by Gary Soto
Twenty yards away from the man, Michael fired and hit him—the paintballs exploded on his arm. The man let out a small chirp of pain and groaned, "Dead."
Michael wondered if the shots had hurt. They must have because the man was holding his arm. He looked over at Turtle, who was giving him a thumbs-up. Then Turtle's hand flattened in a sign to get down.
"Down!" Turtle blurted.
A Vietnam vet had sneaked up on them and started firing from behind a tree at Michael. But the vet stopped when Turtle fired from his position. The vet collapsed to the ground, unhurt, and crawled into a hole that was deep enough for a coffin.
Michael returned fire. Paintballs whizzed over the hole and exploded on the limbs of yellowish trees that appeared dead. He knew his fire was pointless, but his confidence grew every time he pressed the trigger. He liked the feel of the gun thumping in his hands. He liked the sight of the paintballs spitting out of the gun barrel.
Michael glanced over his shoulder. Turtle was moving swiftly toward the hole. Turtle motioned Michael to climb back up the hill and go around. Michael nodded and hurried away, his flannel shirt snagging on brush and tearing. His tennis shoes slipped in the dust.
"But he knows," Michael caught himself muttering. The Vietnam vet had been in a real war and knew that Turtle and he were going to try to flush him. The vet couldn't be that dumb, or could he? Michael had seen a lot of vets holding up signs in San Francisco that read: PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS YOU. These men were gray-haired, with lined faces where their tears ran from the sadness of having no place to live. Pigeons pecked at their feet.
But Michael shook off this image. He was at war, and this vet was trying to tag him. He moved up the hill, stopped briefly to get a drink of water from his canteen, and then started down again. He stopped twenty feet from the hole and wiped his goggles on the sleeve of his shirt. He could see Turtle, who was down on one knee. He was wagging his head no.
They waited.
Michael could see action on the other side of the hill. Paintballs were flying wildly and little explosions of dust rose where the squads scampered behind rocks, brush, trees, and tree stumps. Two soldiers were on the ground, dead and out of the game. He thought of his friends, who probably were speaking Vietnamese among themselves. He wished he could say something, in either English or Spanish, but who was there to talk to? He reached into his pocket and brought out the Milky Way candy bar. When he tore off the wrapper, the candy was a flood of melted chocolate. He drained the gooey chocolate into his mouth and licked his fingers. So what if he swallowed dust? He was hungry.
"Ay," he muttered.
The shadow of a hawk scared him. And it didn't comfort him to see a lizard staring at him, its tongue like a lance. Are these signs? he wondered. And he had to wonder about his friends fighting against the Vietnam vets. Was Trung mad that his grandfather had been killed by the U.S. military? He didn't seem mad. In fact, Michael could make out Trung's laughter in the distance. Were he and the Vietnam vet taunting each other?
Then Turtle began to fire at the hole.
Michael jumped to his feet, gun raised. He advanced toward the hole, crouching, his shoulders tense. The vet swung around and shot toward Michael, but the paintballs whizzed past. Michael stopped, felt his heart thumping, and leaned against a tree. He swung away from the tree and launched an attack as he moved from one tree to another. The paintballs burst at the lip of the hole.
"Give up!" he heard himself say. Where did he get the guts to ask the enemy to surrender?
"You wish!" the vet hollered, and then returned fire.
Michael started to fire again, but his gun was empty. Michael brought out a new cartridge from his fanny pack and clipped it in. Easy, he thought. He began to once again pepper the hole.
The vet returned fire at Michael, and then swung around as Turtle came running toward the hole. They each shot at the same time, and both let out a chorus of "Ahhh."
Michael waited before he approached them carefully.
"You're both out?" Michael asked.
"For now," the vet answered. He was examining the red stain on his T-shirt. He had gotten hit two times.
Turtle was looking at his shoulder, where he had taken his hits. He seemed mad at himself. He dropped cross-legged and took a water bottle from his pants pocket.
Michael left the two and moved down the hill. He walked slowly, each step from heel to toe, as he headed toward the flag. When he was twenty yards from the flag, he heard Trung talking in Vietnamese. He thought he was addressing his brother or his brother's friend, Tran. But he was crowing with one of the Vietnam vets, who knew the language of his enemy.
"Weird," Michael muttered. He hurried over to Tran, who was sitting back and tossing corn nuts into his mouth. His gun was at his side, along with a sack of cartridges.
"What are they saying?" Michael asked.
Tran noisily chewed his corn nuts, swallowed, and rolled his tongue over his front and back teeth. "They're talking about where they bought their guns on the Internet," he answered. He tossed back a few more corn nuts.
Michael was confused. Was it okay to talk to the enemy?
Then there was firing from both sides. Tran was hit in his shoulder.
"Uhha!" Tran screamed, a half-chewed corn nut falling from his mouth. Michael thought at first that it was one of his teeth. He was going to ask if it really hurt when paintballs burst at his feet. He scampered down the hill and jumped behind a rock. He was breathing hard and sweat was washing over his face. His heart was thumping like a rabbit.
"I need a drink of water," he muttered to himself. But his thirst disappeared when he sensed movement in a bush. He turned and, without thought, shot a round. He saw an enemy—an adult, bending over in pain, holding his stomach. Between his fingers leaked purple paint.
"It does hurt," Michael remarked. The man had a gut that wobbled like Jell-O, and Michael figured that if the fat around his middle hadn't softened the blow, then how would Michael stand it? He touched his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to getting hit there.
He retreated halfway back up the hill, and rested for a moment as he looked down on the fighting. When he heard footsteps behind him, he galloped once again into the valley. He stayed hidden in a bush while the paintballs began to fly at one of his other squad members. He took off his goggles, something he had been told not to do, and wiped the sweat around his nose. He quickly put them back on—a sniper had located his position. He scrambled out of the bush to his right, where he believed Trung and True were battling.
Someone said something in Vietnamese. He knew it wasn't Trung or his brother because the voice belonged to a man. From behind a rock, he saw the enemy, those who had been knocked out, and a few of his squad members. He swallowed. On the ground, not too far from the flag, were Trung and True. Both were facedown, splatters of paint on their backs and around their armpits. A hawk swung in the sky, and its shadow touched both of them.
"Trung," Michael muttered under his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut. He imagined a vulture on Trung's back. The vulture was pulling a strip of flesh and raising his beak to get it down his throat. But Michael's eyes sprung open when he heard a branch snap. He saw movement in a bush. He rose to his feet and ran toward the figure, firing. The figure jumped from the sting of the paintballs, then dove into the cover of the bush.
"I'm down," a voice called from the bush. He sat in the dust.
Michael was breathing hard, sweat fogging up his goggles. He took them off quickly, wiped the sweat from the lenses, and put them back on. He gazed at his surroundings. He knew that most of his squad was down, even Squirrel, who was sitting with his arms around his knees. He was pulling foxtails from his cotton gloves. An empty water bottle lay at his feet.
Silence.
Michael could hear a car start up in the parking lot. He could hear a single-engine airplane. His senses were keen. He could even smell barbecue potato chips—someone was snacking on junk food before the next round of combat. His
stomach rumbled. His ear twitched when he heard the flag snap. He was only twenty feet away. Three leaping steps, and it could be his!
Silence.
Sweat dripped down the sides of his nose. He tasted salt and something close to blood.
"I'm going to try," he told himself. He scanned the valley. There was no movement, except two hawks were circling above. He envisioned his cadet uniform to give himself strength. He saw a row of ribbons on his chest and a single medal for marksmanship. Nah, make that bravery.
He scrambled to his feet, finger on the trigger, and scurried to a tree, where he crouched, waiting for his breathing to calm and the pulse in his wrist to slow. He was tasting blood—the sun had caused his nose to bleed. He held his nose to his shirtsleeve until the blood flow stopped. He ran his index finger under his nostril—just crusted blood.
"You can do it," he told himself. "Win it for your squad!"
He stood up, mumbled, "You can do it," and shooed away the gnats that circled his face. He licked his lips, counted to ten, said, "Now," and dashed toward the flag.
A burst of fire from two directions hit him on all sides.
He let go of his gun, stung, and fell next to Trung, who had rolled over onto his belly. His eyes were open, motionless.
"It hurts," Michael groaned.
Trung's eyes wouldn't move. He was playing dead for his friend.
Michael squirmed from the pain and then forced his body to be still, even as the nosebleed started again and rolled down the side of his cheek. If Trung could play dead, so could he. He pictured a vulture on his back and winced when he imagined the beak piercing his flesh. The pain was nothing, and his mom's crying next to nothing. He was a cadet. He pictured himself being lowered into the ground, a bivouac ribbon on his chest after all.
Sorry, Wrong Family
Carolina Wrinkled her nose when her little brother, David, tipped a liter bottle of Dr Pepper into his mouth, swigged a little, and then sent the flavorful backwash of soft drink flowing back into the bottle.
"It's mine now," he claimed with a laugh that resembled a bark. He smacked his lips and burped. "But if you want some, you can have some." He pushed the bottle toward her.
"That ... is ... dirty," she said as she set her fork on the edge of her dinner plate. "Dad, did you see what David did?"
Her father's face was hidden behind the sports page. "The Dodgers lost three in a row," he mumbled.
"Dad, David spit in the Dr Pepper."
"David, don't do that no more." He showed his stubbly face from behind the newspaper, wagged a finger at David, and returned to the newspaper.
Carolina fumed at her father and her little brother. We have no manners, she concluded. She had intended to pour herself a glassful of Dr Pepper, but now she could only get herself a glass of water. She sighed. She lowered her head and surveyed her dinner of enchiladas, beans, rice, and salad. The salad, she saw, was scooted to the side of the plate. She had learned that salads required their own plate and recalled hinting at her mother that salads were served that way. Her mother, a bank teller who plied out money all day, had responded in a surly voice, "Not in this house. I'm not going to wash extra dishes."
Carolina stabbed at a wedge of tomato and fit it into her mouth as her mother returned from the kitchen, licking her fingers—a no-no in Carolina's book. It was a no-no in Miss Manners's book as well.
"Who was that on the phone?" her father asked.
"A telemarketer—how they bother." Her mother plopped down in a chair. She sized up Carolina's unhappy face. "What's the matter?"
Carolina had also learned that it was impolite to bring up complaints at dinner. It was better, she had read, to discuss the matter in private. "I'll bring it up later, if that's okay."
"No, it's not okay." Her mother balanced a weighty forkful of beans inches from her mouth. "Spill it, girl."
Carolina sighed. She could feel her mouth fall open at the sight of the beans being shoveled onto her mother's outstretched tongue, but her mouth reshaped itself into a gasp as her mother reached for the Dr Pepper. "Mom, I wouldn't drink that."
Her mother finished smacking the food in her mouth. She rolled her tongue over her back molars for a quick brushing. "I'm thirsty and I'm not on a diet. I can drink what I want."
"I just wouldn't, Mom." She eyed her little brother, who was kicking his legs and smiling a toothless smile—at age six he had lost his front baby teeth in an unnatural way. He had lost them when he bailed out from a tall swing and landed face-first in the dirt. "Because David drank from the bottle." She didn't bother to explain that he had spit some of the soda back into the bottle.
"Did you do that?" his mother asked.
David nodded. He chuckled.
"You precious rascal," she scolded lightly. "You're not supposed to do that."
When her mother uncapped the bottle, Carolina had to look away. Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily but reopened when she heard a burp.
"David, that's not polite," Carolina caught herself saying. She hoped that her new tactic, a caring, grown up tone in her voice, might be a way of reaching her brother. True, David was only six and a brat. Still, he might learn.
David tried to kick her under the table. "That wasn't me, stupid." He stabbed an arm in the direction of their mother. His fingers were splayed like a pitchfork. "It was Mom."
"Mom!" Carolina scolded.
"What?" her mother nearly screamed.
"Burping?"
Her mother crushed her napkin in her fist. "You think you're high and mighty, don't you?" Anger swirled in her eyes as she bared her teeth. "High and mighty, Miss Too-Good-for-the-Rest-of-Us!"
Carolina picked up her dinner fork and parted the enchilada. She wondered what Miss Manners would do at such a moment. She could feel the heat of her mother's wrath. Before taking a bite, she opted for an apology and said, "I'm sorry."
"That's right, you're sorry." Her mother tore a tortilla and slapped one half down on the pile of beans. She snorted and said, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
"But I said if we could talk about it later."
"Sorry, sorry—"
"Knock it off!" her father bellowed.
The three of them froze.
He set the newspaper down. "Can't we have a nice family dinner?" he asked. His jowls hung like pears on his face. His large Adam's apple rode up and down his stubbly throat, but he issued no more words.
"I made the enchiladas for you," Carolina's mother said. "Your favorite."
The squiggly line of his mouth moved around before it finally settled into a smile. "That's right, you did. Come on, let's chow down." He reached for the ketchup bottle. He squeezed the nearly empty bottle over his enchiladas. He pounded the bottle and then squeezed it one more time until it produced a rude sound that made David laugh.
Carolina's mother laughed, and her father laughed but stopped when he remembered that the Dodgers, a team he had grown up with, had lost three in a row.
Sorry. The word prompted Carolina to drag her sadness to her bedroom, where she opened her diary. She wrote: I didn't like dinner. David spit into the Dr Pepper and Mom still drank it. She told her diary about her day at school: Elena, her best friend, had scored a Perfect in spelling, and a first grader she didn't know came to school with his head shaved because of lice. She then returned to the dinner scene—her mother calling her sorry and her father jumping all over them because he wanted a nice family dinner, even though he was reading the newspaper at the table. She reread her entry in the light of her Hello Kitty lamp.
"A million years from now, people will read my feelings," she lamented. "They will discover my hurt." Who would side with parents who were careless in what they said and lax in their manners?
Carolina brought out her fancy stationery. It was Miss Manners who should hear about her family and their breaches of etiquette. She had written Miss Manners two weeks before and would write her again, though Carolina suspected that the sage of etiquette had no time for girls her age.
Still, Carolina had made Miss Manners her heroine. She pictured Miss Manners behind a desk reading tearstained letters from those seeking solace from an uncivil world. Miss Manners's posture was perfect, her hair in place despite the temptation to pull it out after reading her daily correspondence. Carolina pictured Miss Manners sniffing the flowers on her desk as she prepared herself for witty replies.
Carolina suddenly sniffed the air about her. It wasn't flowers scenting her bedroom. Her nostrils flared like a horse's and her eyes shifted in their sockets. She turned. "David, you know it's not polite to come in my room without knocking."
David was munching something.
"Didn't you eat enough at dinner? What are you eating?" His food-stained T-shirt, which read RAIDERS NATION, billowed out as if he was hiding something there.
"Nothing," he mumbled.
"You are, too!"
"No, I'm not."
When he opened his mouth in a smile, Carolina could make out the head of one of his miniature army men. He clamped his mouth shut so that the head stuck out from his lips. The army man appeared to be suffering a new kind of death.
"That is ugly and dirty."
David giggled and ran from the room. Carolina heard him trip in the carpeted hallway. He returned seconds later, a buildup of tears in his eyes.
"What now?"
"I swallowed him."
Carolina stood up. "The army man?"
When he nodded, tears rolled down his cheeks. A new flush of tears filled the space in the corners of his eyes.
"Can you breathe?"
His nod made a tear slip from his face and spill on the floor.
She grabbed his hand, which she discovered was sticky and disgusting—she could only imagine where it had been—and hauled him into the kitchen, where her mother was painting her fingernails. "David swallowed an army man," she said breathlessly. She had to repeat herself over the noise of the dishwasher.
Her mother stood up. "What?" She grabbed David's mouth, pried it open roughly, and looked in.
"Do you see anything?" Carolina wanted to ask. But she remained quiet, though she did risk leaning toward David's open mouth and taking a peek herself.
