by Amber Hart
The cold snow is such a contrast to my warm world.
Faith is such a contrast to every other friend I’ve ever had.
She understands on a deeper level. She’s more than the hi, how are you, and oh, my god, did you see blah blah, and he’s so cute, right, of the girls I knew in high school. Faith is I’ll hold you up when you’re too tired to walk, and I understand, and we’re the same.
“Faith, where the hell have you been?”
I want to be mad. I really, really do. But I can’t because I’m so glad she answered.
Faith sighs. “I’ve been here, in Nicaragua. Building schools and, you know, stuff.”
What kind of stuff? Tell me all the stuff in your life until minutes turn into hours because you’re finally talking. I can’t believe it.
“Are you happy?” I ask. I need to know.
“Well,” Faith says. “Yeah, actually. Some things are different now and I’m really very happy.”
Never mind, I’m angry.
“Good, Faith. Good for you. Glad you’re happy and didn’t bother to tell me. Glad that this whole time I’ve been worried about you and thinking about you and you haven’t even bothered to answer my calls.”
Faith inhales sharply. “I’m sorry.”
Sounds like she means it. She sounds absolutely sincere. But how do you tell your friend that she’s made you angrier than ever before?
I can’t.
All I can do is swallow a million gallons of tears because this, this is worse than finding out that she’s struggling, I think. Because while Faith’s been happily ignoring my calls, I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. I’ve had surgeries to try to remove the cells that eat at all that’s healthy in me. I’ve been waiting for reoccurrence results. I’ve been hurting, wishing, wanting to talk to my best friend about it more than anything, but I’ve held back because she won’t answer, but also because I don’t want to burden her.
She’s been ignoring me on purpose. Not because of sorrow.
“I’m so sorry,” Faith repeats.
Something ruptures in me. Maybe the crack in my heart has finally given way to a full-blown shattering. That’s what it feels like.
“Why, Faith?” I ask. “Why all this time when you could have called, didn’t you? Have you even listened to my messages?”
“Yes,” Faith whispers.
“Yes,” I repeat, reeling. “You’ve heard them and you haven’t called back on purpose?”
You know it hurts me to miss you? You’ve heard me tell you in messages? You realize that I need to talk to you?
I’m calling her out on it.
Please say no.
Please say no.
Please say no.
“Yes,” she replies.
I choke back a sob. “Why?”
“I can’t really say,” Faith replies.
She can’t say? I don’t even know what that means. I don’t recognize this friend that I thought I knew. Short answers. Like we’re two people who happen to have each other’s number and why did I ever bother to call her, anyway?
“Okay,” I say.
It’s not okay.
“How have you been?” she asks.
Do you care? I want to say.
“I’ve been diagnosed with cancer,” I do say.
But it’s not like it matters. I can’t talk about it with this robot that has replaced the friend I once knew. So I hang up. Turns out after all this time of waiting to talk to Faith, I actually have nothing left to say.
22
javier
“You make a decision?”
This is coming from the leader of the pack of four MS-13 members that I’ve fought with a couple times now. The one I trained my gun on in our last run-in. I’ve come back to their territory. I’m here for a purpose.
“Sí,” I reply.
I’m ready to find Wink. I’m prepared for what’s to come. I know all about their powerful gang. I have no delusions that this will be easy. I know this won’t be pretty.
This will be torture in the highest form.
This will be my life on the line.
I can handle it, I tell myself. Because if I don’t handle it, then there’s no other choice but to lie down and accept that they’ve killed Diego. There’s no other option but to let them roam free.
I can never let that happen.
Instead, I’ll be their chew toy until I’ve gained their trust enough to finish them.
“Tu decisión?”
All four of them place hands on their guns, ready.
My decision? They want to know my choice? Easy.
“Sí, I’ll join your gang.”
MS-13s are the stuff of nightmares.
They will rip you to bits. They will tear you limb from limb like a pack of hyenas hungry for every little piece. They aren’t picky. They don’t care where you come from, who you are, your standing in society, if you have a family, if you deserve it or not. When they receive orders, they follow through. When it’s you on the receiving end of their punishments, there’s no escaping unless they decide that you’re allowed to live another day.
MS-13s rob people. They punish those who owe them money, who have bad-mouthed their people, who have encroached on their territory. They will pay back tenfold anyone who harms their members. They even murder.
They’ve been known to carry out crimes that cross national borders. They’ve been known to travel to find the prey they’re after. They are scared of nothing but the members higher than themselves.
They are nearly fearless.
They dress how they want, act how they want, be who they want. Their colors are blue and white. Their tattoos are pictures that spell out who they are and who they belong to. They don’t discriminate on which body parts to tattoo. The more easily seen, the better. That way you know who you’re messing with. That way you’re aware of who sent them. Head, neck, and face tattoos are the most popular, but they’re found everywhere. They’re proud of their familia.
Tattoos come in all colors and sizes. Most reflect MS-13 in an obvious way. Like tatting MS-13 boldly across the back of the skull. Or adding numbers together to equal thirteen. Or tattooing the flag of El Salvador, where MS-13s originated, with the number thirteen ingrained. And that’s only the few I’ve seen so far.
MS-13 accepts girls, too. The girls are just as tough as the guys, sometimes more so. They pack guns and knives and fists, and know just how to use them. Like the guys, they’ve been shot, stabbed, bruised, and bloodied.
The members go by names like Loco (crazy), El Bestia (the beast), El Asesino (the assassin), El Tigre (the tiger). They also use English names like Wink, Psycho, Colt, and Blade.
That’s what I’ve learned today in this little meeting that they’ve invited me to.
I’m staring at a group of Latinos, ones who belong to MS-13. I’ve followed the four gang members to a big warehouse on the outskirts of town just past a gritty neighborhood. It’s surrounded by trees, so we won’t be bothered.
That could be good or bad, depending on how far they want to take this.
I’ve told no one where I am or why I’ve come. There’s no help waiting for me if things go wrong. I have to trust and hope that everything will be fine because I need to find Wink. That’s the determination I use to fuel me.
“You wanted to meet the guy ahead of me,” the member I’ve come to know as Loco says.
“Yes,” I reply.
We walk inside. It’s open in the front, a nice space with two cloth couches. They’re blue. Fitting. There’s a card table and fridge. Random mismatching chairs. In the back there’s a series of doors leading to rooms that I can’t see because the doors are shut.
I want to ask questions. I want to barge into the rooms and scope them out. I want to see exactly where Wink hides.
Is he here?
I don’t have the right to ask anything. Though they asked me to join them, they won’t make it easy on me. Though I’m a good fighter, I can’t use m
y skills today, and there are too many of them for me to stand a chance.
“Sit,” Loco says.
I take a seat on the couch. He walks to a door in the back. The other three that constantly flank him, Monkey, Colt, and El Toro, keep watch over me.
“What do your names mean?” I ask.
I want to get them talking. I need to know as much about them as possible.
Monkey speaks first. “Small, fast, won’t see me coming.”
Like a tree monkey in the forest. Won’t notice him until he’s right up on you. Got it.
“Mine’s Colt because of this.” He pulls out his gun. A Colt 45. “It’s my favorite.”
“My name was given to me by another member,” El Toro says. “I reminded him of a bull. Fine one minute, chargin’ you the next.”
“And Loco?” I ask.
They grin.
“Do we really need to explain?” Monkey asks. “He’s crazier than shit, that’s why.”
A guy with the number thirteen tattooed below his left eye comes forward.
“Soy El Asesino. What’s your name?”
“I don’t have a name,” I say.
Not to them. They’ll never know my real name.
He grins. “Fine. I’ll think of a name for you. That’s better. Leave your old life behind. You belong to us now anyway.”
I’m not leaving my old life behind. I’m finding it, actually.
“Yep,” I agree. Lies. “Where’s the leader?”
“I’m the leader,” El Asesino says.
If he’s the leader, where is Wink? I can’t just throw his name out there. I can’t just ask where he is. So I grit my teeth and accept that Wink is higher up than I thought, and I’ll have to go through quite a few members to get to him.
It’ll be worth it.
“Is there a problem?” El Asesino asks, face hard.
“Nope,” I say, relaxing a little.
Four more Latinos walk through the warehouse door. There are nine now.
“Think I’ll call you Peón,” El Asesino says. “Our pawn, doing our bidding.”
Nothing they ever call me will matter because I’m not here for names and friendship. I’ll answer to what they want just long enough to get what I need.
“Do we need to explain how this works?” El Asesino asks.
“No,” I say, because I already know how the initiation process works.
I’ll be jumped in. No fighting back allowed. They get to beat me while they slowly count to thirteen, or until I pass out. Whichever comes first. And truthfully, sometimes they continue to throw blows even after a new initiate passes out. It’s just the way things are.
“But let me explain something to you,” I say, standing. “I’m here because your boys want me here and because why not, you know?”
I act like I don’t care. Like I have nothing better to do.
“So here’s the thing, you can hit me all you want, but not in the face.”
El Asesino laughs. It’s a darkly twisted sound. “You don’t tell us how things go,” he spits. Lands one solid punch to my mouth.
I balance the impact and smile back at him as blood drips down my lip.
“That’s the only one you get,” I warn.
This trips him up. Or pleases him. Or something because he grins and looks at Loco.
“Is he serious?” he asks Loco.
Loco nods.
“Is he worth it?” El Asesino asks.
“Yes,” Loco answers.
Apparently pulling a gun on him that night only gained his respect.
El Asesino turns back to me. “Fine, we’ll play by your rules. But since we can’t hit your face, we’ll add these.”
He reaches in his pocket. Pulls out a pair of brass knuckles. I’m not expecting this. But I have no choice, now do I?
“We doin’ this or what?” I ask.
Get this over with.
They push the table out of the way. Circle me.
Here goes nothing.
The first punch isn’t so bad. The second, fourth, and tenth, either. But that’s where things start to change. That’s where the boys get into it. Adrenaline makes an appearance in their grins and faster movements. They all take turns kicking and punching. The brass knuckles are especially brutal. I won’t complain. I won’t stop them. I’m on a mission.
They’ve counted to seven. I’m grunting in pain. By the time they get to ten, I swear a rib has cracked. It’s hard to breathe. The ground sways. I’m gonna go down soon, I can feel it. I hear El Asesino say something in Spanish about me being a strong one.
Doce, they say, one number away from the end, and I drop to the ground. Standing isn’t an option anymore. They’ve respected my wishes to stay away from my face. There’s no way to hide something like that from mi familia. Bruises under clothes will be easier to disguise. But staying away from my face doesn’t make the blows to the rest of my body any less severe.
I think one name over and over again as they beat me relentlessly.
Diego.
I focus on the revenge that I can practically taste.
Thirteen.
Finally.
I’m coughing and huffing in pain. My world is spinning and dipping and I’m gonna vomit. So I do. But I don’t pass out. I make it to thirteen.
“Welcome to MS-13,” someone says.
I can’t tell who. There’s too much pain. I need to sleep for a little while. Maybe days. Someone says that I’m one of the few who have stayed awake. I’m already earning my place in their ranks. They have respect for me.
If I could laugh, I would.
Respect?
Not even close.
What I have is your attention.
And next I’ll take your leader.
23
melissa
“Melissa.”
No one has ever said my name like Javier says my name. It’s darkness with a hint of light. It’s deeply seductive and completely terrifying. It’s right, never wrong.
“Melissa,” he repeats, his mouth inches from mine. “You look incredible.”
I’ve done something very daring today. I’ve done something that I might regret, but the look on Javier’s face makes it all worth it if only for a moment.
My toes are boiling in beach sand. Sun slaps my back over and over again, making me feel like I’m burning alive.
“You don’t wear bikinis,” he points out.
I don’t, no, not normally. I don’t own the nerve, courage, bravery.
“You’re wearing a bikini today,” Javier says, eyeing my suit.
I’ve changed out of my normal one-piece. Slipped on a white bikini splattered with black spots like a Dalmatian. Vintage in style so the bottom comes up high over my hips. They stop above my belly button. My scars are hidden. Even though Javier already knows about them, he can’t see them. I don’t have to tell him what they’re from. I don’t have to tell him what they’re from. I don’t have to tell him what they’re from.
I say this over and over again in my head because if I don’t, I’ll chicken out. I’ll run away and change back into my one-piece and I’ll pretend that I never had courage in the first place.
I’m off work as of ten minutes ago, so it doesn’t matter if I feel uncomfortable because I can always tell Javier that I need to go. I can make something up and leave. I’m hoping that doesn’t happen. I’m hoping that I can breathe in and out and focus on the delicious grin that spreads across Javier’s face.
“Chula, you weren’t wearin’ this earlier.”
He’s right. I was wearing my work one-piece. When he called yesterday and said he wanted to hang out after I got off work, I decided to pack the extra suit. I changed into it for him. I changed for myself, too. I’m testing my boundaries. I’m wondering if I can handle showing a little more than normal. Not my scars, of course. I’ll need to start small.
I’ve been jittery all day, aching to see his face again. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve seen Javier
. His torso is covered in fading bruises that he doesn’t comment on. He claims that he had to finish up summer school. He was busy. Phone calls have been our means of communication.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
He glances down at his stomach, ribs, chest. “Got in a fight. But I don’t wanna talk ’bout it.”
I do want to talk about it.
I want to know who would beat him like this and why. But I also understand that Javier will tell me when he’s ready. Just like I’ll tell him about my scars when the time is right. So I forget about the bruises for now.
“You wanna go in the water?” I ask.
My face is drenched in red from the attention of his stare, from the way he licks his lips, from the intensity in his eyes.
“Sure,” he says.
I walk away first. Butterflies smash against the inside of my stomach. My feet hit the water and it feels like the warmth of summer rain. It’s body temperature. It’s perfect and inviting. Javier is next to me. He’s taking big steps.
“It’s stingray season,” I warn.
He looks at me funny.
“You need to shuffle your feet in the sand. It scares them away. Someone got stung here just yesterday because they didn’t shuffle,” I continue.
He laughs. “I never knew that.”
He shuffles his feet this time. We’re waist deep. I don’t expect him to pull me against his hard stomach, but he does. I don’t expect his eyes to grow heavy with my closeness. My breath is weighty because he didn’t even warn me that I’d be so close to his lips.
“Get on my back,” Javier says. “Then you won’t have to worry ’bout being stung.”
I obey. Wrap my arms around his chest and my legs around his hips. My stomach presses against his back. Even my scars. But it doesn’t count because he’s not touching them with his fingers, because the fabric of my bathing suit is a barrier.
We’re shoulder deep now. Javier spins me around so that I’m attached to his chest this time. My stomach presses against his stomach. Our hearts race in sync. Javier is much taller than me. I couldn’t touch the bottom even if I wanted to, so I stay attached to him.
“Melissa,” he whispers. “You told me about your scars and now you’re wearing a bikini. Are they related?”
