We both laugh, but it’s not exactly funny. I hate that hero shit.
I glance over to where Brent and Brianna are standing. He’s gesturing all over the place, and he’s got that big, silly grin. He’s telling her all about the cornhole tournament. I’m sure of it because he’s actually demonstrating an underhand pitch, except not with a beanbag.
AFTER EVERYONE’S PLAYED some silly games and danced and mostly coupled up, and it feels like it’s about time to leave, all of the choir kids get in front of the Christmas tree. Matt plays a note on the piano, kids hum the note, he takes his place with the boys, counts one-two-three, and they sing the alma mater. I don’t know why, but it gets to me, maybe because I’m a senior and almost finished with Hamilton High, or maybe it’s the harmony, or all of the emotion of the past few days. Whatever.
When they’re done, the singers do a big group hug, and then there are shouts of Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays and see you in two weeks, and it’s like everybody leaves at the same time.
Brent asks if we can take Brianna home, so we do. Maybe he’s finally getting a girlfriend for real. When we pull up in front of her house, Brianna says “bye” and gets out of the car.
“Walk her to her door, you blockhead!” I tell him.
“Why?” he says, all confused.
“Just do it!”
So, he gets out, slow and puzzled like, and walks with her up to her front porch. She fumbles around for a key, or something. I take the opportunity for a long, true kiss with Rosie and don’t notice Brent until he gets back in the car.
“That was awkward,” he says.
I can see that I’m going to have to give him Max’s “Let’s get this straight how-to-treat-a-girl” talk. But not right now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Not Just Criminals
When I get home from the Christmas party, I’m surprised to see that Max and William are still up, sitting at the kitchen table with Carla. There are a bunch of papers jumbled around on the table and everyone looks worn out. Not just Carla.
“You have a good time?” Max says, kind of absentmindedly.
“Yeah. Good concert. Good party,” I say as I walk past them to my bedroom. I’m already in bed, half asleep when there’s a soft knock on my door.
“Yeah?”
“Okay to come in?” Max asks.
“Sure.”
She sits on the side of my bed. I lean up on my elbow. “This is only between us. You can’t tell anyone. Not even Rosie,” she says. I wait for her to go on but she says, “Promise?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“I want you to know what’s going on, but this is important, Eddie. You can tell absolutely no one.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“We’ve just finished a lot of paperwork with Carla and Arsenio. Guardianship for Olivia and Ivann. Adoption papers.”
“What??? Olivia and Ivann are moving in with us?? I don’t wanna share my room with Ivann, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
“Calm down, Eddie. We’ve got the papers in case we need to use them, but nobody wants that to happen.”
“Why even have the papers then, if nobody wants it to happen? That doesn’t even make sense.”
So Max tells me Carla and Arsenio are undocumented. Olivia and Ivann were born here so they’re citizens, but Carla and Arsenio aren’t. They’ve been trying to get green cards, going through all of the paperwork. They’re on a waiting list, but now, with all the talk about sending immigrants back where they came from, and stereotyping Mexicans as drug dealers and rapists, and increased ICE enforcement, they’re scared of being arrested and deported and separated from their kids.
“But I thought they were only arresting criminals.”
“Really, Eddie? I know you’re busy and in love, but I don’t know how you’ve missed this!”
“That’s what it said on TV. Only people with criminal records.”
Max pokes around on her phone, then turns it so I can see the screen. “Okay, so this is only one story out of hundreds, but you’ll get the idea.” It’s this story about a family living in L.A. Kids ten and fourteen, both born in the U.S. Pictures of the kids at different ages, family gatherings, birthdays at the park, “Teacher Aide of the Year” plaque framed on a wall.
The parents came illegally sixteen years ago. They hoped for a better life, and that’s what they found. The dad ran a landscaping business, the mom was a teacher’s aide, they helped out at school fundraisers. One of their kids, the girl, the fourteen-year-old, was in a special science program, and her team won a district award for the robot they built. The boy was a Little League star. The parents helped their neighbors. They paid their taxes. Neither of them had ever even had a traffic ticket. They’d been trying to move toward citizenship for the past eleven years, but there were all kinds of delays. It took money for lawyers’ fees to move things faster, but they couldn’t always afford legal help.
And then at six one morning, ICE came to their house. Arrested both parents. Took them away from their terrified kids. Called children’s protective services to take the kids to foster care. The parents are trying to get the kids back to them in Mexico, but whatever money they have is frozen in bank accounts in Los Angeles.
There are pictures of the kids, looking so lost and sad, each in a different foster care home, no longer living in their old neighborhood, going to different schools where they don’t know anyone...
“Stories like this are coming out every day,” Max says.
“That sucks!”
“Yeah. It does. Carla and Arsenio are scared to death that they’ll be separated from their kids. That they’ll lose everything they’ve worked so hard for. And Carla’s afraid they’re passing their fear on to Olivia and Ivann—keeping the doors locked at all times, telling them never to answer the door no matter how many times someone rings the bell or knocks or calls to them. Always keeping the windows locked and the shades drawn. Carla’s afraid to go outside to water her garden!”
“Really?”
The arm I’m resting my head on is tired. And my neck is getting stiff. I plump my pillows against the headboard and scoot up to a sitting position.
“ICE has their address from all of their applications for citizenship. They could show up at any time to arrest them.”
“But the garden?”
“ICE can’t come into the house without a search warrant, which they almost never have. But if Carla or Arsenio are out and about, ICE could arrest them and send them back to Mexico within days.”
Max says Carla and Arsenio want to be sure their kids don’t end up like the kids in the story we just read. Separated and sent to schools where they don’t know anyone. That’s why they’ve filled out the paperwork that gives Max official guardianship of Olivia and Ivann. It can’t be Max and William because they’re not officially married, but they’d be in it together.
Max says, “We’ve got birth certificates, doctors’ records, certificates of immunization, insurance policies. The same stuff I had to get together for you and Mario when you went to Carmen’s. For sure, we’d take better care of Olivia and Ivann than Carmen did of you, but it’d still be terrible for them. I wanted you to know, though, not just have this mysterious secretive stuff going on. Carla’s spending the night here, too, and then we’ll take her and Olivia home in the morning.”
Max says the papers will be in a metal file box, in the left-hand corner of her closet. She can’t imagine a time I’d need to get them but, if there is, I’ll know where they are.
As tired as I am, I have a hard time getting to sleep after all Max told me. It seems like a lot has changed over the past year or so. Like people are meaner. And more racist. And more scared. Or maybe it’s always been this way, and I’m just now noticing. I turn on my bedside lamp and take The Grapes of Wrath from the table. I’m at the place where the Joads are being called “Okies” and totally hate-talked, and I think maybe people aren’t meaner now. Maybe they’ve always been tha
t mean about immigrants. Not that the Joads are exactly immigrants. They’re all Americans, but I guess you could say they emigrated from Oklahoma to California, and they sure weren’t welcome in California, and even though the Joad story took place a long time ago, the hate part reminds me of right now.
ON SUNDAY, BRENT, CAMERON and I decide to go to the beach. It’s not exactly beach weather, but at least it won’t be crowded. Cameron wants to go to Laguna because of the cliffs. Brent wants Balboa because he’s got a thing for the Ferris Wheel at the Fun Zone. I decide on Santa Monica. That’s kind of a compromise because there’s a Ferris Wheel on the pier and you can see cliffs from the beach, but the main thing is, it’s the shortest drive.
The first thing we do, like at the lake, is strip down and run for the water. It’s take-your-breath-away cold, but the surf is good, not killer but not wimpy, either. I swim out to what I think is the right spot to catch a wave, dive under three waves before I catch one. I swim with it, and then, as I feel the push of its power, I hold my body stiff, angled upward, and am propelled nearly to shore.
I watch for a minute as Cameron tries and misses, then see Brent get a ride halfway in. I swim out again, tread water watching for another perfect ride. Finally, after a bunch of misses, I catch an okay ride. Not like the first one, but it brings me in. I run to my towel and wrap up. I’m freezing! Cameron’s already wrapped.
“You’re blue,” I say through my chattering teeth. Brent’s out now, too. The three of us stand shivering, our towels wrapped tight around us. Down the beach where the real surfers are, the board surfers, those guys are all wearing wet suits. There’s a reason. We go to the restroom on the pier and change into dry clothes.
Brent tries to talk us into riding the Ferris Wheel with him. I think maybe I will until we get there and I see that it costs $8.00.
“It’s worth it!” Brent says. “It’s a great view!”
“Yeah, well. It’s either the view from the Ferris Wheel or lunch. I’ll stick with the view from the pier.”
“Meet us at the food court!” Cameron calls to Brent as he’s getting on the $8.00 ride.
I guess the ride doesn’t last long, ‘cause Brent’s already found us by the time we’re placing our food order. We all have bowls of hot chili. That helps.
We watch old guys fish from the pier for a while, then wander along the sidewalk where there are a bunch of little stands with people selling stuff they’ve made. I see a necklace, silver, with a heart. It would be a perfect Christmas present for Rosie. $45.00, but a necklace like that would probably be twice that much at a regular jewelry store.
Cameron’s a few stalls down, looking at potholders for his mom. That seems like something a little kid would give his mom but, hey, at least it’s a gift.
I wander down where Brent’s looking at ceramic cups. I could get a cup for Max that says #1 Mom, except she’s already got about five of those. Brent’s grinning his cornhole grin and holding a black cup with a big #2 on it.
“Maybe I’ll get this for my dad,” he says.
“Ummm. He might not see the humor.”
“I know,” he says, still grinning.
I go back to the necklace place. The woman at the stall says, “I could let you have it for $40.00.” Awesome.
“Could you hang on to it for about ten minutes?”
She nods and puts the necklace under the counter. I sprint to the car for my emergency money. This is an emergency. I open the trunk, pry the rim off my donut tire, take the two twenties from the hidden envelope, and put the empty envelope back in its place.
Back at the stall, I hand the lady my cash. She writes a receipt. $40.00 plus $3.00 sales tax. Shit! I forgot about sales tax. I reach into my pocket, pull out a dollar bill and a handful of change. $1.72 to be exact.
“Hang on,” I say, and run over to where Brent’s trying on a camouflage jacket.
“How’s it look?”
“Like an idiot Patriot. Can I borrow $1.30?”
He takes two ones from his pocket and hands them to me. “Thanks!” I say, sprinting back to the booth.
“You owe me! Don’t forget!”
I hand over the tax money. The lady gets the necklace from under the counter. “Would you like this in a gift box?”
“Sure!”
She puts the necklace on some kind of padding that fits the box perfectly. She arranges it so the heart is in the center of the box, puts another piece of padding on top. She adds the lid and ties it closed with a satiny Grasslands Green fancy bow. Cool. I go back to Brent, who’s put the camo jacket back and is trying a leather jacket.
“What do you think?”
“Better.”
“Maybe I’ll get it.” Brent always carries one of his dad’s credit cards with him, for emergencies only, supposedly.
I look at the price tag. $175. The sales guy tells Brent he won’t find a jacket of that quality for less than $250 in any of the stores.
“Emergency?” I ask.
I look down the sidewalk to where Cameron’s standing outside some place that sells wind chimes and incense. He’s talking to two girls, laughing with them.
“Look at that,” Brent says. “Maybe it’s the Tough Skins jeans?”
He takes off the jacket and hands it back to the salesman. “$165?” the guy asks.
“I better not,” Brent says, walking away. “I’m warmer now,” he tells me.
On the way home, Brent and Cameron talk about their college application essays. Brent says his dad’s making him apply to top engineering schools, even though there’s no way he’ll get into any of them. Cameron’s parents say it’s up to him where he goes to college, as long as it’s ranked in the top fifty. He wants to major in music with an emphasis on performance jazz. His parents are cool with that as long as he minors in education. So he’ll have something to fall back on, they say.
Pretty soon the college talk turns to background noise, and I’m thinking about what Max told me about Olivia and her family. That would so suck. Like it sucked when Max was shipped off to Iraq, and we had to go to our Aunt Carmen’s. At least Max and William would take good care of Olivia and her brother, not like Carmen did with us. But it would still suck.
Cameron wants to be dropped off first because maybe Meghan’s going to pretend to go out with some girls but come climb through his bedroom window instead.
“I thought your dad nailed your window shut when he caught you with that sophomore girl after the Harvest Festival,” I say.
“He did, but it’s easy to take nails out with the other end of a hammer.”
“Doesn’t he ever check?”
“Not yet,” Cameron says.
So I drop him off first, then Brent. At home, I take the box with the necklace out of my pocket and tuck it into the top drawer of my dresser. I can’t wait to give it to Rosie. Maybe I won’t wait for Christmas. Maybe I’ll give it to her when I see her tomorrow night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Reverse Mohawk
It’s near the end of our walk, and Buddy’s sniffing at every fence and lamppost, checking his pee-mail. I swear he pauses longer to sniff next to the tree where Peppy habitually does her business. That’s what Yoga Joe calls it, “doing her business.”
The moon is nearly full, and the air is clean and fresh, and I’m thinking about Rosie, like I always do, and thinking we can get in a little Tilly time tonight when...pounding feet behind me and before I can turn to look, I’m down, smashed in the back by something hard and heavy. Buddy growls, yelps. I roll, spring up, connect a kick to a guy’s groin, pivot, karate chop to a guy’s face, and I’m down again. A kick to my head. Another. I roll into a tight ball, hands and arms over my head. More blows to my back, my head, try to roll away, hits keep coming. Buddy barking, growling...
“Enough,” someone yells. “Let’s get outta here!”
Another kick. Screeching tires. Fast, heavy footsteps. Someone yanked off me.
Running feet, fading.
“Eddie. Eddie. Are you okay?”
It’s William, his ear to my chest, fingers feeling pulse, checking my head, arms, legs. “Talk to me, Eddie.”
I try to say something, but nothing comes out. I hear the click of his phone. “Send an ambulance! Hanover, between Cloverly and Alessandro. My son’s badly beaten. Unconscious.” Then, more screeching brakes. Footsteps.
“Get your hands in the air!”
“He’s hurt!” William yells.
“Put your hands up, and get away from him!”
I feel William move away...
“Drop it! Drop it!!” More voices.
I hear something drop. His cell???
“Up against the car! Spread eagle!!”
“Robbery in process, black male...”
“Get help!!” It’s William.
I try to call out. They’ve got to know William saved me...William! but nothing comes out.
I hear rustling around, then...“I’ll run a check on his license...put the knife in an evidence bag.”
Somebody else is next to me, running his hands over me. I’m trying, trying, trying to call out.
More rustling. “Let me go to him!”
A smack. “Don’t move!”
“William!” finally, a voice. I’ve got a voice. “William! Dad!”
“The kid knows him,” the guy near me calls out.
“Don’t mean shit,” another guy says.
“Let him go.”
“Dad!!”
William’s there, beside me. “Help’s coming, Eddie. Help’s coming.”
“Buddy,” I whisper.
“He’s okay. He’s tough, like you.”
Sirens, then nothing.
MURMURING. SOFT VOICES. Max. William. I’m cold. Something’s stuck in my arm. I blink, blink, try to keep my eyes open. Grey light.
“Eddie!”
I blink.
“He’s awake! Eddie, it’s me. Max!”
I try to turn my head to the sound of her voice, but it hurts.
“Look. He moved! Eddie?”
Eddie's Choice Page 14
