The Closest I've Come

by Fred Aceves

  By the time I turn into Amy’s parking lot the bike grips have gone sweaty in my hands. A lady drives her rumbling Oldsmobile out. Then everything’s dead silent.

  This is it. I like Amy, and I wanna let her know, once and for all.

  Under Amy’s bedroom, I see my reflection in the neighbor’s window. Something about my cap ain’t right. I straighten it. Great, now I’m a Boy Scout. When I pull the bill down lower I become a criminal. Since I didn’t come here to snatch Amy’s handbag I make the cap a little crooked again.

  I pick up the tiniest broken pieces of concrete and toss one at the window, count ten Mississippis, then toss another. I don’t wanna scare her.

  The parking lot’s half full. Old and banged-up cars line the building, and by the Dumpster a small Chevy truck left last century to rust.

  I choose a bigger pebble to clink against her window. Then I notice my reflection again. I realize what’s wrong. Something this serious needs a touch of class. Shoulda left the cap at home. I take it off now and watch my hair jump up in the window’s reflection. So I put it back on.

  A corner of the black curtain rises and then drops too quick. I wait for the front door to open.

  “Marcos?” Her normal voice sounds like a shout in this parking lot, and I think of her stepdad.

  She rushes down the stairs, no shoes or socks, just gray cut-off sweatpants and a big yellow tee. Her hair wild from sleep. She looks beautiful.

  “What’s going on?” She sounds panicked, like the time her mom went missing.

  “I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “You’re fine? What the hell?”

  The nerves hit for real. This ain’t the right moment. I’ve shown up crazy early and unannounced, like I’m doing a drug bust. But I can’t wuss out now that she’s up and annoyed and has just come down the stairs and is standing in front of me all What the hell?

  “I had to tell ya, Amy. It couldn’t wait.”

  “What is it?”

  I shed the fear, doubt, and creeping shyness—all that can hold me back from saying what’s gotta be said.

  “I think I love you.”

  “What?” She takes a step back like I showed her a dead baby. “Oh my God, Marcos, we’re friends.”

  I get that twisting in my gut.

  Keep calm, Marcos. You can fix this. Just explain things to her.

  I remind her of the stadium, of the talk we had, of the hospital visit. I list the times we’ve hung out since then—the studying at Zach’s and in the library, the times I’ve walked her home. “I feel like, connected with you, Amy. More than I do with anyone else.”

  Her eyes narrow more and more, like the sunlight’s hurting them. “We’re friends. Why can’t you see that?”

  The gut-twisting gets worse.

  “Go home, Marcos. This is crazy.”

  “It ain’t crazy.” I practically shout that. Please let her stepdad be a heavy sleeper.

  “It is! Dude, you woke up at dawn to come over and—”

  “Don’t call me dude.”

  “—tell me we should be together? That doesn’t seem crazy to you?”

  “Why you mad?”

  “Because this is . . . messed up, okay? Because . . .” Like the words are hard to get out. “I thought we were friends, you know? Real friends. I don’t have that with any girls. Then you come along super cool and I could tell you stuff and we connected—”

  “Yeah, I know, but—”

  “Let me finish. I thought we were becoming best friends. I haven’t had that since I was a tiny kid.”

  “We got that. But we ain’t gotta be just friends.”

  “This whole time you had this . . . what’s it called? This ulterior motive. This let’s-pretend-we’re-friends vibe while you secretly wanted it to be something else.”

  “It ain’t like that.”

  “What’s it like then?” She crosses her arms and waits patiently. She’s a lady on the beach with a margarita and two weeks of vacation.

  All I can do is repeat myself. “It ain’t like that.”

  Her eyes move skyward. “Fucking shit!”

  Loud enough to wake everybody up, but I ain’t scared! Come out here, Duck Dynasty! Get dealt with! Right now I’m Hulk strong. And I ain’t leaving until I fix this between me and Amy.

  Her head lowers. She’s looking at the bit of sidewalk between my shoes and her bare feet. “Why’s everything in my life bullshit? A fake family and fake friends.”

  Amy ain’t getting it. I gotta make her understand. “Listen, we can—”

  “Forget it, Marcos. Just . . . don’t.”

  Her face blank. Nothing to read there. She turns and goes up the steps.

  “Come on, Amy.” I hear it now. I’m pathetic.

  “Go home.” She don’t turn around. “I mean it. I don’t even wanna look at you.”

  She closes the door behind her and I stand here watching her bedroom window. As I wait for the black curtain to move, that familiar soft pinch gathers behind my eyes. I fight it. I’ll just wait for her. She’ll appear in the window. She’ll see me down here, change her mind, and come back down.

  A car cranks and drives outta the parking lot, leaving me alone again. I don’t know how long I stand here before the curtain ripples and a gray cat appear on the windowsill, rubbing its gray fur along the glass. It stops, one paw up when it sees me, and looks for a second before hopping off, disappearing.

  Like it’s disgusted with me too.

  30

  THE START of summer’s happening without me. I ain’t hanging out with my boys, ain’t balling on the court, ain’t biking around in search for what’s good. Instead I spend every minute at home, sitting or lying on the couch, with the TV volume low. I doze, eat when I remember, and thumb to another channel whenever I realize what I’m watching and it sucks. My days fill up this way.

  The sun’s nothing more than a skinny rectangle of light around the shut blinds. Once, on a late afternoon, I took a peek through them.

  Now I like to pretend everything out there’s on fire, buildings and cars and trees, the whole planet just huge flames licking the sky.

  After the first couple of days I heard knocks at the door. At least one of my boys wanted me on the court. I miss hanging with them but I can’t let them see me so sad. And I can’t say or do anything to hide the sadness.

  I wonder about the ceremony sometimes, what Breckner’s surprise was, if Amy was there, if she came dressed fancy. Did she miss me? Maybe she regrets everything and she wanted to tell me that at the Future Success ceremony. Maybe if I get online I’ll find messages from her about how . . .

  No, Marcos, she wants nothing to do with you.

  I miss her though, the way things was before I messed it all up. Hanging out with her as my friend was better than nothing. Actually, it was awesome.

  Now everything’s shit.

  I don’t wanna mope around the house like I got a killer flu, but I can’t do nothing else. If Obie was here, I might be able to talk all this outta me. Would I though?

  Maybe writing to him would help. Fuck. I ain’t checked my email since school let out. There was nothing from him then, but by now he musta written. I wonder what those emails say. I wonder what he feels when he logs in and finds nothing from me.

  Next time I leave the house, I’m heading to the library to send him the longest message ever.

  Hanging out with my mom didn’t last long. After the social worker called to say she wouldn’t be returning, my mom became more distant. Now she quick-chats me before taking a small bowl of rice, just plain white rice, to her bedroom. The more she drinks the less she eats.

  She says a few words when she comes home or before she leaves, but I don’t all the way trust them happy hellos and good-byes. Sorta how she talks to customers in the Walmart checkout line and how the smile, like the blue vest, is part of the job.

  She’s on her regular cranberry and vodka. Only comes out to hit the bathroom or hit th
e kitchen for a refill—the fridge door, then freezer door, sucking open and shut. The tiny plop of the single ice cube dropped in a full glass.

  I’m lost in the days, can’t tell if it’s Monday or Saturday. One day I tried doing exercise and quit after six push-ups. I’ve stopped giving a damn about the everyday rice and beans. Bread with or without jam’s all the same.

  Days pass this way, then weeks, maybe three or four.

  31

  I’M NAPPING on the couch on an extra-hot day when I hear the door open. For a few seconds the living room floods with sunlight as my mom heads out to work. Then the door clicks shut, everything gloomy again.

  I watch TV long enough to realize it’s a soap opera. The hairstyles and fake voices give it away. I look around for the remote. It’s out of sight, probably in the cushions, but I stay watching Days of Our Lives instead of looking for it.

  There’s a commercial for a denture adhesive. A commercial for a medical alert bracelet. One for a kitchen gadget that can be all mine for a special low price if I call right now.

  The products ain’t for me and I know why. Teenage boys ain’t supposed to be watching local TV during the day. I need cable, video games, or the internet.

  Basketball puts me in a better mood. If only I could make it out to the court. Then I remember my favorite DVD, the one that always cheers me up. I pop in a highlight reel of LeBron James. Even though he left Miami years ago, he’s still my guy.

  The best plays start with his high school years, already dunking at sixteen. Then it’s NBA LeBron, taking the older pros to school. Some plays get stretched out so you can check him out in slow motion, take in every detail of his moves. No choreography here, just the miracle of him handling the ball, twisting his body as he squeezes past two players, spins around others, how he takes flight to make a perfect dunk, doing it all so gracefully that I ain’t never going to the ballet.

  The video ends. Then the door opens and light bursts through again, leaves just as quickly.

  “Hi, honey.”

  So she wasn’t heading to work. It’s an off day. She’s got a bag from ABC Liquors.

  From the kitchen, the fridge sucking open, she says, “Eaten yet?”

  Like she cares.

  “Yeah.” I can’t remember if I ate though.

  The vodka.

  My busted-up Adidas.

  My thoughts ping-pong between them two things, and it’s making me mad. Worst of all is the darkness of this living room. Sure, it stays gloomy ’cause I keep the blinds down, but it’s pissing me off anyway. After the killing sadness of these weeks, I’m glad for a new feeling, even if it’s anger.

  Who gave me this mom? If I coulda interviewed women for the job, her mixed in with other moms, I never woulda chosen her.

  And is that the future me, locked away from the world? On second thought, is that me already?

  No way. This is temporary. I ain’t spent years like this. Might not even spend many more summer days this way.

  Minutes later my mom comes out with the empty glass in her hand, on her way to the kitchen to mix the second drink.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah, honey?”

  These last couple of months she’s been trying for normal and it’s starting to sound creepy. Maybe she acts sweet and cuddly ’cause her worried self thinks I might still rat her out to the social worker. Erica left me her card. That could explain all the changes that started in the hospital—the gentle voice, the touchy hands.

  I switch off the TV and turn to her. “How much money ya spend every month getting drunk?”

  She stops, one step shy of the kitchen. “Excuse me?”

  I get up and walk past her to the fridge. I grab the gallon jug of vodka from the top shelf and search it for a price. “How much is this stuff?”

  “Mind your own business,” she says, with the hard eyes and a voice I know from months ago. From all my life.

  I put the jug back and close the door, standing between her and the fridge. “Ya know I need sneakers and ya buying booze. It’s bullshit.”

  She sets down her glass so hard I’m surprised it don’t break. “You watch your mouth!”

  “Why? Your dipshit boyfriend never watched his. What’s wrong with ya anyway?”

  Her face switches to pure craziness, eyes brighter, her mouth a straight line. “Don’t talk to me that way! I’m your mother!”

  “Since when, Maria?” Can’t believe I used her real name. “You just the lady who pays the electric bill and sometimes buys groceries.”

  “Escúchame bien,” she begins, a finger in my face, ’cause it’s Spanish when she gets really angry.

  But I ain’t hearing it. “We supposed to be a family! Ain’t you sad in that stupid room? Don’t ya know that you ain’t gotta be lonely? That I’m here?”

  Her head turns away.

  “Don’t ya know that I love you? Don’t ya fucking see that?”

  “Watch your mouth!” She ain’t ever been able to stand cussing. “You need to calm down.”

  I can’t calm down. After years of holding it in and weeks of not talking at all, it’s bursting outta me. “I didn’t ask you to give birth to me, okay? Being alive wasn’t my idea! And it don’t matter that I was a mistake! I’m here now and ya gotta deal with it!”

  Bored as hell she asks, “What do you want from me?” You’d think I been lecturing her for hours.

  “For you to act like a mom! I want ya to care! I want ya to open the blinds when it’s sunny outside!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The blinds! They been down forever! You supposed to open them! And if I tell ya not to, that I prefer them down, you supposed to open them anyway! Why don’t ya ever open the goddamn fucking blinds?”

  “Don’t cuss at me!”

  “You’re like some alcoholic zombie walking back and forth to refill a glass.”

  That’s when she swings at me, an open palm coming at my face. I grab her wrist in midair. Hold it there between us. The more she tries to free herself the tighter I squeeze.

  I’m much stronger than her, I realize, but this ain’t about strength. I’m trying to get her to look at me. I want her to really see me for once in our lives. If she ain’t gonna love me, she’s gonna hate me. She’s gonna feel something.

  “Ya can’t hit me, ’cause I’m grown up,” I tell her. “That’s how dead ya been. Ya ain’t noticed.”

  “Let go of me.”

  I ain’t never seen her this angry. She’s getting stronger now, twisting her forearm and pulling. She tries kicking me but I swing her away from me.

  A cell phone rings, coming muffled from her room.

  Calls for her are usually one-minute chats, but these last weeks they been lasting longer. And she’s been talking lower than normal. Always in her room.

  Suddenly I’m thinking about Brian and the call on lasagna night, when I got out of the hospital.

  And what about the “No!” she screamed before I got knocked out cold? Was that panic really for me? Was she afraid I’d get hurt or afraid Brian would get in trouble?

  Still clutching her wrist I ask, “You talking to him?”

  “Who?” Her eyes tell me she knows who.

  I let go of her hand and bolt down the hall and into her bedroom. I lock the door behind me.

  “Outta my room, Marcos!”

  She pounds on the door. I go through the handbag on her bed, still hoping I’m wrong. On the fourth ring I snatch up the phone.

  I press answer and hold it to my ear. I wait, wrapped inside a silence so strong it might kill me.

  “This call will be recorded and monitored. I have a collect call from . . .” Then I hear his voice: “Brian.”

  I picture his mug shot, then the mustached face I know better, seeing it close-up and twisted angry. The words come. Dipshit. Spic. Bean nigger. The names he called me, either shouted from the armchair or said while he hovered over me. I feel them tearing me up inside all over again.

&
nbsp; The recording continues: “. . . an inmate at Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office.”

  I click off and the phone drops from my hand. The pounding on the door’s fading as the room blurs. The bed, the dresser, the closet, the TV, the curtained window, everything fuzzy.

  I see myself clearly though, for the first time in weeks, maybe the first time ever. The way anybody else might see me. Pathetic Marcos Rivas, needing something his mom can’t give him.

  After I wipe my eyes, the room snaps into focus. Again I’m hearing the door banging and rattling.

  “Open up, Marcos!”

  I do and shove past my mom, head straight to my own room, and lock myself in. The banging follows me, my own door rattling.

  “Honey, listen! People make mistakes! Brian just made a mistake!”

  Every pound on the door sucks oxygen from the room. I gotta get outta here fast, so I pop out the window screen.

  I bike to the entrance of Maesta without nobody seeing me and bust a left. My direction’s usually school, Brewster Park, the 7-Eleven, all the usual places, but I go left for some reason.

  I see a new mural tall as me and six yards wide on the front of a Maesta building. It’s the fireball-on-a-hook guy again.

  I don’t want to stop but I do. The colors pull me in, and I get lost in the swirls of blue and green.

  Again I feel like I know this painting, that it’s for me. Focusing on it, I finally see hands in there, trying to grab at me. It’s a painting of desperation. I stop being lonely for a moment, looking at it.

  Then I pedal at full speed, legs pumping like rabid dogs are chasing me, the wind swirling around me. I cross at red lights when the traffic lets me, and though my thighs and calves burn I try to keep up with the cars.

  After a bunch of weeks stuck inside I gotta get far from my house and can’t do it fast enough.

  Soon I’m on the corner of MLK, close to the hospital where I stayed and later got my stitches removed. The farthest south I’ve ever been. I keep riding, passing a Cuban hood where a tiny shopping center sells products in Spanish. A mercado advertises fruit and vegetables prices por libra.