Marcus Vega Doesn't Speak Spanish

by Pablo Cartaya

  Bubbles are all it takes to convince Charlie. He runs inside and starts to take off his socks.

  “Okay, okay. You can leave. I don’t need you.”

  I stand up and step back to the door.

  “Off you go,” he says, waving me away.

  I leave Charlie in the bathroom and head to my room.

  * * *

  Later that evening I heat up two big bowls of chicken soup in the microwave and Charlie reads a sports magazine at the dinner table.

  “I want to do this,” he says, pointing to the picture of a guy running.

  “You want to run track?”

  “Yes. And this.”

  He points to a picture of a football player.

  “Football? No way, man,” I say. “Hey, what about this?” I show him an article about sports writing.

  “Meh,” he says. “I am a man of action.” He points to the magazine, at a picture of a track star wearing a gold medal. “I am the greatest!”

  I laugh. “Come on, man. Let’s go watch Wonka.”

  We go to Charlie’s room and he clicks on the remote to start the movie. I grab the two bowls of soup and we watch quietly in his room.

  * * *

  When Charlie is asleep a few hours later, I hear someone at the door. I sit up from the chair in Charlie’s room and hear my mom push her way inside the house. I walk down the stairs and find her taking off her coat quickly in the mudroom to get inside where it’s warm.

  “Man, it is cold outside!” she says, shivering.

  I go to the kitchen to heat her food.

  “Hey, sweetheart. What are you still doing up?”

  “Waiting for you,” I say, staring at the microwave spinning my mom’s bowl of soup. “How was work?”

  “They had to de-ice three planes. Ugh, that delayed everything. I’m sorry I’m so late.”

  I take out the bowl and walk it over to the table, where Mom’s placing her bag down and getting ready to sit.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, taking the bowl of soup. “Thank you.”

  I nod and sit next to her.

  “Did your brother bathe?”

  I nod. “I got him with soap bubbles.”

  “Nice!” She swirls her soup before taking a sip. “Yum, nothing like warm soup on a cold night.”

  I don’t say anything. I just quietly watch her eat. The sound of the spoon hitting the edge of the bowl sounds like a bell. She sets the spoon on the table and raises the bowl to her lips. She slurps the last of the noodles, carrots, and broth until it’s all gone. She puts the bowl back down and wipes the side of her face with the back of her hand. There’s a loose noodle stuck to the side of the bowl and she carefully pinches it, dangling it above her face before letting it drop into her mouth.

  “I was hungry,” she says. She takes a final look inside the bowl but doesn’t find any loose carrots or noodles. She takes a sip of water and watches me watching her. She smiles and puts her hand on mine.

  “How was school?”

  “Good,” I tell her.

  “Good,” she says.

  “I should get to bed,” I say.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing my hand.

  “Good night, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you too, sweetheart. Go—”

  “Team go,” I say, and walk to my room. I hear my mom rummaging through the kitchen, saying something about peanut butter going bad. Then I hear a drawer open and the sound of silverware rattling. A utensil clanks against glass, and after a moment the microwave beeps. She opens the refrigerator, and I know she’s put the peanut butter back in there. After a moment I hear her walking up the stairs. She opens the door to my room and pops her head inside. I look up and she smiles, a spoonful of peanut butter in her mouth. She mumbles, “I love you,” then heads to Charlie’s room. I know she’ll cuddle up with him. She always falls asleep halfway on the bed with her uniform on. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night, put a comforter over her, and move her leg onto his bed.

  Go team go.

  FOUR

  TRIGGER

  I wake up the next morning and get ready to walk my clients. My mom usually drops off Charlie at school because he doesn’t have class until ten. It’s cold outside, but I don’t mind. I get hot easily. My mom says I’m a heat giver. The cold just doesn’t bother me, that’s all.

  I walk about ten blocks toward the gas station and past the mechanic shop. They don’t open until eight o’clock. A few more blocks and I reach Main Street. The shops are closed except for a few coffee places that people walk in and out of sleepily. The sun is barely starting to shine in the sky, and there’s an orange-pink glow down Main Street. I turn onto Danny’s street and walk a few more blocks. When I get to his house, he’s already waiting outside his door, his backpack on. He looks like he’s about to turn into an icicle.

  “Good morning,” he says, shivering.

  “Why are you sitting out here?”

  “So you wouldn’t have to wait,” he says, standing up.

  BIENVENIDOS A NUESTRA CASA is embroidered on the doormat.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “You don’t speak Spanish?”

  “No, why would I?”

  “I just thought because you were half Puerto Rican . . . Never mind. It means ‘Welcome to our house.’”

  “You’re Spanish?” I ask.

  “My grandparents are from Colombia,” he says.

  Danny must drink coffee in the morning, because he doesn’t stop talking about his family the entire way to school. “Hurry up,” I say, ignoring him.

  “You, um, you ever get to Puerto Rico?” he asks, once he catches up to me.

  “Not since I was born,” I say. “And that’s the end of that conversation.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  We walk in silence back toward Main Street and cross to the side of town with the biggest houses in the neighborhood.

  “Hey, Marcus?” Danny asks me.

  “What?”

  “Thanks for agreeing to walk me.”

  “You’re paying me to do it.”

  “I know, but still,” he says. “Thank you. It’s tough sometimes when you’re the only kid in your grade who watches Jeopardy! and plays card games with your grandparents.”

  “Huh?”

  “I like them, though, you know?”

  “What?”

  “My grandparents.”

  “My grandparents are dead,” I tell him.

  “Oh,” he says, suddenly stopping. “Both sides?”

  “Yep. I have a great-uncle on my dad’s side in Puerto Rico, but I haven’t spoken to my da— You need to stop asking questions.”

  Danny stays quiet for a moment. “I talk too much.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  We scoop up the rest of the kids and get to school before the first bell rings. The kids run off to their classrooms, and I start making my way to my locker.

  I get to my locker and carefully place my business binder inside. I take out my history book and notebooks and organize them in my backpack. When I shut the locker door, I notice Stephen Hobert silently watching me.

  “You know,” he says, talking to one of his friends, “I wonder why Charlie Vega gets to come to school late when the rest of us have to be here so early? Isn’t that kind of messed up?”

  I glare at Stephen.

  “I mean, everybody fought to get him into school. Well, not everybody. And he gets to choose his own schedule?”

  Soon a small crowd gathers around us. Stephen is smirking.

  “So, Gigantor,” Stephen says. “Where’s your brother?” He mimics the hand gestures my brother makes sometimes. I can feel blood rushing to my fists.

  I try to keep cool about most things. When you’re as big
as me, you can’t get rattled easily or you’ll scare people. But make fun of my brother, and all bets are off. That’s not me being a bully. That’s me being real.

  “What is that you’re saying?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I tell him, trying to make my voice sound big and frightening. But it’s not. It’s not coming out like I want it to.

  “Are you threatening me? Because it looks like you’re trying to threaten me.”

  My fingernails dig into my palms, but I can’t speak.

  Stephen continues. “See this, guys? The bully is threatening me. He takes money from little kids and now he’s threatening me also.”

  His friends gather around and watch me.

  “Your brother should’ve never come to this school. Half a year of taxpayer dollars for some re—”

  “Don’t,” I say, clenching my jaw and stepping closer to him. “Don’t you dare say that word.”

  He backs up and his friends follow.

  “What word, Vega?” Stephen asks.

  “Don’t, Marcus.” Danny suddenly breaks through the crowd and stands next to me. “He’s baiting you,” he whispers. “Don’t pay attention.”

  “You’re such a waste of space, Gigantor,” Stephen taunts. “I mean, all that size and you can’t even dribble a basketball. Your mom and dad must be . . . Oh wait, that’s right. Your dad went to another country and never came back.”

  “Puerto Rico is part of the United States, you ignoramus!” Danny blurts.

  “What did you call me?” Stephen angles himself toward Danny.

  I put my hand on Danny’s shoulder and move him behind me. “It’s not worth it,” I say as I start to turn around.

  Stephen leans in and whispers just outside of earshot of everyone else.

  “No wonder he likes you,” he says. “Your brother and him are just alike. Both a couple of . . .”

  Barely anybody hears it. But I do. Stephen Hobert says the one word that sends me into a blind rage. It’s the one word that causes an avalanche on the mountain inside of me. I turn around, my fists clenched, and I send Stephen crashing into the lockers across the hall. The sound makes everyone watching jump. He slumps to the ground while students back away. A teacher runs in and looks from me to Stephen. A few kids point in my direction. Others shake their heads. Most stay quiet. I don’t see Danny. I don’t see anyone. I look back at Stephen. His mouth is bloody. His cheeks are red. He holds his chin while the teacher examines him. Then he points. The teacher turns to me. Stephen smirks through bloody teeth.

  FIVE

  TROUBLE WITH A CAPITAL T

  My mom is called into the principal’s office just as she’s dropping off Charlie on her way to work. Before she steps in, she calls her boss. She ends up having to use a sick day. Stephen’s parents rush to the school soon after and storm into the office. Stephen’s dad paces around angrily while I sit in a chair and stare out the window behind Principal Jenkins. Stephen’s mom hasn’t stopped applying an ice pack to her son’s jaw.

  “You okay, baby?” she says over and over again. “You okay?”

  Stephen’s dad walks over to the window. I know he’s staring at me to try to get my attention. Our principal is on the phone, talking to someone, but it’s hard to know who it is. He looks over to me. My knuckle hurts a little. I can feel it pulsating. I didn’t know punching someone could hurt so much. I’ve never punched anyone before.

  “Okay,” our principal finally says. “Thank you.”

  He hangs up and a door opens. My mom walks in. She looks at me and her face sinks. She squints like she does when she’s really worried about something. I know this expression well.

  “Please have a seat, Ms. Vega.”

  “Thank you,” she says, and takes the chair next to me. Stephen’s dad continues to pace.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Hobert.”

  “I’m fine standing, David. Thank you.”

  Principal Jenkins seems a little irked at being called by his first name, but he doesn’t say anything. He continues.

  “Okay, let’s talk about the incident between these two—”

  “I’ll talk about it,” Stephen’s mom says, interrupting. “That brute of a boy assaulted my son! He broke his jaw. We are demanding the severest possible punishment from the school. Once we take Stephen to the hospital, we’ll see how much the medical damages will be.” She glares at my mom. “Clearly that boy doesn’t have any positive male role models in his life. Just look at my son! Just look at him!”

  My mom doesn’t say anything. I see her picking at her cuticles. She looks at Principal Jenkins, who offers her a quiet nod.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, young man?” Stephen’s father says, pointing at me.

  I don’t say anything. I stare at Principal Jenkins.

  “Answer me!”

  Principal Jenkins jumps in.

  “Hold on there, Mr. Hobert. These are my students. I’ll be leading this discussion.”

  “You’d better,” Stephen’s dad says.

  “Have a seat, Jim,” our principal says as he stands up and moves around his desk. He’s tall and wide and he has a crew cut. Like me, only he has gray hair. He sits on the edge of his desk and folds his arms.

  “Okay, let’s talk about this,” he says. Stephen begins by telling his side of the story.

  He says I’ve been taking money from little kids and hiding their phones from them and collecting money for storage. He says I make kids give me money when I catch them throwing garbage on the floor and that I shove kids into lockers. He says I walk around intimidating everyone at school.

  Then he says that he saw me picking on a sixth grader today and decided to intervene. According to him, I pushed him then punched him in the face when he told me to leave the kid alone. Principal Jenkins asks about the kid. Stephen says he can’t remember his name.

  “It was all a blur, sir.”

  Stephen’s mom kept stroking her son’s hair the entire time, while his dad shook his head in disbelief. My mom didn’t interrupt at all. Finally, Principal Jenkins turns to me.

  “All right, Marcus. Let’s hear your side.”

  I don’t say anything. I just look out the window behind our principal’s desk.

  “Marcus?”

  I look at Principal Jenkins. He stays focused on me even as I look away. My mom still doesn’t say anything.

  “Marcus, we have a zero-tolerance policy for bullying at this school. Stephen is saying a whole lot of stuff here that troubles me. And the fact that he’s injured isn’t helping your cause. If you don’t answer, I’m going to assume this is how the events transpired. Is what Stephen has said true?”

  I shake my head.

  “No?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “He’s lying! Look at my son!”

  “Mrs. Hobert, please. Your son spoke. Now it’s Marcus’s turn.”

  Stephen’s mom lets out a huff and sits back in her seat.

  I make eye contact with Principal Jenkins again.

  “Go ahead, Marcus.”

  “He . . . I don’t know, man. He picks on kids.”

  “Liar!” Mrs. Hobert says. “You’re the one! Look at how big you are—”

  “That doesn’t make him a bully,” my mom suddenly interrupts Mrs. Hobert. Everyone looks at her. “It doesn’t,” she says. “He takes care of his brother every day after school. He gets good grades. He’s never been called into the office.”

  “Well, ask your perfect son if he’s taking money from kids,” Stephen’s mom scoffs.

  My mom looks at me. “Are you taking money from kids?”

  I nod.

  “See!” Mrs. Hobert says.

  “But,” I say, “I’m not taking it. They’re paying me.”

  Our principal stands up from h
is desk and crosses his arms.

  “Paying you? For what?”

  I list all of my businesses. When Stephen’s mom says I’m lying again, I hand Principal Jenkins my spiral with the tabs of all my businesses and the dates I collected money plus the person I collected money from. He takes a while to look through it. Stephen’s dad gets up and tries to peek, but our principal closes my binder and puts it on his desk.

  “Why are you collecting this money?”

  “Cookie Monster Cash,” I reply.

  “Marcus,” my mom says, and I see her eyes getting all puffy. “No, baby. No.”

  “Wait, this kid created businesses related to school regulations? That’s pretty clever,” Stephen’s dad says, nodding.

  “Jim! He hurt our boy!” Mrs. Hobert clearly isn’t done yelling. “He broke his jaw!”

  “His jaw’s not broken, Maureen,” Stephen’s dad replies.

  “All right, everybody, calm down,” Principal Jenkins interrupts. My mom hasn’t changed the worried, quiet look on her face since she walked in. “Marcus, why did you hit Stephen?”

  “Because he’s a bully!” Stephen’s mom interjects again. The principal shoots her a look, but she keeps jawing for justice. “Something better be done,” she says, “or the school board is going to hear about it.”

  “Thank you for the reminder, Mrs. Hobert,” the principal says. “Marcus?”

  “He said the R word,” I whisper.

  “What’s that?” Principal Jenkins leans in close.

  “The R word. He called my brother and this other kid the R word. So I punched him.”

  Principal Jenkins looks at Stephen. “Is that true?”

  “No!”

  Our principal keeps asking questions and finally finds out who the other kid is in this situation. He has no choice but to call in Danny to get the story straight.

  “I was right next to the plaintiff when this incident occurred,” Danny says, standing next to me.