When people try to make us feel better about Manny, they say, Everything’s going to be okay. God has a plan. Everything happens for a reason.
Wendy doesn’t say any of that BS. She gets that it’s way more complicated. And that makes me like her even more.
In a minute, Wendy’s mom walks our way. Rebecca O’Brien acts thrilled to see me. She asks how the family is and I keep my lies straight as Wendy takes off running. We watch her go and I’m about to ask, but Rebecca sighs and says, “You never know with that girl.”
Rebecca tells me Uncle Frank misses us terribly. She says it’d be great if we all spent a week in Florence, like old times. I tell her I’ll let Mami and Papi know.
Pretty soon, Wendy’s standing there again, one hand hidden behind her back.
Rebecca edges away and it’s clear they have to go.
I don’t want this moment to end, so I say, “Wendy, being here, soaking this place in, I think this old U-Dub might be tops on my list.”
“That’s awesome,” she says. “It’d be great if we both went here.”
Then I totally lose it and I tell Wendy if she comes here, I’m coming here.
She smiles her wicked smile and says, “That sounds like a pact, Teodoro Avila.”
“Wendy Martinez,” I say, “it sounds like a pact because it is a pact.” Then I fake spit on my hand and hold it out for a shake.
She pulls her hand from behind her back and she’s holding a cupcake on a napkin.
“For me?” I say.
“Uh-huh,” she says, smiling bigger—even though it’s clear she’s trying not to because of her mom.
Then she comes at me for one more hug.
One more just us in the world hug.
Holy.
One more same-time breath.
Crap.
“Check the napkin,” she whispers. Then she looks at me like she’s trying to memorize my eyes.
“Wendy.” Rebecca points at her watch. “Good to see you, Teodoro.”
Wendy smiles at me and pulls away. She walks into the crowd streaming out the HUB doors and just before I lose track of her, she turns and jumps in the air, making a wacky face, waving both arms up high.
I hop and wave, hop and wave till she’s gone.
Then I look down at the cupcake in my hand. White frosting. Still warm. I peel the wrapper and take a bite. Red velvet.
I devour the whole thing right there. And stuff the wrapper—red crumbs and all—and the napkin with Wendy’s digits, into my front pocket.
I pull out my phone. Check the date. Grab a pen off a table. I say the numbers out loud as I write them on the palm of my hand.… 9/10/08.
Then I close my eyes and make a promise. This is the day everything changes.
* * *
It’s just past nine when I finally make it to Caleb’s place. He’s got his headset on, butt planted in sofa, hair poofing, smelling like garlic and dishwasher soap. He’s got soda and Vince’s Pizza sitting on the game cave coffee table and he’s twitching his controller. Caleb Ta’amu is Halo ready. “I got two hours, man. My dad’s cool with it. Let’s do this.”
I tell him we have to talk first.
“You breaking up?” he says. “You can’t do that, T. We’ve built a virtual life together.”
“Shut up, Caleb. And listen.” I plop into the sofa and tell him the whole story. I tell him how amazing Wendy is. How beautiful she is. I tell him how she gets Manny being away like no one else does—besides him, of course. And I tell him about the cupcake.
“Red velvet,” Caleb says. “Red velvet.”
“You think it means anything?”
“It means there’s one girl in this world who actually likes you. You, Teodoro Avila.” Caleb laughs and slaps me on the back.
I do not laugh. Instead, I tell him about my lies.
And I tell him about the pact.
Caleb calls me an idiot and says, “This may come as a mind-blowing surprise to you, T, but women have this thing about a thing called honesty. So if you want a shot with Wendy, you got to make it right.”
“I can’t tell her the truth yet,” I say. “But what I could do is I could … uh…”
“Spit it out, T.”
“It’s too stupid.”
“I bet it’s not your stupidest.”
“What I could do is … I could go for it, Caleb. You know? Like I could start doing the stuff people do to get into college. And maybe…”
I immediately regret it because Caleb is gonna crush me. He knows I got all-but-failing grades and the idea of me doing anything but community college is stupid.
But he doesn’t say anything. He just locks eyes on the flat screen and starts twitching his controller, selecting his player. But just as he’s about to start shooting, he pauses the game. And he stares at the floor.
“Caleb?”
No response.
“What’s going on, Caleb?”
He tosses his controller. Grabs the remote. Hits the power button. He turns to me real serious. “You go for it, T.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yeah!”
“Are you messing with me, Caleb?”
“No way. You go for it. You go!”
Then Caleb looks around the room. The sofa. The junk food. And he calls himself a loser. He says he’s been a waste of space in this world. He tells me I been keeping him down. And he apologizes for keeping me down. Then he whips off his headset and says, “I’m gonna do it, too.”
“For real, Caleb?”
He stands, steps over the coffee table, and walks to the Xbox. He bends down and grabs the power cord. Follows it to the wall. He turns and holds up a shaking hand for me to see. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
He reaches for the plug.
“Caleb, you don’t have to—”
He yanks it hard.
“Damn, Caleb! I’m not that ready.”
He unscrews the cable. Wraps the cords. “This box owns us. I don’t wanna be owned.”
I remind him of our Halo friends all over the world. Splazer3000 in Berlin. Plasma17 in Buenos Aires. DUspartan in Melbourne. “We’ve been through a lot of battles with those guys. Let’s log on and blast some Covenant ass up for old times’ sake. And then, maybe—”
Caleb grunts and shakes his head. “Are you really into her, T?” He holds up the box. “Cuz a girl like Wendy wants way more than this. And right now this is all you got.”
“It’s not that easy, Caleb.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t try.”
I look at the box sitting in his hands. Then I look my best friend in the eyes. “Caleb Ta’amu, I’m gonna need your help.”
“Teodoro Avila, I’m your brother from another mother. You just say the word and this is for real.”
I close my eyes. Picture Wendy. See her brown eyes again. That smile. I fight to feel her hug again. Take in a deep breath. And I say it. “The word.”
Caleb says “The word” right back and we do the ridiculous handshake we made up when we were ten.
* * *
I stand facing that dented door, praying I don’t get trapped in the messy aftermath of game night.
I turn the knob. Take a step inside.
“Hey, T,” Xochitl says. She’s sitting at the table. Smiling.
With my parents.
Who are also smiling.
And giggling.
At each other. Like, with each other.
I walk slowly into the room. Because something is very wrong. And I’m concerned it’s drugs. “Hello, family,” I say. “May I ask what is up?”
My mom giggles more and says, “How’s Caleb?”
“Fine,” I say. “Are you people all right?”
“I’m not all right,” she says. “I could have used your help against these brutes.”
My dad walks around the table and gives her a hug. “Ay, lo siento, Rosi. I’ll make it up to you later.” He plants a fat kiss on her cheek.
Xochitl tells
them they’re gross and would they please get a room.
I’m stuck there, wondering who stole my parents and replaced them with these sick, happy clones.
Mami hugs me and wishes me good night.
Papi musses my hair—the man is not a musser.
I watch them walk to their room. Together. “Xoch,” I say. “What did you slip into Mami and Papi’s Diet Cokes?”
“It’s the magic of game night,” she says. “And it wasn’t Coke. It was red wine.”
“So I’m thinking there should be a lot more booze up in here?”
Xochitl smiles big. “It’s Manny,” she says. “He called and told them he has his ticket. And tonight, Mami and Papi were kind of like when we were kids.”
Wow. “Did they play ‘Con los años que me quedan’? Did they do their dance?”
“One small step at a time, T.”
“It didn’t look that small.”
Xochitl stares up at the ceiling. Stares at the beige walls. “Help me paint.”
I tell her I don’t think these walls are worth it.
“We’re worth it. Manny’s worth it. Let’s get some color in here.”
“All right. I’ll help you paint this dump. But you gotta promise, no more lectures.”
“Deal.” She shakes my hand on it. “I’ll get everything ready. It’s gonna look great, T.”
“Worth a shot,” I say.
“Cuz Manny’s coming home.”
“Even if it’s just another false alarm.”
“It’s not. He’s coming home.”
I go to my room. Pull out my phone. And shoot off a text.
WED SEP 10 9:55 P.M.
T: Make it home ok?
Wendy: Hey you!
Wendy: Yeah, thanks. We got home
fine.
T: Great cupcake
Wendy: Oh good! Someday you can try
one of mine.
T: I’d like that
Wendy: What’s your favorite
flavor?
There’s a bunch more. But that’s the start of it.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2008
We wait outside Ms. Bradley’s office door before school. When she finally walks our way, my heart is thumping. Caleb looks sick to his stomach.
“Good morning,” Ms. Bradley says. She unlocks her counseling office door. Flips the light. Sits and tells us to do the same. She pumps antibacterial lotion and rubs it in good. “What’s up, gentlemen?”
I turn to Caleb because he’s better at talking. He juts his chin at me. You do it.
“Ms. Bradley,” I say. “I need, uh—we need—to know, um, what we would hafta do”—I swallow the lump in my throat—“to get into the University of Washington.”
She tilts her head. “The Seattle campus?” Her fingernails tap-tap her desk. “The main, biggest campus?”
“Yes, ma’am. The big one.”
Ms. Bradley turns to her computer. She prints our grades and reaches for a binder with the University of Washington admissions requirements. She studies them for a minute. Then she takes a deep breath to tell us the bad news.
I stand up to leave. “You don’t have to, Ms. Bradley.”
“You sit,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your grades are not college material.” She leans in. Studies us long and hard. “But you might be.”
Caleb and I shoot looks at each other. “We might?”
“I don’t know. Admissions folks are all about What have you done for me lately? Grades. Test scores. Activities. Overcoming adversity. You boys have spent two years creating a big mountain of adversity. So at least you’ve got that going for you.”
Then she tells us about AVID, this program for underachievers with potential. Kids whose parents didn’t get a degree. She can stick ’em in college track, honors, and AP, along with an AVID support class. They do a tutorial in there where seniors and college kids come in and help students on new concepts.
“Your grades don’t meet the requirements for the program,” Ms. Bradley says. “But I have some discretion.… If I believe in a student, I can make it happen.” She looks us in the eyes. “I don’t know, gentlemen. Shoud I believe in you?”
That’s when Caleb starts talking fast. He says his parents are so smart but they never had the opportunity to go to college. He talks about how hard his sisters work in school and he knows he can do better. He swears to Ms. Bradley that he’s gonna work his butt off and make her proud. He’s gonna make his parents, his church, his aunties and uncles and cousins—the entire Polynesian community—all proud. “You got my word, Ms. B.”
Ms. Bradley turns to me.
I fake sneeze.
Because I can’t make any promises.
She grabs me a Kleenex.
I wipe and blow, thinking it’s one thing to realize you have to change yourself. And it’s a whole other thing to fight through that overwhelming mountain of adversity to make change happen.
I plant my feet hard on the ground. I lean forward to stand and walk outta that office.
But before I can … I feel it in the palm of my hand.
And I sneak a peek.
Yesterday’s date in faded ink. I feel the pen pressing sharp into my skin back at the HUB. I see Wendy waving good-bye. I see her eyes. Feel her hand on my hand. Her finger wiping away that tear. Her body hugging my body. And in all my guts, in every part of me, I feel a massive, magnetic tug of want.
I know I can’t say, I’m doing this for Wendy, so I say stuff about wanting to be the first in my family. Stuff about my mom starting college a couple times, but each time stepping away for family reasons. I tell Ms. Bradley that us kids making it became her big dream.
And because Manny was a big star at Puget High and everyone loved him—I say, “My brother, Manuel, is coming home. I want to show him I can do this.” Even though I say that because I know it’ll sound good—when I hear myself talk about my brother, the words hit so deep it hurts and I gotta stop another tear from coming.
Ms. Bradley prints out two AVID student contracts and says all we have to do is sign on the dotted line. But before she hands over the pen, we need to look her in the eye and promise we will not waste this opportunity. Or make her look like a fool.
Caleb looks her in the eye and says the words.
Ms. Bradley hands him the pen and he signs.
She turns to me. “Mr. Avila?”
“I will not let you down, Ms. Bradley.”
I take the pen. And I sign.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2008
I hop off the Metro bus and into the sunshine after a week of sitting in those classes. One whole week with a sharpened pencil and a sharpened backup pencil and a shiny new notebook with crisp dividers. One week of scholarly freaking posture and eyes on the speaker and trying so hard to make this all look perfectly normal.
Finally, the weekend is here and Ma Nature is giving us one last shot of summer.
For the old T, this would have been time to cut loose.
But instead of heading to Caleb’s, I’m marching down the cracked streets of SeaTac sporting a bulbous one-ton backpack. I got the periodic table whirling in my mind and I can’t drop the idea that the formula for calcium phosphate is C-3PO, when it’s really Ca3-PO-something. And I’m kicking myself for the time I’ve lost trying to find the compound whose formula is closest to R2-D2.
I have to unlock the mysteries of linear equations for Algebra Two. They’re in their second book in AP English. Dante’s Inferno. Eight chapters to read by Sunday night. Six chapters from the AP US History textbook, Out of Many, and an essay about a colonial rebellion called “Persons of Mean and Vile Condition.”
And I have to be prepared to talk pros and cons of sentencing convicted kids as adults for Socratic Seminar in Ms. Hays’s AVID class. Everyone talks. That’s the rule. And I have to keep my three-ring-binder in order. That thing is checked daily by Ms. Hays until I prove I’m a wizard of organization.
M
s. Bradley said it’d be like this. Like you’re trying to hop on a merry-go-round spinning a thousand miles per hour. You have to keep reaching for it, jumping up for it, keep getting smacked down. Eventually the spinning will slow and you can just step up for the ride.
Right now, I’m motion sick with all the spinning, but I’m choosing to trust Ms. Bradley.
I get to the house and onto the porch. But before I open the door, I lift the lid on the mailbox and reach in. There’s a utility bill, some ads, and an envelope from Puget High School.
I sit on the step and open up the parent version of the AVID contract. All this stuff Mami and Papi are supposed to do to support me. All the promises they’re supposed to make.
I turn to the second page. Pull a pen from my pack. Find the dotted lines. I’ve been practicing for this moment. I sign, Daniel Avila—long, curvy, and clear. Then Rosario Avila—big R and a big A, the rest a fast mess.
I’m not ready for any Avilas to know. College has always been the most important thing for my mom. She had high hopes for Manny. But he chose to join the army. Xochitl is the smartest of us all, but she thinks college will slow her down. My brother and sister disappointed Mami because they had real potential. I have never really shown any of that, so I don’t want to get her hopes up and end up being another disappointment.
But maybe the real reason I’m hiding all this is cuz when I blow it, it’ll be easier to quit if no one knows I tried.
I stuff the contract in my pack.
And before I head inside, I shoot off a text. Wendy answers right away.
FRI SEP 19 3:37 P.M.
T: What’s ur favorite class?
Wendy: AP Physics. But anything math
or science.
Wendy: And I kind of love my history
teacher. Your fave?
T: DK … year is still
young
Wendy: Oh, and band. I play tuba.
T: Lol you crack me up
Wendy: I play the tuba, Teodoro.
T: Wow that’s
Wendy: Cool? Awesome?
T: Cool and awesome and kinda
Wendy: ?
T: Cute
Wendy:The tuba?
American Road Trip Page 2
