Christina

by Leanne Davis

  “Why don’t you two come down for some breakfast?”

  Lindsey steps out and Christina starts to follow, but stops so suddenly, I almost run into her. She stares up at me, her lips pursed. “I’m not your cousin. I never have been and I never will be.”

  I hold her stare. She’s scowling and her red mouth is pouty. I finally reply softly, “I know.”

  Chapter Six

  ~Christina~

  MAX AND I HAVE had a few weird moments in our history, but lately, it seems to happen more frequently. There are just times I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking, or feeling, or what his innuendos are suggesting. To be honest, I’m far too naïve to totally figure out Max’s motives. I realize that. I just don’t know what is going on with us. There are moments I wonder if he doesn’t feel something more towards me. Something beyond the friendship and family… something that would motivate him to care about who I’m trying to sleep with that goes beyond his sudden belief I should be all pure and whatever.

  Things have remained odd and uncomfortable since the day I burst into his bedroom and kind of tried to hold him in his underwear. Okay, I guess I have to realize at some point, we are not thirteen anymore. He is a nineteen-year-old guy. And from the way he was raised, sometimes, I think he acts more like he’s ten years older than me instead of barely a year.

  Although I surprised him, he was visibly aroused and I’m convinced it was because of me. It kind of startles me, as well as intrigues me. But then, apparently, he has nasty sex. Meaningless, no-touching sex! I am shocked by that, I admit. I just didn’t know. Not a clue. I wonder and obsess now about whom he is having it with. When we’re at school, I keep watching the girls he hangs out with, or exchanges glances with, and I wonder, is it she?

  We share a ride to school. Always have. We trade off driving and sit together at lunch. My friends also surround us, but all of them just accept Max’s constant presence with me. Wherever I am, he’s not far away. He could try a little harder to make some friends beyond mine, but he never does. And even harder for me to understand is: he doesn’t care. I swear to God, he needs no one at all. Not even me. He likes Lindsey and Noah. I see the respect and care he shows them, and he tries to follow their wishes for those reasons. He likes my parents and my sisters too. He likes me. But does he need any of us? No, I don’t think he actually does. I think he’d be fine if he never met me. If I didn’t hang with him, he’d just sit there by himself; and I swear to God, he would not care in the least. I mean, who can be that self-satisfied or confident? Faced with high school peer pressure, and how mean that age can be to its own, especially ones who aren’t mainstream, or cool, or whatever, how can anyone be so okay and not care? But Max doesn’t. Then again, I know he suffered from a young age with his broken speech and stuttering. He worked hard to overcome it. But it’s something that sticks in his mind and as a rule kept him silent. It seems to still be a habit he can’t break.

  I admire him so much for what I can never be. Even though only a few weeks are left of school, for forever, I care what my peers think. I still worry. I still try to fit in and avoid doing anything to embarrass myself. I still care way too much about what everyone else thinks. I especially care about what Max thinks.

  Graduation finally arrives and it’s pretty epic to watch how everyone in our family goes crazy for Max graduating. Yeah, I’m graduating too, three-point-eight GPA, but it’s Max who everyone is so proud of. It’s Max who deserves the celebrity. He has a two-point-seven GPA and never joined any extracurricular activities. He won’t be going to college, of that I’m certain. But he’s graduating, which is something no one in his family has ever done before. Derek comes to celebrate it with us, staying at the Clarks’. My Uncle Noah’s family, including all his siblings, his parents, and their half dozen kids who are also Max’s cousins, and whom he treats as actual cousins, also come. When he walks across the stage, our entourage, including me, goes crazy. I mean, it’s pretty amazing. I cry and cheer as I stand up and make a spectacle of myself for Max, and for once, I just don’t care!

  Senior night, we spend together, of course, and it feels like some of the weird stuff over the last few weeks disappears for at least this one night. I’m glad, I can’t stand not getting along with Max. He’s pretty blasé regarding graduation. But I can see the interest in his dark eyes for the ceremony and the people in attendance. Max showing the slightest interest is tantamount to my jumping around and yelling with excitement. We are nothing alike. I used to think that we complemented each other so well. Of late? I’m not so sure.

  ~Max~

  Seeing Derek here is good. He has tears in his eyes when I walk up to him after graduation, still wearing my crimson cap and gown. He wants to pull me against him, I can feel it. I can always feel when people want to hug, or even squeeze my shoulder. He doesn’t, however. Jesus, all that I managed to do was show up almost every day and pull some crappy grades from a public high school, but people insist on congratulating me right and left. These situations are the worst for me. Until I came to Ellensburg, there was no occasion where I found myself surrounded by a big, loving group of individuals who called me their family. I was ignored for days, and not fed. I fended for myself. No one ever celebrated anything for me. Not even Derek. Not back then. Now? For the last five years, Derek has tried to make up for much of what he didn’t do. But I still hang back with him; I don’t fully trust him yet. After all, he left me. When he left Mom, he left me too, all alone, despite knowing the kind of shit I’d be living with. It wasn’t something I could easily forget. I think he knew it too, even if I never really said so. I didn’t often really say anything. Except to Christina. She was the one I actually tried pretty hard to give information to and the answers she wanted.

  But being surrounded by a gymnasium full of well wishers? No, never before I came to Ellensburg could this ever have been a possibility. And for everyone else, it is natural to hug and squeeze hands, or slap shoulders. And damn, if I don’t hate it. Detest it. I really don’t want anything to do with it.

  Meanwhile, Christina is nearly jumping up and down with excitement. She’s been hugged and kissed and smiled over with pride and excitement. She so appropriately thanks all the family members. Now, she is in front of me with our matching crimson caps and gowns. She is practically throwing herself at me. The thing is, she is excited for me, not herself. She wants more than anything, I know, to throw her arms around me in this mutual celebration. But she keeps her hands to herself and smiles, a huge wide grin that rises up to her twinkling eyes.

  “We did it!”

  I smile back. “Some better than others, honor roll.”

  She flaps her hand in the air like who cares? “It matters. You know why. You know, five years ago there was a huge chance you’d never see this day. Congratulations, Max.”

  Her tone ends with a seriousness that clashes with the noise of the gym and happy families, all hugging and sharing congratulations. “Thanks, Tiny. I mean it.”

  She is planning to leave for college in the fall, along with sixty percent of our classmates. Only thirty percent will ever graduate from that. I have a feeling Christina will be one of them. I still have no freaking idea what I am doing tomorrow, let alone, next week, next month, or next fall.

  Now? It is time to party. But Christina said we should go on the lame, school-sponsored senior trip, where chaperones watch our sneaky asses, and alcohol cannot be easily obtained. I agree to go because I’d rather be bored with her than be somewhere else having fun. Makes no sense, I know.

  Still, summer looms before us. The weather grows hotter and more inviting. Christina is spending the summer by working at her mom and Noah’s vet clinic.

  I sleep until noon for a week. I stay out late many nights after I ditch Christina at midnight or one in the morning. She still doesn’t quite comprehend my ability to hide my real life from her. Or anyone else, really. So it goes until Noah comes in and snatches my bedcovers off, flipping them away from me.
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br />   I sit up, completely groggy and confused. “What the hell?”

  “Get up. You’re not lazing around my house anymore.”

  I glare at Noah. “What? You’re kicking me out?”

  “No, it’s time you find something to do. We talked pretty long and hard about the hustling, and you still continue doing it.”

  I’d been careful to keep any bruises off my face and hands. How does he know? Noah glares me down. Yes, I’ve gone off to some fights. What do they expect? I like it. I love it, actually. And I’ve been bored as shit with nothing else on the horizon. My fault, sure, but here we are with Noah having had enough.

  “Get some damn clothes on. Wear something you can work out in.”

  I don’t often hear Noah sound so commanding, or rude. He’s usually pretty chill and lets me be. I hop to just because Noah is being kind of an ass. I am one, sure, but I try to stay pretty quiet about it. The less I say, the less people know what I think about.

  I throw on some shorts that skim my knees and a t-shirt with socks and tennis shoes. I stick a hat on backwards just to annoy Noah, since he hates that look. Then, I come downstairs finally, and slouch against the entryway opening where Noah is sitting. “What now?”

  “Now? We find you a fair fight.”

  I am shocked. I stare after Noah. What the hell is he talking about? He’s already heading to the garage and his car. I follow him, my apathetic, usually bored attitude being kind of sparked. What does he mean?

  We drive a about twenty miles out of town. There, Noah pulls into a one-story, long building that has a high roof. It’s metal and the few windows don’t really let me see what it is.

  “What is this place?”

  “A gym.”

  Gyms usually have all those lineups of bikes and treadmills in the windows. This is just a mostly empty parking lot and kind of blah building.

  Upon entering, it’s kind of dark. Gloomy. Toward the front, overhead lights are turned off, letting the milky daylight illuminate the way. Inside, I see a couple of rings set up. Boxing rings, I guess. There are punching bags along one side, and further back, weight machines. It’s not all that crowded. A woman, a hot woman, I might add, with fake tits the size of watermelons, comes up to us in a tight, Spandex outfit. Her muscles are as cut as any man’s. She could probably rip my head off. She’s a fake blond and young, and well, I’d like to touch her. That’s how spectacular she is. Still, Noah merely nods politely at her. Gotta love him. “How can I help you boys?”

  Noah is in his early fifties, hardly a boy. Still, no eye-rolling at her blatant and disingenuous flirting. “Hi, we’d like to see about getting a membership for him.”

  Her eyes light up at me. I let mine linger on hers. Noah knocks his shoulder into me. It startles me, but he retreats after a split second, so I don’t have time to get wigged out. “Don’t be such an obvious ass,” he mutters. I almost blush. Noah isn’t the kind of guy you want seeing you act like a typical guy. He’s not. He’s all gentleman and nice and awesome, and not a normal jerk like me.

  There’re all kinds of paperwork to fill out, and Noah brings out his credit card, despite my protest. Noah refuses to listen to my whining, saying, “You need something to do. This is it. Figure something out, Max. You don’t want to take the path I’d like you on. But you need to find one. So let’s start here. Learn to fight for real. Get some discipline. Get some damn morals and quit hustling.”

  I nod. He knows what I’ve been up to. “I don’t want to do it for a living.”

  “Well? What are you doing it for then? What else have you got to do? At least, this way, you can channel it somewhere healthy.”

  I glance around, unsure what the hell to do with myself. I’ve never formally worked out. I was young and just lucky to have a quick metabolism. I run a lot, or grab onto a doorframe to do pull-ups, or hang off whatever I can find. Somehow, I achieved some muscle tone. But this is like all formal and intense stuff. The few people I see in here at noon on a weekday are ripped from their chins to their big toes. They could crush me. Their punches alone make mine look like handshakes. I really have no idea what I am doing in there. Noah stands next to me.

  “Doesn’t look like what you do, huh?”

  Alternating my weight from one foot to the next, if anyone could make me feel shame, it is Noah, and his calm, even goodness. “No. Suppose not. So you want me to exercise or something?”

  “No, I want you to find a purpose. A way to express all that shit in your head. I have no idea what it is, but I know it’s there. I know you don’t want to talk about it. Talking is half your trigger.” Noah stopped to watch two grown men with bulging arms put on head gear and mouth guards. They kind of fist bumped in… what? Good sportsmanship? Before slipping into the ring. “And I was thinking that it might be a way for you to exorcise some of your… demons, shall we say?”

  I am burning up in a blush. Not real studly, no. But I didn’t think Noah knew me quite so well or understood what percolated under my silence. I try, and I think I succeed in appearing very calm and almost untouched by life. The thing is, I am not. It swirls around inside my guts, my heart, and my head, and really only comes out when I unleash my fury in a fight. It’s like a haze comes over me, a red haze of hate and anger, and all I want to do is decimate the person trying to hit me. Provoked or not, I lose all touch of reality until it all becomes basic and simple: me or him. And in that moment, I always choose me. Simplistic? Totally. Also a fulfilled fantasy as I am the one who instigates these fights. Most of my opponents don’t come looking for me. In fact, I’ve never fought because of anyone else’s instigation. Strange, huh? I’ve probably had more than a dozen different guys over my long and arduous journey through middle and high school say smack about me. Half the time, they say it right to my face. In front of Christina even… and never, not once, did I throw a punch. Never once, did I start anything. I put my head down and let it slide. I ignore it. I look like either a complete wimp, or I’m unable to comprehend English. I don’t fight when provoked. No. I prefer to find my own fight, later, against someone who hasn’t done anything to me. The pathology behind that is probably too complicated for a barely educated high school grad like me to comprehend. But that’s my pattern. Christina has been in more arguments while trying to defend me than I ever have.

  “I didn’t realize you got that.”

  “I get you, Max, even if you don’t get that I do.” Noah shrugs and a barely-there smile crosses his face. He doesn’t need me to acknowledge him. He doesn’t require affection, or any connection from me, he just gives it to me. Unlike Lindsey or Christina, he just lets me be and seems okay with that. Yet, I sense he loves me and accepts me, perhaps more than anyone else. Even Derek. For that strange reason, his silence only increases my respect for him. And having respect, I at least try to please him.

  “I can hang here. See what happens. But I can’t do it if you’re around.” I don’t fight in front of people I know. I can’t stand seeing the disappointment in their faces. They’re invariably shocked that I would do that, and think I must be so bloodthirsty to like that kind of shit.

  Noah steps back. “Understood.”

  “You trust me to stay?”

  “You’re nineteen. Let’s stop pretending that I have any control over you. I want what’s best for you. I’m just giving you an option. Do what you want with it, Max. Just know, either way, Lindsey and I will be there. No matter what. I’ll come back in two hours to pick you up, okay?”

  I nod. I never trust that. No one wants me. Why would strangers who took me by default be the only ones to feel unconditional love for me?

  Noah smiles and leaves. I turn back towards the rather dead and quiet gym. It doesn’t seem like much. I have no idea what to do; but finally walk towards a weight machine and pull on it. Too heavy. I lighten it and sit down to start bringing the bar down to the front of my chest. I break into a sweat pretty quickly. Letting the weights fall back down, I stand up and slide into the next sp
ot where I pull the weights behind my head, again lightening the load to where I can stand it.

  “You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” a voice says behind me. I glance up and find Hot Girl from reception standing in front of me. She has muscles growing on muscles. I shrug and finish the reps I’m doing. As if I have any freaking clue how many reps to do. Back in middle school, we had a weight lifting unit in P.E. and that was the extent of my training. I temporarily consider not answering, with the blank stare that inevitably makes most people think I don’t speak or understand English. My mom is full-blooded Mexican. She was born and raised along the Mexican border. Her parents were never citizens, only she was. She grew up in Southern California and ventured further north when she reached her early teens, looking for work. She found work, along with drugs, and eventually, my white dad. Or at least, he was supposed to be my dad. My skin is far darker than Derek’s, and we’ve often wondered if I were really even a Salazar. We know very little about our supposed dad. He didn’t exactly bond with us about our mom’s familial history. Like everything else in our youth, Derek and I don’t actually know anything for sure.

  My mom practiced prostitution and stealing along with all the other shit that goes bump in the night. The thing is: she never taught Derek or me any Spanish. She rarely spoke to us, in English or Spanish. I think she knew how to speak it. I have a few memories of her yelling at me in another language, but talking to me regularly enough that I’d learn to comprehend it? No. Didn’t happen. I think I was lucky to have learned some English.

  “Maybe I like to be,” I mutter as my breathing quickens. I wipe off the sweat on my brow.

  Hot Girl grins. “Pain? You like it with some pain involved?” She raises her eyebrows at me. Wow, she’s not subtle and I smile with appreciation. I like forwardness in girls. I don’t like to bother with games. I think… maybe. Maybe I would like sex with pain since I like to direct pain toward myself to express what’s inside me. “I like it when it’s not nice,” I purr lasciviously.