Avila.
I shove my phone in my pocket.
Pick up the controller.
Fire at scores of infected aliens.
Then my fingers freeze.
The controller drops.
It bangs the display and dangles by the cord.
I rip off the headset. Grab the box. Walk over and drop it where I found it. Then I reenter the chaos and fight to push against the current. Push myself right out of that store.
I lean up against the building. Pull out my phone.
FRI NOV 28 5:36 A.M.
T: Ur on my list too Wendy
T: What is up you early riser?
Wendy: Black Friday, man! Hop to it!
T: Ha! I think I better stay away
from black fridays
Wendy: Happy Thanksgiving, Teodoro.
T: Happy thanksgiving Wendy
I flip my hand over. There’s nothing on my palm.
I battle my way back into the store.
I ask a clerk for a Sharpie. She hands one over.
I make the four connected lines—down-up-down-up—and I got myself a W right there.
I am not giving up.
I am not giving up.
I am not giving up.
I call Caleb and tell him I need a tutor bad. And I need a job to pay for the tutor.
Caleb tells me I’m in luck. They’re hiring at Vince’s.
Aw hell, I’m gonna be a dishwasher.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2008
I walk inside the SeaTac branch of the King County Library.
I scan the place, looking for my new tutor. Some guy from Highline Community College. Ms. Bradley set the whole thing up after I apologized for making her look like a fool. After I begged her on my hands and knees to keep me in AVID.
Dude sitting at a table flashes me a bright-eyed smile and waves me over. He stands and puts his hand out. “I’m the tutor. Bashir Mohamed,” he says.
I shake his hand and look right at him, and I think I know this guy. “Hey, are you Dalmar’s brother?”
He laughs. “Everybody knows my little brother!”
Caleb and I were buds with Dalmar in fifth grade. He had moved here from Somalia in kindergarten. He was way smart and loved soccer more than anything. Bashir used to come over after middle school let out and walk him home every day.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“That kid is a pain in my ass.” Bashir laughs. “Nah, I’m kidding.” He tells me they moved to Burien a while back. His brother got a scholarship to Kennedy Catholic. For his brains. “Plus he scores a ton of goals on the soccer team.”
I ask Bashir about Highline CC.
He says it’s going well but he can’t wait to finish up and transfer to U-Dub. He wants to study chemical engineering.
Then he says, “Hey, what’s the deal with your math?”
I tell him the straight-up truth and Bashir looks at me like I’m the tutoring challenge he’s been waiting for. So he launches right into a review of logarithmic and exponential functions and all that crap.
It’s all hard, but asking questions is easy for once. Maybe it’s something about me knowing his brother. Or maybe it’s just how much Bashir loves math. He describes equations as elegant and beautiful. And he doesn’t care that I suck. He treats it like a game, trying to convince me that math is as awesome as he thinks it is. He makes three hours fly by.
I thank Bashir and tell him I’m headed for my first day washing dishes at Vince’s Pizza.
“Aw, man. Seriously? I wash dishes at Thirteen Coins by the airport.” Bashir stares at his hands with a look of disgust. “Wear the gloves, man. I didn’t want to at first. But then … Teodoro, you gotta wear the gloves.”
“I promise you, I will wear the gloves. Thanks, Bashir.”
We shake hands and make a plan to see each other same time tomorrow.
And I hop a bus to Vince’s.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2008
Three hours of chemistry with Bashir in the morning. Then seven hours of scalding water, scraping slop, and stacking dishes.
My mom is waiting for me in the Vince’s parking lot. In the morning, we made a plan to hear Xochitl sing at Vera Project at Seattle Center. She’s in a new band, Ray Is a Girl. It’s her first gig as their lead singer.
We stand in the tiny crowd as the opening act exits the stage. Indie folk rock plays softly on the speakers. Mami says she went to a rehearsal. She says Ray Is a Girl is the best band Xochitl’s ever been in.
I tell her they can’t be better than Flywheel. Flywheel combined a funk bounce with punk nastiness. And they kicked ass because Xochitl can front punk like nobody else.
The PA music fades and everything gets pitch-black. A spotlight comes up on Xochitl at the mic. She sings a capella:
I’m coming back to you for good this time
I promise it’ll be real soon
I’ll chip away at these walls till I’m free once again
Then run miles by the light of the moon
The way Xochitl sings, you believe she’s locked up, fighting for her freedom. And you wanna know the rest of her story. And you wanna tell her everything’s going to be okay.
The spotlight spreads wider as Xochitl repeats the verse, this time backed by piano. She repeats it again and the guitar joins in. Next time through, the bass thumps to life. Xochitl’s voice grows more and more intense and the lights are pushed brighter and brighter. Finally, the drummer pounds his tom, kicks his bass, blasting his crash cymbal as the lights fill the stage and Xochitl’s belting it out and the crowd—we’re swept away in the swell, blissed-out and thrilled, amazed we’re being taken along on this ride.
Ray Is a Girl gets what we’ve always known: My sister has a voice that plunges into your guts and mixes ’em up like a blender. Her voice is a hand wrapping its fingers around your pulsing heart. So even though Ray has a bunch of kick-ass musicians, they dial it back and let Xochitl’s voice do its thing.
Mami looks at me with the biggest smile I’ve seen in a long time. And she dances like I haven’t seen her dance since Manny left us.
I used to think she was the prettiest mom in the world.
Then she got angry at Papi and blamed him for losing Manny … for losing our old life.
Mami takes my hands in hers. Twirls me around. Dips me. We both laugh and dance and let Xochitl’s voice take us away, to a place where we can be great again.
It feels like the show is about to end, when they drop the spot on Xochitl one more time. She’s sitting at a stool. Someone brings her a guitar. She strums real quiet. “They made me do this,” she says. Then her eyes drop and she watches her fingers dance on the strings.
I heard your voice, on the telephone
Brother … brother of mine
It’s country or folk. A song about talking to Manny.
Clear as a bell, from so far away
Brother … brother of mine
I look at the crowd as Xochitl sings. People are swaying. Hanging on every word.
Just Xochitl’s words. Just her voice. Just enough guitar.
And it hits me like crazy.
This song never existed. Then Xochitl put it into the world. And this room of people—we feel different than we did before. We feel better than we did before. And we’ll walk out this door and into the world with that feeling. And who knows where it will take us?
I cannot sing.
I have no idea what I can do. But I wanna do something. I wanna make something.
I want to feel what Xochitl’s feeling right now as she sings:
No more telephones, no more hopes you’ll come home
Brother … brother of mine
I wanna feel what she’s feeling when she lifts her eyes, looks out at us, slows the words down even more, and nods at us as she sings—
I wanna hold you now …
—knowing we’re gonna finish the song. And she’s right. Xochitl cups her ear with a hand as we sing it with all our hearts.…
She leans into the microphone and says, “You sang that beautiful. Thank you.”
Mami and me got wide eyes and we’re shaking our heads. We knew Xochitl was amazing. Finally, everyone else is gonna know.
We don’t talk much on the drive home. Just stuff about how great Xochitl was.
Then I say it. “I wish Papi could have come.”
“Me too,” she says. “I’m sorry. I know it’s been hard—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Things are better.”
“That’s true. But I know what it’s done to you, us being like—”
“Mami, no. You don’t have to—”
“We can’t change the past, but—”
“It’s all right, Mami. It’s all okay.”
* * *
I can’t sleep. So I wait up in bed. And when the front door opens, I head out to catch Xochitl.
“That was awesome, Xoch.”
“The band is amazing,” she says.
“You aren’t up there acting like a big deal. You’re up there sounding like a big deal.”
“I can’t believe it’s happening, T.”
“Believe it, Xoch. And as awesome as Ray is, your song was even better.”
My rocker-chick sister does not turn red often. She’s turning red now.
“You have any more songs, Xoch?”
She shakes her head.
I tell her she has to write more.
“I don’t know if I have any more in me. And it didn’t feel right being up there alone.”
“Felt right from where I was standing.”
“That’s sweet.”
“That’s not why said it.”
“Okay, T. I get it.”
“Good.”
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2008
I’ve had a grand total of eighteen hours of tutoring over the three weekends with Bashir. Plus, I call him whenever Caleb and I get stuck on something. It doesn’t sound like much. But it’s made a huge difference. The concepts feel like they’re coming one at a time now, instead of hitting me like a tsunami.
Bashir says my teachers should know I’m starting to catch on. He says I should show them.
So I stay and after school and I tell Clegg and Woods I want to retake midterms. They both say they can’t change my grade. I tell them that’s not why I wanna do it.
When I finish, Clegg corrects my chemistry test. He writes a big fat B on top of the page. Then, in a bad British accent, he says, “You have become one with the Force, young Jedi.” And he hands me the test, cracking a smart-ass smile.
“Good one,” I say, sarcastic as hell. But inside I’m pumping my fists in the air. You’re damn right I’ve become one with the Force!
I head up to Pac Highway to catch my bus. And pull out my phone.
TUE DEC 16 4:35 P.M.
T: We never talked midterms
I did all right. U?
Wendy: Good. Except for a stupid B+
in English.
T: Ugh that sucks. I give you an a++
for perfect spelling punctuation and
caps while texting
Wendy: I don’t text-punctuate for just
anyone, Teodoro. They have to
be worth it.
T: That, Wendy, means a lot.
Wendy: ☺
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 2008
The Avila family is picking through the last of the scraggly, cheap-ass Christmas trees at a lot on Pac Highway.
Xochitl and I put on this act like we’re searching for trees in a blizzard on the side of a frozen mountain. And despite the conditions, and despite the lack of actual trees, we’re extremely picky. When we find the perfect one, we mime sharpening our axes and slowly chopping the thing down.
Mami and Papi tell us to stop making a scene, but the looks on their faces tell us they don’t want us to stop.
WED DEC 24 11:05 P.M.
Wendy: Call me?
I’m nervous as hell. We’ve texted quite a bit. But barely talked on the phone.
Half a ring and she picks up.
“Hi, Teodoro.”
“Hey. It’s great to hear your voice.”
“I just wanted to read you something. ’Twas the night before Christmas…”
Ma in her kerchief. The clatter of reindeer on the rooftop. Santa’s rosy cheeks.
Wendy gets into it, real dramatic. And her voice is so full of something that makes me want this story to last forever. But eventually, in a low Santa voice, she says the words, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
“Wow, Wendy. Thanks for that.”
“I hope you all have a good one tomorrow, Teodoro.”
“You, too.”
There’s so much stuff I wanna say, but I can’t.
“I’ll be thinking about you guys,” she says.
“I’ll be thinking about you, too.”
“Yeah, Teodoro?”
“And your mom. Wish her a Merry Christmas from us.”
“I will. And if you hear from Manny, tell him he’s in our thoughts.”
“Thanks, Wendy.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds.
“Teodoro?” she says.
“Yeah?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Wendy, you there?”
“I just want to say Merry, Merry Christmas, Teodoro.”
“Merry, Merry Christmas to you, Wendy.”
“Okay,” she says. “Good night.”
“Good night, Wendy.”
“Sweet dreams, Teodoro.”
“Sweet, sweet dreams, Wendy.”
FRIDAY, JANUARY 9, 2009
I’m at my desk, reading The Catcher in the Rye, bummed out by Holden Caulfield. He’s so damn alone. And that is the one thing I have in common with Holden Caulfield.
I pick up my phone and scroll through recent texts with Wendy.
SUN JAN 04 8:38 A.M.
Wendy: Important question.
Wendy: Milkshake or ice cream cone?
T: Definitely milkshake
Wendy: Interesting …
SUN JAN 04 8:50 A.M.
Wendy: Knees or elbows?
T: Elbows
Wendy: Hmm.
SUN JAN 04 9:04 A.M.
Wendy: Skittles or M&M’s?
T: M&M’s
Wendy: WTF!?!?
SUN JAN 04 9:08 A.M.
Wendy: All right, Avila. That was an easy
one. So I’m giving you one more
shot: Skittles or M&M’s?
T: Still M&M’s.
Wendy: You don’t want to reconsider?
Wendy: I’ll give you a minute.
T: Don’t need it. M&M’s.
Wendy: You can’t just go back and
change your mind later.
T: Not gonna.
Wendy: So I have it right that you are
firm on your answer?
T: Yes. It’s M&M’s.
Wendy: Wow.
Wendy: OK.
Wendy: I know where you stand.
SUN JAN 04 9:45 A.M.
Wendy: Aardvarks or Anteaters?
T: Aardvarks
Wendy: Oh my God, Teodoro! I cannot
EVEN!
Wendy: I’m sitting here
trying to wrap my mind around
your answers.
Wendy: I thought I knew you!
Wendy: Aardvarks? Seriously?
Aardvarks? AND M&M’s???
Wendy: YOU CAN’T HAVE IT BOTH
WAYS, MISTER!
T: I’m complicated, Wendy.
Wendy: Complicated? Teodoro, you are
a boiling cauldron of contradictions.
I look over at that red cover on my bed. I pick it up. Toss it aside. Sorry, Holden. You are not going to cut it. Old texts are not going to cut it. I need Wendy right now.
FRI JAN 09 10:17 P.M.
T: Loved the turtle with
antlers X-mas card. Classic.
&n
bsp; Wendy: I thought you might like it.
T: Actually gave me nightmeers.
Great to get an Xmas card in
January though.
Wendy: Better late than never.
T: That’s MY motto.
Wendy: You have a motto?
T: I have like 10 mottos. U?
Wendy: I have eleven mottos.
T: I actually have 12.
T: No …
T: Recounting …
T: 73 mottos!!!!
Wendy: Wow! How are they working
out for you?
T: Made it this far.
Wendy: You are a dork.
T: I’m a dork? Who plays the tuba?
Wendy: You still don’t get it.
Wendy: And I’m afraid you never will.
T: I wanna get it. I wanna get it
so bad.
Wendy: Then come to my concert.
See me in action.
T: I think that would help.
Score me some tix?
Wendy: I have connections …
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2009
On the bus and I’m shaking the whole way.
Semester grades were mailed Friday.
I think I nailed my essay in English. I compared depressed Holden Caulfield to that death-wish adventure kid from Into the Wild. I sailed through the history multiple-choice final—American Revolution through the Civil War. In chemistry and algebra, at the very least, Bashir had me ready to attack every problem.
You can’t think like that, T. Expect the worst. Expect the worst.
I reach for the box.
Grab the envelope.
Rip it open.
Scan the page and …
Shut the fridge up!
I got a B in History.
B in English.
C in algebra!
And another C in chemistry!
I went from failing to Cs from midterms to now. And there’s only one way that happened. I kicked ass on my finals. I kicked honors ass.
I wipe a stupid tear and shove the card in my pocket. I’m on my way, Wendy.
I head inside, pumped to study. Cuz it’s time for new expectations. Time to turn Cs into Bs and Bs into As.
“You’re home, mijo!” My dad’s got a hammer hanging from his belt and the place smells like sawdust.
“What’s going on, Papi?”
He motions to the kitchen. “Pásale, señor.”
He’s got everything cleared out of the pantry. “Tu cuarto,” he says.
It’s the answer to the question I been too afraid to ask. We’re a week and a half from my brother coming home and every day I ask myself, Where’s Manny gonna sleep? Or the inverse of that question: Where am I gonna sleep?
American Road Trip Page 4
