Manny clicks it for a long time, then stops and slaps the wall so hard everything shakes.
I get up and knock on his door. “You okay, Man?”
Real gruff, he says, “You gotta keep it down in there.”
I open up a crack so he can see me. “I was sleeping, Manny.”
He hops up from his bed. “Is that you?” he says.
I walk right up to him. He looks confused. Out of breath. “It’s me, Man.” I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Right,” he says. “I knew that. How you doing, bud?”
I tell him I’m fine. And I ask him how he’s doing.
And my brother tells me he’s doing real good.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 2009
Manny catches me leaving for school. He says he’ll do the conference.
When evening comes and it’s time to head out, I tell Mami and Papi I’m stealing Manny for a brothers’ night out.
He’s been in his room all afternoon. I knock. No answer, but the TV’s going, so I push the door open a bit.
Manny’s sitting on the bed staring at the wall mirror—lapels up on a crisp white shirt—superfocused on tying a tie.
I say, “Hey, GQ!”
He looks up from his knot. His hair is gelled up. He’s got pressed pants. Shined shoes. That nice shirt. Manny went shopping for this. He smiles and says, “You ready?”
“Heck yeah,” I say.
He goes back at the tie, but those shakes. He asks if I can help.
I go over and loop the tie around his neck like I know what I’m doing. “This goes under here. Then it wraps around again. One more tug and…” I whip the thing off and throw it across the room. I step back, check him out, and say, “Whattaya think?”
He cranes his neck to look in the mirror. “I think you nailed it. Thanks, bro.”
That’s what I mean about quirks. Yes, Manny shakes. Yes, he’s, like, wired and anxious and up at night. But when he’s with you, he’s with you. And he’s funny like he’s always been. And that’s what really matters.
* * *
The conferences take place at the Puget High gymnasium. It takes a while to get in there because Manny reapplies hair gel and tweaks and re-tweaks his collar in the car mirror. Then he takes forever getting himself, like, pumped to walk through the gym door.
Inside, the teachers are at tables set up around the periphery of the basketball court. Parents and anxious students wait in chairs in the center of the court. By the time it’s our turn, I’m freaking out.
Manny stands and buttons his jacket. He looks nervous but he gives me a wink and says, “Let’s do this.”
“If you say so, Man.”
At each conference, Manny asks my teachers how I’m doing. He doesn’t let them get away with Teodoro is doing great. He asks what great means. He tells them to Stay on T’s case. Let him know when his work is not college material. Improved isn’t good enough. Good isn’t good enough. He gives them his number in case you can’t reach our parents. And I know my teachers see me different because of how Manny carries himself and his expectations of me.
We start walking out and Mr. Hart—this young biology teacher who actually went to school with Manny—walks up and says, “Avila! Welcome home! You look great, buddy. You remember? You remember the play?”
“Hey, Rick,” Manny says. “Of course I remember.”
Manny and Rick Hart were team captains and they hooked up on a last-second shot that won a big Vikings playoff game way back when.
Mr. Hart drapes an arm over Manny’s shoulders. He looks concerned for Manny and talks like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. “How are you, really? I mean, how was it over there?”
Manny looks toward the exit. “Ah, geez, Rick—”
“Did you, uh, have to … ya know … put a stop to anyone? Did you have to? Over there?”
Manny freezes. His face turns red. And for a second he’s someplace else.
He snaps to when he spots some old teachers walking our way. They’re waving at him and smiling, wanting to talk.
Manny brushes Mr. Hart off hard and grabs me by the arm. He doesn’t say a word to Rick or the teachers. He just races for the door, dragging me behind.
We get in the car and I thank him a bunch of times, but he’s got his head on the steering wheel. He breathes deep and hard. Runs trembling fingers through his hair. Then reaches both hands out and grips the dash, like he’s trying to steady himself.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Man,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”
He opens the car door. Steps out. Comes to my side, opens the door, and motions for me to scoot over. He wants me to drive.
He has me stop at the 7-Eleven on Pac Highway. I wait in the car. He comes back with a twenty-four-pack of Budweiser cans.
We get to the rental. Before we head inside, I thank Manny again and wish him good night.
He bites a lip and takes in a breath and tries to force a smile. It’s like he’s telling me he failed. And he’s sorry.
“You’re good, Man,” I say. “It’s all good.”
He opens the door and walks straight to his room.
I try to study. Try to sleep. But it’s impossible with the TV and the lamp switch clicking and can tops popping.
And the horrible feeling I made Manny do something he couldn’t handle.
THURSDAY, MARCH 26, 2009
I ace an algebra quiz and get a decent grade on a draft of a paper on the The Crucible, so I tell Caleb I’m taking a night off. I’m headed home right after school.
Every night for a couple weeks, after we study together, I been staying for dinner at Caleb’s. Then we study more and I don’t come home till real late.
See, I started going downhill grades-wise a little since Manny got home. And after the conference, he quit leaving the house. There’s a lot of him watching loud TV and drinking and the clicking weirdness. And Xochitl bugging him about his job search and sometimes they really get into it. So it’s hard to study. I got a couple Cs on chemistry quizzes. Not the end of the world, but I’m not a C student anymore, so …
Staying away from the rental worked.
And today I’m back early to check things out. If it seems like Manny’s doing okay, I’ll ask him if wants to take a walk or something.
I step inside and I can hear Xochitl in his room.
The door is open a crack, so I sneak to a spot where I can look in.
Manny’s smoking pot and Xochitl’s on his case about it. She and weed are not strangers, so I don’t know where she gets off.
You are an amazing person. But you’re using drugs and alcohol as a substitute for …
She goes on and on with a bunch of intervention BS as Manny closes his eyes and does a Zen toke-out. Slow drags. Holds his breath forever. Even slower exhales.
Xochitl throws empty beer cans and yells at him, saying she’s going crazy watching him do this to himself.
She just about knocks me over, storming out of Manny’s room. “You still live here?”
“You all right, Xoch?”
She glares. I immediately regret asking.
“This isn’t good, T. He’s getting worse.”
I don’t know what to say.
“We need you here,” she says.
I don’t want to be in this conversation.
“I need you here,” she says.
I nod my head yes to end it. “Okay.”
“Seriously?” she says.
“Yeah, Xoch. I’ll be here more.”
She lunges at me. Hugs me. “That’s great, T. Another set of hands, you know? Another pair of eyes. That’s all.”
Papi walks in from his job search and Mami gets home from work. They barely manage to say hi to each other. Since Manny started isolating himself, they’re as cold as ever.
Manny manages to join us at the table. It’s a nervous, quiet dinner, uncomfortable as ever.
I try to do subtle stuff to get Manny’s attention. Try to make eye contac
t when I pass him a dish. A silly elbow poke in the ribs. He doesn’t bite.
At some point, Xochitl starts in. She says she’s going to drag us all to this support group for families of vets. She says we need to talk. Manny needs to talk. Mami and Papi need to talk. She begs them to get counseling again. Begs Manny to get out of the house. To AA. To the VA. To the VFW. To the YMCA!
Finally, Manny elbows me back, real subtle. He’s looking down at his lap, so I look down. He’s got his napkin wrapped over his hand like a puppet. He opens and closes the napkin mouth, synced to Xochitl’s voice as she goes on and on with her lecture.
I look up at Manny’s face.
He winks at me.
I roll my eyes.
He rolls his.
That’s the Manny I used to know. That’s my brother.
Xochitl doesn’t stop talking, so after stuffing his face fast, Manny silently leaves the table. Soon there’s Metallica, smoke, and smell coming from his room.
Xochitl hops up and bangs on the door.
“Give it a rest,” I say. “You’re making it worse.”
The volume gets turned way up on the TV.
Xochitl shoots me a death stare and bangs more. Then she wheels around to Mami and Papi. “Are you gonna let him do this?”
Mami takes the same tone with Papi. “Daniel?”
Papi shrugs his shoulders. “No sé que decir, Rosi.”
“You knew what to say when he told us he was leaving. You knew then!” And she keeps going like she’s been saving up words since the day he gave Manny his blessing.
Since the day she started blaming Papi.
He pushes himself from the table. Tosses his napkin and heads into Manny’s room.
The TV and music get turned down. We can hear Papi’s voice. Just a few words.
Maybe Manny says something. It’s hard to tell.
The volume jacks back up. The stereo blasts.
Papi comes out holding one of Manny’s beers. He closes the door.
All eyes on him.
He’s thinking real hard. He closes his eyes. Takes a sip from the can.
Finally, he speaks. “Necesitamos paz,” he says.
We need peace? That is it? Come on, Papi!
He waits for a response from my mom and Xochitl.
Doesn’t get one.
So he leaves the room.
Mami goes to the kitchen and scrubs a pan like she wants to put a hole in it.
Xochitl goes to her room. Slams the door.
I head for Caleb’s. My phone buzzes on the way.
Thu Mar 26 7:22 P.M.
Wendy: With my bud Megan working on
an app idea.
T: App?
Wendy: A program for an iPhone. Short
for application.
T: Fancy! Tell me about it.
Wendy: Our app measures heart rates/
body temps in teens and parents.
Wendy: It takes into account external
stressors of all parties, as well
as barometric pressure.
Wendy: Analysis of conditions indicates
whether parents and their teen
may attempt face-to-face
conversation.
T: Any particular reason you
decided to work on this app?
Wendy: My mom is a total nightmare right now.
T: Why?
Wendy: Oh, the me growing up thing. The
me being an independent
human being thing. She can’t
handle that I have my own ideas
re. my own life and my own future.
So she’s on my case 24/7. It’s
madness.
T: Will the app work on siblings?
Wendy: Wish I had some right about now.
T: Be careful what you wish for.
Wendy: Wish I had a house full of family.
T: Sounds better than it is. Believe me.
I’d trade spots with you right now.
Wendy: Pretty lame thing to say, Teodoro
T: Messed up drama taking place
Wendy: Still. U don’t know what it’s like
being one kid/one parent
Wendy: Stuff gets crappy and there’s no
one else.
T: Talk later?
Wendy: Maybe
T: When?
Wendy: Not sure. I’ll text u
What the hell just happened?
SUNDAY, APRIL 5, 2009
Caleb drops me off real late, but I’m not finished studying. I got the light on in the Captain’s Quarters, trying to wrap my brain around the Roosevelt Corollary.
It’s impossible to concentrate. It’s been days since I’ve heard from Wendy. I guess it was stupid what I texted. Only it wasn’t that stupid. Maybe she needs space. I don’t know.
Whatever it is, I am spinning the text—all the texts—over and over, remaking choices, rewinding and revising, trying to make it right in my mind.
And even if everything was fine with Wendy, tonight would still be impossible. Because there is television-stereo-popping-cans-jackhammer madness on the other side of my wall.
Screw it. I put my books in a cubby, release the latch, and lower the bed down into place. I put in earplugs and flip off the lights. I squeeze my pillow over my head and lock my eyelids tight. I’ll work tomorrow. I’ll hope for Manny tomorrow. Hope for Mami and Papi tomorrow. Hope for Wendy tomorrow. Just let it all go, T. Let it go. Let it go.
* * *
The wall explodes.
I pop awake. Bolt upright. Something’s on my lap.
I’m crumbling—breathless—soundless screaming as the thing pulls itself over my body and back through the wall.
When it’s gone, light pours in through a hole the size of Manny’s fist.
I stand up on the bed. Manny punches through one more time, just missing me.
I throw the pantry doors open and jump, running barefoot out the kitchen. Before I can reach the front door, something stops me. I turn and look.
He’s standing, bent over in his doorway.
He lifts his head. Wild eyes.
He’s looking at me like I’m someone else. Like we’re someplace else.
“Manny!”
His eyes light up. For a split second, he sees me.
Then it’s gone, washed away in tears.
Something pulls me to my brother.
Something stronger stops me.
The door shrieks as I throw it open.
An echo as it slams behind.
I run away as fast as I can. And I don’t look back.
* * *
Caleb picks me up. Kennedy and Rita Ta’amu are waiting when we get to his house.
Caleb tells them I need a place to stay.
“We’ve known your parents a long time,” Kennedy says. “They’re good people. If we’re going to do this, you have to keep communication open. You have to show your face over there.”
I tell him I’ll call every day and head home for Friday dinners.
Kennedy looks me in the eye. Puts his hand on my shoulder. “You have a home here, son. Long as you need.” Rita sets up a bed on the old game cave sofa. She tucks me in with a kiss on the forehead.
I wait till she makes it up the stairs.
Then I lose it.
There are tears. Snot. Full-body shakes.
Whatever hope I got left, after years of waiting for Manny to come home and make us right again, I try my hardest to cry it all out.
And when my eyes finally dry, I decide that I’m done hoping for us.
But I’m not done hoping for me.
MONDAY, APRIL 6, 2009
On the phone with my mom.
“But this is your home, Teodoro.”
“It’s temporary. I was doing so good. I been trying for college, Mami.”
She sniffles. There’s a catch in her throat. It’s like she’s getting herself calm before she talks because she doesn’t want me to know she’s crying.<
br />
“Oh, mijo, I know. I’m so proud of you.”
“I can study here. And I’m not afraid to go to sleep.”
No response. I can hear her blow her nose.
“I know it’s hard, Teodoro. But your father—”
“I don’t want this, Mami. I want Manny to be okay. I want everything to be better.”
“I’m sorry, mijo.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mami. I’m sorry.”
TUESDAY, APRIL 7, 2009
It’s late when Xochitl’s standing at the Ta’amus’ door.
“God, it’s good to see you, Xoch.”
We head downstairs toward the sofa. I wanna tell my sister how scared I was. How hard it’s been seeing Manny like he is. How hard it was to move out. How bad I want to be home.
It’s only been a couple days, but I want Xochitl to say Mami and Papi made up and Manny started talking. She doesn’t say any of that.
“I had asked you if you would be home more. You said yes. And now you run away?”
“You weren’t there Xochitl. You should have seen him. I can’t go back as long as he’s—”
“He’s better when you’re home, T. He’s always been his best for you.”
“You don’t know how crazy that sounds, Xoch.”
“We can switch rooms,” she says.
“That’s not it, Xoch.” I reach for my pack. I pull out the paper. My report card. I hand it to her. “Remember when you told us Manny was coming home? Remember you called me lazy and you told me to do something good?”
She looks up from the paper with smiling eyes, like she can’t believe my grades. “You did it!” She tackles me. Punches me in the arm.
“I’m going for As, Xoch. By the end of the year, I’m going for it.”
“Amazing, T.” She closes her eyes for a second. “But…”
“But what?”
“No,” she says. “No buts.” She smiles like she means it and hands me my report card. “Just amazing. And I’m proud of you.”
“What were you going to say, Xoch?”
She takes a huge breath. Exhales. Sweeps the purple streak of hair out of her face. “I need you, T.” Her voice cracks. “I need you to come home. Now.”
I look down at the floor, thinking whoever made up the phrase Do the right thing must have had a simple life. I look at my sister. Shrug my shoulders.
“Come on, T.”
American Road Trip Page 6
