by Heidi Ayarbe
That’s the thing. I watch.
My life feels vicarious.
“I’m home!” The house smells like burned cheese and melted plastic. “Lillian?” I follow the smell to the kitchen, where Lillian is scraping charcoal off generic-brand toast, plastified cheeselike substance dripping from the sides of the bread. “I got fish tacos from Super Burrito,” I say.
Lillian stops midscrape and looks up at me over her thick-rimmed glasses. Her THE PERSONAL IS THE POLITICAL T-shirt, threadbare and faded, slips off her bony shoulder, the collar stretched out into an amorphous top. I blush, a little embarrassed she leaves the house like this. I set the table with the rarely-been-used dishes I got for Lillian for Christmas and wipe off the layer of dust. I place a half-burned candle on the table.
“You don’t need to be spending your salary on food for us. You need to be saving for college next fall,” Lillian says. She thinks I get my spending money by working at the school financial office in the afternoons. She doesn’t know I have four bank accounts.
“It’s TTIF (Thank Tacos It’s Friday), two for one,” I lie and look at the sink, dotted with the burned cinders. “Thanks for making dinner, though. It’s nice to eat together.”
At least she made an effort. When I first moved in, she set two alarms, one to wake me up, and the other to let me know when I needed to go out and catch the bus. After living just a couple of months with her, I was in charge of washing my own clothes and making my own breakfast, lunch, and usually a microwave dinner.
I was eight.
Lillian was in college majoring in biochem—the first girl in her family to study in the U.S. When she got pregnant with Mom, her parents pretty much disowned her because good Catholic girls, good Mexican Catholic girls, get married.
She didn’t. She said good-bye to her family and Mexico.
She finished a nursing degree at night, started working at clinics, and never looked back. Over the past thirty-five years Lillian has left Mexico behind; she took the trill out of her r and has spent her time fighting for women’s rights—specifically, sexual rights. My mom kind of got forgotten in the midst of Lillian’s politics, picketing, and pamphlet pushing. It’s easier to love a cause than a person. Causes are perfect. People aren’t.
I light the candle while she disposes of the cremated sandwiches.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks.
I shrug. “I guess I could ask you the same.”
We both look at the calendar. A faded picture of Mom and me is tacked up on the bulletin board next to it. Lillian had it taken right before Mom left with the One Mind, One Body religious group for a spring-break retreat.
The fish taco lodges in my throat. I take a long drink of water to wash it down, then spend the rest of dinner playing with the tortilla chips on my plate, listening to Lillian rage about some new law being pushed through the legislature that could limit medical access for illegal immigrants. There have also been vandalism and attacks at the clinic—supposedly a local neo-Nazi group. They can’t afford extra protection and are worried that somebody’s going to come in and steal the meds. She’s going to start taking night-watch turns with some other staff. “Will you be okay here? On your own?”
“Sure. Of course.”
“You could invite a friend,” Lillian suggests.
“I’ll be fine.”
I sometimes think Lillian would love me more if I were one of her patients, struggling to make ends meet, dodging the INS, working sixteen-hour days for nothing instead of being her bastard granddaughter.
When Lillian finishes, I wrap up the leftovers and place them in the fridge. I blow out the candle. “Happy Birthday, Mami,” I say under my breath.
Dusk weighs on us, smothering the light of the sun. I shiver and head toward my room. I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.
When she thinks I’m out of earshot, I hear Lillian say, “I miss her, too.”
That’s hard for me to believe. You can’t miss somebody you never even wanted—never even loved. I think if there’s love, for real, it’s not something you ever have to say behind cardboard walls. It should be shouted.
For Lillian, love pre–Roe v. Wade came at a high price. And her daughter, Roe, was born the same month the involuntary servitude of motherhood became unconstitutional.
When Mom died, I became unwanted generation number two.
I ease my door shut and ignore the nettles of pain that have settled in my chest—like spiny fish bones poking holes in my flimsy heart. My arm hurts, blue-black bruises dotting my shoulder’s olive skin where Nimrod embedded his steel-grip fingers.
I stare at the blurred computer screen through fishbowl tears. I blink and they spill down my cheeks. I pull on a sweatshirt and hold a copy of the picture of Mom and me—the one we have in the kitchen. The only picture of us together. Ever. She’s slight, wiry, with ropes of dark, wavy hair. Her eyes are infinite—pools of deep brown kindness splayed with more lashes than I have hair.
My throat aches; a flutter of pain settles in my chest. We look nothing alike.
I try to remember her voice, how she smelled—if only I could have one of Mocho’s memoirs. His Mexico is so alive, not buried under some feminist agenda.
My Mexico smells like fish tacos and burned grilled cheese. I put the picture facedown and open up my bet book to the last pages. My bets, but ones I never place. It’s always been out of curiosity—just to see how much I’d make.
I look at the running column of losses and wins.
Since September, I’d have made over three thousand dollars—all on pretty modest bets.
Three thousand dollars.
I even place vicarious bets.
Three thousand dollars.
Play the game.
I think about Josh. Play the game. I look at his bet.
Maybe thirty dollars. A small bet, just to get my feet wet. Just to feel something. Anything. I can call Leonard. Place a bet with him. He might give me a no-vig first-timer deal.
The shrill of my telephone rips me from my trance. Number unknown.
I don’t answer and click it to vibrate, turning my bet book to the worn pages where I wrote down this morning’s bets. Tomorrow I’ll go to the bank to deposit the cash I got this morning.
Play the game.
The phone rings again, dancing across the tabletop until I pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi, um, hi.”
Silence.
“Mike?”
“Speaking.”
“Mike. It’s Josh. I’m in your Government and Creative Writing classes, though you didn’t notice me the past month until we officially met this morning. Javier told me you’d kill him if he gave me your number, but I was kinda worried about you and wanted to know if you’re okay. Totally not Javier’s fault. He said he’d call for me, but he doesn’t have any minutes so he can’t call, which, I said, would totally defeat the purpose of checking on you because to check on you, we’d have to call. Okay. Now I’m sounding like a total asshole. Here. Javier’s right here.”
“Mike, it’s cool. Josh is cool. Your number is safe with him.” Javier sounds bored. “He’s a nice guy.” He emphasizes nice, probably meaning “this is a pity call.”
There’s a rustling sound and Josh is back on the phone. “So, um, you’re okay?”
In the living room, Lillian turns on the TV, watching seventies and eighties reruns. “Gotcha,” the funky disco theme song from Starsky and Hutch, fills the air. Our house sounds like some kind of bawdy sex show. The phone nearly slips from my sweaty palms.
“Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks a lot for calling.”
Silence.
“You don’t sound that happy about it. You sound pissed,” Josh says.
“I am. Happy.”
I run through my mental inventory of things to talk about and come up blank. Luckily Josh doesn’t. He says, “Javier says you’re real good with math, and we have some killer calculus homework from Mrs. Hensler.”
“On a Fri
day?” I ask.
“Sure. Friday-night math marathons. Wanna come over for pizza and homework? We’ll buy the pizza if you’re willing to help out with the math.”
“Math. I’d love to help.” The barbs are back, crawling up my throat. I swallow, trying to control the quaver in my voice. Math. Of course. “I can’t, though. I’ve got to write some six-word memoirs for Creative Writing tonight.”
“On a Friday?” he asks.
“Sure. Friday-night memoir marathons.”
“Yeah. Sure. Okay. Glad you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever used okay this often in a conversation before. Statistically speaking, we’re off the charts here.”
Josh laughs. “Memoir it.”
“I don’t think memoir is a verb.” I pause. “Is it?”
“Well, it should be,” Josh says. “Shit, we say ‘Google it.’ Why not ‘memoir it’?”
I laugh. “I like that. I’ll start to use it at least once or twice a day.”
Silence.
“Thanks for calling,” I say.
“Can I keep your number?” he asks.
“Yeah. This is the number to call when you want to place a bet. I send out notices for winners and losers within twenty-four hours of the game, match, race . . . whatever. I’ll save your number for the next time Sanctuary convenes, will send you a text. Javier knows the rotation.”
“What about a number to call when I want to talk, memoir, or whatever?”
I’m silent.
“Like, what if I don’t want to place a bet and want to call?” he asks. “Can I do that?”
“Um. Sure.” I give him my social cell-phone number—one that has seemingly limitless minutes.
“Okay.” He hesitates.
“Okay.” I turn off the phone and turn on the computer.
I flip through my bet book.
I compare the spreads on my favorite sites, figuring out where I’ll get the best payouts, calculating my vig. It’ll be a lucrative weekend.
I place the bets. Hesitate, put thirty on the Chargers. First score. All I have to do is press enter. My stomach tightens.
Not today.
Lillian shuts off the TV, wanders around the house—the floorboards creaking by the bathroom. I listen as she pauses outside my door. She goes to her room and closes her door.
I stare at the blinking cursor on the screen, then finish my Creative Writing homework. The perfect way to spend a Friday.
Charred sandwiches. Lingering regret. Faded memories.
Chapter 4
I PULL INTO MY USUAL
parking spot—Carson High looming in front of me looking more like the Mall of America than a sanctuary of education and knowledge. Every time I drive up to school, my stomach tightens. Other kids make everyday life look so easy.
It was a big weekend; lots of games, lots of payoffs.
Josh won.
I look at the numbers in my notebook—an overall success for most of my clients and a few hundred dollars to pay out during the day. Being the messenger with a winner is fun. I love to see how their faces light up, counting the bills, like it’s the best ride they’ve ever had.
What does that feel like?
I’d have won, too. I think about my sideline life. Play the game.
I’m starting to feel like Ray Kinsella in Shoeless Joe. Just voices echoing in my head. Maybe I’m going insane. Sure. One man’s insanity is another’s baseball field for dead players.
Play the game.
Oh for crying out loud.
I’m playing the game. My way. My vig was over a hundred dollars this weekend.
So what if Josh made way more, like four hundred dollars more? His was a risk. Mine’s the sure thing.
Whatever.
There’s a smattering of teachers’ and administrators’ cars in the parking lot. Inhale. Exhale. It’s good to arrive early—alone, invisible. I check my phone again—to make sure the battery hasn’t died, or that I haven’t set it on no-vibrate, no-sound. Maybe I’ve got some weird call blocker that interferes with any incoming calls.
Nothing.
If he’d wanted to call, he would’ve by now. I guess Josh was being nice—making sure I didn’t die after my Nimrod encounter. Which was a pretty decent thing to do, worrying about the death of somebody he doesn’t even know.
It’s funny. But after the possibility of something different, I feel lonelier than I did before meeting Josh. Maybe I can escape to Grassroots Books in Reno after school and buy a couple of romance novels—just to have a chance to talk to Cory or Andi, whoever’s working.
I barely have my car door closed when Nimrod rushes toward me. “All bets are off.” Medusa is standing behind him, his letterman’s jacket hanging from her wire frame, swallowing her up in stiff white leather and midnight-blue wool. His class ring dangles from a chain around her neck. She probably has his belly-button lint saved in a jar beside her bed.
I bite down on my cheek, steady my hands, and turn to him. “Uh, Nim, over the weekend four of your teams played—one lost. You money-lined instead of playing the spread as I suggested and blew the parlay. So this whole hindsight-is-twenty-twenty doesn’t really work in the world of gamblers. I guess that wasn’t covered in your Gambling for Dimwits class.”
“Bets. Are. Off.” The words clip off his tongue. He swats his hand in the air and turns around, ready to blow me off.
I yank on his arm. “You lost, Nim. You now owe me near eight hundred dollars. Just so you remember, last Friday, when I was cleaning up your phlegm splatter off my cheek, you said, quote-unquote, ‘Place the fucking bet. Tonight.’ So I did. Friday night. Over the weekend, your teams played. Over the weekend, you lost.”
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“What are you, in second grade? You don’t just change your mind. You placed a bet, you pay it.” I can feel the anger bubbling up.
“I don’t have to pay shit. Like who are you to tell me what the fuck I have to do? Lard-ass trailer trash.”
Medusa glares at me, mustering the strength to cross her scarecrow arms in front of her chest. “He’s not to do business with you anymore. So you can stop the pseudo-stalker thing and move on. He’s not interested.”
“Oh, I get it.” I clench my fists to keep from trembling. “You have to get permission to play. Well, when Medusa here writes your excuse note, let me know. Until then, you don’t back out. Nobody”—I step forward—“ever backs out of a bet. Ever.” My voice doesn’t even waver.
Cars trickle into the parking lot, doors slam, my classmates do the ultimate juggling act balancing what’s-the-point skinny lattes and books while talking on iPhones, texting, and creating ways to demean and crucify each other in the age of social networking.
Nimrod stands before me, jaw clicking, leaning into me, pushing me against the car. He clacks a Tic Tac between his teeth, which does little to cover the stench of bacon bits and fried onions. “I bet you like this, huh? This little one-on-one we’re having here.”
I wiggle, trying to make the metal of my car door miraculously open and suck me away from him. Nimrod leans in harder and heavier, grinding his pelvis against mine. “Bets are off.”
I try to move away, but all I can feel is his dead weight on me. Everything starts to go gray when I see a blur of color slam into Nimrod and crumple to the ground. It at least jolts him, so he moves back. I push away from Nim, shoving my backpack in front of me as some kind of lame barrier, sliding down my car door, sitting on the still-wet-from-frost asphalt.
Nimrod and Medusa walk away. He turns back and says, “I think we’re clear here, aren’t we?”
I pick up my glasses, twisted and crooked from Nim stepping on them. I try to focus through one decent lens and see Josh lying on his back, a trickle of blood coming from his nose.
“Hey. Are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“That’s one big fuckin’ dude,�
� Josh says. “It was like running into a monolith.”
We sit in silence until I think I can talk without bursting into tears. “Thanks, um, for coming to the rescue.”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I swallow and nod and feel helpless and stupid and scared and alone and small—teeny-tiny small, like an ant about to be squashed.
“Don’t know what you would’ve done without me,” he says, and winks, pushing my hair off my forehead, his fingertips electric on my skin.
My lip trembles.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.”
When I manage to blink back the tears, I hand him a Kleenex. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”
He shoves the Kleenex against his nose. “Have you ever considered the line of work you’re in is, for lack of a better term, terminal?”
“Yeah. Nim’s an anomaly. Sort of like an evolutionary glitch . . . on steroids. Most of my clients place bets, pay debts, win a little cash, whatever. You did well, by the way.”
“Told you I don’t lose. I waited for you at Bully’s.”
I can feel blood rush to my cheeks.
Josh stands up and helps me to my feet. “This is getting to be a habit.” He rubs his shoulder and readjusts the Kleenex on his nose. “You gotta admit. That was pretty valiant. Me going after him like that.”
“Are you trying to flex?”
He clears his throat. “A little. Okay. A lot. I’m just scrappy, you know, lots of lean muscle—not a lot of bulk.”
“Still flexing?”
“You can’t tell?”
I squint and clear my throat. “No?”
“They used to call me Noodle at my other school.” He drops his hands to his sides. We laugh together, and I feel a release of tension, laughing harder. When I snort, he pauses for a second, then doubles over.
I try to stop, control myself, but can’t, and snort again.