But What About Me?

by Marilyn Reynolds

  “Do you want to go to the mall with me and Morgan?” April says.

  “I can’t. I’ve got to study for the biology make-up. And calculus, too.”

  April makes a face at me. “You worry too much. Lighten up.”

  “I really want to be accepted to UC Davis in animal husbandry,” I remind her.

  “I’m glad I have low aspirations,” April says, putting the last bite of my grilled cheese sandwich in her mouth.

  On the way back to school April starts quoting talk show hosts.

  “Seventy-six percent of the girls in this survey said teenagers have sex because the boy wants it, not the girl. And most girls regret it later.”

  “Well, that leaves 24 percent with a different opinion,” I say.

  “Don’t go getting mathematical on me.”

  “You’re the one who started it with your talk show statistics.”

  “No, but don’t you think that’s true? Most girls just do it to please the guys?” April says.

  We pause at the hallway, where we have to go in separate directions to our lockers.

  “I don’t know about most girls,” I say.

  “I think I just wanted to make Wade happy. It wasn’t for me.”

  The first bell rings and we rush toward our lockers.

  “See you in Peer Counseling,” April says.

  I make my way past crowds of kids to try to get to my locker, which is in the middle of where the Asian kids hang out—Chinese, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Korean, Japanese, Thai—I can’t exactly tell the difference, I just know there is one. Like with me, everyone assumes because of my name and the way I look that I’m Mexican, but really, my dad’s family is from Colombia and my mom is a mix of a lot of things. Her mother is from Mexico, but my grampa’s only half Mexican and the other half German.

  One of the good things about Hamilton High is that most of the people here, students and teachers, judge you for who you are and not for your name or the color of your skin.

  When I was younger and still going to school overseas where my dad was stationed, a lot of the officers’ kids were white and sometimes they’d tease me—call me names like Erica Hairy Donut instead of Erica Arredondo, or once, when someone I thought was my friend got mad at me, she called me a dirty Mexican. I hate that stuff.

  My mom told me just to forget it. The little girl was ignorant and I should feel sorry for her. I couldn’t forget it though, and we were never really friends again. But Hamilton High has practically every kind of person you can imagine here, so no one really stands out as weird.

  I dump my books in my locker, except for my notebook, and go to class. I sit in the back, next to April. Brett sits down on the other side of April and whispers something to her, “Don’t tell anyone about my cousin. Okay?’’

  “Don’t worry.” April says, flashing me a look that says “Keep your mouth shut.”

  We have outside speakers two or three times a month in this class, and they’re usually really interesting. There was a group from the Gay and Lesbian Rights League last week, and a woman running for Congress the week before. We’ve had people from Alcoholics Anonymous, and a Jewish woman who survived Auschwitz.

  God. It’s one thing to know about Anne Frank, and to learn the historical facts of millions of concentration camp deaths, and it’s another to hear stories, face to face, from someone who’s been through it all.

  “AIDS again?” Colin says, reading the agenda on the chalkboard.

  He dumps his books on the desk in front of me and sits down.

  “Don’t you think enough is enough?” he asks. “AIDS prevention assemblies. AIDS awareness week in biology, AIDS talks in P.E. We get it, we get it.”

  “We want to be sure,” Woodsy says, walking past us to greet the speakers.

  Colin blushes and puts his head down on the desk. He’s got red hair and light, light skin, so it’s really obvious when he gets embarrassed, which is a lot of the time.

  Ms. Woods, Woodsy, introduces the four speakers from the AIDS Center, two men and two women. They each take turns telling their stories. It is unbelievably sad. One of the women, Alma, didn’t even know she was HIV positive until she was seven months pregnant. Her little girl, who is now five, has full-blown AIDS. The mother still doesn’t even have any symptoms.

  When I read in the newspaper about babies with AIDS, I always think the moms must be sluts and addicts who don’t care about anyone or anything. The moms deserve everything they get, but their innocent little babies shouldn’t have to pay.

  It makes me think. Alma’s one of the moms I would hate if I read about her in the paper, but to meet her and to hear her story, I see that she’s doing everything she possibly can for her daughter. And the way she got the virus was from her husband, who she never even suspected was running around with prostitutes, women and men, until she got the surprise results of a blood test.

  “You have to take care of yourselves,” she tells us. “Assume whoever you might be involved with carries the disease, and act accordingly.”

  “But my boyfriend and I have been together for two years,” Darlene says. “We’ve never even been with anyone else.”

  “My husband and I had been together for ten years,” Alma says. “I didn’t think he was with anyone else, either. Do you think your boyfriend would tell you if he got drunk at a party and had sex with someone he hardly even knew? Do you think that never happens?”

  “Not with my boyfriend,” Darlene says.

  “I hope not,” Alma says. “Of course there are people who are committed to one another and never stray. I thought I was in a marriage like that. You think you’re in a relationship like that. I was wrong, but I hope you’re right.”

  One of the men, Sam, is very tough looking—all buffed out, with tattoos on both arms. He talks about his former drug use, how it completely robbed him of his family and ten years of his life, and now that he’s clean, it’s still robbing him of life, because he’s HIV positive and beginning to see symptoms of AIDS. He demonstrates how to sterilize needles, pleading with us not to use drugs, but saying that if we are involved with drugs, we should at least take precautions against disease.

  “How can anyone do that to themselves?” April asks when Sam brings out the long hypodermic needle.

  I think of how my gramma has to give herself an injection of insulin every day. “I guess people get used to it if they do it often enough.” I say.

  After school I’m waiting at the bus stop, reading my English assignment. It’s this really weird story about a guy who wakes up in the morning to find he’s turned into a giant beetle overnight. Unbelievable. I don’t know where Ms. Lee comes up with this stuff. It’s by a famous writer, someone named Kafka, but it’s weird anyway.

  “Hey, Pups!”

  I look up from the story to see Danny leaning out the window of Alex’s old beat-up Honda Civic.

  “Want a ride?”

  “Sure.”

  I jump in the back seat, then lean forward and give Danny a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Hi, Erica,” Alex says. His skinny arm is resting lightly on the edge of the open window, his scraggly blond hair hanging over the back of the seat. He still doesn’t look like much, but I like Alex better than I did the first time I met him at the Humane Society. I thought he was a total jerk that day. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, he only seems like a jerk about half the time.

  “Thanks for giving me a ride,” I say. “The bus takes forever.”

  “No problem,” Alex says, turning and flashing a quick smile at me.

  “We have to make one fast stop on the way, then we’ll drop you at your house,” Danny says.

  “I’m kind of in a hurry,” I tell Danny. “I didn’t get much studying done last night,” I say with a sly smile.

  “You had better things to do,” he smiles back.

  “We heard this really sad story in Peer Counseling today,” I tell Danny and Alex. “This woman who didn’t even know she was HIV positiv
e . . .”

  “I’ve got enough on my mind. Don’t tell me any sad stories,” Danny says, before I even get to the part about the baby.

  Alex pulls up in front of Danny’s house.

  “This’ll only take a minute,” Danny says. “C’mon, you can help carry stuff.”

  I follow them to the front door. Danny takes out his key and turns it in the lock, but he can’t get the door open.

  “He’s got that special inside lock on,” Danny says. “Let’s go to

  the back.”

  “Look at your mom’s garden,” Alex says, indicating a weed-filled section of the yard that used to be a flower bed.

  I didn’t know Danny’s mom long, Irene her name was, but she loved flowers.

  “She’s turning over in her grave, man,” Alex says. “We should come clear this out and plant stuff.”

  Danny stands looking at the space where tulips and hollyhocks grew last spring. I stand next to him, holding his hand.

  “Shit,” he says, then turns and walks away.

  When we get to the back door, there’s a shiny new padlock securing it.

  “Bastard,” Danny says. “He’s locked me out of my own place!”

  “Why?” I ask.

  Alex goes back to his car for a screwdriver.

  “I don’t know. He got all pissed when he called Adult School yesterday and found out that I haven’t been attending.”

  “You haven’t?” I ask, surprised.

  “Oh, God, Pups. It’s just so boring.”

  “That’s why he locked you out?”

  “He tried to ground me because I’m not working and I’m not going to school. That’s not even legal! He can’t ground an adult.”

  “Hey,” Alex calls, waving a very long screwdriver.

  Together, Danny and Alex try to get the window open that leads to Danny’s bedroom. When that doesn’t work, they try all of the other windows. Finally they go back to Danny’s window. Danny takes the handle of the screwdriver and breaks the window, near the lock. He taps glass away, making an opening big enough for his hand, then reaches through, unlocks the window, and opens it. With a rag from the car they wipe the broken glass shards off the sill.

  “I’ll climb through,” Danny says. “I’ve had practice.” He gives me a big smile, then climbs through the window.

  “Here,” he says, starting to hand stuff out.

  Alex opens the Honda’s hatchback and we carry books and tapes, shirts, pants, underwear, shoes, a tennis racquet, a soccer ball, all kinds of stuff. It seems like there’s not room for one more thing when Danny hands out first one stereo speaker and then another. Alex laughs.

  “You think he’s pissed now, wait ’til he finds this missing.”

  “Shit. He never listens to music anyway. Besides, the speakers at your house are shot.”

  Danny has one foot over the window sill, climbing out, when two police cars pull into the driveway. Three policemen jump from the second car and crouch behind it, guns drawn.

  “Put your hands over your heads,” a voice from a bullhorn demands.

  “Fuck!” Alex says, raising his hands.

  I’m shaking so bad I can barely put my hands up, but somehow I manage. Danny starts to get out of the window.

  “FREEZE! Hands up,” the voice yells.

  Danny sits on the sill, his hands up.

  “I live here,” Danny yells.

  “Sure you do,” the voice says, all sarcastic.

  Chapter

  5

  “I can’t tell you how frightening it is to be summoned from a meeting for an emergency call from the police department!”

  We are sitting in the kitchen at the oak table, Rocky’s eyes wide with the experience of having been to the police station and seen her sister released from behind closed doors, like a criminal out on bail in a TV play.

  “I thought you or Rochelle had been in some horrible accident, or kidnapped, or Gramma’d been found dead . . .”

  “I’m sorry. Mom. It wasn’t my fault!”

  “You chose to help Danny and Alex break into a house. Whose fault was that?”

  “Mom, it wasn’t just any house. It was Danny’s house.”

  “No. It is not Danny’s house. It’s Danny’s father’s house.”

  “Well, Danny’s father locked him out. Alex’s mom said he could stay there, so he just went home to get his things. That’s all.”

  “Did you see a murderer when you were in jail?” Rocky asks.

  “This is not a joke, Rochelle!” Mom says.

  “I’m not joking,” Rochelle says.

  “If those Neighborhood Watch people would mind their own business . . .”

  “Erica! It is not the fault of Neighborhood Watch, or Danny’s father, or the police! What you were doing was wrong!”

  We’re silent long enough that Rocky gets bored and goes outside

  to play with Kitty.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Mom says. “You’ve always had so much common sense, but where Danny’s concerned, good sense takes a vacation.”

  “But Mom . . .”

  “Really, if Danny had taken you to kill his father, rather than just rob from him, would you have gone along with it?”

  “Mom! Danny took his own stuff!”

  “What about the stereo speakers?”

  “His dad doesn’t even listen to the stereo,” I say, knowing as soon as I’ve said it how lame it sounds.

  I pick up my books and go back to my bedroom, leaving Mom sitting at the table. I wonder if Danny and Alex are out yet. It was different for me because I’m only seventeen. A policewoman took me to the station and had me sit in the waiting room until my mom came. But Alex and Danny are considered adults. They were handcuffed and everything.

  As soon as Danny’s dad is notified of the situation, he should be able to clear everything up—if he wants to. But what if he decides to press charges?

  When I first got acquainted with Danny’s dad, he seemed like an ordinary dad, kind of quiet, but pleasant enough. It was fun to go to their house. Irene always had some project going, and as soon as anyone walked in the door she’d yell at them to come help her. Cooking, planting flowers, refinishing furniture, quilting, always something.

  Even if Mr. Lara didn’t always seem interested, he was never mean. I guess maybe he misses her as much as Danny does and they take it out on each other. I wish they could help each other out instead of making things worse. At least I hope Mr. Lara will help Danny and Alex get released from custody.

  “Erica?” Mom calls softly at my closed bedroom door.

  I open it, careful to avoid eye contact.

  “Why don’t you come have a bowl of soup with me and Rocky?

  You must be hungry.”

  I walk out to the kitchen and sit down at the table. Mom hands me a bowl of chicken soup, left over from last night, and puts toasted bagels and carrot sticks on the table.

  “I guess this will hold us until tomorrow. Something got in the way of my plan to go to the market after work,” Mom says with a sigh.

  Things start closing in on me, my mom’s sadness, the look of curiosity and confusion on Rochelle’s face as she sneaks glimpses of me over her soup bowl, the anxiety over not knowing what’s happening with Danny and Alex at the police station.

  “Give me your list, Mom. I’ll go to the market for you,” I say.

  She gives me a long look. “No, I don’t think I want you out driving around tonight.”

  I feel such a distance between us. My whole life my mom’s trusted me, and now she looks at me like I’m a stranger, and acts as if I can’t be trusted to go to the market.

  “Whatever,” I say, and go back to my room to study.

  Between outlining the biology chapter, section by section, and writing out note cards, and visualizing each process as it’s explained, I begin to understand a bit about prokaryotes and viruses. But all the time I’m working on biology, I’m also worrying about Danny. Images of po
lice brutality crowd out pictures of microfossils and I imagine Danny and Alex, on the floor of a cell, being brutally beaten—like I saw Rodney King being beaten on video tape in my social issues class.

  I call Alex’s number but there’s no answer. Then I call Danny’s house, but there’s no answer there, either. I even call the police station and ask if Danny Lara and Alex Kendall are still being held. They don’t give out any information. I knew that, but I had to try anyway.

  I set biology aside and open my literature textbook, finding where I left off in “Metamorphosis.” Poor Gregor Samsa, even though he’s turned into a beetle, his main worry is his job. That’s all his parents seem to care about, too, just that he can keep supporting them. His sister’s the only one who seems to really care about Gregor but even she’s so disgusted she can’t look at him.

  Gregor is in a kind of jail, too, where he can’t leave his room because he’s too frightening a sight to other people. He’s hurt, and no one even knows to help him. God. I hope Danny’s not hurt. I feel so helpless, just sitting here, waiting. Finally, around nine, the phone rings and it’s Danny.

  “What happened?” I ask him.

  “Alex’s mom got us released to her custody. My dad wouldn’t even bother to come to the station.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “Yeah, my one phone call. What a waste. He told me I got myself into the mess. I could just get myself out.”

  Is it my imagination, or are Danny’s words kind of slurry?

  “I’m a big boy now, my dad said. Then he started yelling at me about how I had to pay for the broken window—it’s got to be fixed right now ’cause he’s getting ready to sell the house. He told me that, while I was being held by the cops!”

  “He’s selling your house?”

  “Yeah. The house I grew up in, that the three of us fixed up all together. I’ll probably never, ever, even be inside that house again.” There’s a long pause and I think Danny is struggling for control. “And then he started in on how the stereo speakers got messed up when I disconnected them. ‘Thanks for your help, Dad,’ I told him, and then I hung up while he was still blab-blabbing away.”