The Universal Laws of Marco

by Carmen Rodrigues

  “Um.” She pauses to think back. “It’s been a few years, but wasn’t that you, Marco?”

  “No. When I told you, I said, ‘Here’s Diego’s idea.’ ”

  “Really?” Brenda says. “I guess I remembered it incorrectly.”

  “Check it,” I say to Mr. Grendel. “Customers would come in and pick up the recipe card, and they’d ask us about where various ingredients were located, and one day Diego said, ‘Why don’t we put this in, like, a box. Then people won’t have to ask us for it.’ And I thought that was a good idea, so I told Brenda what Diego had said. I called it, Diego’s Great Big Idea.”

  Brenda’s eyes glaze over for a second. When her focus returns, she looks at Mr. Grendel and says, “You know what? I remember that. I do.”

  “And,” I point out, “it was Diego who trained Alex.”

  Mr. Grendel cocks his head to one side and murmurs, “I like Alex.”

  “So”—I look at Brenda again—“why did you speak up for me?”

  Brenda shakes her head. “I don’t know. You’re a good employee too.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not better than Diego. I’m just a little more”—I inserted air quotes—“cleaned up.”

  “Appearance is important,” Mr. Grendel says.

  “So is talent. Appearances can be changed,” I say, and then I channel a bit of Sookie by adding, “And that’s not even addressing the cultural biases that determine what appearances are ‘desirable’ and what ‘cleaned up’ means. But no matter that for now. The point is, Diego made himself over to look more like me—way more ‘professional’ than me, in fact—but you’re still not seeing the talent. You guys are kinda obsessed with me.”

  Mr. Grendel laughs so hard he slaps his hand on his thigh. “You sure you don’t want to become a lawyer?”

  “I’ll be a lawyer for the universe,” I say with a smile.

  “I daresay you will be, Marco,” Mr. Grendel says. “I daresay.”

  Middle School

  30. FRAGMENTED AFTERMATH II

  WE WANDERED OUT TO THE parking lot ten minutes after the ambulance left. We found confusion, parents talking in clumps, officers taking statements, and in a corner was Diego with his arms around Jade.

  Jade was crying.

  And we knew as we walked over that something big had happened, something that would burst our small bubble of happiness, happiness that was already wrapped in the bittersweetness of impending heartbreak.

  But still, we pushed forward, picking up the pace with every step that brushed the ground. When Sally broke away to rush toward Jade, I stopped and looked around.

  Where was Pop? He wouldn’t leave. I knew that. If he said he’d wait for us, he wouldn’t leave.

  “Marco,” Diego called when I was still a few feet away. “Where were you? I’ve been texting you like mad.”

  “Have you seen Pop?”

  Jade buried her face deeper into Diego’s collar, the sobs growing louder. Sally patted her back. A female voice called out, “Diego? Diego?”

  “Mom!” Diego shouted, and Mrs. Sanchez pushed her way through the crowd until she pulled him and Jade—still clinging—into a tight embrace. Mrs. Sanchez looked at me. “Lo siento, Marco. Lo siento.”

  I scanned the crowd, panic rising. Then I pushed forward, trying to reach the cruiser, but the crowd was too thick, and all I could see were bits and pieces—the lights spinning, a man seated in the back seat of the car. I couldn’t see who, though. I shoved my way to the right and saw Pop’s borrowed car and a man in uniform bent down on his knees to inspect the front bumper.

  “Pop?” I shouted out. But there was no answer. “Pop!” I spun around, screaming his name again and again, trying to push through, but I was too small. I couldn’t make it.

  It was Diego who stopped me. He caught me by the arm and held on to me. “Bro,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That ambulance was for your dad.”

  • • •

  “Mom?”

  “Marco, he’s going to be all right. He’s in surgery, but the doctors think he’ll be okay.”

  “But, Mom.”

  “Oh, Marco, I know. I know. It’s okay. It’s okay. Hush. It’s okay. I know.”

  • • •

  Diego said, “Mr. Acosta showed up, and he was like, ‘I’ll drive Jade home.’ But dude was messed up. Eyes half down and wobbly as an octopus. You know how it is. Pops was like, ‘I got it. Go home. Sleep it off, man.’ And it was back and forth like that for a bit. But then Jade’s dad got hyped. All like, ‘That’s my daughter.’

  “Man, you couldn’t hear that inside?”

  • • •

  “Mom?”

  “It’s a little worse than the doctors thought, but he’ll get better. There’ll just need to be some . . . adjustments.”

  “But we’ll be okay?”

  “We’ll always be okay, Marco. I promise you.”

  • • •

  “I think they’re going to charge Jade’s mom with child endangerment and her dad with child abuse,” Sookie said. “Because Jade told them he’s been . . . hitting her. Did you know he was hitting her . . . ? My parents are going to try to help, because most of her family is in Antigua. But Mom says maybe we can register to become a foster family. . . . There’s a bunch of how-to videos on YouTube about becoming a foster family. I don’t think it will be too hard. . . . But did you know, Marco? About the hitting?”

  • • •

  “Marco, try not to think about that now,” Sally said.

  “No, because . . . it’s all I can think about. . . . You were right, and I should have told him . . . but I didn’t. . . . And he was stuck out there in that parking lot waiting for us. . . .”

  “Marco.”

  “I could’ve done better.”

  “We could’ve done better.”

  • • •

  “When Mr. Acosta grabbed Jade by the arm, your pops just went off and gave him a shove. And Mr. Acosta sucker punched your dad. One hit. But your pops fell—just bam!—right onto the bumper. Shit. I can’t believe it. Just one hit.”

  • • •

  “Can we sleep in here?”

  “You guys scared?”

  “Yeah, and Lito snores.”

  “And why does he have to sleep in Mamá and Papá’s room?”

  “He’s helping us out. Mom asked him to.”

  “But why can’t he sleep at his own place?”

  “Because we have to have a grown-up here at night.”

  “You’re grown up.”

  “Nope. I’m not.”

  “But you’re big.”

  “Bigger than you, yeah.”

  “But when’s Papá coming home? I miss him.”

  “I miss him too.”

  “Can I sleep in your bed?”

  “Me too.”

  “There’s not enough spac—hey. Hey, now. Okay, we’ll make space. Domingo, you sleep at the bottom and, Lil’ Jay, you sleep at the top with me. We’ll fit. Okay? Don’t worry. We all fit.”

  • • •

  “I don’t want to go tomorrow. I don’t want to live in North Carolina. I don’t want to leave you or here. . . .”

  “I don’t want you to go either.”

  “Then I won’t go.”

  “Good. Don’t go.”

  “But even if I do go, you won’t forget me?”

  “I will never forget you.”

  • • •

  There are moments when everything changes. You step over a threshold into a new world. All possibilities that were open before suddenly close. But that’s okay when you’ve chosen correctly, thoughtfully.

  But if you don’t choose thoughtfully, everything can change. You can jump the track into a parallel world, and the one you had before—the one with a pop who helps you dream up a future, tells you to accelerate, gives you hugs that are way too tight—that can disappear.

  What I’m trying to say is this: If I could go back in time and give myself one piece of
advice, it would be that life is fragile. Choose carefully.

  Senior Year

  31. SAY ANYTHING

  ON FRIDAY MORNING I GET up early, and with Pop’s old boom box and trench coat, I drive over to Diego’s. You might be saying, Marco, what does your pop know about that trench coat life?

  I’ll tell you.

  Back in the day, Pop loved grunge, and in that grunge-loving stage, he wore trench coats and combat boots and hair that was long and greasy.

  I know. Mom showed me a picture of it this morning.

  Inspiration, Diego might have said in better times.

  Packrat is what Mom said in current times, when she explained why that boom box and trench coat live in our house.

  Anyway, that’s how I roll up to Diego’s: trench coat on, boom box raised to the sky.

  If you don’t know where this is going, I’ll let our good friend Marta tell you.

  Marta: It’s a freaking scene from the eighties classic Say Anything.

  And the definition of a grand gesture, which might prove Diego right about our relationship being bromance goals.

  But whatevs.

  This wasn’t even my idea, to tell you the truth. This time when I woke up an hour early—again—and padded my way into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee—again—Pop was the one who found me. And he did what Mom did—wiped sleep from his eyes and sat down beside me. Then we both watched the sky lighten.

  Eventually, when the sky was layered with color, Pop said, “Marco, your mom is saying you might not go . . . to college.”

  “What?” Black liquid splattered the table. Pop didn’t notice. He just added, “But you can’t do that.”

  For the record, I am going to college. Maybe not Wayne. Maybe somewhere here. Maybe I’ll work at Grendel’s, not as an MIT, but as a dude who stocks shelves on the regular, forty hours a week. I didn’t tell him that, though. I just grabbed paper towels to wipe up the coffee.

  When I sat back down, I watched him watch the world outside. That first light hitting him bit by bit: the corners of his mouth, the lashes framing his eyes, and finally his whole face.

  “Hey, Pop,” I said. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured after a while. “You, your mom, Domingo, Lil’ Jay . . . all of it . . . I guess.”

  “What about all of it?”

  He smiled wider. “I’m thinking . . .” And then for a while he didn’t say anything. “It’s been, you know . . . unexpected . . . but good.”

  Hopefully this grand gesture would be unexpected but good too. I take one last look at the boom box. I hit play. A song blasts—not Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes,” if that’s what you’re thinking. Nineties grunge masters like Pop wouldn’t have something that sappy on cassette—or, at least, that’s what Mom said when she pulled the boom box from the closet.

  See, after the sun rose, my mom came into the kitchen and found Pop and me sitting there, holding hands. Okay, so Pop was holding my hand. He had grabbed it about a minute before Mom stepped into the room. But to be straight with you, I held on too.

  “So, two days in a row?” Mom said. “Getting those prom jitters?”

  And that’s when I told her and Pop—who just nodded—about my hard times with Diego. That’s what I called it, “hard times.”

  “So you fought over Grendel’s . . . ?” Mom asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think it was that so much as me just . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Your not telling him stuff?”

  “I guess.”

  “Because you didn’t think he was good enough for the job?”

  I look down, ashamed.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said, leaning over to rub my shoulder. “Sometimes we don’t see people for who they are now.” She chuckled. “Diego was kind of an idiot when you were in middle school, but he’s grown into a pretty solid young man.”

  I nod, because that was part of the big thing I was working out this morning. And the other big thing was coming to understand that maybe I had trouble seeing things as they are in the now and not tying it all back to the before, not slipping into those wormholes of the past. The past may have made us who we are, but the past was gone.

  Mom didn’t realize I was having internal epiphanies, so she continued wisely. “And friendship is built on trust. That’s a saying for a reason. Come to think of it, everything is built on trust.”

  Finally, Pop spoke. “You can’t break his . . . trust. He’s a good . . . friend. He’s always there for you . . . for all of us.”

  “I know, Pop.”

  “Maybe a grand gesture?” Mom said jokingly.

  And that’s how I ended up here, a boom box hoisted over my head, the speakers blasting “All Apologies” by Nirvana.

  The neighborhood comes to life. Heads creep out of doorways. Old ladies yell to, “Cut it out!” and “Cállate.” I’m cursed out in English, Spanish, and Creole before Diego comes out of his tiny house to stand in his tiny yard. He stares at me while I hoist the boom box up to the sky and, with one agile finger, turn up the volume.

  “This isn’t even the scene. The scene—probably the most iconic scene of the eighties—is romantic. Romantic!” he shouts. Then he glances at his neighbors filing out of their houses.

  I can see him thinking, This isn’t the scene, but it is a scene. And Diego hates scenes, especially after the “big scene of July 5, 2015.” That’s the day the police came for his dad.

  So maybe this boom box over my head is a misstep? Maybe I should have given it more thought? At the same time, he’s talking to me. Okay, shouting at me. But we’re in it. We’re communicating.

  And wasn’t it Diego who said that I needed to earn my PhD in communication?

  So, this is me, getting my PhD.

  Neighbors start to yell to “Shut the eff up” and that I was a piece of “come mierda” and other words that Diego’s church-going mom would not like. Diego, though, is ranting about how I’ve “ruined” Say Anything for him. How it’s not enough to try to steal Grendel’s from him, I have to steal this too. How I even got the song wrong. “Who gets the song wrong?”

  “It’s a gesture. A grand gesture!” I get out before Diego snags my shirt. I manage to slip away.

  “Bro, you’re being such a douche bag right now!”

  “You’re the douche bag!” I shout back. “Accept my apology!”

  “That’s an apology?”

  He tackles me to the ground. My bad karma comes at me as stabby twigs and skin-shredding greenery. By the time I hit the grass, I’m bleeding. But in some ways my tumble into the bushes is a blessing because the boom box doesn’t crash onto us—it gets tangled in the spindly leaves. Nirvana continues to blare as Diego pins me to the earth.

  “It wasn’t cool.” His arm cuts across my chest; his knee digs into my hip.

  I twist and turn, trying to right myself, but Diego is twice as wide and three times as muscular. “I was trying to . . . grand gesture . . .” Somehow I manage to flip him onto his back.

  “Tell me something new!” He grunts from beneath me. We glare at each other. The music suddenly stops. Above us is a shadow. The shadow of an older woman, Ms. Debois. Her finger is on the stop button. “You boys are going to wake my Georgie.” Georgie is her geriatric partner, known for her bulky hearing aids. A bomb could drop on the neighborhood and Geriatric Georgie would snore right through it.

  “We’re sorry,” we both mutter, because that’s how our moms raised us.

  After Ms. Debois shuffles off, Diego pushes me away. “If my mom weren’t at work, she’d get my dad’s belt from the closet and whoop you up and down the street for this nonsense.”

  I stand, brushing dirt from my pants. I pull the boom box from the bushes and use the sturdy box as a seat. “I’m sorry.”

  Diego sits on the grass, knees tented, trying to catch his breath. “Not good enough.”

  “What would be good enough?”


  He glances around his yard, the neighbors still crowding the fence. “We’re done,” he shouts. “We’ll quiet down!”

  “Little shits,” a woman from across the street mutters, clutching her chest as she walks away.

  “You should go door to door and tell them you’re sorry!” Diego snaps, flopping onto his back. He stares at the sky, one hand protecting his eyes from the sun.

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” he parrots.

  “Diego, come on. I should have told you the first time Mr. Grendel approached me. Okay? You’re right. I should have been honest.”

  “But you weren’t because you don’t think I’m good enough for the job.”

  “You are, though.”

  “But you didn’t think that, right?”

  “I thought . . . I thought . . . I saw you, how you . . . the way you were, the way you used to be when we were young. I didn’t see how you are now.”

  “You know what I think?” Diego gives me that hard stare again. “We both lost our dads that summer, but all you see is what you lost. But I had to grow up too and figure out all this manhood shit alone.”

  “You’ve done a pretty good job. Way better than I’m doing.”

  “You know what else I think?” Diego says after a while. “I think you’re scared.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I’m scared. I’m scared to leave Pop like he is. Scared to leave Mom alone with everything on her. Scared that the boys are gonna end up in juvie. I think those are pretty good reasons to be scared.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Diego says. “But your mom’s not alone. Neither is Pop or the boys. They’ve got Lito, me, Old Mrs. B, Jade, Sookie.” He pauses. “No. I think you’re scared to leave Seagrove, find out who you are out there.”

  “What?” I chuckle at Diego trying to drop some deep knowledge on me. “That’s not it.”

  Diego stands. “Yeah? So . . . who are you if you’re not taking care of Pop and your family? Who are you if you’re not being all model friend to me and Jade and Sookie? Who are you if you’re not mowing Old Mrs. B’s lawn or fixing her mailbox? Or being Erika’s boyfriend, even if you don’t love the girl.”

  “What’s Erika got to do with this? You don’t know how I feel.”