“I don’t want to talk anymore,” she says. “I’m tired of talking to people and about people.” She swings one leg over my lap and straddles me.
I agree.
We kiss, forgetting about our families, our jobs, maybe even each other. Alone in the fading daylight, we claw at each other as if we’re touching for the first time. She’d made me wait for weeks, because she does that when she’s not happy with me, so it’s surprising she’s so willing after all that’s transpired today. Through all the waiting and game playing, I can only assume she’s frustrated herself as well. Whitney maneuvers around on top of me, fully clothed, until she knows we’re both ready. I roll over her unto the bed. We kiss again, and I pick her up and lay her down on my disheveled bed.
Afterward, my mouth dry and my heart rate slowly returning to normal, I lie next to my girlfriend and experience the calm I’ve been searching for all week. Whitney appears to be sleeping, but the smile on her face tells me otherwise.
“I’m so thirsty,” I croak, sounding just pathetic enough to get what I want.
Whitney’s pointed little nose brushes mine. “I’ll get it,” she whispers. Her breath teases my face, and I am caught in the warmth of it.
“Get what?” I murmur against her chin.
“Drinks,” she says. “Be right back.”
She rolls away from me slowly and slips on the T-shirt I’d been wearing. I lie in bed, watching the bedroom door, waiting for her return. But then I notice Whitney’s shadow in the hallway outside my bedroom door; she’s still lingering near the living room.
I sit up and call out to her. She doesn’t answer. I slip on my shorts and hurry into the living room. Whitney is standing at the edge of the hallway, watching my mother as she stands on the balcony, staring at the neighboring subdivision. She turns abruptly and smiles at me. She walks to the patio door, slides it open, and steps inside.
“Yes, I’m still here,” my mother says. “I don’t want to leave the situation as is, and I don’t want to have to discuss it on the phone later.” I stand next to Whitney and then turn back toward my room.
“Where are you going?” Whitney asks and jerks back on my arm.
“I’m going to put on a shirt,” I say, taking her hand from my arm.
“Get rid of her, Zack,” she says as I take her hand in mine, squeezing it reassuringly. “She doesn’t want to talk. She wants to force you to choose.”
“No, she doesn’t. She knows I would never choose.”
“Are the two of you done?” my mother asks.
“No,” Whitney growls at my mother. Her voice sounds like soft gravel and not yet ready to forgive, but my mother ignores my girlfriend’s resistance.
“You were headed to the kitchen?” she asks, but Whitney doesn’t answer.
“I’m thirsty,” I say, nudging her toward the kitchen. “Please.”
“And I’ll have some more tea,” my mother says. “I think there’s a little left, but you’ll have to warm it up.”
My mother picks up her cup from beside her chair, extending it toward Whitney, but she walks past her. I take the cup from my mother and set it on the bar, watching Whitney as she opens the refrigerator door. She stands in the open fridge, her back facing me, staring into space and gripping my bottled water in one hand. She looks odd, and I’m worried about her. I call out to her. When she doesn’t answer, I walk around the bar into the kitchen. I take a few steps before she closes the door and turns to face me. She hands me the bottle of water and stares into my eyes, hers pooling.
“I really, really love you, Zacarias.”
I’m worried about us, but it pleases me to hear her say she loves me. I’m never sure if she could ever really love me. She reaches around me and takes my mom’s cup from the bar.
“I’ll get her tea,” she says. “Go ahead and hear your mom out.”
“I’m gonna go put on a shirt first,” I say, and Whitney nods. I cut through the living room, pass by my mother and kiss her on the check, something I’ve done since I was twelve. She smiles and pats me on the back.
When I come back into the living room, Mother is sitting on the arm of John’s chair, waiting for Whitney and me. I glance into the kitchen and see Whitney holding Mother’s cup of hot tea. She holds the cup under her nose, blowing on it before she takes a sip from it. She lowers the cup and parts her lips enough to allow a thick lump of saliva to drool into my mother’s tea. She giggles and then picks up a spoon and stirs vigorously.
“Your tea is ready,” she calls out, tossing the spoon into the sink. Then she notices me, wide eyed, stunned.
“Zack, you want to give this to your mom?” she says, passing the cup.
My lungs and voice were caught somewhere between my heart and my head. Speechless, I couldn’t breathe.
“What the hell was that?” I ask. My eyes cloud; I take the cup from her. It was the most messed-up thing I’d ever seen her do.
CHAPTER 13
ZINA
I toss my mama’s Dr. Pepper into the icebox. The house is silent; the twins are who knows where. I go straight to my room and lock the door. I’m scared as shit right now, and I want to call Blanca. It always feels so right to confide in her. Tears stream down my face. I sit down in the middle of my bedroom floor, and the urge to crumble into pieces is a lot stronger than me. I’m sad when I realize I’m grieving alone for Corey and Bryan, gunned down, their bodies left dying on the corner of Kingwood and MLK. Their families will miss them, and this will fuck up the twins’ world. I cry for my little brothers and the pain they will experience tomorrow.
I fool myself into thinking I’m doing a good job of holding myself together, as my thoughts turn to Shannon sitting next to me on the ledge at school. I’ll write him a note and slip it to him first thing in the morning. I’m so tired, and it’s been a long week. I rub my nose as it begins to run. My body shakes. I muffle my sobs with my hands.
“Holy heck,” I mutter. “I can’t deal with this shit.”
I throw my backpack into the closet after I take out my hustle money and leave my school clothes in a pile in the corner. I count one hundred sixteen dollars, all in fives and ones. I’ll have the money to pay the light bill by Friday, but I realize that I absolutely don’t want to do this shit again tomorrow, especially not at Ms. Kim’s store; it’s a murder scene. I won’t be able to, anyway. The law and the yellow tape is gonna be everywhere tomorrow.
My phone’s ringing, but I haven’t answered it. In fact, I haven’t even checked to see who is calling. My mama knocks on my door.
“I’m glad you brought your butt home,” she says through the door.
I dare not open it. Just one look at me, and she’ll know I’ve been crying. “I’m here! Your soda’s in the icebox.”
After I hear her bedroom door shut, I know she’s down for the night. I get up, dig around in my dresser for a T-shirt to sleep in, and debate taking a shower in the morning.
“Zeenah!” Andrew, one of the twins, sings at my bedroom door.
“What, man?” I yell at him, angry because I’m crying again.
“Blanca’s uncle is here. And don’t be hollerin’ at me, girl!”
Huh? Really? Then I hear muffled voices through my bedroom door. I creep close enough to eavesdrop.
“How long has she been home?” Tony asks.
“I heard her come into the house around six, or something like that. She’s been here for a while.”
I jump back from the door when Tony knocks on it.
“Stop beating on my door!” I scream.
“Well, hurry the fuck up!” Andrew yells.
“Zina, come out now,” Tony says. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”
I open the door just enough to peek out.
“Finally,” Andrew says, throwing up both hands and walking back into the bedroom he shares with Alex
.
But Tony notices my tired, bloodred eyes and tearstained face. He stares at me for about two seconds before he pushes the door open, forcing me to back away from it.
“What happened?” he asks. He uses his inside voice, speaking just loud enough for only me to hear. “Did someone touch you?”
The thought of it makes him madder than he could ever explain. His nostrils flare, and his eyes pierce me, searching for the truth. He clears his throat while he waits for me to answer. I take a deep breath and shake my head. I don’t want to speak, because I know I’ll lose it if I open my mouth.
“No one touched you?”
I shake my head again.
“Then what happened? Tell me, Zina.”
My bottom lip quivers. “I can’t say.” I sniff back more tears.
Tony’s serious face melts into Jell-O. He steps toward me, closing the door but leaving a crack in it. He pulls me over to the bed, kneeling down in front of me, rubbing my calves.
“Zina, what happened? I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
“You can’t fix it.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“That guy…the ones who were arguing at the store…”
“Yeah, go ahead,” he says. “What happened?”
“He shot them.” I sink to the floor next to him.
“Shot who?”
“Bryan and Corey. Andrew and Alex’s friends. They’re dead.”
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
“I saw their bodies. They twitched and then fell. There was blood everywhere.” I burst into tears, curling into a fetal position.
“Shhhh.” Tony strokes my hair and tries to comfort me.
“There was a guy in the car with the dude who did the shooting,” I tell him. “He saw me. The one in the passenger seat pointed at me before I ran.”
Tony’s eyes narrow. “He pointed at you?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever seen the guy before?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Did they see which way you ran?”
“I—I don’t really know.” I sniff and pull my legs into a butterfly position. He scoots closer to me.
“I’m sorry you saw what you saw.” His voice was like a lullaby; it made me sleepy.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You’re lying.” I look at him. “Chica…if it wasn’t that bad, then why are you crying?”
“I’m tired.”
“Do you feel safe?” he asks, scooting closer, my knee resting on his thigh. “Do you?”
“I don’t know.” I rest my head against the edge of my bed.
“You could come home with me,” he says. “Would that make you feel safe?”
Nothing would make me feel safer.
I sit in my room for the next two nights, wondering if they recognized me or if they know who Andrew or Alex are. Have they been looking for me? Uncle Tony is this tough guy. He has no problem going physical, or worse if it’s necessary. Antonio is equipped and prepared to do bodily harm. I thank heaven for him.
CHAPTER 14
ZACARIAS
“Saw me what?” Whitney says, hunching her shoulders. “Why’d you pour it down the sink?”
“Because you spit in it!” I lower my voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I can tell from the look in her eyes that she is about to deny it. I let her.
“No, I didn’t! I just blew on it,” she says. She relaxes a little, as though she has come up with a decent cover. “I didn’t want it to be too hot.”
“What other kinda warped shit do you do when you think no one is looking?” My face twisted in disgust, I turn my back and head for the front door.
“It’s time for you to go,” I say. “Ma, you too. Time to go. C’mon.”
Once they’re outside, I slam the door behind them.
Two days have passed, and my anger is still fresh. I’m not mad at anyone in particular. I convince myself that I am the only one to blame for my failed relationship with Whitney. If I allow myself to cast blame on her or acknowledge that I’ve been dating a closeted sociopath for the past eighteen months, I won’t even be able to look at this woman. And I want to be able to look at her and be in love with what I see…like I was two days ago. I can’t stand hating her, so I eat it all on my own.
An hour ago, I told John what happened—over the phone in Rico’s back office, with the door locked. He went dead on the other end. Silent. Then he chuckled.
“What?” he said after he’d stopped laughing.
“She spit in Mom’s cup and gave it to me to give to her.” I was whispering; I didn’t know why.
“That chick is loony! What did you do?”
“She had to go after that. I mean, that’s some beyond disrespectful shit, bro.”
“I told you…rotten. Not to mention childish, deceitful, weird, nasty, and crazy as hell.” I could hear the frown in John’s voice. “You should’ve let Mom slap the crap out of her when she had the chance.” I don’t respond. “Cancel that girl, Zack, and get you a new one. She might look good, but who needs that shit?”
And that’s the thing. I haven’t canceled Whitney yet, even though I think I should. It’s hard because I never thought I’d be breaking up with her over something as backward as this. I have to admit that I’m afraid to lose her; I don’t know why. I invested a lot in this, in her, and making her happy, so I don’t want to walk away. I don’t think anyone will ever love me the way she does. I’ll probably take her back. I believe in second chances.
CHAPTER 15
ZINA
Shannon has played varsity basketball for Albert Chesney since we were sophomores, and every year since, the team has made it to the play-offs. But I don’t usually go. Now I’m here in the stands at the RGS stadium with Blanca, because she told me Shannon asked her to make sure I came. We sit together at midcourt, watching the two teams battle it out for a chance at championship status. The score is close: thirty-two to thirty-three in the opposing team’s favor with less than three minutes left. I’m nervous for Shannon. I want him to win so badly; every time the other team scores, I curse under my breath. When the ref calls a personal foul on Shannon, giving the other team an opportunity to inch further ahead on the scoreboard, I lose it. I’m on my feet and yelling like a maniac.
“What tha…c’mon! What the fuck, man!” Screaming at stuff helps me deal with the horror that is become my life. I’m paranoid all the time now. If life was crapped up and stressful before the shooting…well, it sucks ass now.
When I sit back down, Blanca leans back, amusement plastered all over her narrow face. “Um hmm! You’re gettin’ pretty excited about this game, Zee,” she smirks. “No wonder Shannon wanted you here. You’re his biggest cheerleader.”
“He has a girlfriend for all that,” I snap, and laughter creases Blanca’s eyebrows.
“Beatrice is not you,” she says, “and Shannon sees the difference.” She nudges my arm.
“If he had to choose…don’t you wonder who he would pick?”
Bee’s comments have me lost in thought. Her question is a tough one and puts me in an uncomfortable position. I’m doubting Beatrice’s hold on Shannon, and this gives me hope in something that I don’t trust. It’s straight up embarrassing and lame to admit that you want another girl’s boyfriend. I’ll be judged and labeled pathetic—or worst, thirsty. The asshole boys, who, in reality, are secret fans of mine, will call me a slut for days. I’m not afraid to tell Blanca that I’ve developed a crush on Shannon, but somewhere between letter number four and the senior picnic, I’m afraid that some other kid sitting around us might eavesdrop our conversation.
“Shannon and I are cool,” I say. “He’s my homie, and I’m gonna cheer for him.” I smile at my absolute truth. Shannon and I are homies, a
nd I always stand by my homies.
“He’s going with Beatrice, but it’s obvious he likes you,” Blanca says. “I’m telling you, Zee, he’s way too concerned with everything about you,” she whispers into my ear. “He likes you.”
She looks at me and throws her slender arm over my shoulder and scoots over enough to lean on me. She always does that. I swear this closeness is the most comfortable thing in the world to both of us. We sit in the stadium—hugged up and surrounded by noise—and watch Shannon and the rest of the Albert Chesney Eagles hustle like shit to score six more points before time expires. Shannon’s face is red. He looks good running up and down the court with his game face on, aggressively calling the shots. The light of passion suits him.
Goddamn, goddamn.
I shake my head. I want Beatrice’s boyfriend, a piece of carrot cake, and some chicken nachos. Tonight, in that order.
The entire Albert Chesney community jumps to their feet when Shannon sinks a three-pointer from Chesney’s side of the court. The crowd roars, fists pumping in an exciting display of school spirit.
I scream for Shannon like I should’ve screamed for Corey and Bryan. I couldn’t make a sound for them then; now’s my chance. I roar and yell with a crazy passion tinged with sorrow. And Blanca is right there with me, always, screaming just as loud.
Time expires, and Chesney’s Eagles lose by one point, ending their season one game shy of the championship. Shannon has played his last high-school game. It’s a done deal. I’m curious about how he feels about it—and how he feels about me; I concoct a plan to find out.
It’s unspoken and mutual between Shannon and me that we restrict our conversations and interactions to our trigonometry class. No more hollerin’ at each other in the hallways or at lunch. And because of this, our letters to each other have gotten longer—between four and six pages, front and back. His last one to me was yesterday, and at the top of the page, he noted that he’d been writing to me for a whole day. After I read it, I dreamed about going to prom with him, us losing our virginity to each other…
Of Hustle and Heart Page 7