by Fred Aceves
I notice a new mark on Amy’s sneakers. She’s added an E. It now reads I ♥ ME.
“I miss being little,” I tell Amy. “Though we didn’t have nothing figured out back then either, nobody expected us to.”
She does something really dope, the kind of amazingness I never thought possible. She puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “I feel you.”
Them three words, I decide, are my favorite of all time. They should be everybody else’s too. They strong enough to kill loneliness.
I tell her about home, the fakeness of the last two months, and how the truth came out this afternoon with a phone call. “I don’t trust her no more. But I’m over caring about it.”
Tough guy words, but they true for once, even if it hurts me to say them. I got no family. Not that I ever had much, just two ladies, my mom and her mom, who mostly ignored me.
I’m so beat that I lie down, the moist grass cooling my back. Amy also stretches out. We lie here, silent.
The world feels perfectly beautiful, and not only the grass down here or the stars in the black sky, them tiny specks of light, and the half-moon burning whitely, low and watching, but even the school buildings and fluorescent lights and all the power and phone lines stretched down the street, connecting houses and people, making electricity and communication possible.
Sure, ugliness prowls the world, always finds me somehow, but I don’t feel none of it now. And when I do, ’cause I will at some point, I’ll know I don’t deserve it. That it ain’t got nothing to do with me.
“What you got going on for tomorrow?” Amy asks.
I guess she wants to hang out. I’d like to but don’t know if that’s a good idea right away.
“Listen, I think I need some time to deal with other stuff. I need a month. Maybe more? Sometime this summer, I hope.”
Confusion on her face.
“I just wanna make sure I don’t think of ya in that other way. It’s dope kicking it with ya but it’s also a little weird right now and I don’t want it to be.”
A sudden wind knocks a rope of hair over her eye. When she tucks it behind an ear, and I think the beauty of her fingers doing that might kill me, I know I’m making the right choice to not see her for a while.
“I feel you,” she says.
33
I WAKE up sore as hell. Last night I collapsed on my bed, unable to move, but didn’t realize it’d be permanent or nothing. After wiggling my legs, sore from yesterday’s Tour de Tampa, I slide them over and get up all slow. That’s when I notice a type of package on my dresser. Also a slip of paper on top. At first I think it’s a shopping list, ’cause my mom sends me to the store to fetch groceries. But no. It’s a note, written in her loopy cursive.
Marcos,
I’m sorry you dont got the mom you deserv. I never had a good mom and dont no how to be one. It takes all I got to just deal with being me, and I dont like being me very much. Your old enogh to understand you wernt planned, and while your grandma said I might feel different when you was born, that hasent happened yet. Your also smart enogh to no is not your fault. So I wont try to tell you that I change or that I’ll start making good desishuns or anything like that. You just need to see me as a bad mom and forget it and I’ll keep making sure your taken care of in other ways. And I hope to have the money for your sneakers by the end of july. Also, this package came for you.
So there it is. All I been thinking about my mom on a piece of paper. I flip it over. There’s nothing else. What was I expecting? Love, Mom?
My whole life hoping and waiting. What a waste!
Enough, I tell myself. I crumple the note up and toss it into the trash. Enough.
The package is just a big white envelope, magazine thick. The top left corner reads Mr. Henry Breckner, with the school’s address. Could it be about what I missed at the Future Success ceremony? I rip into it to find a picture frame. Inside it there’s a certificate. It says Certificate of Awesomeness in big fancy letters and there’s my name, Marcos Rivas.
In smaller words it says, For completing the Future Success program and proving himself worthy of the nomination. For proving that he always had the fire in him. For being unstoppable.
That’s pretty cool. Dorky, yes, but cool. I can’t wait to hang it up.
There’s also a sheet of paper in the envelope. A handwritten note.
DEAR MARCOS,
I’M SORRY THAT YOU DIDN’T COME TO THE CEREMONY SO I COULD GIVE THIS TO YOU IN PERSON. THE SURPRISE WAS THAT A FEW TEACHERS AND MYSELF RAISED ENOUGH FOR PIZZA AND VIDEO GAMES AT MCALLY’S FAMILY FUN. IT WAS NICE FOR ALL OF US TO BE THERE TOGETHER. I FINALLY GOT TO KNOW MY STUDENTS A LITTLE, WHICH I ENJOYED, AND I HOPE THEY ENJOYED IT TOO.
ANYWAY, NEXT YEAR I’LL HAVE A NEW GROUP OF FS STUDENTS AND YOU’RE WELCOME TO COME AND VISIT ME ANY TIME YOU’D LIKE.
SINCERELY,
HENRY BRECKNER
Water’s spraying down on my head when I hear some sorta tapping. I tighten the shower knob off and listen. Today I ain’t ignoring nobody.
Tut-tut-tut, tat-tat. I know that knock and the voice that says, “Open up, bitch!”
I throw open the shower curtain and wrap the towel around my waist, don’t bother rinsing out my shampooed hair. Skin all slick and dripping, I rush to open the front door.
“Obie!”
I hug him. It ain’t no half-hug shoulder bump with a quick back slap back but the real deal, both arms around him.
Obie laughs. “You got me wet.”
I go rinse out my hair in the bathroom sink, dry off, and put on some shorts. Then hurry back to the living room.
He tells me he came by yesterday afternoon. At Art’s they kinda had a party, put money together to buy hot dogs, buns, and chips. Sucks I missed that.
I ask him about juvie.
“Mostly it was Ping-Pong and basketball.”
He tells me the cell was a room with a door and window he could open. He tells me that for the first weeks he didn’t have internet access.
“I finally wrote ya though,” he says. “A buncha times.”
“Sorry.” What else do I say? How can I explain I ain’t left the house in weeks?
I’ll just explain it. If I could talk about my heartbreak with Zach I can tell Obie, my best boy.
“I haven’t been . . . ”
Just then the door opens and in come Art and Jason. Art turns the armchair around and drops into it. Jason’s on the floor, forever his favorite seat. Though a little more than a year has gone by since Brian moved in, since my boys could kick it here, you’d think no time has passed at all.
Art turns to me. “Where ya been?”
An obvious first question. I ain’t come up with good excuses and now, on the spot, everybody eyeing me. I can’t even think up a bad excuse.
“Crazy, man,” I say. “I ain’t even trying to get into it right now. Wassup with you two?”
“We thinking about balling.”
“Kinda early,” I say, “but I’m in.”
Obie nods all hard. “My game’s tighter than ever. Get ready for the pain.”
Though I gotta put on a shirt, socks, and kicks, I don’t move just yet. I wanna hear about what I missed last night.
They tell me they balled as usual. Then, when Art’s mom went to work the late shift, they got together on his back porch, so many people hanging and listening to music they had to make two trips to the store for more soda and chips.
“Still can’t believe Tonya’s sister is pregnant,” Obie says.
Getting the news just now, I can’t believe it neither. The girl’s thirteen. Jason and Art nod, already cozy with the information.
They tell me about Joe. On Tuesday night, cops rolled up while he was with his boys, drinking Schlitz around the bumping Mazda, too drunk to cut out. Nobody knows what he got charged with.
Art gives me a wide-eyed look. “And Whiteboy ain’t told you.”
“That’s right,” Jason says. “Last week I’m at the corner, yo
u know, by the lot where we used to bat rotten oranges? I’m about to cross when two chicos run up on me. The one that looked familiar busts me in the kidney and jacks my bike.”
“They took your new Mongoose?”
“No, bitch, my Harley. What you think? It was ya boy from Asha’s party.”
Hardstare. I remember. I tell Jason I’m sorry.
He shrugs. “Ain’t your fault.”
My boys have been trying to track Hardstare down. When I mention that Asha’s cousin might know where to find him, Art gives it straight, like a TV news guy. Days after school ended, Asha ghosted him.
“What?”
“Yeah. Then yesterday I find out she’s with someone else.”
“Who?”
He shrugs. “Not a broke-ass nigga. Believe that.”
Sucks for Art. Asha was great, and I ain’t just talking the obvious reasons like how hot she is. We’d all been jealous of our boy.
I spent so much time hermitted in this house I might as well have been in juvie too.
Art’s really relaxed on that armchair, one of my favorite people right where an asshole used to sit. Jason, quiet as ever, is stretched out on the carpet, propped on his elbows. They came to drag me and Obie to the court and look at us here, still chilling, in no rush. Or maybe basketball was just a reason to stop by and talk without having to say Hi, I wanna talk.
Ruben comes through the door all happy like we called him over for breakfast. “I got big news, bitches.”
“Ya finally discovered your penis?” Art says. “That it ain’t just a pimple on your nutsack?”
“Ha ha. Check this out.”
“Hold it right there.” Jason puts his hand out like a traffic cop.
Ruben’s energy drops. “For what?”
“Just hold it right there.”
We laugh at that.
Since there’s always a reason Ruben gets amped, we wanna catch his excitement, but we also like to keep on edge like this, about to burst.
“Just listen.” He’s grinning from his own good news.
I fake confusion. “Ya mean right now?”
“Is that what ya want, Ruben?” Obie says all slow. “Ya want us to listen right now?”
“Fuck off.” Ruben gets quiet. After putting up with a few more jokes he begins. “So me and my cousins are swimming in their subdivision’s pool and this hot girl goes to chat up my cousin Elisa. I catch her checking me out and later ask Elisa to hook me up. Anyway, she just called to give me the number. Cuban girl, Sara’s her name.”
Obie turns to us. “Let’s think about this . . . Why would a girl give Ruben the Sex-God Cuban her number?”
“Probably a fake number,” Art points out.
And the joking shoves Ruben outta his storytelling again. Obie mentions a recent published study, that 97 percent of girls named Sara are lesbians.
“Ruben,” I say. “I don’t consider it big news that a Cuban lesbian gave you a fake number.”
He’s fed up now, turning red with rage. “Here I am trying to hook my boys up, but each one of ya can kiss my ass.”
He heads to the door mumbling, “Qué clase de comemierdas. This is the last time I—”
When we shout apologies he turns around smiling, unfazed. “So we texting and vibing with each other and she mentions she’s hitting the mall later with some friends, and I text back that me and my boys should meet up with them.” He’s beaming like someone just handed him a trophy.
“And?” Obie’s getting impatient.
“And she said yeah! We meeting some hotties today!”
We flip the hell out, game-show style, jumping and shouting our fool heads off. I rush Ruben and put him in a headlock. With them weights he lifts, he’s got no problem pushing me off, but here comes everybody to tackle him.
It feels like summer’s really started now.
34
IT’S STEAMY-BATHROOM hot, the high sun hating on us, not caring we got miles to go and shouldn’t get sweaty. We coasting over our own shadows, five guys on three bikes, taking turns pedaling each other.
Jason’s standing on my rear pegs, hands on my shoulders, his eyes all over the street. In these miles we covering he’s trying to spot one of the thieves or his bike.
We switch after another block and it’s me back here with the nice view. You notice the city more this way, when you ain’t gotta focus on not getting killed, on the cars zipping past, damn near grazing you.
At the mall entrance, after we chain our bikes, Obie breaks into his celebratory dance, the one you see on the basketball court. I get amped too. Amy and I are friends now, that’s cool. So now I can maybe meet a new girl who could like-like me, for real.
Ruben hits up Sara to check if they already waiting at the fountain.
Up ahead! Is that? Of course it fucking is. Art’s ex-girl sitting with some guy on a bench. A kid with crazy bank. The parents with bank, I mean. Even if that earring’s cubic zirconia, not diamond, and that chain gold plated, not solid, them red and white kicks tell you everything—an edition of Jordans so limited I ain’t ever seen them before.
Any second now Art will notice Asha and the new guy, there they are, closer all the time, the sweet couple too sophisticated for ice cream cones. They eating outta cups with miniature pink spoons. Asha sees us and lowers her head. I can feel Art noticing her. Something in the air changes.
“Keep walking,” I tell him, and make sure he does.
Picture that—us about to meet girls and we get arrested for stomping on a kid.
“Ain’t sweating it,” Art mutters as we move on.
Ruben pockets his cell. “Sara’s here with five friends,” he says, looking more at Art. “They waiting.”
We joke about Obie needing a girl badly after months without even looking at one.
But when we peep them up ahead, the two girls sitting on the fountain’s edge, the other four standing, I know it ain’t gonna happen.
The girls are pretty, two of them banging hot, but check out their clothes, the proud way they sit, the way they stand, the way one girl twirls her hair and the other holds her handbag, dangling from a forearm. They don’t carry themselves like Desiree and them. I can tell we ain’t got nothing real in common with these girls. Sara and her one friend clutching an iPhone are both Latinas, but the wrong kind.
The blonde with her legs crossed, the first to notice us, flinches like we jumped out from behind a bush. All of us understand, boys and girls, that this is a huge fuckup, that not a damn thing’s gonna happen. Except for Ruben who’s still smiling.
“Hey, Sara,” he says, leaning in for a traditional cheek kiss.
She takes a step back. Art turns away. It really is hard to watch.
They been texting so this is the first time she’s heard his ghetto voice. At the pool where she saw him he was just another boy in swim shorts. Now she understands who he really is.
“Hi there.” Her singy voice matches her summer dress and sparkly flip-flops but not her skin.
The seated girl looks at my shoe. Fuck! The tape’s poking out! I almost bend down to fix it but that’ll get more attention. She turns to her friend who also looks down at my shoes. They barely crack a smile. They saving this story for later, when they’ll wear themselves out from laughing.
Sara glances at her friends before speaking. “We’re going to some stores right now, okay?”
“Yeah!” the nearest friend says, coming alive. “We have to check out some sales!”
Sara turns away from Ruben. “See you around.”
“Hang on,” Ruben says.
But they take off, all six of them, designer flip-flops slapping the hard floor.
We in Foot Locker checking out the new kicks, the fitted caps, stuff we can’t buy.
Good thing we hanging around the mall for a while. Leaving right away woulda bummed me out even more.
Ruben’s scoping out the jerseys in the back. Art’s asking a worker if they got any free stuff, making Jason and Obi
e laugh.
Even after we visit a clothes store where the jeans cost three hundred dollars, and then head into the weird tech shop, I keep thinking back to them hot girls, the way they looked at us, at Art and Obie especially. Like we was dog shit they stepped in.
A man with a name tag necklace hurries over like we called him. Obie sets down the wireless headphones he was trying out.
“Where to now?” he asks.
Ruben shrugs. “Let’s go.”
So we heading out. I’m more than ready. Let’s delete this mall visit from our brains, the sooner the better. You can’t let that shit break you. It’s something I’ve learned. You gotta forget the mean laughs and stares, the heads turning away, all the hurt that comes your way, but there’s a problem: I suck at forgetting.
Hell, I’ll remember them girls in ten years, in fifty years. I’ll remember them when I’m laid up in my deathbed with tubes in me.
Walking through the mostly empty mall, past the fountain again, my boys still got the tall stride, but I know they won’t forget this neither.
I see through their faking.
We step into the bright afternoon, the humidity on us like we uncovered a pot of rice.
Ruben’s slump is worse than when we found out LeBron was leaving Miami. Something’s nudging me to talk. I did it yesterday with Zach and Amy, so why not here?
I watch Ruben unlock his bike and ask him, “Ya feeling okay, man?”
My other boys are watching too.
He turns to us, straightens, and when it seems he’s gonna say something, he don’t. Then, a second later, he does: “They walked away ’cause I’m short.”
None of us laugh. None of us call him gay or a pussy. Ruben just gave a confession and I respect him, the guts it took to say that.
I look Ruben straight in the eye. “It ain’t you, man. Girls like that don’t want guys like us.”
My boys nod right away.
Jason says, “We poor.”
“Whiteboy’s right,” Art says. “Imagine one of they dads opening the front door and finding a Maesta kid.”
Obie sets a hand on Ruben’s shoulder. “We can’t even afford to take them to the movies.”