The New David Espinoza

by Fred Aceves

  Dedication

  For all of you struggling with a silent hurt. You matter.

  You are not alone. You are loved. I see you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Fred Aceves

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  IT SUCKS being the skinniest guy at Culler High. If kids rag on me when I’m fully clothed, just imagine their joy when I whip my shirt off, exposing my stickman physique. That’s why I rush to PE and change before anybody shows up. It’s why I volunteer to be ball boy every semester. After Coach Carlson’s final whistle sends everybody else running to the locker room, I take my time herding the soccer balls in the Florida heat.

  Today, the last day of my junior year, it’s no different. By the time I’m carrying a net bag of soccer balls through the doorway, the locker room is mostly abandoned. The last of the boys are turning in their uniforms and padlocks to Coach.

  I swing the bag off my shoulder and drop it into the large metal basket. Then I walk deep back into the last row of lockers. Nobody’s around. Lucky me. I spin the combination into the lock and open the metal door for the last time this year. I grab the bottom of my sweaty Culler High Cougars T-shirt and start peeling it off.

  The moment it’s almost over my head, pain explodes inside the left side of my face.

  Someone punched me! What the hell?

  The vented blue doors around me go blurry and the T-shirt falls to the floor.

  I tip sideways, then back, then forward, my legs trying to find balance. Next thing I know I’m on the floor—my stomach, chest, and half my face cold.

  The stench of teenage sweat and feet is way stronger down here.

  There’s a high-pitched cackle—Ricky’s trademark laugh. I could pick him out from about a million idiots, just from that sound.

  I strain to lift my head and catch a glimpse of Ricky’s grin through my blurry vision before he turns to leave.

  Though Ricky might lift weights, he’s not what you’d consider muscular at a wiry 5'8". He’s not even the in-your-face bully who puts hands on you, from what I’ve seen. He just makes fun of people, like when he cracks on Ricardo’s fat rolls when we change. He nicknamed me Fuckstick that one time he saw my bony torso which got others in PE using that nickname. But from that to punching me?

  I mean, sometimes I get shoved against lockers and kicked and punched in the arm real hard, but never by Ricky, and never in the face.

  As the bell announces the official end of school this year, I check for blood. Nothing on my fingers.

  I push myself up off the floor and stand, still dazed and super confused. A real guy would shake it off and go after Ricky, beat his ass good. What can I do though? Not a damn thing.

  I’m not saying that to seem less like a wimp or anything. It’s just that, at my size, all I can do is shake it off. Forget the whole thing and try to move on with my life.

  I remember what my mom used to say whenever we had a bad turn of luck: things could always be worse. So even though my head is wobbly, my cheek stings, and my shoulder somehow aches, I can find the silver lining.

  At least it was only one punch.

  At least there’s no blood.

  At least I don’t gotta deal with more bullying for three months.

  At least nobody saw it happen.

  1

  HOURS LATER, in the safety of home, I still haven’t shoved the whole Ricky incident outta my head. Enough worrying about it, I tell myself. Technically, Ricky punched me last school year. Now it’s officially summer: three worry-free months ahead of me. I get amped about that, about tonight especially, the fun that begins just as soon as I change into formal clothes.

  I put on my black slacks and take in the bare torso in the mirror. A recent four-inch growth spurt has put me at six feet. Tall is good, but that upward stretch has enhanced my skinniness like when you pull apart taffy. Why couldn’t I have grown the other way too?

  I slip my arms through the sleeves of my white dress shirt, covering up my knobby shoulders. I button it from the top, hiding my bird chest and pokey ribs. My twig arms are also hidden—I love that about long sleeves.

  I consider my reflection. My girlfriend, Karina, often wears black because she says it has a slimming effect, so I figured this shirt, the opposite color, would help me out some by giving me the illusion of bulk. Nope.

  That’s right. I, David Espinoza, have a girlfriend. Me, the guy who, as of today, has experienced every known form of bullying known to man. We’ve been going out for four months now.

  The other miracle of this year is that I’m going to my first real party. You know, the high school kind—with alcohol and fun, not cake and parents. It’s a big deal, the end-of-the year party the whole school has been talking about.

  Actually, it’s Karina who got invited, by her friend Emily in drama club, and I’m tagging along with Karina, just like my best friend Miguel is tagging along with Karina’s best friend. But still.

  If only I can figure out how to knot this tie so it’s the right length.

  “Come on,” I tell myself, “the third time’s a charm.”

  Nope. Too short. I give it a fourth, more careful try. Really take my time.

  The damn thing droops two inches past my belt.

  I take a deep breath to keep my anger at bay. Most of the time, I catch it before it grabs hold of me.

  Fifth try, here we go. I grit my teeth as I tighten the knot and slide it up to the collar: about three inches too short again. I could sell used cars like this, but it’s not okay for a party.

  “Stupid fucking tie,” I say under my breath.

  I pull it over my head and fling it across the room. It twists in the air and lands on my small bed.

  What a stupid invention! A bit of fancy fabric to dangle around your neck, serving no purpose. And why have a dress code for a house party? I mean, who does that? We’re not actors going to the Oscars.

  And why am I even going? If I get harassed at school when adults are nearby, supposedly watching out, what might happen when it’s only kids around?

  Right away Ricky pops into my head again. My blood simmers and I start pacing.

  Ellis comes to mind, this brace-faced guy who flipped my food tray over last week. The ketchup on my face and shirt entertained the hell out of everybody who saw it, their laughter loud enough to draw the attention of half the lunchroom. When Mr. Trevors walked over to ask what happened I told him I’d tripped.

  I remember last month in history before the teacher showed up, when Julian hit me in the head with a marker from across the room. “Bring it back to me, or I’ll beat the shit outta you.” I
did, walking all those steps while every eyeball in the room followed me.

  This is how it happens. A horrible thought or memory drifts into my head. Another attaches to it, pulling another one behind, and so on, until I’m clenching my teeth and fists, pacing and wanting to kick some serious ass.

  That’s where my thoughts end up every time.

  I come to a stop and find myself facing the Nightchaser movie poster hanging on my door. Van Nelson, the star of the movie, has a fierce scowl on his face. Plus muscles to back it up. He uses them in the best fight scene of all time, at the end of the movie when he gets revenge on those guys who tried to frame him.

  So when my thoughts land on Ricky again, the sucker-punching bully materializes right here in my room. He’s standing above me, cackling like the idiot he is.

  You messed with the wrong guy, Ricky.

  I throw two left jabs to his face followed by a hard right hook. A strong kick to the chest splats him against the wall.

  When he wobbles toward me I finish him with a roundhouse that knocks him out cold.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  The question makes me jump. Puts an end to my triumph. Once again I’m in my bedroom, alone.

  Okay, not alone. My little sister, Gaby, is in the doorway. I turn. Confusion is bunching up her face, making her round cheeks even plumper.

  Well, this is awkward. You don’t want your eight-year-old sister thinking you’re some weirdo.

  I need to remember to shut my tricky door hard enough. Yet again it has clicked away and swung open. So it’s my bad. Gaby actually respects my knocking rule. I finally got Dad to start knocking too, which wasn’t easy. He’s a small-town Mexican who struggles to understand the concept of privacy the way the rest of us struggle with physics.

  “Me?” I ask Gaby. “I was dancing.”

  “For real?” Gaby’s eyes go wide. “What kind of crazy dancing was that?”

  I snatch up the tie in case she wants to jump on my bed. “I was trying some moves for the party.”

  She takes a seat on my desk chair instead and swivels, considering what I said.

  With Gaby around, the anger has drained from me. I’m back to being chill, ready to give this tie another attempt.

  “I’ve never been to a night party,” Gaby says, “but you should probably not dance like you were dancing.”

  That makes me smile. “How do you suggest I dance?”

  She stops swiveling to think this through, hands clasped to the sides of the chair.

  She says, “You should look at how Karina and others are dancing, and dance that way.”

  I stop messing with my tie to look at her.

  “Good advice,” I say, putting out my fist.

  Her four small knuckles press against mine.

  Hanging out with Gaby is the best. Over the years, little by little, she’s turned into a real person. Gone from clueless and whiny to smart and fun.

  We cook together and play games and watch enough animal documentaries and Pixar movies to qualify as buddies. Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t my actual best friend. If not, she’s a close second to Miguel.

  Dad calls me a good brother for how tight we are, but the truth is I need her as much as she needs me. More than ever since Mom died fifteen months ago.

  Cancer—a thought I push outta my head right now. Tonight, I’m all about positive thoughts.

  I slide the tie knot up again, feeling good about it.

  Yes! The bottom points to the top of my belt, as Dad says it should.

  I turn to face Gaby and punch my fists high in the air, like I won a marathon or something.

  “You look fancy,” she says.

  “I am fancy,” I tell her. “Dad’s the one who fired the butler, sold the mansion, and moved us to this part of town.”

  Gaby smiles and says, “At least we still have the yacht!”

  I laugh, but Gaby cracks up for a good ten seconds, slapping her knee and everything. She’s the only person I know who laughs hardest at her own jokes.

  As she takes a slow spin in the chair, her single thick rope of black hair trails behind her. Despite a few loose strands, the French braid I did for her this morning is holding up. What can I say? My braiding game is tight.

  Gaby stops. She hops down from the chair, croaks “ribbit,” and hops onto the bed, landing on all fours. Frogs are her thing—learning about them and sometimes, when she’s in a goofy mood, hopping like them. After a hard rain, I sometimes take her to Collins Park to look for some.

  Her favorite shirt is one with this cartoon frog face on it. Her second favorite is a solid green T-shirt, which she calls frog-colored.

  I don’t know why, but silly stuff like that coming from her weird brain makes me love her even more.

  I sit on the chair to put on my shoes.

  Dad walks in, sees me, and asks in Spanish, “Has anybody seen my son, David?” Pronounces it Dah-VID.

  Though his English is near perfect, it’s always Spanish with him. Gaby and I switch when he’s around.

  Gaby points to me. “I think that’s him dressed up all fancy.”

  Dad and I are now the same height and we both have short, barely combable hair. That’s where the similarities between us end. I have brown hair instead of black, lighter skin like my mom had, and the skinniness that runs deep on that side of the family.

  He’s brought me his suit jacket, which is my last hope to appear bigger, but the shoulder pads curve down the sides all clownish.

  “I’m way too skinny,” I say, handing it back.

  “Skinny or fat doesn’t matter,” Dad says, setting a hand on my shoulder. “Being a man has nothing to do with how you look. A real man is honest, hardworking, and takes care of the people he loves.”

  Ever since I turned seventeen two months ago, he’s been talking about what it means to be a real man.

  “I still think I should go and meet the parents,” he says, sitting on the bed.

  “Nobody does that here, Dad.”

  “Fine, but you’re going to come home if there’s anything weird going on at this party,” he says, in a way that makes it sound like a question.

  “Straight home,” I assure him.

  I probably got permission because I made the honor roll again this semester. It also helps that I’m going with Karina, who my dad seems to love as much as me.

  “Be careful driving,” he says, starting to launch into a lecture. “Check blind spots and remember to park on—”

  “I remember, Dad.”

  The trick for his ancient Pathfinder is to park in such a way that you don’t gotta put it in reverse. The noisy transmission, grinding for months now, is pretty much shot. You’d think a mechanic with his own auto shop would have replaced it. Dad, however, is broke. He’s paying off the house, most of the shop equipment, and there’s the rent of the place, of course.

  If I hadn’t created a GoFundMe account when Mom died, the small funeral would have put us on the street.

  Dad runs down the list of instructions.

  I’m to use the center lane, which is the safest due to the choice of lanes if you need to steer to avoid an accident.

  I’m to park along the curb, the front end of the car almost at the corner so nobody can block me.

  “Be polite to everybody, especially the parents, and don’t slouch.”

  It’s true I slouch a lot. Like right now, for instance. I straighten up.

  The whole time Dad talks, Gaby is standing behind him on the bed, mouthing the words and wagging her finger. If I look directly at her I’ll laugh.

  Dad’s always lecturing her on what to do or not do, so she gets a kick outta witnessing it happen to me.

  Helicopter parent is a term I caught on the TV this one time and it describes him perfectly. Whenever I hear a helicopter overhead, the propellers beating the air around, I picture him up there with binoculars pointing at me, his grease-stained mechanic clothes ruffling in the wind.

  “And no drinking!�
�� he says now, lifting a calloused finger.

  Gaby has stopped imitating him to put both hands on her hips and look at me. “There’s going to be beer?”

  “There won’t be beer,” I assure them. “And I wouldn’t drink alcohol anyway.”

  I’m totally drinking. Just enough to fit in.

  I remember the creative ways some idiot kids consume alcohol, the ones Dad learned from the evening news and freaked out about.

  “However,” I deadpan, “if people start eyeballing or butt-chugging, I’m all in.”

  Dad doesn’t crack a smile. His face is harder than concrete.

  “Butt-chugging.” Gaby giggles. “What’s that?”

  “If you see any alcohol,” Dad tells me, a severe edge to his voice, “you come home.”

  “Relax, Dad. It was a joke.”

  “I don’t care if it’s beer, whiskey, or liquor-filled chocolates. I don’t care what hole they’re putting it in.”

  “A joke, Dad,” I insist. “You know, ha-ha?”

  I get up to look at myself once more. These sharp clothes don’t make me any less goofy. What does Karina see in me?

  She’s probably home by now, getting into her new dress after doing her hair and makeup at her friend Janelle’s house. Karina’s mom had to wait until today, payday, to buy her dress. Picked it up before heading to her second job.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  Gaby rushes there first, asking “Who is it?” Dad and I follow behind.

  No response. I look through the peephole. It’s Karina. Her face is flawless under much more makeup than usual. Her normally long black hair is swept up and styled all elegant.

  I swing open the door to reveal the rest of her: she’s in the same T-shirt and cutoff shorts she wore to school, plus she’s holding a Macy’s bag. Her bright purple Nikes are wet because of the late-afternoon rain. You wouldn’t believe the number of pond-sized puddles in the twelve blocks between her house and ours.

  “When the invitation said formal,” I say, “they probably didn’t mean just the neck up.”

  “You didn’t answer your phone,” she says, not smiling. “We have to take an emergency trip to the mall.”

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