by Fred Aceves
There was nothing to do but get back on my bike and leave. As I rode off she shouted after me, “And you ain’t seeing him when he gets out of juvenile detention!”
The night of the arrest still haunts me. Obie put his hands up right away, but I still thought the cop would shoot him. I remembered all those black kids killed for nothing, their school pictures on the news. One cop trained a flashlight on him and the other clicked on the cuffs. My mom slept through the whole thing.
“Obie,” I said as they were cuffing him, just so he would look at me. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Write to me, Marcos,” Obie said.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the cop reminded him.
“Of course I’ll write you,” I said.
“I don’t wanna lose touch with you or the world out here,” he told me, before they dragged him away.
27
THE LAST day of school’s always more laid-back than a field trip. The year is winding down and there’s the thrill of something new about to pop off. Everybody’s got summer on the brain, knows it starts with the 2:50 bell, and though squads still roll together, you feel part of Hanna High. Just a bit.
I mean, no matter how different we are, we’ve all been through a school year together.
I also feel more connected to the teachers, the nice ones. For the last weeks they’ve taught and I’ve learned. I’ve asked and they’ve answered. They’ve given me work that I’ve done and they’ve corrected it. School makes more sense now.
I been studying hard between them tough extra-credit assignments, barely got my history summary in on time, but I needed to ace at least two tests so I don’t get held back. Today I find out those scores.
On the positive side, I got this whole schooling thing locked up for good. Whether I get held back or not, I’ll be paying attention during classes and squeezing in all my homework between jobs, basketball, my friends, and Amy.
My thoughts drift to the summer, all that I’ll do with my boys and how we’ll miss Obie. Mostly, though, I daydream about Amy, us riding together, me imagining her bike glittery for some reason, us hanging out on a shady park bench, watching movies in my living room when it’s too hot. Doing other stuff too because I’m still not over this crush and she don’t have a boyfriend no more.
Every Friday before Future Success I need my absentee slip signed and today’s no different. I’ve passed all my other classes so that only leaves history.
Thinking of Ms. J makes my stomach go wobbly, and talking to her will make it worse. Though she can’t know who came up with the pranks earlier in the year.
As kids noisy up the halls on their way to the year’s last class, Ms. J’s reading a fat book at her desk. She closes it when she sees me.
She hands me the signed slip and smiles. “You turned into a real ace student after all, didn’t you?”
I feel thrilled and embarrassed at once, like a spotlight’s shining down on me. I shrug.
“If you’re wondering about your exam, you earned an A plus. That leaves you with a C minus as your final grade.”
Yes! I’ve passed all my classes! If I could do a backflip, I’d do a million right now.
“Thanks a lot,” I tell her.
“Don’t thank me. You earned it, and I think that’s just super.” She folds her hands together. I’m turning to go, figuring she probably wants me outta here, when she says, “How did the Future Success program work out?”
“What?”
Why do I say What? every time something catches me off guard? I heard what she said, don’t need it repeated.
When she asks me again I say, “It was okay.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You should have been at the top of my class all semester.”
I stiffen from the shock. “Really?”
Of course really. What teacher would joke about that?
“Marcos, I knew you’d make great strides if you applied yourself. I knew you had it in you. It’s clear you’re intelligent.”
The nicest thing ever, those words in my ears. And with that I know she’s the one. Ms. J’s the teacher who chose me for Future Success. She thinks I got potential. Here’s a lady who’s got my back.
“Thanks.”
I’m hating myself more for pranking her.
Still looking at me she asks, “Don’t you know that?”
I shrug. Ain’t been called intelligent before. I been called the opposite, stupid and dipshit and all the other names you can think of. Sometimes the nicknames still rattle in my head, in Brian’s voice.
“You’ll be late for Future Success.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say again.
I wanna bust out in a song and dance, like those musicals, and wouldn’t mind if all these kids in the hall just dropped their backpacks to follow my lead with perfect timing.
Intelligent. That’s the word she used. A bigger word than smart. Wait. Is intelligent smarter than smart? An intelligent person should know that. I’ll look them up sometime.
Anyway, better than being intelligent, I’m almost a junior. It’s a wide-open summer, then two more years of high school, then college, and after college, whatever’s next!
28
WHEN I get to Future Success I gotta double-check the number to make sure it’s the right classroom. Yeah, 212. The small tables for two are set up like dominoes forming a big square. Kids are sitting wherever they want so I do the same.
When Zach shows up, he laughs before coming over. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” he says, taking a seat next to me. “Breckner’s gonna make us hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya.’”
Most of the time Zach’s pretty upbeat for someone whose mom just died. When I tell him my good news he gets as happy as me.
Amy shows up in the doorway and takes it all in before heading over. Lately I been watching her close, alert for a secret sadness like you can spot in Zach whenever he goes silent. If she was ever heart-busted over Punkboy, she ain’t no more.
Has there ever been a more perfect girl in the world? Perfect for me, anyway. She gets my humor, makes me laugh, and is easy to talk to. With Punkboy outta the way and with how we been hanging out, she must think the same about me.
“Congratulations,” she says while taking a seat on my other side.
“How you know I passed?”
“You’re smiling.” After another look around the room she says, “This is about to get weeeeird.”
I like the new seating. After staring at the back of kids’ heads all semester, it’s nice to see their faces, two dozen of them with the same confused expression.
As the tardy bell rings Breckner comes in carrying a canvas hippie bag in each hand. “Hey, people!” He sets the bags down on a table and drops his backpack on a chair.
He separates two tables and slides between them to speak from the middle of the square.
“Today we celebrate the end of the Future Success course and we’ll finish at the regular school time. We have a few things to discuss but first, before it melts . . .”
Breckner busts out two tubs and Amy shouts “Yippee!” like a little girl. I recognize the ice cream from Jason’s birthday parties and the bottom shelf of the supermarket freezer. Tubs with four times the ice cream for half the price.
Breckner don’t got cash for the good stuff. Don’t get me wrong. It’s crazy cool for him to bring what he can, and there ain’t no such thing as bad ice cream, but Breckner, if he had more money, woulda bought the stuff that says premium or deluxe. I really believe that.
While we eating our two scoops of chocolate, curly haired Lisa says, “Thanks, Mr. Breckner. This was very nice of you.”
I want to agree with her but I don’t want to sound like a dork. But maybe I shouldn’t give a damn what anybody thinks.
I say, “Yeah, thanks.”
The rest of the class thanks Breckner at the same time like they been practicing for it.
Amy adds, “You’re cool.”
/> His face brightens with a happy smile, not the optimistic, cheery one he’s usually wearing. Maybe other teachers are the same way. They want to be liked. Extra points if we consider them cool. Double that if the kid who considers you cool is Amy, the super-cool girl of the universe.
Principal Perry shows up. He said he’d be watching me all semester and he wasn’t kidding. I don’t think I ever walked past him without him noticing.
“I wanted to stop by and congratulate all of you on completing Future Success. I expect to see you on honor roll next year.”
“Okay,” I tell him, dead serious.
He smiles at me. “Nice to see you here, Marcos. Nice to see all of you here and not in my office.”
All done with the surprises, Breckner gets down to business. He tells us not to forget the study journals, the study methods, and everything else we learned.
The round metal clock shows one minute left of this class. One minute left of school.
I look at everybody in the room and wonder where will we all be after two more years of high school? You can’t know, but I think we going places.
Maybe optimism’s contagious and Breckner, infected like crazy, has given it to me. But what if the optimists got a point? You can take in all your life, the horrible stuff and the sometimes good, and hold on to just the good stuff. You can stay on a positive kick like Breckner, and like me, ’cause I been doing it for weeks, even with my busted-up face and worry over Obie and my grades.
I mean, if you don’t believe tomorrow or next month or next year’s gonna be better, you might feel stuck. And that feeling might keep you stuck.
“I expect to see you at the final ceremony,” Breckner says.
He told us about it last week, promised us it would be fun.
“If you’re not planning to come, I’d like to know your reason right now. Don’t worry if your family can’t make it. Your classmates and I will be there, and I’ll have a surprise for all of you.”
“Totally weird,” Amy whispers. “Totally called it.”
The last bell of the school year rings. “See you at the ceremony!”
Doors fly open. Kids shout and bang up the lockers out there. What are teachers gonna do?
When I step into the hall Ruben’s charging at me, giving that victory shout he usually saves for the court. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I can back up only a step before he slams me against the lockers.
“Yes!” I shout. “Now get up off me.”
He does and gives Amy a suave smile. “Sweet thang, you got a name or can I call you mine?”
“Hi, Ruben.”
“Hi, Amy.” Then, to Zach, “What’s good, man?”
Two worlds colliding. Two non-dorks coming from a dorky meeting and you got Ruben, straight outta a reggaeton music video, sunglasses and all. Then you got me. It should weird me out but it don’t.
“Hurry up,” Ruben tells me.
At least two fights are scheduled in the empty lot a few blocks away. The headliners are the two biggest guys in school, that linebacker with the forehead scar and Puerto Rican Mike, who I once saw do eight push-ups with one hand.
“I gotta take care of some stuff,” I say, and try not to look at Ruben.
“For real?” One eyebrow jumps. “Okay.”
Here come Art and Asha down the hall, holding hands as usual. For weeks they been a couple, have hung out during school, stayed seated at the cafeteria together when everybody else up and left, and smiling all lovestruck while the other talked. A couple so perfect even their names sorta match.
“Let’s go,” Art says, keeping his stride. “They ain’t gonna wait for us.”
“Hurry,” Asha tells us.
Ruben takes off with them.
Me, Amy, and Zach go the other way, through the madness, our first time seen in the halls together. Maybe next year we can do this, even hang during lunch.
The blinds are up in the principal’s office. I stop to check out the aquarium and see my favorite fish, the chubby red one. I count the others, fourteen in total, happy that they all made it through the semester too.
When we get outside, Amy asks, “What do you think Breckner’s surprise will be?”
I shrug. We turn to Zach for a theory but he’s as clueless as us. He says, “I’ll see you at the ceremony, but I want you to know I’m having a pool party for my birthday in August.”
“Cool,” Amy says. “I’m there.”
I picture her taking off her shirt and shorts to reveal a bikini, needing to apply sunblock, and handing me the tube to help her out.
“I’m all over that,” I tell Zach.
Zach hurries to find his grandma in the longer-than-usual line of cars pulling up. Me and Amy sit on the stairs, leg to leg, catching stares from people passing.
Except for quick chats in the halls, I haven’t really talked to her since the whole Obie thing went down. I tell her about it now and she takes it in with big eyes, head-nodding, and Oh-my-godding. At one point her cell plays a message-received jingle. It stays in her pocket.
“I’m glad you didn’t run away,” she says. “I woulda missed you.”
Saying that right here, us looking at each other eye to eye. What I want, more than ever, is to kiss her. But not in front of so many people.
Amy asks if I got any celebration planned.
“Nope.”
“Tonight we’re having a celebration dinner at home.” She makes a throw-up face. “My mom, stepdad, and me.”
I see skater kid pointing us out to his friends with his chin, the other two leaning in to whisper. Like I could hear them anyway. Get used to it! I wanna shout. Next year you’ll see us together every day!
Amy stretches her legs to the bottom step and crosses them at the ankles. “You ever think about what you’ll do when school’s all over?”
“Give it a rest, Mr. Breckner.”
“The future’s coming,” she says in a deep voice. “Okay, people? Whether you’re ready or not.”
She waves to her two metalhead friends passing by before saying, “I don’t mean work or anything about making money. I mean everything else, what life you want.”
“Right.”
“I wanna backpack across the country alone,” Amy says. “Just go wherever friendly drivers are heading, hop from town to town. Then do the same in Latin America.”
“Sounds cool.”
It don’t sound cool. Backpacking alone? Ain’t that dangerous? Why wouldn’t she wanna go with someone else?
“How about you?” she asks.
I gotta stall. What’s as cool and dangerous as hitchhiking? My real answer, what I’m forever daydreaming about, will sound boring and cheesy if I say it out loud. Super cheesy if I mention her.
My perfect future’s me and Amy living together, in a house surrounded by grass. It’s fun weekends, backyard barbecues, quiet weeknights of pizza and orange soda, nice walks in our neighborhood, either along a lake, river, or beach.
Sure, we can travel. We can go to Orlando or Miami, even farther if we got the cash, but home would be the best place ever. All them hours at work I’ll be looking forward to home and the girl I love.
“After high school I wanna go to college.”
“Me too. But what about after that?”
“I want a quiet life. At least for a while.”
And that makes me think of my home, how it is quiet now but still don’t seem totally normal.
Amy’s eyes are shut, her head resting on her shoulder. She’s snoring so loud that a kid pauses on a step to look at us.
“Ha ha,” I say. “I’m boring. I get it.”
Amy wheezes and smacks her tongue in her mouth a couple times like an old man waking up. Her eyes crack open. Then they close and she’s snoring even louder.
She wakes up for real when a kid calls her name. I turn around. He’s hovering over us, a kid in a Fall Out Boy tee and a funky blue cap. A lot of kids busted out their caps when the last bell rang. School is over—no more rules.
<
br /> I recognize him from the hangout spot behind the gym, where Amy and a dozen other kids chill during lunch. They like the Lost-and-Found Club, a bunch of kids who don’t fit anywhere else.
“Hey, Brandon,” she says, smiling too big. She’s damn near glowing at the guy. “This is Marcos,” she tells him.
He slaps hands with me and fist bumps, like he’s cool. He’s totally not cool. Then he takes the last of the steps down and stands in front of Amy, holding his hand out to her. She gives him her hand. After he lifts her up she barely has time to say “See you, Marcos” before they walk away.
29
FOR THE rest of the day and all night I’m hating that Brandon guy but mostly hating myself for not acting sooner. Me and Amy are closer than ever, and she never told me about him. They mighta just started kicking it. It’s possible that all I need to do is tell Amy how I feel and that guy’s history.
But I don’t have credit on my phone to call her.
At 8:03 p.m. I was thinking, I could go now but I better wait until tomorrow. During Jimmy Kimmel I was thinking, Nah, I shoulda done it today but now it’s too late. At 3:26 a.m. I got up to search the medicine shoe box under the bathroom sink for something to help me sleep and found nothing. If Obie was around, I woulda gone to see him in the middle of the night.
Now, with the red numbers on my alarm clock reading 7:13, I yank open the curtain, look up at the strip of sky between the two apartment buildings—purple streaked with pink light—and get the strength to do this.
I hop outta bed with so much energy you’d think I slept twenty hours instead of two.
I brush my teeth, pop a new white-tipped pimple, and wash my face. No messing with my hair. I rock my Heat cap. Leaving the apartment I hear no sound except for my kicks on the concrete, then crunching on the dry grass behind the building. My bike’s chained to the water pipe.
The sky has brightened though the sun’s still hiding. Somewhere a bird talks, tiny chirps in the morning hush. Early enough in the day Maesta’s a peaceful place.
I pedal away from it and into the easy traffic, the air warm and soft on my arms. I cut through the field of the high school, a speedier route that makes my legs work harder, pumping faster to get over the bumpy grass.