Running.
Without a word.
ON A STRING
ON MY WAY TO CLASS, I’m trying to figure out what made Luis run from Cassidy.
And just like that I smack into—
“Ojos, man. You never not bumping me?”
Aw, hell.
“You gotta keep your head up, son!”
“I’m just going to class, so—”
“Callado beat the shit outta you yet?”
“Nah—”
“Serious?”
“No—I mean, yes, I’m serious.”
I try to take off, but Carlos pulls me back to him. He looks to make sure no one’s listening and says, “Ain’t no vato in this pen don’t fear Callado.” Carlos pinches his thumb and finger right in front of my eyes. “He’s got us all right here,” he says, “on a motherfuckin’ string.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So whattaya gotta do?”
“I … um … I—”
“Don’t you listen to nothing I say?”
“I do. I listen.”
“You gotta keep your eyes open.”
“That’s what I was gonna say.”
“Do it, then.”
I nod my head, noting that I’m being singled out by a kid who missed half of last year when Mel, the security guard, got tipped that he had a knife in his locker and was gonna jump this junior, Marcus Shelton. Mr. Carter and Mel went into Carlos’s locker and found the knife and a bunch of weed and figured out Carlos had been dealing at school. That same day, the cops busted some older gangbanger friends of Carlos’s who were sneaking onto campus to help him beat the shit out of Marcus.
So, if Carlos is that much of a badass and he’s afraid of Luis, how bad must Luis be?
“He ever say anything to you?”
I shake my head.
“Nothin’?”
I shake my head again.
“Well, if he ever say anything about me, or about his crazy brother Rubén—they call him Flaco. Flaco-Rubén. Rubén-Flaco. Same dude—or he say anything about Flaco’s crew, Sixteenth Street—you gotta tell me what the fuck is up. ’Cuz Luis and me … we’re not talkin’ much lately. It’s not a beef or nothin’. It’s more like he’s on his own trip and I don’t wanna piss his angry ass off. So if you hear anything, you lemme know what he says. We straight?” Carlos offers me his fist. So I pound him, knuckles to knuckles. “That’s my boy,” he says.
I run my ass inside and take my seat by Luis. He’s on time, looking stone cold as usual.
The bell rings, and Cassidy starts flippin’ shit about poetry.
I think about what Carlos asked me to do.
Well, you can forget about that, because I’m not telling anyone anything. Even if I do hear something, I’m keeping my mouth shut.
LUIS AND THE GO-TO GIRL
IT’S THE THIRD WEEK OF THE UNIT—the third week of Luis–and we’ve made it to rough-draft poetry sharing day.
“I am so excited to hear from my brilliant poets!” Cassidy hollers. “This is going to be awesome.”
Awesome? You can’t use the word awesome by itself to describe rough-draft poetry sharing day. Nope, for awesome to work in this context, you’d have to team it up with some other words, like amount of steaming bullshit.
“I need a volunteer to start things off.”
That can only mean one awesome thing.
It means Julisa Mendez takes her hand out of her pencil pouch and shoots it in the air, volunteering to go first, as always. And it means, as always, my gag reflex sets in.
“Listen for her use of imagery,” Cassidy begs after Julisa struts to the front of the class all perfect, and smug and cute … I mean, I’m not saying she’s cute, but maybe there are a couple guys who think she’s cute. Long, shiny, straight black hair, glasses … not cute in a popular girl kind of way, but cute in an I can’t get my head out of this novel long enough to notice you exist kind of way.
I’m not religious, but I bow my head: Lord, with all your mercy, grace and perfect aim, please utilize your holy lightning to strike her down immediately.
There’s no mercy. Julisa oozes on about the me beneath this pale skin/The thousand vibrant colors of life under the blue-black ocean surface …
Oh, Julisa, Julisa, Julisa. Must you?
She must.
Because she’s Julisa Mendez. And she’s the go-to girl.
Before the Seattle Supersonics got their asses stolen away, whenever they had trouble scoring, or the team was out of sync, they’d make sure and get the ball to their go-to guy, Ray Allen. Why? Because over time, Ray proved that he could put the rock in the hole.
Well, when a teacher at Puget High School isn’t getting her point across and feels like nobody gets it or cares, she calls on Miss Julisa Mendez. Why? Because Julisa always gets it. She’s always ready. She always has the answer. And it makes teachers feel less like losers when one person knows what’s going on.
Orange-red fire looms unseen behind gray-black storm clouds of mountain rock/These are the shades of me …
I look around the class. Nobody’s buying it. Nobody’s listening.
I’m about to get religious again when I notice that someone is listening.
Luis is holding his blue pencil and this teeny tiny piece of paper, and he’s got his body curled up on his desk so it looks like he’s catching zzz’s, but he’s looking up every now and then, and he’s listening to Go To and taking sneaky notes.
As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who notices.
I snap my head back into position, looking forward fast. I’m not gonna let Luis see that I caught him doing that.
No way.
If he threatened to kill me for feeding him answers, what would he do if he knew I saw him looking all gaga over Go To’s poem?
I don’t wanna know.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Julisa walk by Luis. He immediately crumples the tiny paper and squeezes it in his fist. He steals a peek in her direction and plunks his head in his hands, frustrated-looking.
What is going on with this kid?
Taking notes during Go To’s poem. No way that’s gonna make any sense to me.
Ever.
I think about it awhile and come to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t taking notes on the stupid poem. It probably didn’t have anything to do with Julisa Mendez. I’m sure he was just practicing his gang script or writing some gang note to some gang buddy about who he wants to cap. That theory makes a lot more sense.
Still, I wonder about it for the rest of the day.
And the day after that.…
CONTEMPLATING THE VORTEX
I OPEN THE DOOR TO THE HOUSE AND …
Three,
Two,
One—
“GOOD-BYE, SAM!”
Just like that, Gilbert’s got me watching my mom’s ghost fly past me, into the street. She opens her car door, then turns and looks at me for a split second. But before I can tell her to come back, she hops in her Honda and speeds away. A black cloud of exhaust smoke hangs in the air.
I watch it slowly fade away.
“A fine and pleasant afternoon to you, Samuel.”
I close the front door and toss Ginny a grunt as I march to my room.
“All right then, kiddo,” she says. “Don’t mind me.”
The way she says it stops me in my tracks. I realize what I just did.
But I can’t undo it.
So I head in, melt into my mattress and hit the box.
It’s “Scoff.”
The drums pound like gunfire. I focus my mind on the lyrics. On the beat. The bass. Kurt Cobain’s voice slaying the crowd at the Pine Street Theatre. I listen, and Nirvana takes me away.
That’s how this thing is supposed to work.
Not tonight, though.
Instead of the music, I’m thinking about Ginny. About how I just ignore her all the time.
And I’m thinking about Gilbert.
Thinking about
my mom’s Honda.
About Luis.
I watch him run out the class. Watch him listen to teachers. Watch him work the Rules. I see Cassidy looking our way. She thinks about calling on us, then gives up and turns to some other kid and asks that kid the question instead.
It’s unbelievable. We’re going on two whole weeks since Cassidy called on Luis. Since then, she’s barely even looked at us. Luis and I have pushed the Rules—pushed each other—to the point where we’ve created a time and space vortex, like we’re there …
But we’re not there at all.
I catch myself smiling in the dark, because after all the suffering and stress over Luis, it’s fine now. He’s the best seat partner I could imagine.
He still scares the shit out of me. But I can live with that.
I turn up the volume on the box and I’m back at Pine Street. The crowd is loving Kurt. He’s loving the crowd right back, even though he’s the kind of guy who would never show it. He smashes his guitar into the drums and dives, arms wide, into the mosh pit. The place erupts.
Then the video is gone.
And all I see is Ginny’s sad smile.
It’s clear sleep isn’t gonna happen anytime soon.
’Cuz this Ginny thing is bugging me.
I head out to the living room to see what’s going on.
Bill’s in his easy chair, snoring in front of a blaring TV, a Fudgsicle-stained stick in his hand.
Ginny’s popping in a movie.
She turns and catches me standing there and pretends to have a fainting spell. “You’re up! It’s SIX THIRTY—P.M. It’s waaaay past your bedtime, young man!”
I almost laugh. Ginny’s acting is really bad.
“Dinner’s put away in the fridge. It’s my famous green chili chicken chow mein. Just this once, I’ll nuke it for you.” She points her wooden spoon threateningly in my direction. “But tomorrow, by this time, you’d better be fast asleep, Samuel Ryan Gregory!”
She winks, just in case I hadn’t gotten the fact that she was playing with me.
Oh, Ginny …
“And it’s okay if you eat out here because it’s movie night. We’re watching a classic.”
“Okay.” I’m gonna stick this out if it kills me.
Ginny turns to Bill and gets loud in his ear. “Look who’s up late, Bill.” And she heads into the kitchen to grab my food.
Bill cuts off a snort and shivers awake. “Sam, you’re up.”
“Yeah.”
“Did I tell you? Anderson and I are going fishing for steelhead below Snoqualmie Falls. There’s a spot for you in Anderson’s camper van. Of course it’ll be riding low with all the snacks and sodas he’s got loaded in there.” He chuckles at the thought. “I’ve still got that slick outfit set up for you. Fenwick rod, Shimano reel. The whole bit. I’ve told you that, right?”
He’s told me a hundred times. And for the hundred and first time, I tell him I’ll think about it.
The movie starts up. It’s The Sound of Music.
Ginny’s back out with some popcorn, grape soda, and a plate of food. “It’s a Mexican-Chinese fusion,” she tells me.
“Ah, you and your fusion,” Bill says.
“You love my fusion.”
Bill smirks. “That I do.”
Ginny winks at him.
Soon Bill’s back to snoring and Ginny’s talking me through the movie. “Maria’s going to sew the children play clothes out of those old curtains.”
Bill shakes off a snore, snorts and urgently sucks in a deep breath. Goes back to snoring.
Ginny crunches on some popcorn. “That is one resourceful nun, huh, Sam?”
“Yup.”
So this is what seven thirty looks like.
I wonder what Rupe and Dave are doing right now.
THE REVENGE OF CASSIDY
“HOW MANY OF YOU HAVE HEARD OF LANGSTON HUGHES?” Cassidy asks.
Julisa’s hand shoots up. Her pencil sharpener flies through the air.
“Okay, Julisa. For the rest of you, Langston Hughes is one of this country’s most famous poets. He was raised by his grandmother, in Kansas…”
I didn’t get much sleep last night. Thinking about the movie … that nun, Maria, the von Trapp children and the captain, risking it all for freedom, singing their way over the Alps with a bunch of Nazis hot on their heels.
Seriously, how can you sleep after that?
So out of all the possible wrong things to do, I do one of the worst: I yawn.
I look over at Luis.
He didn’t see.
I focus back on Cassidy. “Hughes attended Columbia University and struggled with racial prejudice there. He eventually graduated from Lincoln College and went on to become a major voice in one of our greatest artistic and intellectual movements, the Harlem Renaissance.”
I can’t help it. I yawn again. I feel my eyelids slowly close.…
I see that nun, Maria. She’s got her guitar slung over her shoulder, hiking the jagged rock.
And I’m there.
I’m one of the von Trapp children, trudging over the snowy Alps, bare knees knocking, frigid in my leather suspendered lederhosen shorts. I look down the trail below and see a nasty Nazi climbing our way. I must alert Maria. I turn to relay the information, but she’s right at my side. She says “psssst,” and she slugs me in the arm and I—
Bolt upright, waking up in Cassidy’s class. I look up. Luis’s eyes are wild. He jerks his head forward, commanding me to pay attention.
Cassidy sees the whole thing. She’s talking to the class, but she’s looking directly at us, pissed. “We’ll be reading two poems by Hughes, ‘Harlem,’ from Montage of a Dream Deferred, and ‘The Negro Speaks of Rivers.’”
I blew it! What the hell was I doing?
This is definitely it.
Cassidy’s glare is fixed on us. She asks, “Boys, what do you think that means: a dream deferred?”
It’s all my fault.
She lurches toward us.
Luis is gonna kill me.
Cassidy’s a shark, shooting forward to devour its prey.
This is it.
This is the moment.
She kneels down in front of our desks and looks each of us right in the eyes.
Holy crap!
What is she doing? I’m sweating like a pig. My throat squeezes shut. The stinging on my face and pounding in my chest are unbearable. I look down at the ground. In my head I’m screaming, GET AWAY FROM ME!
She whispers slowly and seriously, “I’m onto you two, Luisandsam. And this thing that you guys do? This disappearing act? It’s over. Got it?”
She taps our table.
And winks at us.
Then she goes on about Langston Hughes without missing a beat.
In mere seconds, Cassidy has exploded the vortex, and with that one-word name—Luisandsam—she collapses the magnetic force that separates the two of us from each other … and from her.
Without thinking, I look over at Luis.
He’s already looking at me. Right in the eyes.
Rule number 4?
Gone.
His face is as red as mine must be. And we’re both like, What the hell now? We shrug and look away, knowing everything has changed.
Crap.
Luis breaks his blue pencil in his hand. He slides the shards onto my desk.
Crap, crap, crap!
LUIS AND SAM, MEET LUISANDSAM
IT’S THE DAY AFTER.
I can’t believe I’m back here after Cassidy’s threats.
After I blew this thing for Luis.
He’s probably gonna kick my ass, for real this time.
I sit down at my desk. He sits down beside me. I start bracing myself for the worst, but something takes me over.
I turn to Luis.
I look him in the eye.
And I say, “Hey.”
And before I can regret it, he says, “Hey.”
It’s all Cassidy’s fault! She’s
made us into a duo. Like we’re a package deal: Luisandsam. She can put our names together all she likes, but believe me, we’re in no way friends. And we’ll never be friends.
But once you know the guy is there, and he knows you know, and everyone else knows you both know … you can’t pretend he doesn’t exist.
So, despite everything, I say hey to Luis. I start saying wazzup, or at least nodding in his direction. In the halls. In the lunchroom. We even shoot each other a look when I pass him and his homies at Cholo Corner.
I feel fake.
But once you start saying hey to a guy?
You can’t stop saying hey.
I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF, YOU CRAPPY TEACHER
IT’S NOT JUST CASSIDY UP IN OUR BUSINESS.
It seems like everyone is noticing this thing with Luis and me. Noticing the heys and the wazzups and that sometimes, if we leave at the same time, it looks like we’re walking to the next class together.
We’re not.
But the whole thing makes people feel like they can talk to me. I mean, I’m walking down the hall one day and one of Luis’s friends—this kid Willie—asks, “You seen Luis?”
Do I look like his freakin’ keeper?
I swear, I don’t know anything about Luis besides the fact that we both go to the same school. And all of a sudden we’re pals?
It gets worse.
A week after Luisandsam, Mr. McClean asks me to stay after class.
I haven’t said one word to the guy the whole year, and he’s never even seemed to notice me. Now he wants to chat?
I don’t wanna ever talk to him and I wouldn’t be now if it wasn’t for Luis.
I look back at McClean. He’s one of these guys who wears short-sleeved shirts with double-wide ties and sports a big bushy mustache, complete with powdered doughnut crumbs.
He sits behind his desk and motions for me to come to the back of the class.
All superior.
I wanna take off and leave him sitting there stewing, but that would mean a call down to Carter’s office and a phone call home. I have enough crap in my life.
So I walk back there to face the music.
McClean smiles and gets all hush-hush, like he has something important to say. He stares down at the ground for a second, then dramatically looks up at me. What a fake. “Sam, I’m concerned about your progress in my class. I don’t have any homework grades for you. Do you have a plan to catch up?”
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