by Paul Langan
Chapter 8
Suddenly, I was kneeling on the sidewalk next to Frankie’s car. Huero was in my arms, his eyes closed, blood on my hands. The trees around us looked like they had been dipped in a coating of silver. We were outside, but it was strangely quiet.
“No!” I screamed from the top of my lungs. My homeboys were nowhere to be found, but the LeMans was there shining more brightly then ever. Too brightly.
Then there was the sound of tires screeching. I turned to see the white sedan racing off. I slid my arms out from under my brother and started chasing the car. I ran for blocks, the car just ahead of me. I passed through my old neighborhood, past the graveyard, and then down the street that led past the Golden Grill, the ice cream stand, all the way to Bluford. In front of the high school, the car stopped.
This was it! I realized. The chance I was waiting for. There was a pistol in my hand just like the one Frankie bought. It felt like it was part of me, an extension of my fingers, not a foreign object.
I moved up on the car now, the gun out in front of me aimed at the driver’s window. The glass was tinted so I couldn’t see inside. But then the door began to open.
The gun was steady in my hand. I pointed it just where the driver’s head would be as the gap between the door and the car slowly widened. I saw a hand, then an arm, and then a shoulder. Finally a face.
It couldn’t be. My eyes had to be lying. Please tell me they were.
The driver of the car was me. I was about to shoot myself.
“No!” I screamed again.
Suddenly, a crowd came out of the high school. They were all watching. Vicky. Teresa. Eric. Mr. Mitchell. Officer Ramirez. Principal Spencer. My mother. They began to point at me, their faces angry and cruel. I felt hands grabbing me as I screamed for my life.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, mijo,” I heard. It was my mother’s voice. She was shaking me. I was in bed covered in sweat. “You’re dreaming. That’s all. ”
I had nightmares as a boy, especially around the time my father left, but they had stopped years ago. And even when they woke me up at night, I would usually forget them after a few minutes. They would just melt away like ice left in a glass on a hot day. But not this nightmare. It’s like a picture frozen permanently in my brain. Whenever I think of it, I get the chills.
“Go back to sleep,” she said after a few minutes.
I tried, but I didn’t sleep more than a few hours that night.
On Saturday morning, I crawled out of bed as soon as I heard the alarm blaring. My head ached, and I could hear my mother making coffee in the kitchen. When she saw me, neither of us said a word. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, and I could see she hadn’t slept much either.
She looked older to me, too. It was like she had aged five years since Huero died. I knew I was to blame for that too. Did you ever look in the mirror and just hate what you saw? That was me. I just couldn’t stand to be in my own skin.
I ate a quick bowl of cereal and slipped out the door without saying goodbye. A few minutes later, I was outside of Bluford. A few workers were busy putting stripes on the football field as I approached. A handwritten poster was attached to the fence outside the football field. I could read the words easily from far away.
Bluford vs. Zamora
Today at 10:00
I knew Steve was somewhere nearby, getting ready for the game. I never cared about football before, but I wanted Zamora to pound Bluford into the dirt. Anything to stop Steve from bragging in class. It was bad enough that the guy got away with hitting me, that no one, not the principal, not even my own mother, would believe my side of the story. But if I had to watch Steve win on top of everything else, I’d just throw up. I’m serious.
My detention was scheduled to go from 9:00 until 12:00, so I’d miss much of the game, but I could still check out the end. Maybe I’d get lucky and Zamora would win. Yeah, right.
Inside, the school was nearly empty except for a few janitors who ignored me as I passed them. I went straight to the room on the form that Ms. Spencer had given me, number 127, and grabbed a spot in the third row. The back row of desks was crowded.
Mr. Mitchell was sitting at the front of the room when I arrived. A large stack of student papers was on his desk, and he was hunched over reading one of them. He was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt instead of his usual dress shirt. For once, he didn’t have one of those stupid ties on. He almost looked like a normal person, not like a teacher.
Besides me, four boys and two girls were in detention. One of the boys was listening to an iPod and bobbing his head. Another had his head on the desk and his eyes closed. The girl closest to me smelled like an ashtray full of old burnt-out cigarette butts. Nasty. Except for the smell, I was glad there were so many people in the classroom. At least I was not the only scrub who got in trouble during the first week of school.
“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Mitchell said, closing the door at 9:00 sharp. “Here’s the deal. If you have work to do, you can work on it. If not, I have books and magazines you can read. What you cannot do is sleep or stare into space. Got it?”
The group mumbled, and I could hear the lazy zip and snap of backpacks and jackets being opened. I grabbed my English notebook.
Next, Mr. Mitchell took attendance. He called each name out loud and marked a piece of paper as each student responded. But for my name, he raised his eyebrows and looked up from the list. He even gave me this strange look.
“Martin Luna,” he said as if he was disappointed. Like I was someone he expected more from. That just rubbed me the wrong way,
“Right here, Mr. Mitchell,” I said, as if I was as thrilled to see him. Who was he kidding, acting like he cares? I didn’t buy that. I knew he was just like everyone else. In his eyes, I was trouble, the kid who missed class twice in the first week, who caused a disturbance in his class and got suspended.
For the next three hours, I read through my school books and fought off sleep. It was the most school work I’d done at one time in years. I even rewrote my English essay just because I was bored. I added a paragraph about Huero, describing him and what he liked to do. It made me so sad, I had to stop several times so I could calm down. I wondered what Frankie was up to.
At one point, I heard the distant sound of people cheering outside. It was the football game. I imagined Steve fumbling the ball and everyone in the bleachers booing him. What can I say? I was bored.
By the time Mr. Mitchell said detention was over, I was tired. My butt hurt from sitting in the metal chair, and I needed to get out of the smelly room. I dropped my assignment on Mr. Mitchell’s desk, and rushed for the door.
“Martin, can I talk to you?” he said just before I reached the hallway. I wanted to keep going, but there was no way I could pretend that I hadn’t heard him. The other students were already out the door.
“I have to go, Mr. Mitchell,” I said, trying to think of an excuse to get away. “I have plans. ” I knew what was coming. He was going to lecture me about my behavior, my missed classes, and the detention I never served. I wasn’t in the mood, but there was no way out.
“I only need a few minutes. ”
I sat back down in the desk in the center of the room, crossed my arms, and stared at a spot on the floor. He leaned back against the desk at the front of the room.
“Okay, Martin, you need to decide what you want to be, and you need to do it now. ”
“What?” I said.
“Well, you can be the smart student that I know you are capable of being, or you can keep following the path you are on and get yourself into serious trouble. What’s it going to be?”
I sat up in the chair. I felt a knot tighten in my head and chest. Smart student? He was playing games with me.
“You tell me, Mr. Mitchell. You’re the one that seems to know everything all the time. ”
“No, Martin, I don’t know everything. I just know what you show me. Right now, I see a good kid who could go either way, and I don’t want
to lose you. ”
His words made me cringe. They were too much like my mother’s. And he kept looking at me, making me feel like I was on display or something.
“Man, what is your problem?” I asked. “You’re always on my case like you know me or something, but you don’t know jack about me, Mr. Mitchell,” I said, surprised at the emotion spinning like an engine running out of control in my chest.
“All right,” he replied, without a pause. “Then how about helping me understand you. ”
I felt this tension behind my eyes like someone was squeezing my head.
“What for? I don’t need nothing from you. I got this far on my own. ”
“Yeah, you did. But Martin, you’re heading for trouble. It’s only been a week, and you’ve been absent twice. You’ve been suspended, and I can see you are on edge all the time. I’ve taught long enough to see that on your face. ”
The pressure in my head increased, like I was a giant balloon being overfilled with air.
“Yeah, well, I ain’t like other kids at this school. I hate it here. I never wanted to come here, and if I could, I’d leave,” I said, putting the palms of my hands against my forehead, trying to push away the headache that was beginning to boil in my skull.
“Is that why you are acting up in my class?”
“What do you think?” I said, glaring at him as if he was to blame for everything that had gone wrong. “I’m sure you have an explanation. Go ahead. Tell me what it is. ” I know he didn’t cause my problems, but his questions were getting to me. It’s like I was covered in gasoline, and he was throwing matches at my face.
“Martin, lots of people feel like—”
“But they’re not like me, Mr. Mitchell!” I yelled, standing up from my desk and kicking a chair. It shot across the room and slammed into a wall, shattering the quiet in the near empty school. I just couldn’t control myself. I was just so angry. And Mr. Mitchell was just trying to set me off.
“Everything okay?” A janitor asked, opening the door and peering into the classroom. His eyes locked on me for a second. I knew he could see I was upset. “I heard something crash in here, and I thought I should check it out. ”
“Everything’s fine, John,” Mr. Mitchell said. “Thanks. ”
The janitor looked at the two of us before closing the door. I took a deep breath and swallowed back the emotion that made me snap.
“Why are you so angry, Martin?”
In that instant, I hated Mr. Mitchell. He just kept coming at me, making me think when I just wanted to stop. I didn’t know if he was serious, and I didn’t care if he was trying to help. There was just too much swirling in my head, a tangle of Huero, of my mother, of Frankie, of Steve, of Bluford, and of home. Mr. Mitchell was the least of my problems, yet it was like he was trying to make himself the center.
“I gotta go,” I said, walking toward the door.
He stepped toward the door as if he was going to try to stop me.
“Stay outta my way, Mr. Mitchell. I don’t wanna do something stupid, but you are pushing me. I need to go,” I said. I swear I didn’t want to hurt him. I never did anything to a teacher before, but I was losing it. I had to get outside.
Mr. Mitchell’s eyes widened, and he still had that concerned look on his face. But he stopped in his tracks. “Go ahead, Martin,” he said.
I flung open the door and rushed out of Bluford. By the time I made it outside, my hands were trembling and my face was sweating. It felt like I had just been in a fist fight. I even had that same guilty feeling. At least I didn’t hit anyone. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, but when you are me, you take what you can get.
As soon as I made it down the front steps to Bluford, I heard the people cheering from behind the high school. The football game. I’d almost forgotten.
I circled around the back of the school and walked up to the fence that kept neighborhood kids from playing on the field. The bleachers were about half full. Many of the people there were older, probably the parents of the players.
“Go on in and grab a seat,” said a guard near me. “It’s a good game. ”
Inside the fenced area, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Though the buildings outside were a bit run down, Bluford’s football field was in great shape, almost like what you’d expect in the suburbs or something. As I got near the bleachers, I could see the entire crowd was focused on the game. Some people were on their feet yelling.
“That was pass interference,” an older man yelled. “Open your eyes, ref!”
In the front row, I saw a group of students. Some I recognized from my classes. Others were complete strangers.
I stepped up onto the bleachers and found a seat in the fourth row. The scoreboard was just to my right. Bluford was ahead 13 to 10. There were just three minutes left. Zamora had the football. Maybe Bluford would lose!
Surrounded by the crowd, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I sat outside at a sporting event. It was late spring, when Huero was playing Little League baseball. Me and my mom had gone to all his games. We used to cheer for him whenever he did anything. We were so loud! Even though he was little, Huero could really swing a bat. The last time he was up, he hit a home run, and my mother and I hugged. It was only months ago, but it seemed like a different lifetime, one that could never have existed.
My eyes watered as I squinted under the bright sun to see the game. I must have missed several plays.
Zamora had brought the football all the way down to the Bluford five-yard line. The people around me were tense.
“You gotta stop ’em here, Coop!” yelled a girl in front of me. I recognized her face from school. I think her name was Tarah.
I couldn’t believe what happened next. Somehow, the quarterback from my old school darted in for a touchdown. I cheered like football actually meant something to me. At least Steve Morris would stop boasting. People stared at me as if I was cursing at them or something, but I didn’t care. It was like the game let me vent what I had been thinking for a week, that Bluford was hard, that I didn’t like it, that I didn’t belong, that no move could ever replace what I lost.
But there was still a minute left in the game.
On the kickoff, a player from Bluford caught the ball and sprinted up the field. He evaded two tackles, ran and stopped, dodged and weaved. Once, he seemed to pass through two other people trying to grab him, and at another point, he jumped completely over a Zamora tackler.
“Look at that boy run,” said one of the girls in front of me. “He’s gonna run like that all the way to college. ”
“The only thing faster than his feet is his mouth,” replied Tarah.
Finally, only Zamora’s kicker was between the Bluford runner and the end zone. The runner lowered his shoulder and plowed through the kicker as if he was made of paper.
Touchdown. Game over. Bluford won.
And then I saw who had the ball. It was Steve Morris.
I cursed out loud. You know the words.
Chapter 9
The crowd started leaving as soon as the game ended. Many people had big silly grins on their faces, but not me. I just wanted to get out of there. I climbed to the bottom of the bleachers and waited for the people to scatter.
“Martin! I can’t believe you’re here,” said a cheerful, familiar voice.
I turned to see Vicky standing next to me. I hadn’t seen her since Mr. Dooling dragged me through the hallway to Ms. Spencer’s office. I felt a little embarrassed. Not far away were Teresa and another girl I didn’t know. Teresa looked at me as if I had just mugged her mother.
“Hi, Vicky,” I said, trying to hide my surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re a football fan! What about all the winner-loser stuff?” I teased.
She smiled, and I swear my whole day got better. There was just something about her eyes and the way the long waves of her hair curled against her neck and face. “Don’t worry, Martin. Believe me, there are many places I’d rather be. But Teresa likes this guy
on the team, and she made me promise to sit with her while she watched him. What about you?”
I didn’t want her to know the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie to her. “I had a Saturday detention with Mr. Mitchell. I just got out,” I said, expecting her to walk away. I could see Teresa watching us through the crowd. She looked more annoyed than ever, glaring at Vicky as if no one else could see her face. “Vicky, I think Teresa wants you or something,” I said.
“She’s so rude sometimes,” Vicky snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. “I’ll be right back. ” I watched as the girls talked and Teresa rolled her eyes. That girl hated me. Some people are just like that. Vicky came back a minute later, while Teresa walked away with her friend. “Sorry about that. ”
“Look, if you need to go, it’s cool. ”
“No, Martin, I want to talk to you,” she said. She was so serious I almost turned around to make sure she was talking to me. I’d never met a girl like her back home. “I heard about what happened in the gym with you and Steve. I just want you to know that what he did was wrong. ”
The girl stunned me. She seemed angry for me, but not at me. Like she was on my side. I wasn’t sure what to say. “Yeah, well, someone needs to tell Ms. Spencer that. ”
“Don’t worry. I will on Monday,” she said.
“Girl, you’re crazy,” I said, shaking my head at her. She was a fighter. I could see that, but I didn’t understand why she was talking to me.
“You’re not the first person to say that,” she said proudly.
“Well I don’t know if I should be talking to you then. My mother always told me to watch out for the crazy girls. ”
“Yeah, well my mother always tells me to watch out for the dangerous boys. ”
“Oh, so I’m dangerous now?” I said, acting hurt.
“I don’t think so, but that’s not what Teresa says,” she replied with a grin that convinced me that she was smarter than any of my other friends, even Frankie. She was quiet for several seconds, and we passed the crowd from Bluford and made our way into the neighborhood. “You wanna take a walk to the park?”
