “Fine. We’ll go Monday. I’ll pick you up after work. ” She twists an eyebrow ring and her eyes narrow into slits. “Maybe Ernie will have an idea what happened to my asshole boyfriend.”
“Good idea,” I say, but I avoid telling her that I already asked Ernie about Rudy. I don’t want to send her off on an anger tirade and have her impulsively quit the catering job. More than that, though, I don’t say anything about Rudy or Mari or who drugged her because not knowing what the next step is in my investigation stresses me out, and with Jesse and last night lurking in the background, I have all the stress I can handle right now.
After Amelia leaves, Jesse informs me that he’s hungry, and we wander the perimeter of the plaza, checking out food options. Unable to decide on just one thing, he settles for a fajita, roasted corn on the cob, and frozen lemonade. Where that beanpole puts the amount of food he inhales is one of the mysteries of the world. I, on the other hand, am too anxious to eat as I anticipate a conversation about last night, (i.e., What’s my problem?), so we sit in the shade, the powder-blue New Mexico sky peeking through the leaves, and I watch Beanpole Boy enjoy his meal.
For a few minutes the only sounds coming from Jesse are orgasmic moans of digestive delight. He uses his shirt as a napkin as he eats, leaving several stains, but he doesn’t seem to mind that the more he wipes, the more derelict his appearance. By the end of the frozen lemonade, his white tee is tie-dyed with food. Between that, his torn jeans, and the hole in his right sneaker, he’s doing a good impression of a homeless kid.
When he’s finished the last bite, he lies back on the grass in a post food-orgy coma. I, on the other hand, am too antsy to stay seated. “Let’s walk,” I say.
He agrees, and we wander off the plaza toward the Plaza of the Governors, a really old building where Native American people gather under the front portal to sell silver jewelry to hordes of tourists.
“Your half sister’s cool,” he says as we pass a woman with piles of blond hair who’s speaking to a native guy as if he doesn’t understand English.
I resist the urge to tell the woman that the native guy was in this country long before she was, and I’m quite sure he has a firm grasp on the language, and instead say to Jesse, “I wasn’t sure you guys would hit it off.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “You’re just really different.”
“So? People can be different and get along. How’s the whole new fam thing going, anyways? I wouldn’t know because let’s see, I called you and texted you five, no I think, seven times, this week and you didn’t return any of my messages.” We walk by an art gallery with two life-sized metal statues of mountain lions guarding the door. A mom and dad have their kid posed in front of one of the lions for a photo. Jesse steps around them and stops walking. In the pause that follows I brace myself for what’s coming next. “What’s going on with Clem? It was obvious last night that you’re totally into him.”
And here we are, at the part of the program I’ve been dreading. I drag the toe of my sneaker along the sidewalk, staring at a cigarette butt someone’s mashed into a crack in the concrete.
“That’s nice, honey, now smile!” the father of the posed child says.
I look at the bright smile of the little girl, and for one anger-driven moment I want to rip it off her face, mash it into the ground with the chewing gum and cigarette butts. I quickly recover from this sadistic desire, but something sad and heavy swarms in to take its place. It’s so easy to trust when you’re little and then you get older and it all goes to shit.
Then again, maybe there’s not some cosmic truth about growing up and the “it” of existence turning to excrement. Maybe the real problem is that with my mom’s arsenal of drugs, bad relationships, and booze, she imprisoned me behind a fortress of distrust. I’m almost seventeen, though. I don’t want to live behind that wall. I don’t want her story to be my story, to define who I am.
The family leaves and Jesse moves into the shade of the awning and sits on a bench next to the lion. I sit next to him and take a deep breath, trying to collect enough momentum to start jackhammering those walls.
“I’m sorry,” I say, then go silent and stare at my thighs. I study a small scab on my left leg, knowing I owe Jesse more than one stale word and silence. Didn’t he once say that what he liked best about me was that I was real? Even if I don’t have all the answers, I can at least tell him the questions. I can try being honest. I knot my hands tightly in my lap and clear my throat. “Meeting Clem opened my eyes to something. You and me, Jesse, we got together at a really hard time in my life with my mom’s murder, and we’ve been together since that all went down.” I give a small laugh. “I mean, duh, that’s obvious. It’s just I never had a boyfriend before you. It’s
like getting married to the only person you ever had sex with.”
“But we haven’t had sex.”
“Okay, bad analogy. I’m just saying maybe I don’t know how having a boyfriend’s supposed to feel or what I’m supposed to do or what I want if I’ve only ever been with one person. Or maybe,” I add more quietly, “I just can’t do commitment.”
“That’s an excuse and you know it. It’s not what’s in your brain, Faith.” He swings around on the bench to face me and reaches out his hand and softly touches my chest over my heart. “It’s what’s here.” Before I know what’s happening he leans over and suddenly we’re a tangle of knees and faces and noses and tongues, and, oh mercy, his lips are soft.
Someone whistles from across the street, and I pull away, flushed and weak and embarrassed and wanting more and wanting to run. Jesse reaches for me again, but a woman in clattering heels and serious lipstick comes out of the gallery and gives us a look that says we are not welcome to suck face in the entrance to her shop.
“Come on,” I say. I take his hand and we get up and start to walk up the wrong side of a one-way street across from a bus station and next to an alley. “I’m really glad you came, Jesse. And I am sorry. I know it’s just a word, but I am.” A car honks and the bus rattles into the station. “Maybe we don’t have to decide anything right now and we can see what happens when I get home? We still have senior year together.” I’m about to say more, but something catches my eye and I stop. Across the street, parked in the alley, is a big silver truck with jacked-up tires and a Broncos plate.
Bulldog’s truck.
“What’s wrong?” Jesse asks when I don’t move.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“When you say ‘nothing’ with that voice it definitely means something.”
“Stay here,” I say, rather than responding.
“Where are you going?”
I dash across the street without answering, but Jesse’s not a dog. He doesn’t stay where I told him. I go to the truck and peer into the window, Jesse crowding up behind me.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to do something stupid?”
“I have no idea. Just keep guard and tell me if anyone’s coming.” I try the door, but it’s locked. The window’s partly down, but not enough to get my hand in. I scurry around to the back of the truck. The latch on the cab is broken.
“Faith,” Jesse protests, but I’m already crawling in.
There’s not much to see in the back, except for a pair of smelly shoes and a bunch of dirt. A small window leads from the cab to the front of the truck. Before I can work out if I’ll fit, I have my shoulders wedged through the opening. I hear Jesse protesting, but I ignore him and focus on making myself small. I wiggle my torso, trying to yank through the half of me still stuck in the hinterlands, but my lower parts won’t fit through this damned birth canal of a window. I twist and squirm without result.
“Someone’s coming!” Jesse shout-whispers.
A whiplash of panic sends my hands flying for the steering wheel. I grab and pull as hard as I can. My hips and legs cheesegrate against the glass, and I scrape through the opening and tumble into the front seat.
“Come on, let’s go!” Jesse hisses.
I glance out the window. The people coming are holding hands. They have no idea this isn’t my truck, so I sit in the driver’s seat and act like I belong here until they pass. The second they’re out of sight, I jerk open the glove box and tear through the contents: a registration to Cruz Sampson, tissues, sunglasses, maps.
“Hurry up,” Jesse urges again.
I scan the front seat, but I don’t see anything that can give me information on Bulldog. I’m about to get out when something shiny catches my eye. I ram my hand into the gap between the driver’s seat and center console and fish out a pendant with the same design and hanging on the same beaded chain as the one Esha wears. What’s Esha’s necklace doing in Bulldog’s truck?
“Come on, Faith. This isn’t funny. A guy’s coming.”
I look out the window. At the end of the alley, heading rapidly in this direction, is Bulldog.
I look around wildly for an out. It’s too hard to fit back through the window, and if I open the door and get out he’ll see me. I crouch down in the seat, hoping in the next five seconds I’ll come up with a plan.
Bulldog’s maybe two yards from the truck now. Any minute he’ll get in and find me. It’s then I hear Jesse, in a loud, put-on drunk slur, say, “Hey, man, got a cig I could bum?”
“No, man, now move out of my way. That’s my truck.”
“Ah, shit, I don’t feel too good,” Jesse says in response to this.
I glance over my shoulder. Bulldog’s feet from the door, but Jesse’s grabbed onto his shirt, and he’s making a gagging sound like he’s going to hurl. Bulldog’s attention is on the vagabond kid about to puke on his nice clothes.
I use the distraction to open the passenger door and creep out of the truck.
“Get off me!” Bulldog shouts, and I hear what sounds like someone getting punched. I turn back and when I do, I catch Jesse’s eye. Even though he’s holding half his face and he’s obviously in pain, he shakes his head and mouths, “Run.”
I follow Jesse’s advice and sprint, fearing if Bulldog sees me and matches my face with the person who was sneaking around his trailer the other night, I’m dead. I stop running only when I’m out of sight and hear the rev of an engine. I wait for Jesse by a dumpster at the back door of some restaurant with the cardboard boxes and recycling bins and trash. He shows up a few minutes later, cupping a hand over one eye, looking at me furiously with the other.
“What the hell, Faith?” he exclaims the second he sees me. “Who was that monster?”
“Bulldog,” I say, trembling with adrenaline.
“Bulldog. Great. You couldn’t have picked some guy called Poodle to mess with?”
“Let me see your eye.”
He mutters something and moves his hand to reveal his eye, which is red and pinched and angry-looking.
“We need to get some ice,” I say, and start to walk, but when I notice he’s not coming, I turn.
He’s planted by the dumpster, hand protectively cupped around his eye again. “I’m not moving until you tell me who the hell Bulldog is, why you were in his truck, and why I just got my face punched on your behalf.”
The back door to the shop opens and a guy speaking Spanish slings out a bag of trash to the dumpster, narrowly missing Jesse in the process. The guy pauses when he sees us and says something in Spanish that I don’t understand, but I intuit that it has something to do with our loitering by the restaurant.
For the second time I start to leave the alley and the organic rot smell emanating from the dumpster. Jesse, however, still doesn’t move. If I want to take care of his eye, I’d better start talking. I’m about to fill him on the details of the other night at Bulldog’s trailer, but my mind leads me back to last year, to Jesse and me in a North Philly methadone clinic, to gunfire and our narrow escape—all my fault. I’m not putting him in danger again. This is my bad guy and my mess. “He’s my boss’s boyfriend, and he’s been missing,” I say juxtaposing Amelia and Rudy’s story onto Esha. “She’s been worried, and—”
“Faith,” Jesse interrupts. “I know you’re lying.” I try to chime in, but he holds up a hand. “If we’re going to be together, you have to be straight with me, not just about Clem, but about everything, about Bulldog and what you’re doing.”
I look at the ground. Is it a lie if you’re telling it to protect someone? I should be honest, but I look up and say, “You need some ice.”
Jesse looks at me for a minute, then shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s go.”
We don’t talk as we head back to his hotel where we go straight through the pastel-colored lobby with a Southwest-on-steroids moti
f and head to the ice machine. A bag of ice in hand, we go to his room while I gingerly tend to his wound.
“Okay, I have an idea,” he finally says. I’m wishing he didn’t have an idea because having an idea is the exact opposite of having spontaneity, which means he’s not about to kiss me. “I’m going to leave a day early. You’re going to go back to your dorm and sort out whatever this Bulldog thing is.” I try to protest against him leaving early, but he waves me off and keeps talking. “You have another month here. You have this new family to figure out, you have some guy named Bulldog to deal with, and you have Clem. Not to mention the actual work you came to do. When you come back we’ll figure out what we’re doing. I’ll wait for you. Just do me one favor?”
“What?” I ask, fighting the lump in my throat.
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
Twenty-eight
It drizzles all day Sunday. I lie in bed and peer through the window at the arroyos and hills, the rivulets forming on hard earth, the channels being cut through soft sand. It’s a good day for rain—weather to match my mood. I pass the morning in bed, missing Jesse, missing Clem, wondering where they both are, feeling more and more mortified about showing up with Jesse at Clem’s concert the other night, not to mention worrying about finding Rudy and finding an answer to who drugged Mari.
By evening I need distraction from worrying about Jesse and Clem and Bulldog and Rudy and liquid gold and Mari and Holly and GMOs, so I stalk Dahlia’s room, then pretend I hadn’t been stalking when she gets back from an all-day date with Jesus/Marcus. Finally, after hearing the details of her burgeoning love, I call it an early night.
Clem’s not at breakfast on Monday, and Dahlia informs me he’s staying with his mom for a few days. He needed some space is how she puts it. I don’t ask space from what, though I suspect it has something to do with me. I promise myself I’ll text him later today, and head to work.
Esha’s not in the lab yet when I arrive, so I turn on my computer to work on read alignments, but I can’t focus. I get up and wander over to Jonah’s desk. “You seen Esha?” I ask.
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