Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  Special ed, the poor kid.

  It was Zack’s fault. The accident.

  He punched the truck’s stereo and Waylon Jennings’s voice filled the air. Reflexively, he closed the truck’s windows before cranking up the volume.

  Zack never felt comfortable playing country music with the windows down when driving through the streets of Santa Monica, as if he everyone he passed would immediately think, Hick, redneck, racist, and think to blame him for the president and everything else wrong with the country right now. That was how this city made him feel: as if he were playing defense at all times, protecting his dignity from all the rich, smug liberals ready to brand him as another white guy whose privilege had been handed to him on a silver platter. He could feel it in their eyes, whenever the subject of The Donald or immigration or Me Too came up. If he didn’t jump right in and agree with them that everyone white and male was a spoiled misogynist, that women who claimed to be victims were always telling the truth, that “people of color” were in a state of permanent persecution, that illegal immigrants deserved the utmost compassion and to be exempted from the rules, that the president was an evil sociopath, then Zack himself was clearly an asshole, one of the “deplorables” responsible for flushing the great U-S-of-A down the toilet.

  Well, Zack thought, braking to swing onto the leafy residential street that led to Andres’s school, he had news for all those frowning, judging, Prius-driving, Clinton-loving, white-male-hating people who frowned at him daily in Santa Monica: he wasn’t even white. And he could guarantee them he’d personally done more to help immigrants than any of those pretty white women gazing tearfully at Instagram images of Mexican toddlers at the border. Yes, he’d made a huge mistake. But before the accident, he’d been a model uncle to Andres, and had been bleeding cash into Lettie’s floorboards even before he truly owed it to her. Despite this, Lettie’s texts were more and more desperate. Like her latest text, begging for a sky-high sum of money, over seven grand, claiming she needed it in the next two weeks or she’d almost definitely be deported:

  Deportation

  Zack reached the school and parked alongside the play yard with its blue-and-yellow climbing structure and spongy reddish surface—God forbid the precious children of Santa Monica skin their knees on a regular old blacktop. But he was glad Andres got to go to John Wayne Elementary, with its cheerful yellow buildings intersected by sunny breezeways with colorful murals painted on them. He was grateful for the big, grassy field with handball courts (not that Andres would be playing sports anytime soon, but still), and the landscaping and the vegetable garden, and even the “peace wall,” where the kids hung strings of concentric paper circles with sappy messages written on them.

  Andres deserved all of this, Zack thought, as he showed his ID to the receptionist and signed in, feeling the eyes of the other admins seated at desks behind her assessing him.

  “Room 403,” said the receptionist, a woman with florid cheeks and the double chin of someone on the fast track to heart disease. “Right next to the library,” she said. “I think they’ve already gotten started.” She handed Zack his guest pass. On it she’d printed Zacarias. He felt a flash of anger at her, as if she were letting him know she was aligned with Lettie, even though she’d simply transcribed the name on his driver’s license.

  Get some exercise, he wanted to snap at her. Have some respect for yourself.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, and slapped the name tag onto his T-shirt.

  He strode down the breezeway toward the library. The door to room 403 was cracked open. Zack rapped on it and walked in without waiting to find Andres sitting in a chair in a small circle with three adults Zack vaguely recognized: a young black woman who was some sort of kids-with-problems expert; the vice principal, a guy in his thirties who was already balding with a paunch; and Andres’s teacher, Ms. Redding, a hippie-ish type with long graying hair and ugly sandals. Andres adored her.

  “Tío!” Andres called, with obvious delight, from a chair in the middle of the room, his face lighting up.

  At the sight of his nephew, wearing the glasses Zack had gotten for him and a too-big Pokémon T-shirt, his hair gelled to one side with the cheap gunk Zack despised—a favorite with Mexican moms, but at least Lettie was bothering to groom him—Zack felt the negativity leave his body, replaced by a rush of love that hit him right in the back of his throat, making him feel he might tear up. He swallowed hard and grinned at the boy.

  “Hey there, little man.”

  “Can you sit next to me?”

  “You got it.”

  Zack squeezed his way into the circle and took the kid-sized chair next to Andres, noticing Andres’s little metal cane propped against it. The good feeling in Zack’s chest wilted.

  The vice principal cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Mr. . . . ah.” He squinted at Zack’s name tag. “Zacarias.” He rolled the R carefully—as if to say, Zack supposed, See, I respect your culture!

  “Just Zack.”

  “Sorry, Zack. I’m Lee Waldron, vice principal, and this is Ms. Gates”—he gestured to the black woman—“director of our special ed program, and of course”—he opened his hand toward Andres’s teacher—“you know Ms. Redding.”

  “We’ve all met before, actually,” said Zack. “Several times.”

  “We’re running a little behind, so we’ll need to do this a little more quickly than usual.”

  “Sorry about that. I got here as fast as I could,” said Zack.

  The vice principal glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not a problem. We’ll chat with Andres here for a few minutes, then send him on his way, so that the four of us can discuss some options.”

  The black woman—Ms. Gates—jumped in. “Let me just start by saying how proud I am of Andres. He’s doing an incredible job in kindergarten this year.”

  “Well, he ought to be, right?” said Zack. “Since it’s the second time around?”

  Andres’s teacher gave him a withering look.

  “Every child has his or her own individual pace,” said Ms. Gates. “Last year at this time, Andres was challenged by participating in class activities. Now he’s engaged in the classroom and communicating with his peers.”

  “He’s a smart little guy,” said Zack, ruffling Andres’s crusty hair. Andres ducked but flashed Zack a grin.

  “Having said that,” Ms. Gates went on, “there are a number of standards that still need to be met in order for Andres to continue on his current track.”

  “Meaning?” asked Zack.

  “It’s only October,” said Ms. Redding. “So, there’s plenty of time for catch-up. That’s why we wanted to meet with Andres’s . . . family. So that we can put measures in place to guarantee his success, and ensure there’s a spot for him here at John Wayne.”

  “Where else would he go?” said Zack.

  Ms. Redding turned to Andres. “Sweetie, you like it here at school, right?”

  Andres shrugged.

  “Words, please,” said Ms. Redding.

  Andres muttered something, pulling at his shirt.

  “Clearly, please,” said Ms. Redding.

  “No,” said Andres. “I hate school.”

  “You don’t hate school, little man,” said Zack.

  “Of course you don’t, Andres,” Ms. Redding said brightly. “I see you having fun every day. What about our counting songs? What about playing with Julian and Ileana?”

  Other Mexican kids, thought Zack.

  “Tío,” said Andres to Zack, ignoring his teacher. “Can we go home now?”

  “No, buddy,” said Zack, cringing. “It’s still time to be at school.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “No.” Zack tried to keep his voice gentle.

  “I want to go home. My leg hurts,” Andres whined.

  “Buddy, come on.”

  “Take me home!” Andres writhed in his seat.

  “Andres, knock it off, right now!” Rage at Lettie spread through Zack. She
should be here, dealing with her son. Like any half-decent mother. Instead of slapping this meeting onto him so she could fold rich women’s laundry.

  “It’s okay,” said Ms. Redding, leaving her chair to kneel on the rug in front of Andres. She put one hand on either of his shoulders and massaged them gently. “Shhh. Sweetie, sweetie. There’s no need to yell. We’re all your friends here. We respect your feelings.” She continued to rub his shoulders and make soothing noises.

  Andres quieted, his little body relaxing back into his chair. Did Zack detect a smug look from Redding? See, this is how it’s done. He felt like stomping her Birkenstocked foot.

  The vice principal cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can let Ms. Redding and Andres get back to class now.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Ms. Redding. She helped Andres to his feet and helped him maneuver his cane into the proper position. Zack could hardly watch.

  “I’ll see you later, buddy, okay? Right after school.”

  Andres didn’t answer. He hung his head and did not look up. Feeling desperate, Zack held out his palm for a high five. Andres stared at it for a moment, then weakly tapped his hand to Zack’s.

  “After school, okay, little man?”

  “Okay,” mumbled Andres, and let Ms. Redding usher him out of the room.

  Zack swallowed hard and ran his fingers through his hair, which was damp with sweat.

  When the door closed behind them, Ms. Gates turned to Zack. “I’m sorry Andres got upset,” she said. “But it was actually a perfect example of why we called this meeting.”

  The vice principal nodded his balding head. “Andres has had a lot of outbursts lately.”

  “He’s exhibiting frequent loss of self-control in the classroom,” said Ms. Gates.

  “Well, isn’t that the school’s job?” said Zack. “To teach him self-control.”

  “To an extent, yes,” said Waldron.

  “But our feeling is that Andres requires a good deal of additional attention, designed for his particular needs,” said Ms. Gates. “That may be outside the bandwidth of the special ed resources here at John Wayne.”

  “Bandwidth?” said Zack.

  “We don’t want to make any premature moves,” said Ms. Gates. “But we just wanted to put it on your radar that if Andres doesn’t make significant progress in a number of areas in kindergarten this year, we’ll likely recommend he transfer over to Newton next year.”

  “What’s Newton?” said Zack.

  The vice principal gave a dry cough. “It’s a dedicated special-needs school right here in Santa Monica,” he said. “A place that could give Andres all the support his situation requires.”

  His situation.

  Zack felt an invisible fist punch him straight in the gut.

  “And. And what”—he fought to access his own voice, to keep it together—“what if we want him to stay here, at a—a normal school?”

  “We don’t classify schools as ‘normal’ or otherwise,” said Ms. Gates quickly. “Newton is simply designed to meet Andres’s needs in an appropriate way that John Wayne isn’t. There, he could get a whole host of therapies in the classroom.” She counted with her fingers, pointing them toward Zack, as if he were the kindergartner. “Speech. Occupational. Play therapy. In addition to the physical therapy he already receives.”

  What kind of world were these kids growing up in, Zack thought, where a kid needs help to simply play?

  “He doesn’t need all that crap. All he needs is to strengthen his leg and keep learning. All he needs are better language skills and some confidence. Which you guys”—Zack panned his hands toward Waldron and Gates—“are clearly failing to provide him with.”

  “Andres has made enormous progress here at Wayne, actually.” Ms. Gates said sharply, “We care a great deal about him. And it’s my professional opinion that he would be much better off at Newton. Unless you and Andres’s mother are prepared to address his needs through private services, that is. Which would be very . . .” She paused. “Costly.”

  Oh. Of course. So, this was really a conversation about money. Why hadn’t Zack realized it sooner? Waldron and his sidekicks had assumed that Andres’s family couldn’t possibly afford private services, and that they were probably too dumb to realize he needed them. Therefore, they wanted to boot him to some other school, for handicapped kids, where he’d probably learn to see himself as “different” for the rest of his life.

  No way in hell would Zack let that happen. He stood up, nearly knocking his mini-chair over.

  “You know what?” he said, hearing the venom in his own voice but unable to control himself. “I feel sorry for you people. You suck at your jobs.”

  “Oh-kay,” said Waldron, sliding his eyes to his colleague. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation at another time, when Andres’s mom is available to join us?”

  “Good luck with that,” said Zack, peeling off his name tag and crushing it into a ball. “Because I can tell you right now, Andres isn’t going anywhere.”

  He flicked the balled-up name tag onto the table, where it bounced off the surface and into Waldron’s lap.

  Friday, October 19, 2018

  15

  Mel

  MEL STOOD OUTSIDE COLOR THEORY IN THE FADING TWILIGHT, CRAFTING a text to Regina. They’d planned to meet at Zack’s five P.M. class, and then go for Thai food afterward, but at 4:58, when Mel was already on treadmill number six, having set a towel and water bottle on number five to save it for Regina, Regina had texted: Last-minute family outing came up; going to have to bail on tonight. Sorry.

  Mel had been genuinely surprised, and more than a little hurt. Regina never missed a workout—and she’d been the one to suggest dinner. It had seemed a step up from their usual smoothie date, a mark of progression in their friendship. Mel had been looking forward to it, albeit a little nervously. She’d never shared an actual meal with Regina—what would they talk about for all that time? Would the rail-thin woman actually eat? Mel had even, in the shower that morning, rehearsed how she’d tell Regina about Adam. And his dirty whore.

  But then Zack had bounced into the studio, wearing a tight maroon Train Filthy T-shirt, and called out, “Okay, beautiful people! Time to get down on the floor and heat up that musculature!” and Mel had become too flustered to answer Regina’s text.

  Now, damp with sweat and bone-weary from the workout (dare she admit she was actually beginning to crave this feeling?) Mel lingered outside the gym, wondering what could have come up to cause Regina to cancel last-minute. Regina was the sort of person who kept both a Google calendar and a Cozi calendar (Different interfaces, she’d explained to Mel, who hadn’t had the courage to ask what the hell that meant), which she meticulously filled months in advance. Regina was not the type to cancel exercise-and-dinner at the last minute.

  Mel tried to keep her tone casual, her phrases short—Regina had mentioned more than once that she “valued brevity” in texting—finally settling on, Missed you in class! I was 43% orange zone. Hope you had a nice fam outing & that all is OK? She added a flexed-muscle emoji and hit Send.

  She slipped her phone into the thigh pocket of her leggings and considered the empty evening ahead of her. Adam had taken Sloane to a soccer tournament in Santa Barbara; they’d be gone until tomorrow night.

  She didn’t want to go home to her big, empty house. Embarrassingly, her reluctance had something—just a tiny bit—to do with the fact that Zack was still inside the gym, straightening weights and wiping down equipment before the next class. He was slated to teach one more class, the last of the day. Knowing he was still right there, so nearby, was a strange, tingly comfort. She wished she had the strength to march back into the studio and take another class, the way Regina sometimes did.

  But she’d probably die of a heart attack.

  Still, she didn’t want to leave the area just yet. It was stupid, she knew, and Zack would soon be immersed in the theatrics of his coaching routine and unavailable for conver
sation. But it wouldn’t hurt to go back inside and buy a protein bar, would it? And if she happened to see him, maybe say good night?

  She found herself pulling the heavy glass door open and stepping back into the cool, recycled air.

  The reception area was empty but for Davit, the receptionist who sat behind the desk disinfecting the heart monitors CT clients rented and strapped to their wrists, returning them after class soaked with sweat. Wearing the loaned monitor grossed Mel out and she’d been meaning to buy one of her own. Zack would be proud of her. She was a true worker-outer now.

  “Back so soon?” said Davit from behind the desk, smiling at her. “Whattup, girl?”

  “Oh,” said Mel, instantly flustered. “I just forgot I wanted . . . a protein bar.”

  “Sure thing. Salted caramel or cake batter?”

  “Um. Which is less likely to induce projectile vomiting?”

  Davit laughed and handed her the salted caramel. “You are so funny! I’ll charge it to your account. How’s your Friday been?”

  Mel had loved the apparent friendliness of the Southern Californians when she and Adam first relocated. But she quickly realized that just because someone was asking How are you? did not mean they necessarily wanted to hear the details. Holding back on telling people exactly how she felt in 2018 (year two of the Big Cheeto’s reign) was a challenge with a new political scandal daily. She decided not to hold back now—after all, this guy had nowhere to be.

  “My Friday’s been great!” she said. “Except for my friend totally blowing me off for a dinner date.”

  “Not cool,” said Davit, returning his attention to spritzing and wiping the monitors.

  Was she that boring? Mel tried again. “Oh, and there’s the state of the country and all that.”

  “How do you mean?” Davit looked at her blankly.

  Could he possibly be serious? Was Davit just extraordinarily dumb, or a Republican-in-hiding, like Zack?

  “Hey, hey.” She heard Zack’s honeyed southern drawl behind her, through a swell of music from the studio as he stepped into the reception area.