by Fred Aceves
And it ain’t just crazy white people. Obie, who knows from spending summers close to the Panhandle, told me his uncle can spot a dead squirrel or raccoon in the road and tell how long it’s been dead, if it’s still okay to eat.
Beach Mom is over with the grown-ups, telling a story I can’t make out.
Amy knows I’m here. Proof is she ain’t looked my way. As she watches her mom she seems like a kid, innocent. And she is innocent. I’m the one who got pissed, who flipped out and said mean things to the nicest girl in the world. Every time I think about it I wanna beat myself up.
Should I go talk to Amy and apologize right now, get it over with? I start to get all nervous and shy, but walk over anyway.
“I’m sorry.”
She turns to face me. “You’re sorry?” Like making sure she heard right.
“Yeah. For flipping out that day. I’m sorry.”
Amy turns away, saying, “Okay, whatever,” more interested in her mom who everybody’s laughing with again. You’d swear that lady’s the reason everybody came.
“Mom,” Amy says. “Come here.”
The lady finishes the story to wild laughter before whirling around. “What?” Like a kid in the checkout lane reaching for gum.
Amy’s got a put-that-down look. “Come here for a sec.”
Walking over to us she puts a cigarette between her lips and searches for a light in her big denim bag, a hand poking around in there. When she notices Amy staring she stops.
“Whoops. Pro’lly not the best place to smoke.”
And then it’s time to get on the bus.
Under the bright lights of Tropicana Field, the baseball diamond is all straight white lines in clean dirt and perfect grass. You can almost see the individual blades. That’s how close we are, filling half a section above third base, about 150 Future Success kids from all over Tampa.
Most of the seats are full and there’s a steady roar of fans, sometimes interrupted by announcements or jingles, all of it trapped by the dome above. A crack of the bat creates either cheers or sighs. And sometimes a cheer—fans rising to their feet—turns into a sigh over a foul ball. To the right you can watch the replays on a movie screen.
Vendors move up and down, left to right, slide-walking in front of seated fans, holding trays of Pepsis and hot dogs, straight-ahead eyes like no way they’ll spill.
At the bottom of the fourth inning kids are still talking about meeting the two Rays when it was just us, the Future Success kids and our guardians.
After a man in a safari hat and microphone gave a lecture about Future Success, two athletes came to feed us this monkey shit about staying in school. Though they only benchwarmers, the kids wish they’d brought a baseball card for them to sign or an official cap.
Brian even got the black player to sign his jersey and cap.
The boring safari hat guy came back to thank all the parents again for coming. “Future Success is about bringing out a student’s best,” he said. “Students have fewer behavioral problems and get better grades when they have involved parents, so we couldn’t do this without you.”
That didn’t sound right. If it’s true I’m screwed.
Brian now buys two tall plastic cups of beer and hands one behind us, to Amy’s mom, whose name is Rose.
“Wow,” she says, like it’s a new car. “Thanks, man.”
That’s my mom’s money he’s using. It could be my sneaker money.
Brian takes a gulp from his third beer. Rose started way earlier with a beer from a concession stand to go with her mustard-drenched hot dog, and later I glimpsed her taking a sneaky swig from a flask, the metal gleaming in the stadium lights.
Brian and Rose talked on the bus about their hometowns and baseball, and the four of us found seats together.
“Want some, Marcos?”
Amy’s holding out a box of Cracker Jacks. A peace offering. I hold out my open hand. She tilts the box to shake a cluster onto my palm and I clutch it. Love swirls inside me.
Then I remember Punkboy.
A hard crack of a bat in the seventh inning, the loudest so far, has me on my feet along with the rest of the fans, all of us following the ball over center field. Gloves in the stands go up. A kid no bigger than me catches it, an easy grab, and the stadium trembles with cheers. The dad high-fives him and then puts his arms around the kid. A hug right here in the stadium. On the movie screen too.
Brian has gone for another beer, Rose took off a while ago, and Amy . . . I look around. Where’s Amy?
Over by the railing, two moms from another school are going at it. The one standing shouts “It’s a free country!” and the one behind says something about her view being blocked. Phones come outta pockets to record it, and here comes a security cop to stop this from getting interesting.
“Marcos!”
I turn. Amy’s hurrying down the steps. “Come help me find my mom.”
You’d think she lost a gold necklace. She’s jetting back up the steps and I’m trying to keep up.
Between two concession stands she stops to face me. “You go that way and I’ll go the other. Then wait for me. I gotta check the bathrooms too.”
“What’s wrong?”
“She was supposed to just go to the bathroom, but that was thirty minutes ago.”
“Okay.” I take a few steps, then stop and turn. “What if I find her?”
Amy gives this some thought. “Tell her to stay put.”
I pass people at concession stands, under pictures of nachos and fries. Not many ladies around. I circle a second time and pass Amy, who’s looking super stressed. As we go up one more level, I’m stressing too.
Rounding the level, right across from the bathrooms, I spot Rose on a bench. Brian’s beside her and there’s a big cup of beer between them. She has trouble sitting up but Brian ain’t even close to drunk. I know how many beers it takes and he’s only three deep.
Rose lifts the cup, drinks from it, and hands it to Brian. Taking a swig, he lays a hand on her thigh, just above the knee.
She brushes it off like it’s something icky and says, “What the fuck, man?” She slides a few inches to the end of the bench.
I make my way toward them. Amy musta seen it all ’cause she comes up on them from behind me, giving Brian the stank eye before standing in front of her mom.
“You can’t just disappear like that, Mom.”
“Take a chill pill, Amy.” She’s still wearing sunglasses.
“You’re drunk.”
Brian’s eyes get cartoon-big when they land on me. “Marcos.” He gets up quick. “Let’s go.” After a few steps he turns to me again. There it is, the hateful stare I know, the one that makes me feel like crap.
I stay put. “No.”
Is he gonna try something? Let him. I’m gonna be tough. Like life. Like in the movies, the heroes without superpowers. I wanna be tough like Amy is.
It ain’t got nothing to do with my mom’s honor. I just can’t follow orders from that dick anymore.
When Brian makes a grab for me I slap his hand away and shove him. “Fuck off.”
Brian stumbles back a step. A black man slows his easy walk, hand gripping a Coke. He’s skinny but tall as Brian, standing still to take in the situation. Brian looks at me for another second before taking off.
Amy’s struggling to lift her mom who’s holding on to the bench with one hand and pushing Amy away with the other.
“Stop, Amy! I don’t need your help.”
Amy backs off.
Rose notices me again and smiles. “Hey! It’s the funny kid!”
She’s referring to the impression of Breckner that I did on the bus. Even Brian laughed.
I feel sorta nosy smack in the middle of this family drama, but I ain’t dying to get back to my seat. Plus I gotta stick around for Amy ’cause drunks can be unpredictable.
“Hey, funny kid! Do your impression of that boring teacher.”
Amy’s still staring. “Mom, listen to me ca
refully.”
“Stop that!” Rose’s head drops to an incomplete nod.
“Stop what?”
Rose lifts her head to say, “Stop . . . talking.”
The sunglasses have slid down her nose. Standing over her I can make out a bruise under her right eye, a small smudge of purplish black.
“Mom, I’m taking you to the bathroom.”
“I can go by myself!”
Amy gives in with a big sigh. From the bench she watches her mom hobble toward the bathroom in front. Future Amy flashes before me. She’s taller, not just cute but a real beauty, the edginess softened ’cause Rose ain’t her problem no more.
Amy turns to me, a lot going on in her eyes. I feel a tug inside me, and whatever weirdness was between us disappears.
We both got a defective mom and an asshole at home. Only I ain’t gotta hunt my mom down when she’s drunk. If this was the shit-parents Olympics, girls and boys competing side by side, Amy’d take the gold medal for sure.
“How long has that guy been dating your mom?” Amy asks, cutting through my thoughts.
“She don’t date. She moves the guys in right away. He’s been around for almost a year, longer than the others, so it’s probably for good.”
It shocks me how easily I say this.
“He seems like a real charmer.”
I nod. I wanna say more, but Amy’s the one who needs someone to listen right now. I wanna be that someone.
“Seems as charming as your stepdad,” I tell her.
“Yeah.” She smiles before her face goes back to normal. Wait, that’s not her resting face. It’s a poker face. She’s learned not to talk about this either.
The bruise under Rose’s eye was his handiwork, no doubt. I wonder about Amy. I don’t know how to put the question to her, not sure if I should.
“He . . . mess with you?”
She shakes her head. “He usually ignores me. On birthdays, holidays, and stuff we sit at the dinner table and pretend we’re a real family. It’s disgusting.”
She drops the details on her stepdad’s jealous rages, the wild accusations aimed at her mom, the threats and fights, the heavy drinking that makes it worse. The cops, she tells me, have come by eight times, the last visit on New Year’s. Rose’s body slammed against the living room walls, the picture frames and shelves crashing onto the floor, waking up Amy on that night she thought they’d all die.
Minutes later Amy opened her bedroom window and peeked out, saw two cops on her porch. “They wanted to help. Lock him up, you know? But my mom shut the door on them.”
The worst part of her story is the way she tells it, like she’s reading me the school lunch menu. I remember my life before Brian moved in, and if I close my eyes when feeling hopeful I can picture him gone, but Amy’s stepdad has been around since she can remember.
Some people are more used to their lives.
Now it’s my turn. I wanna tell it all, let her in on the part of my life only I know about. Can’t wait to let this secret loose.
A janitor comes by, keys jangling with every step. I wait for him to pass.
“I’ve never told nobody this,” I begin.
And then I’m talking about my home life. The hours in my bedroom, the way Brian acts, how my mom don’t talk . . .
Amy’s listening like she needs this as much as me. How come talking about this stuff feels so good? It’s a straight-up relief, no other way to put it.
She’s looking at me with surprise. “So your mom does nothing?”
I need a few seconds. That’s how hard it is to say this. “My mom’s useless.”
Amy leans back so she’s resting against the wall. She sighs. “Grown-ups are pretty useless.”
Breckner chooses this moment to head our way clutching a big cardboard box. If only he’d been here a few minutes back. He couldn’t have done nothing, but he coulda seen. I want a grown-up to see.
He stops in front of us. “What are you two doing here?”
Instead of keeping cool, me and Amy give each other a keep-cool look. Awkward.
She sits up straight and fires back, “What are you doing here?”
Breckner sets the box down. Inside are a bunch of the leftover gift bags we got when we arrived to the stadium. They had a pen and pencil, some stickers, a cap and T-shirt, all with the Future Success logo in case we wanna dress like him.
“Not that it’s any of your business, young lady,” Breckner says, “but I’m returning supplies.”
“Well, no offense, Mr. Breckner, but it’s none of your business either.”
Breckner starts on how we aren’t supposed to leave our sections and look at us sitting here, on a different level.
Amy says, “I get stressed and gotta break away from things for a while.”
He gives her a know-it-all smile. “Stressed?”
I’d do the same as Amy, protect my mom.
I say, “Maybe ya don’t understand, Mr. Breckner.”
“Well, I hope your parents understand when I tell them.” He picks up the box and takes off.
Amy brings her legs up to sit cross-legged. “I still like the guy.”
Me too. It’s easy to like Breckner with so many teachers we hate. We list all of them. Amy puts Mr. Hicks at the top of her list but for me Mr. Kirby’s a million times worse. He loves hearing wrong answers, shakes his head all dramatic, and sighs at being the only smart person in the room.
I don’t get why people wanna teach if they suck at it and can’t stand kids anyway.
“Teachers,” she says, like it’s a smelly word. “Grown-ups in general.”
“Their rules make no sense,” I say. “Why can’t we leave the section? What’s the big deal?”
We talk about the supposed dangers for us teenagers. She mentions the make-believe villain from the antidrug course, the one who prowls school hallways handing out free meth and molly. We laugh at that. I mention the anti-bullying talks we always getting, though I gotta admit bullies are real.
“But bullies don’t mess with me,” I say. “School don’t scare me none.”
Amy goes quiet while figuring something out. Then she raises her head. “The only people who’ve really hurt me are the grown-ups who are supposed to have my back.”
My brain swats this around, considers all the stuff I try to forget.
Then I say, “Same here.”
Thinking about this bums me out so much that tears might come. I gotta hold them in.
Think of something else, Marcos.
Obie. I think of Obie and wonder who has his back. His aunt damn sure ain’t looking out for him, and his mom has no idea what’s going on. If nobody’s watching out for him, it’s on me to do what’s right.
I’m telling him to stop the next time I see him.
Amy sniffles. Outta the corner of my eye I watch her hand move to her face. I don’t turn to look. I don’t wanna see what she might see on my own face. All I do is put an arm around her and stay quiet.
We sit on the bench, wordless and watching a woman lead a young girl into the bathroom by hand.
After two ladies come out, and another goes in, Rose appears. “Here I am!”
She raises one hand to the doorway’s edge to steady herself. Then she makes her way toward us.
19
THE BUS rumbles down the freeway after the game. Brian takes a careful sip of his beer but some dribbles onto his shirt anyway. He brought it along by carrying my Future Success gift bag, the large cup placed carefully inside. As we came up on the security cops, I hoped they’d check his bag and arrest him. Or fine him, whatever. But they didn’t.
Brian glances out the window one more time before talking softly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Ya didn’t see nothing.”
Like it matters. Even if I told my mom, why would she believe me? “I saw a lot.”
Brian’s jaw twitches.
Across the aisle and one seat up, Rose’s head rests on her daughter’s lap. Any fool can see that Amy gives h
er mom love, loads of it, and that her mom takes it. The million-dollar question is if Rose ever throws any love back Amy’s way. And if it’s enough.
Breckner waves me over to the front of the bus. Now what? I walk up, passing everyone else’s low conversations, wondering what they about.
Breckner pats the space next to him. “Have a seat.”
I do. He asks me to fill him in, wants to know everything I know, and you can tell it ain’t gossip he’s after. There’s worry in his voice.
“Amy’s mom was drinking the whole game,” I say. Is that snitching? Probably not. He saw that for himself. “Besides that, Mr. Breckner, you saw as much as me.”
“Was Amy also drinking?”
“What the? ’Course not.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “Okay, okay.”
The driver brakes for a second and we jerk forward. The bus horn sounds.
“Amy!” Rose’s voice. “Amy, we’re not home!”
After a few slurred words I turn and see Rose’s head dropping to rest again. All we hear is the bus engine working.
Breckner shakes his head. “Geez. What a life that poor girl must have.”
It almost makes me laugh, my innocent teacher shocked into sadness. He has no idea.
When he takes off his boxy glasses to clean them, he looks younger. I picture him at my age, riding shotgun in his mom’s minivan on the way to soccer practice, answering questions about school all enthusiastic, choosing between two suggested desserts what he wants that night. Super-small Breckner, a kid who eats no-crust sandwiches and points at rainbows.
Poor guy looks like he also needs a pat on the shoulder. Finally, a teacher who cares. Problem is he can’t connect. Not that any of us are even trying to connect with him. Yeah, his head’s jammed up his ass, but who’s helping him yank it out? Who has Breckner’s back?
Done wiping the glasses, he puts them back on and becomes old again. “That’s all, Marcos. Thanks.”
I’m just about to head back to my seat, but then I don’t move. I’m considering something . . . Should I?
“Maybe she ain’t the only one with problems,” I say. Dammit! How did that slip out? When he gives me a look of pity, I regret speaking even more.