“Rosie and I are going for a hike,” I say, reaching for the bacon.
With a stack of pancakes on the table, and Imani’s Mickey Mouse pancake on her “Frozen” plate, William joins us at the table. “How about sharing some of the paper?” he says to Max.
“Help yourself,” she says, lifting the “Entertainment” section out of the way. William slides the rest of the paper to his side of the table.
We’re all munching away, enjoying the Sunday morning pancake/bacon treat, when William slaps his hand down hard on the paper.
“Of course, we are!” William says. “You can’t have a president spouting hate and expect it not to mess things up!”
“Of course, we are what?” Max asks.
William pushes the newspaper out in front of him. There’s a headline that reads “Blacks, Latinos are targets as hate crimes surge in the state.”
Max reads out loud, “11.2 percent spike in total hate crimes. Second year of double digit increases in the state.”
“What’s a hate crime?” Imani asks.
William’s voice softens. “Nothing you need to worry about, Baby,” he says. “Hey! What happened to Mickey’s big ears??”
Imani laughs. “I always eat the ears first!”
William folds his section of the paper and slides it over to Max. “And then there’s this!”
“I know,” she says. “That seems so wrong! More people voted for her than for him, but we got him instead!”
“What??? How can that happen??” I ask.
Max points to a section in the paper, and I read about the electoral college system, which maybe I’d heard of once in some government class. It must have been on one of those days when I wasn’t paying attention ‘cause I don’t get it.
“I guess the good news is that the majority of the American people didn’t vote for fear and hate,” Max says.
ROSIE’S FOLKS DROP her off on their way home from church. We stuff sandwiches and water into our backpacks and take the bus all the way to the top of Lake Street. On the way up, we sit close, holding hands, and though we don’t talk about what we did last night, it’s there with us, keeping us tight together. Once off the bus, we follow the trail up to Echo Mountain. Near the top, we find a bench in the shade where we sit, looking out over the San Gabriel Valley and downtown Los Angeles.
“I can see your house from here,” I tell Rosie.
“Liar,” she says, punching me in the arm.
“Well, I can see where I could see your house from here if we had a telescope.”
We watch a squirrel grab an acorn on the ground near us, then skitter up to the lowest branch where it sits on its haunches and munches away.
As I pull sandwiches from my backpack, a ten-pack of lubricated latex Trojans falls out onto the bench. “Max strikes again!” I say, but Rosie doesn’t even hear me, she’s laughing so hard. Which gets me laughing, too. You can’t not laugh when Rosie laughs. It’s like a virus. Rosie’s laughter virus.
I stuff the package into the bottom of my backpack and unwrap the sandwiches on the bench between us. “Tuna or cream cheese and cucumber?” I ask.
Rosie scrunches her nose. “Tuna please.”
I breathe deeply of the cool, piney air. A lizard suns itself on a rough log across the trail.
Rosie takes a bite of her sandwich and stares out over the valley. “I haven’t thought about tests, or college applications, or that solo I’ve got coming up in choir. None of that since last night.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “At least none of that until right now.”
“I wish you didn’t worry so much,” I say.
“Me, too,” she says.
“Look,” I tell her, gesturing toward the view beyond us. “When you watch the city, and the cars on the freeway, and look at all the buildings from far away, especially on a clear day like today, everything looks clean and orderly and peaceful.”
“I wish it was that way up close,” she says.
She’s starting to get that school-worried frown again when another squirrel races up the tree to the acorn-chewing squirrel and chases him out onto a branch. Just when it looks as if the chaser’s about to catch up with the chewer, the first squirrel leaps to a far branch on another tree. It seems like he can’t possibly make it. But he does. We both let out a long breath at the same time, then collapse in laughter. And Rosie’s school-worried frown is gone again.
SO, A NEAR PERFECT weekend with Rosie, no worries, until Hockney calls about ten minutes after I get home.
“Come straight to my office at 8:00.”
“Why?”
“We need to talk. You’re not in trouble.”
“I’m an aide zero period.”
“I’ll clear it with your teacher.”
So, at 8:00 Monday morning, I wait in a chair outside Hockney’s office long enough to read two more chapters of The Grapes of Wrath. I’m at the part where the guy who was in prison, Joad, goes to his family place and finds it all messed up and deserted, when Hockney finally calls me into his office. He tells me if I’d let the custodians take care of the sign, it would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Says he understands my tires were slashed. He talks about the nasty online posts, says as soon as his tech aide takes one down, another one crops up. He tells me I don’t understand how serious this situation is, blah, blah, blah. Here’s what sucks though. Hockney tells me I can’t be at school today. It’s not safe.
“You’re suspending me???”
“Not officially. It’s just for your own safety, Mr. Barajas.”
“That’s so stupid! You think I can’t take care of myself?”
“It’s just a precautionary move.”
Hockney glances at the clock, then calls Miss Suazo, the school secretary. “Would you please call Mrs. Benton, tell her I may be a few minutes late for the 10:00 meeting? Come along, Mr. Barajas. I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll take the bus.”
“No. You’ll need a ride. If you don’t want to ride with me, I can call someone to come get you. I think your mother’s the emergency contact?”
Max is at work, probably scraping plaque from some careless flosser’s teeth. I don’t want her to have to leave work so I go with Hockney out to the faculty lot where he pushes a button on his key fob and a green RAV4 beeps.
He motions for me to get in. It’s still got that new car smell. The dash display is about four times as big as the one in my old Honda. My dash tells me how fast I’m going. What the oil pressure is. What time it is and what radio station is on. His tells him all of that, plus tire pressure, and how close he is to objects when he backs up, MPG, and his location on a map. I don’t even know what some of the dials show. Maybe it registers his blood pressure, too.
Hockney starts the car, backs up until there’s a little beep-beep-beep, stops, shifts to drive, and we’re on our way out of the parking lot and past the front of the school. I slump as low as my seatbelt will allow. Who wants to be seen riding along in the passenger seat beside the principal?
I start to give directions to my house, but before I can say to turn left at the next block, the voice of Barack Obama beats me to it. Does Hockney have every kid’s address already programmed into his GPS, or is it only mine? It’s kind of creepy. Not the Barack Obama voice, that’s kind of cool. But that my address was already somewhere in Hockney’s GPS is the creepy part. Well...it’s creepy being alone in the car with a man who’s not family. I can do it now, and I know Hockney’s okay, but it still feels creepy.
Hockney asks me about WriteLight and Yoga, and I try to give more than one-word answers because I know that’s what principals and parents and most adults want. But it’s easiest if I can get them talking, so I ask about his son who I know plays football for S.C. That works. He tells me all about their latest game. Says he worries about head injuries, but his son lives for football. Besides, his son is officially an adult now so Hockney can’t be telling him what to do. Talk of his son and football gets us all the w
ay to my house.
Barack Obama tells him, “You have arrived at your destination. The route guidance is now finished.” Hockney pulls over to the curb. “I’ll wait to be sure you get inside.”
“No need,” I tell him. “I can get in.”
“It’s okay,” he says, turning the engine off as if he’s settling in for the morning. I get the spare key from under a potted geranium on the front porch. Hockney waits while I jiggle the lock a few times, then go inside. Buddy’s waiting right inside the door.
“Hey, Buddy,” I say, reaching down to scratch his butt. He leans hard into me, his comfort lean. It’s been a while since he’s done that, but it’s like maybe he senses something I don’t. “Release,” I tell him.
I go to the front window and watch Hockney drive away. Buddy follows close behind, wagging his tail, like it’s such a treat to have someone home at this time of day on a weekday. I know, it sounds crazy, like Buddy keeps a calendar and watches the clock, but he kind of does.
Cameron texts some Snapchat shit to me. Tells me there’s more stuff on Reddit. I check it out. It’s pretty much the same as before: purify the race, keep America white, stop white genocide. A bunch of stupid stuff.
I read for a while, eat a big bowl of leftover chili, get bored. Since I’m not officially suspended, I decide to go back to school for 7th period Yoga and then get a ride back home with Rosie.
I’m at the corner, waiting for the bus, when this blue pick-up comes driving slowly past me. Blue pick-up, white lettering on the side advertising landscaping, power mower and tools in the back—suddenly images of me in Denton’s truck, him pushing my head down onto his open fly, me helplessly squirming, all flash before me. Can’t catch a breath! Can’t cry out! Choking! Chest heaving! Rapid panting! Pounding heart! Sweating!
I start the mantra. Slow down. Slow down. Slow down. I remind myself of the anti-panic attack drill. Hands on knees. Breathe. Slow, deep inhale. Slow, strong, exhale. Again. Remember I’m strong! Remember I’m powerful! I’m agile! Strength! Agility! Power! Mine! Breathe deep. Slow down.
The bus comes to a stop at the curb, and I manage to wave it on. Stay in the now. Slow breath in. Slow breath out. It’s not then. It’s now. Denton’s in jail. I’m strong. Grown. No one could do that to me now. Stay in the now. Focus on now. Deep breath in. Notice the cool air as it fills my lungs. Deep breath out. Notice deflation, slow leak in a tough balloon. Empty the balloon.
I get up from the bench, take a slow step away, and turn in the direction of home. Slower breathing now. Still sweaty. I run my trembling hands over my dripping wet face, wipe them on my jeans. Stay in the now. Feel my strength.
When I get to within three houses of ours, I see Buddy, half standing, front paws on the sill of the big window in the living room. His head is turned in my direction. He sees me and disappears, rushing, I know, to meet me at the door. Inside, I sink to my knees and put my arms around his warm, sturdy body. He turns slightly, gets closer, leans his weight into my chest. Slowly, breathing returns to normal, sweat subsides, hands steady.
“It’s okay, Buddy. It’s okay.” I ease up and go to my room, Buddy close behind. I stretch out on the bed, face down. Buddy jumps up and stretches out next to me, no space between us.
It’s been a long time since I had a panic attack. I thought all of that was over—no more getting triggered by blue trucks, or a word or phrase. Once, just after I’d started school in Redville, a teacher asked me to “do something nice for him”, a phrase Denton had used when he wanted a blow job. I totally freaked out, ran back to Josie and Hector’s, locked myself in the bathroom and brushed my teeth like crazy, trying to get the taste of Denton out of my mouth. But that was eight years ago.
I change into sweats and running shoes, disappoint Buddy by squeezing past him through the door, and start off on a jog. Usually I’d take him, but he can’t keep up when I run my fastest. I quicken my pace when I get to the track that borders the park, then full out run. I feel my speed, my strength, my stamina, and leave the panic attack behind.
Four laps. Then it’s back to a jog, and a slower jog. I walk back home drenched in sweat, not panic sweat—strength sweat. The good kind.
CHAPTER TWELVE
True Patriot
Imani’s in the living room, two inches from the TV, telling Ella she shouldn’t keep Anna out of the room. Max and William are sitting at the kitchen table, talking softly, like they don’t want anyone to hear. Max is in her after-work sweats. William’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, all scrubbed up. When I first started working with him, he was definite about how a painter shouldn’t be wearing paint samples when he’s not on the job.
I open the oven door. Meatloaf! I’m starving! I reach for the hot pads to take the pan out of the oven.
“Not yet,” Max says.
“Looks done,” I say.
“Turn the oven off. It’ll keep. We need to talk,” Max says.
“Okay,” I say, leaning against the counter.
William nudges a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat.”
Max looks at me, all serious, long enough to make me nervous.
“What?”
“Mr. Hockney called this afternoon.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“He didn’t say you did. Just said he brought you home to keep things safe.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“Eddie...there’s a lot you didn’t tell us, say, about all of that social media stuff, and who slashed your tires...”
“I don’t know for sure who it was. I didn’t see anyone do it.”
“Yeah, okay,” William says, his voice going way deep the way it does when he gets all serious. “You didn’t see anyone do it, but you’re probably pretty sure who it was. Right?”
Shrug.
“Mr. Hockney seemed pretty sure he knew who it was, not that he was sharing any names with us,” Max says.
Silence.
“And who was it that posted a bunch of nasty stuff about you online?...Eddie?” Max says. “C’mon, Eddie. Make a guess.”
“Well...I guess it was probably those Patriot guys. They’re usually the ones that blast stuff like that on walls.”
“Patriot guys?” Max says.
“Yeah. That’s what they call themselves. Like at the Black Lives Matter thing? The P8RIOTs?”
William starts pacing around the kitchen. His face goes darker. How is that even possible? “Bad news. Those guys are bad, bad news.”
“You know them?” Max says.
“Yeah—from the march back in September. Buncha stupid ass honky white supremacists, out there with their baseball bats and broken bottles, their storm trooper boots and pockets full of rocks.”
“Those were high school kids???” Max asks.
“Some of them, yeah, school boys following their dumb-shit daddies...the Patriots,” William sneers. “Here’s a patriot!” he says, pulling up Max’s right pant leg and showing the deep scar that runs all down the front of her shin from knee to ankle. “That’s a patriot!”
He stomps into their bedroom, comes back out with two boxes, one a hand-carved wooden box and the other, one of those old cigar boxes. He dumps their army stuff out on the table—Max’s Purple Heart, William’s, too, and a bunch of other ribbons and medals. I don’t know what they did to get the other ones.
“Patriots!” William yells. “Patriots fight for their country! Not against it!”
Imani comes to the kitchen, eyes wide.
Max is standing, her arm around William’s shoulder. “William...”
“For equality! And justice!” he yells, even louder. “For democracy! Not for hate and racism!”
“William...”
He shakes his head and looks straight at Max, like he’s just noticed she’s there. “They’re not patriots,” he says, softly now. “We are.”
She’s got her arms around him, rubbing his back. They’re locked together, and I see by the rise and fall of William’s back that he
uses that deep breathing trick to calm down, too. “God, I hate those bastards!” he says, in a near whisper.
“I know. I know,” Max says.
Yeah, well, I know now, too. Probably the neighbors on both sides and across the street know, too. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard William full blast. I’ve heard him mad before, but God! William’s got some voice on him when he goes all out. The way Imani is looking at him, I’m guessing she’s not heard him full volume before, either.
Max puts the medals and ribbons in their boxes and takes them back to their bedroom. William stares off into space for a moment, then reaches for the hot pads, takes the meatloaf from the oven, sets it on top of the stove and gets a knife from the drawer. I get the plates, three regular size, white with flowers, and one Imani-size, with Anna and Elsa. William cuts a small slice for Imani, puts it on her special plate, and hands it to her. She shakes her head.
“No, you have to have some, Baby. Just a little bit.”
“That’s too much!” she whines.
“Just try it.”
She carries her plate to the table and sits staring at the meatloaf.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah. Please.”
William puts a slice of meatloaf on each of the three regular plates and sets them at our places. I get utensils, Max puts a salad and bread on the table, and William pours water.
“Salad?” Max asks. I hold my plate within reach and she piles it on—lettuce, tomato, avocado, cucumber, croutons—then it’s a spoonful for Imani, who gets right to work picking the cucumbers out. We eat in silence, like there’s a moratorium on talking. Imani’s not even doing her usual talk about Anna and Elsa, like: if they were at her school, she’d be best friends with Anna, but maybe Elsa and Ms. Lee would be best friends because Ms. Lee would know how to help Elsa manage her super powers, etc., etc. All silence. Awkward.
It’s me and Max’s turn for dishes tonight. I scrape, and she loads the dishwasher. Max is particular about how the dishes fit in the dishwasher. I wipe the table, and she puts leftovers away. We do that in silence too, until we hear William starting the bathwater for Imani, then Max takes up where we left off, before William got all heated about the Patriot stuff.
Eddie's Choice Page 10
