by Matt Mendez
“Sorry. I thought you wanted to talk to me,” JD said.
“Weeks ago.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And I know you crashed your car,” she said, sitting on the corner of her bed. “That you’ve been out partying and acting crazy. I don’t know what to do with you.” She looked tired. Not from work but of JD, of his bullshit. “I’m glad you’re okay, mijo, but I’m . . . worried about the kind of person you’re turning out to be. You’re never here. You’re never with us. It’s like you’re a ghost. Like you’re dead to this family.”
JD took a step back. “That’s not true, Amá.” That wasn’t right. Was it?
“I think it is, mijo. We’ve all come together after what happened. We’ve all cried and been close. Everyone but you. Even your apá has shown remorse. But you, you still party. Still hang out with your friends, over us. You ignore your family. You wouldn’t even come and talk to me. Ignored me for weeks. ¿Por qué?”
JD moved beside her, wanting to be close, wanting to talk. But she kept going, not letting him answer. “You see all this stuff in this room? I can’t bring myself to touch any of it. I wanted your help, Juan Diego. To box this all up. To count on you. But I can’t. The family can’t.” Amá sat stiff and straight; her words, the expression on her face, were matter of fact. Her dark brown eyes lasered in on him.
“The family can count on me.” But JD knew the family really couldn’t. It wasn’t that he was a ghost, or couldn’t be counted on, but he now understood—as Amá tried to burn a hole through him with her eyes—that his family was the thing that was dead. And it had died long before he found the condoms. His family had been killed off by work, by hours of night shifts and side gigs. By everyday life. JD realized his little camera, his new desire to collect stories, could never keep up. The proof was on the walls of the house, in picture after missing picture.
“If I can count on you, then box up your apá’s stuff. He’s never putting another foot in this house again. You can do that for me. Right?”
JD’s phone erupted in his pocket, buzzing and static bass, indecipherable lyrics looping from inside his pants pocket.
“Ay Dios,” Amá said. “What is that?”
“It’s Run the Jewels. They’re my favorite.”
“Run the what? Never mind . . . Are you going to help me, be part of the family, or not?”
At any moment Juan would be at the front door. The call was probably him wanting to know how to drive stick and hoping to make the short distance between his grampá’s house and JD’s. JD needed to answer the phone. He needed to answer it even if it meant becoming a ghost to Amá. He could make it up to her. Make things right with Alma and Tomásito, too. JD answered the phone, and Amá reached over to the nightstand and snatched her purse, stuffing her keys and wallet inside before pushing past him, now not bothering to even look at him as she stormed from the room. The front door slammed behind her as she left for work.
Bullard. Shit. Not Juan. Shit. JD wasn’t sure how Bullard had gotten his number, but the recruiter was quick with the questions: How was it going? How was school? How’d the car thing go? Cops get involved? JD answered: eh, eh, junkyard, and nah. That’s when Bullard told him about the production journalist gig. Writing scripts, producing videos, telling stories. It was perfect and also rare—those kinds of jobs get snatched up quickly and never really open up in the first place. So they had to move quick. If JD could come down to the recruiting office and take a test, he could slide him right in. It was perfect.
• • •
“The truck looked like a cat about to puke.” JD was jerking his body back and forth, mimicking the halting way Juan had approached the house. “This motherfucker was driving with his chest pinned to the steering wheel.”
“I couldn’t move the seat back! Má is short,” Juan said. “Shit, I did the best I could.”
“Couldn’t . . . or didn’t know how?” Danny asked before chugging from his forty. JD was glad to see Danny acting like his normal self. Clowning. Laughing. This party wasn’t crazy like the last one. Instead, two couples hung out in the kitchen talking, and a pocket of people in the darkened living room watched a movie. Everyone else was in the backyard, maybe fifteen people total. JD only knew Juan and Danny, and now Roxanne—who had suddenly joined them. They stood by the same wall JD leapt the last time.
“I moved the seat just fine,” JD said, taking a sip from his bottle of water.
“I knocked whatever was blocking the piece-of-shit seat loose right before I got to your house. I heard it sliding around right before you got in,” Juan argued.
“Yeah, right,” JD said. “I didn’t hear shit.”
“You don’t have to be cool all the time, Juanito,” Danny said. “I already told my cousin whatta big loser you are. I told her not to let you hit it.”
Roxanne lifted her chin, like she was ready to fight. “I’m in charge of what I do, primo,” she said. “And we’re only texting right now, so relax. Besides, you can have that Juan, if you want.” She nodded toward JD.
“You mean Juan Diego?” Danny asked. “No one wants that Juan.”
“That seems to be true,” JD said, thinking he could call the air force recruiter in the morning. Schedule the test for when he got back. What harm woud it do?
They all laughed. Roxanne and Juan stood close to each other, their shoulders close enough to touch but not. Were sneaking each other lovey-dovey looks. They made JD want to barf. When they’d first met Roxanne, JD thought that maybe he had a shot with her. She was the kind of girl he was all about, smart and sarcastic, and he was sure they hated the exact same things. But as JD pulled out his camera and fixed the lens on Juan, he realized why he never had a chance: Juan would never be called a ghost. He didn’t fade into the background. Not the way JD always seemed to.
JD filmed across the backyard. It was evening going into night, the sun setting and the cloud-filled sky a blast of orange and purple. No one looked familiar until he spotted Melinda Camacho sitting alone in the corner of the yard. Melinda? It was . . . it was just the way he’d first seen her, years ago, the summers at his abuela’s, no one wanting to play with her, sitting alone. And, still, she looked banging, like she did that day at the bakery, and even though JD wanted to hate on her, what he wanted even more was a reason to talk to her.
“Stalk much?” Roxanne said.
“Not as much as I used to,” JD said, turning the camera to Roxanne. “It’s just so hard to find the time. You know?”
“You had the camera on her for like five minutes,” Roxanne said. “It was kinda creepy.”
“Who are you looking at?” Danny said, looking in Melinda’s direction.
“Nobody,” JD said, knowing he was about to be clowned. He wondered if leaping the backyard wall and running away again was an option. Juan would forgive him a second time, right? Humiliation was way worse than not seeing your father for the first and last time.
Juan punched JD in the arm. “No fucking way! Dude, it’s Melinda Camacho,” he whispered.
“You guys know her?” Roxanne said. “She’s, like, the class everything.”
“I thought you were the class everything,” Juan said.
“Roxanne’s the class fuckup,” Danny laughed. “She lives with me and wants to hook up with you, but quit changing the subject.”
“Shut up,” Roxanne said, scowling. “And this isn’t about me. How do you guys know her?”
“Her grandparents live next to my abuela,” JD explained. “And her fancy parents moved her back to the neighborhood to live with us poors and maybe teach us yoga.”
“Wow, you are a stalker,” Roxanne said.
“And don’t forget how you used to make out with her when you were, like, in sixth grade?” Danny teased. “I remember hearing all about it. Juan said you’ve been all in love with her since.”
“Eighth grade,” JD corrected as Danny and Roxanne laughed. Juan put his arm on JD’s shoulder. JD wasn’t “all
in love” with her, but yeah, he still thought of her—even though those thoughts were now turning bitter.
“Those two years make a big difference?” Juan joked. Danny and Roxanne laughed harder. Music came on from inside the house, some obscure EDM. Danny usually liked his music that way—unlistenable—but JD liked the mix of accordion and trumpet over hard basslines. It seemed ready to provide a soundtrack to what was coming: him being humiliated.
“I’m detail oriented,” JD said, keeping his camera rolling.
“I never wondered about that orientation,” Danny said with a smile.
“A gay joke, really?” Roxanne said. “No seas pendejo.” No one seemed to notice the camera was recording anymore. JD kept it going, determined not to miss any more moments—even if that moment sucked for him. He looked over at Melinda. And he realized for the first time that her old man had been right to keep her away. Look how JD had treated his mother, his sister. It was amazing how shitty he could be.
He focused the camera on Juan and Roxanne. They looked happy, like one day they could be a thing. Shit was turning around for Juan; JD was glad for that. He really was. Juan had passed his test. His ankle felt good, and if he balled out—no reason he wouldn’t—then he would get his ride at a junior college. Danny, like he’d been telling everyone all year, was already hooked up, his college paid for by his old man’s GI Bill benefits. But JD couldn’t hold that against him. Danny was smart and could actually graduate college. He was actually a good dude. JD kept filming. By this time next year, he was sure he wouldn’t see either of his two friends again. He’d be alone. He would lose his second family.
JD went to replay his footage on the camera, wanting to see what he’d just shot. The images were dark and grainy, the footage completely useless. Of course it was. JD turned the camera off. It didn’t matter. All around the party JD could see people who were, from a distance, just like him. Except soon they wouldn’t be. The stupid camera couldn’t capture these differences anyway, the differences that mattered, and even if there were a way to make the camera do a trick like that, he didn’t know it. He knew he was dreaming with filmmaking, and that kind of dream shit was for motherfuckers who came from money—not him. And soon the dream-having motherfuckers would disappear to college and not have to be happy or braggy about working something union with the city. They certainly wouldn’t get stuck as waitresses or cashiers or doing something in sales, which is just another way of saying cashier. And they definitely wouldn’t waste their bodies in construction or landscaping or as mechanics, not cleaning houses or hotels or chasing around kids that weren’t their own. Juan and Danny, as long as they didn’t fuck up along the way, could join them, but JD had no shot. Zip, zero, shit.
Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, he heard, “Hey, Juan Diego.” It was . . . Melinda. She had come over to stand next to Roxanne. “I thought I saw you over here.”
“What up,” JD said, immediately feeling like an asshole. “I was gonna say hi, but you looked busy.”
“Busy being all by herself?” Roxanne smirked. “You’re smooth, JD.”
Melinda smiled. A small and perfect smile. “Smoother than the bro who spent twenty minutes trying to hook up by quoting Will Ferrell movie lines. He was pretty drunk.”
“His movies aren’t that funny,” JD said seriously. “At least, not pick-up-girls funny.”
“Here we go,” Danny said. “JD is our group’s movie critic. He basically thinks the book or foreign version of any movie is better than any adaptation or remake. Even when he’s never read the book or seen the other version.”
Melinda laughed, studying JD. His stomach churned nervously.
“Is that true?”
“Mostly,” JD said with a shrug, trying to be cool. He couldn’t believe he was here, talking to Melinda, and he wondered what she was thinking. If she could tell his pants were slightly high-water or that his socks didn’t match. Did she think he was a hood rat? He looked at Danny and Juan; both grinning like idiots. Being around them always made him comfortable, but now they were making him nervous . . . more nervous.
“Who has time to watch two versions of every movie anyway?” Roxanne chimed in. “But Will Ferrell movies are funny.”
“Like, pick-up-girls funny?” Juan slipped his hand inside Roxanne’s. “I can quote those to you, like, all day.”
Roxanne playfully pulled her hand away. “Okay, maybe not that funny.”
“What kind of comedies do you like?” Melinda asked, turning to JD. “What’s your favorite?” Melinda was being cool, making small talk with a boy she used to know from the neighborhood. Giving herself something to do at a party that she probably found boring anyway. Still, JD couldn’t help but be psyched. He wouldn’t have been able to walk up to her and just start talking, and no way would he be able to sit at a party alone without feeling like a sucker, without wanting to leave. She had cojones, for sure. The only thing JD had going for him was that he was funny. Maybe.
“The Passion of the Christ,” JD deadpanned. “Hands down.”
“What the fuck?!” Danny yowled.
“Not everyone likes slapstick,” JD explained. “I get it. Plus, the end sets up for a sequel. Still, it’s not as over the top as Home Alone.” Melinda cupped both her hands around her mouth, and JD wasn’t sure if she was going to laugh or puke.
“That is the second most fucked-up thing to happen in this backyard,” Juan hooted.
Melinda had probably heard about the raid. Those kinds of stories spread through high school hallways like the flu. The nervousness in JD’s stomach now felt like miniature horses galloping in circles in his gut, corralled with nowhere to go. Who knew if cops raiding a high school party was even a bad thing to Melinda? Maybe blasphemy was the worst thing in the world to her, and he’d just blown his chance, like the Will Ferrell guy. Did making fun of a Mel Gibson movie even count as blasphemy?
“I thought Home Alone was preachy,” Melinda said, smiling.
“I watch that shit every Christmas,” Danny said, still laughing. “And that pinche Die Hard.”
At that the horses in JD’s belly clomped away, and for the first time in a long time JD didn’t feel on edge. Standing there with his friends, watching them laugh, he realized that he’d been feeling like shit almost all the time. Like shit could always turn bad. Shit at home, shit at school, shit on the way home from basketball games, shit while cruising with his boys, shit while at a party—shit going to shit all the fucking time. The only time JD wasn’t on guard was when he was making jokes.
“We gotta get going,” Juan said, pulling out his phone and checking the time. JD had, for a moment, forgotten about the trip. About everything.
“Where you guys going?” Melinda asked.
“They’re making a movie,” Danny said, nodding toward Juan. “Going to find this one’s long-lost death-row daddy.”
“Jesus,” Roxanne snapped at Danny. “Why do you always say the wrong thing? The most terrible thing you can think to say?”
“Because these are my boys,” Danny snapped back. “We get to be terrible.” Danny hopped over to JD and flung his arm around his neck. “Spielberg over here is gonna film that shit. If I’d known they were going today, I would never have thrown this party. I would be going with them. But I can’t leave all these fuckers in my house. They would destroy everything, and the Sarge would finally lose it on me.”
“I can’t believe you called me Spielberg,” JD said. “He hasn’t done anything good since he executive produced SeaQuest 2032.”
“That’s not true!” Melinda interrupted. “I thought his producing Real Steel was a brave choice.”
“I love you?” JD blurted out. What? Why? His head suddenly felt light and disconnected from his body, like a stray balloon drifting away from an outside birthday party—and probably toward power lines.
“Oh shit,” Danny said, laughing and letting go of JD. “Let’s turn this party into a wedding.”
“What?” JD yelped. Co
uld Melinda want to disappear as badly as he did? He hoped not. Hoped he hadn’t weirded her away before anything even started again. Because . . . was something . . . no. Moron. No. “Shit, Danny. Chill.”
“Where are you guys going?” Melinda said, acting as if dudes at parties told her they loved her all the time, not like he was a moron.
“We’re driving to Livingston, Texas. To the death-row facility. So Juan can meet his father,” JD explained. “We have to get going if we’re going to make the visiting hours.”
“That sounds intense,” Melinda said, her face full of concern. Then she seemed to wait for JD to say something else, but without any jokes, JD had nothing.
Juan and Roxanne huddled off by themselves; JD guessed they were saying their goodbyes. Danny slapped him across the back, their See ya. But now JD worried how he should say goodbye to Melinda. If he should offer a hug? A handshake? He never knew what the fuck to do in situations like these, so he did what he always did and shoved his hands inside his pockets along with his camera. He nodded at Melinda and Roxanne—who’d come back from hugging Juan—and walked off, feeling himself vanishing, like maybe he was a ghost. Juan ran up behind him.
“That went pretty well,” Juan said supportively. “Except for that awkward-as-fuck goodbye and the ‘I love you’ part.”
JD spat on the ground. “I’m pretty much a player.”
“With mad pegué.”
JD cranked the truck’s engine, which gave a couple of encouraging revs. He’d never been outside of El Paso, him sick his one chance to travel with his basketball team. And he didn’t think Juan had either. And for the first time JD wondered what everything would look like outside the city limits, once they were no longer in the desert. How different would the air be? The landscape? The look of the sky? Would he be able to breathe the difference or feel it somehow? Would he be different? Could he be?