Buddy was a year old when we got him, so I guess he’s eight years old now. Besides flecks of grey on his head, his muzzle is totally grey. Max says he’s 72 in dog years, but I don’t like to think about him getting old. And he still runs around like he did when he was a pup.
My story was about how Buddy wrote a letter to his mother. It started, “Dear Bitch Mom.” He thanked her for bringing him up right and for teaching him to cock his ears so his rescue humans would think he was cute. When May read it, everyone burst out laughing. They asked her to read it again. And they laughed even harder the next time. So, okay, I started reading my stuff. At first, I only read the funny stuff, about Buddy, and Simba the Cat, but then, gradually, I started reading the serious stuff, too. I almost always read now. We have this “mutually-supportive-writers-total-confidentiality” rule in here so it’s okay to get serious when I want to.
I zone out through the next three classes and make my way to the quad. Brent’s at the usual table. I sit across from him, unpacking my lunch, as Cameron brings his junk food tray to the table and slides in next to Brent. He looks at Brent’s tray that’s holding an almost empty bottle of soda and about two bites left of a po-boy sandwich.
“You get here early?” Cameron says.
“Calculus was cancelled.”
“Why don’t you look happier?” I ask.
“It was cancelled because someone put a big swastika up on the white board with a black permanent marker.”
“Who?” I say.
“Don’t know. Some cretins.”
“You sure it wasn’t you, Blockhead? A good way to get out of class?” Cameron says.
“Not even funny,” Brent says.
“Why? What do you care? You hate the guy!” Cameron says.
“I hate him because he’s an asshole calculus teacher. I don’t hate him because he’s a Jew.”
“Whatever,” Cameron laughs. “At least you didn’t have to go to class.”
Brent dumps his trash and takes his tray to the cart. I open my container of leftover brown rice with broccoli and cheese, add a packet of soy sauce, and stir it all together. An apple, organic, whole wheat pita chips, celery smeared with peanut butter and a can of lemon-lime sparkling water make up the rest of my lunch.
Cameron takes a look, makes a gagging sound, then shoves a handful of greasy french fries into his mouth. I take a pose and flex my twice-as-big-as-Cameron’s biceps.
THERE’S NO YOGA TODAY so I could leave early, but I wait around until after 6th period, hoping to “accidentally” meet up with Rosie when she gets out of soccer practice. The timing is right because I practically run into her as she’s walking out of the gym. As soon as I see her, I blurt out, “Want a ride?”
Not too smooth. Like I probably should have said “Hi,” or “How was practice?” or something first. But Rosie smiles at me like whatever I’ve said is just fine.
“My mom’s picking me up,” she says. “Thanks, though.”
I walk with her a little ways, even though it’s in the opposite direction of my car in the student lot.
“How were your classes?” she asks.
“Okay. How were yours?”
“Good, except I’ve already got a ton of homework.”
“That sucks. I don’t have any homework. At least none that I’ll do.”
She pauses, then, “I still don’t get why you’re not going to college. I don’t know anyone else who’s not going to college.”
“Maybe I’m a maverick.”
“See, that’s what I mean. ‘Maverick.’ That’s one of the words on the SAT word list and you don’t even have to study to know how to use it.”
“I know some four syllable words, too,” I tell her. “Like ‘prerogative’, as in it’s my prerogative not to go to college.”
She laughs, then waves toward a car pulling up to the curb. “My mom. Gotta go.” She smiles her sparkle smile. “Thanks for the offer of a ride though!”
“Anytime,” I call after her.
AS I DRIVE TO THE JOB, I think about Rosie. Her smile, her hair, her laugh. It seems like maybe she could like me. Could she? And I think about the college/no college choice. Am I being lazy? Taking the easy way out? I know that’s what most people think.
I park in front of a shabby looking house in a mostly nice neighborhood in Alhambra. I get my paint clothes from the trunk, go around to the back where I know the door won’t be locked, call out to William that I’m here, go into the bathroom and change clothes.
Two thirty-ish men, married, moved into the house a few weeks ago. Wesley, the guy who does most of the talking, said they got the place for way below market value because, in Wesley’s words, “It’s a poster child for run down.” They want the whole place painted, inside and out, so we’ll be working here for a while.
This past Saturday I scraped and sanded and spackled the walls in the master bedroom, and now William’s priming them. Today, my job’s to prep the walls and woodwork in the second bedroom. I get another ladder from the truck and put it in a corner of the bedroom. I like working. Lifting, moving stuff around, climbing up and down the ladder, using my strength to scrape and sand the rough spots. I like making money, having enough to pay for my car and insurance and not have to ask for anything from Max. And I like seeing the transformation. “Transformation.” Another four-syllable word. This place will be totally transformed by the time we’re through with it.
I don’t care what anybody else thinks. I know this is the right choice.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Handshake Test
Even though this is the fourth week of school, it’s the first day of Yoga because Yoga Joe’s been away on a retreat.
“Eight mats,” Joe says as I walk through the door to the small weight room across from the main gym. I get out the mats and put them in two rows of four each. We won’t be using the straps or blocks today.
As kids enter, Joe says, “Shoes off. Take a seat on a mat.”
Rosie’s hella stressed about getting into the right college, and writing her essay, and getting recommendations, and filling out applications, and getting all A’s. Yoga would for sure help her de-stress, but it’s the same time as that special music therapy class she’s so psyched about.
I’m glad I don’t have to be all stressed out about school. My cousin Vincent’s a lawyer and he keeps trying to talk me into going to college and becoming a lawyer. He says I’m smart and I could do good work in the world. Right now, he’s working 24-7 with people who are scared of being deported, mostly farmworkers who live up around Redville. I know what he does is important, and I hate to disappoint him, but no, I’m not changing my mind about working in the painting business. I like that every job’s different. You get to know a lot of different kinds of people—rich people and not so rich, business and shop owners, decorators and builders. No job is the same so it’s never boring.
Last summer, William and I spent over two weeks painting the “great room” at a mansion up in San Marino. I’d never seen such a place in my whole life. The woman who owned the house was super picky but so’s William, so it worked out. The colors? Rocky River for the walls and Quietude for the trim. That cracked me up. At first, I thought why not just say light greyish green and dark greyish green? But now I get how even a little lighter shade or a little darker shade of any color can make a big difference in the total look of a room. So besides Rocky River, there has to be a Brook Green, and a Morning Zen, etc., etc.
But back to yoga. Mr. Lee, Joe Lee, isn’t like a lot of yoga guys—all skinny and Gumby-looking. Joe’s got hard-as-rock bulging biceps and a definite six-pack. On his upper right arm, he has a tattoo of a rose and a broken chain. I can always tell if Joe’s worried or annoyed because that’s when he rubs his tattoo.
He says he used to have a gang tattoo across the back of his neck, but he paid big bucks to have it removed. He says he kept the rose and chain, though, to remind him of his prison days, and that the chains of the past can be
broken, and that there’s beauty in life if you open your eyes to it.
Joe isn’t a regular Hamilton High teacher. He does this yoga class as some kind of special deal. He sits in front, legs crossed, palms upwards on his knees, and starts the group today the way he starts every new group.
“I’m Joe Lee, been practicing yoga for the past nine years—started in prison so it would look good to the parole board. Turns out, it changed my life and, trust me, mine was a life that needed changing.
“Okay. Loud enough that we can all hear: your name, grade in school, have you ever before, even once, done yoga, and, if you’re comfortable telling us, why you’re taking Yoga. We’ll start with you,” Joe says, nodding to the girl on the left in the front row.
“Um...Maricella Foster?” she says, like it’s a question. Like maybe there’s a right or wrong answer to “What’s your name?”
“Okay, Maricella. And...?”
Her face turns pink.
“And...grade in school, yoga experience, and why you’re taking yoga.”
“Junior. Elective credit. It fit my schedule.”
“Yoga experience?”
“Once. On YouTube.”
“Okay, thanks, Maricella.”
Next, it’s Alice Stevens, and another girl, and then Joe nods at a guy sitting off by himself in the back. “Name?”
“Jason Paulson. 11th. Assigned.” Everyone turns to look at Jason. He’s got this surprising high, squeaky voice that sounds like it could be coming from an excited Miss Piggy on an old Sesame Street show.
“Okay,” Joe says. “Have you ever done yoga before?”
Jason gives Joe a stony look and shakes his head.
Sometimes the assigned kids really don’t want to take yoga. And they can be a pain in the butt. Especially the anger management guys—it’s always guys. Why aren’t there ever any girls in anger management? I’m sure there’s plenty of anger to go around. I bet Jason’s an anger management guy. More like anger mismanagement judging by the look on his face and the way he’s all slumped down.
When it’s my turn, I say, “Eddie Barajas. Senior. Stress reduction.”
That was my short, fit-for-class introduction version. I don’t say I’m an aide ‘cause it gives people the wrong impression. The too-long-for-a-class-none-of-their-business-introduction would be that I started taking yoga back when I lived in Redville when I was nine, or maybe ten. I’d been through some bad shit, and so had my mom. Her bad shit was when she was in Iraq, in the National Guard. My bad shit was here in Hamilton Heights. So, we were both seeing a shrink. Not the same one, but at the same time. So, this therapist woman told Max about some research project that showed that yoga could help people with post-traumatic stress.
Max was pretty much ready to try anything to get rid of the nightmares that were so terrible she was afraid to go to sleep. The only yoga place with that kind of specialty was down in Fresno, about thirty miles from Redville. That was back when Max never wanted to be alone, so I said okay, I’d go with her. Really, I didn’t see how twisting my body into a pretzel would do anything but make me feel even more weird than I already felt, but it turned out it did help. Not only Max, but me, too. That’s how I started a yoga practice. That’s what they call it when you do yoga a lot—a practice. I guess bad shit never goes completely away, but you can do stuff to zap its power.
When we moved back to Hamilton Heights, right before I started high school, I wanted to find a place like the one in Fresno because by that time, I knew yoga helped me stay cool and calm. I tried classes at the Y, and one through Parks and Recreation, and a “Hot Yoga” place. None of them felt right. I was about ready to give up when I found Joe Lee’s tiny studio in a converted garage only a few blocks from where we live. It’s a good fit. When the school’s yoga class isn’t in session, I practice at Joe’s studio two or three times a week. I can’t afford to pay for his classes, so instead of money, I pay by doing work for him. Like, just yesterday, I went to his home studio and opened the windows, vacuumed and dusted like he texted me to do—said he didn’t want to come home to a stale studio.
Twice a week, Joe goes to a place in L.A. where he leads a series of classes. On those days, I walk his dog, Peppy, after school and again before bedtime.
I’ve already told you how buff and tough looking Joe is. You’d think he’d have a Pit Bull, or a Rottweiler, or some other big, scary dog. But Peppy is this dainty little poodle, white, and she prances around like she’s afraid of getting her feet dirty. I used to think you could tell a lot about a person by what kind of dog they have, but Joe and Peppy blew any of those ideas out of my head. My dog, Buddy, is a yellow lab. Some people might think I’m not a yellow lab kind of guy, either. If yellow labs could talk, they’d be non-stop talkers.
Anyways, I walk Peppy, and clean the studio, and sometimes do other odd jobs for Joe in payment for classes. Between that, and working with William, and taking care of the pest one night a week, I’ve got a pretty busy schedule. Everybody I know has a busy schedule, but I’m the only one who’s not all stressed out about my busy-ness.
But back to the now. That’s a good thing for people with bad shit to do. Stay in the now. After introductions, Joe outlines the regular routine, from taking a mat and getting centered when we get to class, to leaving with a final Namaste. He says there are probably hundreds of interpretations of “Namaste,” but our Namaste is “The spirit within me honors the spirit within you.” He asks me to demonstrate with him.
Joe is still seated cross-legged in front of the group. About half of us, me included, are also cross-legged; the rest are however else they can get comfortable. Joe faces me, hands in prayer position, head half bowed. I mirror his position. “Namaste,” he says.
“Namaste,” I return.
He goes on to say that the Namaste routine is not required. He likes it because it’s important for us to remember that each and every one of us has a pure spirit within us. But if it’s against somebody’s other religious practice, or if it feels phony, it’s okay to skip it.
After the basics, we go into a smaller room where we sit in plastic chairs that have those attached half desk things, and Joe sets up an “Introduction to Yoga” video.I take my sketch pad and charcoal pencils from my backpack because I’ve seen this video enough times to have it memorized, and I’ll need to doodle.
Joe told me he had to look at more than thirty videos before he could find one that included an equal number of men and women. He didn’t want a video that made it seem like yoga was a wimpy, girly thing. But no one could look at Joe in the “warrior pose” and think yoga is wimpy.
The video defines yoga as a method for mental, physical, and spiritual health. It covers breathing techniques, a few basic poses, and something about quieting the mind. I’m quieting my mind by drawing Simba in basic yoga poses.
Jason is sitting next to me, barely glancing at the video. Instead he keeps looking at my hand, sideways, like I won’t notice. I stop shading in Simba’s grinning face long enough to glance over at Jason. He looks back at the video for a few seconds, then it’s back to my hand. I think he’s new to Hamilton High. I don’t remember ever seeing him around before, and if he’d been around, my hand would be old news to him. He’s kind of skinny. Not as skinny as Cameron. More like normal skinny, with a haircut so short it’s hard to tell what color his hair is.
I make a few changes to Simba’s mouth and eyes, and shift his expression from a happy grin to one that’s mean and evil. Jason isn’t even looking at the cat. Just my hand. I set my pencil down and hold my half-hand right in front of his eyes.
“Want a good look?”
He shoots his hand, middle finger up, in front of my face.
“Fuck you!” he says, and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I go back to doodling. That wasn’t exactly a yoga thing. We were definitely not honoring the pure spirit within each other. Oh well.
I don’t know why I let him get to me. I’m
pretty used to all kinds of responses to my hand. I should be. I’ve had it all my life. When I shake hands with someone I’ve just met, that’s kind of a test. Like some guys—it’s usually guys who shake hands, mostly older guys, too—but if they reach out and grip my hand like it’s any old hand, they pass. But if they barely touch my hand and pull back like maybe they’re going to catch creepy hand from me, well, let’s say I know we’re not going to be best friends. I’m pretty sure Jason and I won’t be best friends, either.
For a while, back when I was a little kid, I was self-conscious about my hand, but the thing is, I’m wicked good at drawing. In elementary school, once other kids saw what my hand could do, no one cared what it looked like.
When the video’s over, Joe says it’s okay to leave, we don’t have to wait for the bell. I grab the disinfectant wipes from the supply closet and start wiping the mats. Joe’s watching me. Like does he think I’ve forgotten the clean-up routine over the summer?
“What was that about?” he asks.
“What?” I say, moving to the next mat.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Eddie.” Sometimes it seems like Joe’s eyes can see into your soul. “Well?” he says.
“You mean Jason?”
“Yes! I mean Jason! Isn’t it a bit unusual for one yoga student to flip another one off and yell the ‘F’ word?”
“I guess.”
“And isn’t it unusual for a yoga student to storm out of the room halfway through class?”
I nod.
“And?”
“That Jason guy hella irritates me.”
“And...?”
“He kept looking at my hand,” I say, holding my hand out. “And then I gave him a good close-up. That’s all.”
“And?”
“And I guess it pissed him off.”
“Good guess, Eddie.”
Next mat. I concentrate on spraying the disinfectant, being sure I get the corners clean.
“Eddie? What would have been a better way to handle that?”
Eddie's Choice Page 4
