Jumped In

by Patrick Flores-Scott

  This girl Sherice puts her hand in a bucket and pulls out a piece of paper. She’s about to read the first name.

  I try to calm myself.

  Try to breathe away the pinpricks in my face and the pounding in my chest.

  Try to confront my fear like a man.

  I can do this. I can stay and make an ass out of myself in front of everyone and be proud that I tried.

  Or—

  I bolt out of the room.

  I feel freedom.

  I feel relief.

  I feel like a pile of dog crap because I’m a worthless fucking failure.

  I start running down B Hall and Carter is there.

  Again.

  “Hey, where ya goin’, bud?”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder.

  I wanna slap it off and keep running.

  He says, “I hear it’s big poetry day in Ms. Cassidy’s class.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You better get in there. You might miss something.”

  “I need a second. I need a drink of water.”

  Cassidy’s head pops out the door. “Sam I Am, you’re on, dude.”

  Shit.

  My heart’s in my throat now. I swear I’m about to puke it up.

  She holds her hand out. There’s a cup of coffee in it. “Slam this. It’s black.… It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

  I chug it.

  Cassidy sees Mr. Carter and smiles. “Forgive me, Carter. I don’t have the sugar soda and Kool-Aid I usually serve the kiddos … just coffee today.”

  He’s cracking up at Cassidy. I’m shaking like a jackhammer as I hand her Luis’s CD.

  “DJ Cass is on it. Pull yourself together, bro; I’m announcing you in ten, nine, eight…”

  Carter slaps me on the back. “Get in there and do your thing. You’re going to be great.”

  “You don’t know that, Mr. Carter. You have no idea.”

  His eyes get wide. He’s as surprised as I am that I talked back. “You’re right, Sam,” he says. “What I do know is you have a shot to be great today. I think you should take it.”

  I follow Cassidy into the room. I hear the whispers and try to ignore them. I step on the stage and face my classmates for the very first time.

  I pull the poem out of my pocket, unfold it and place it on the stand. I don’t look at anyone. I look over them. All the way to the back wall. I zoom in on that wall as hard as I can. I tell myself that it’s just me and the wall. There’s nothing I can do about what’s going on in my chest or the pain on my face. So forget it, Sam. Focus on your lines and say ’em like you mean ’em.

  Next thing I know, Luis’s voice explodes out of the boom box:

  Ladies and gentlemen,

  Buckle your belts!

  Take a hold!

  ’Cuz this jumbo jet’s

  About to barrel roll!

  Everyone starts clapping and whooping.

  Like they mean it.

  Now, Sam, kick back and blast it, exactly as we practiced it!

  I open my mouth and hear myself say the first line along with Luis.…

  WHEN IT COMES RIGHT DOWN TO IT, I’M A BIG FAT BABY

  THE ROOM EXPLODES WITH SOUND.

  I’m frozen in all the shouting and clapping. This kid, Rashad, slaps me on the back and shakes my hand.

  It’s over.

  I did it.

  We did it.

  It’s just a classroom full of kids, but it’s like I scored the winning touchdown for the Seahawks. In the SUPER BOWL! You can’t hear yourself think, it’s so loud. I just take it in.

  And I feel it.

  I feel it for the first time since I used to rock out with Rupe and Dave behind the Aberdeen house. That feeling. The feeling Kurt and Krist were going for when they named their band.

  It’s amazing.

  I can’t handle it.

  I bolt out of the room again.

  I’m feeling too much. I’ve got too much to say. I wanna thank my grandparents. I want them to know what I just did. I wanna tell my mom I’m not a complete loser.

  I wanna tell Luis it was great. But I’m panicking, pacing back and forth in the hall like a crazy man. I’m breathing so hard and fast the blood rushes to my head. I got to lean against the wall to keep from dropping.

  Ms. Cassidy runs after me. She wipes her eyes with a huge wad of napkins. Smears her makeup. Gives me some of the napkins so I can wipe my eyes. She offers me more coffee and spills some on her shirt. She says, “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

  I don’t hate her anymore. I hug her.

  I wanna erase the last few years of my life and start over right now.

  From this moment.

  Carter hits me on the shoulder with a rolled-up paper. “You killed,” he says as he walks past us.

  “You were in there?” I call after him.

  “I was a witness to greatness,” he says, disappearing into B Hall.

  Cassidy starts punching me in the arm. “Luisandsam, you guys did it! You did it, Sam. I knew you had it in you! I knew it!”

  “Thanks, Ms. Cassidy.”

  “Now I’ve got some butt to kick! I mean, where’s that Cárdenas?”

  “I don’t know, Ms. Cassidy. I wish he was here.”

  It’s great to hear people clapping and to see Ms. Cassidy all proud of me. But I feel guilty because Luis made me do this. Luis wrote most of the poem. He made me practice and got me ready. Without him, I wouldn’t be here feeling better than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  Next thing I know, Go To—Julisa Mendez—is standing right in front of me.

  “That was great, Sam. You and Luis did awesome.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where is he?”

  I shake my head.

  She looks down at the ground for a second, seeming genuinely disappointed. Then she pops back up with a smile on her face. “Here’s my reflection.” She hands me the paper. “It’s all positive. When you see Luis, can you tell him I really liked it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And can you tell him … well … tell him I say hi.”

  “Okay.” For a second, I think it’s weird that she’s talking to me about the poem, and about Luis. Then I think maybe she likes him. Or maybe she just really likes the poem. Maybe this is how kids who do stuff talk to each other.

  I carefully fold the reflection sheet, put it in my pocket, and head back to class, smiling from ear to ear. As each nervous kid goes up there and reads, I clap hard. And I feel for the kids who freak out, because they got up and they tried.

  When it’s over, Ms. Cassidy gives me a pass to leave the room and call Luis. There’s no answer. I leave a message. I tell him we did awesome. I tell him I wish he’d been there. He shoulda been there.

  I try him again sixth period. No answer.

  On my walk home, this thought hits me: What if Luis isn’t suspended?

  I start worrying about the stuff Carlos had said.

  And I wish Luis hadn’t been born into all this gang shit.

  I worry about Luis’s brother. About Frankie. About any other guy who might be out there fucking up Luis’s life.

  I got to talk to him.

  MIRACLE

  STANDING AT THE FRONT DOOR. I’m not sure if I can tell Ginny and Bill what happened in Cassidy’s class.

  Not sure I know how.

  I open up and walk in. I look over at the kitchen. There are balloons. Ginny and Bill have set out pizzas and sodas and ice cream. It’s like a corny little-kid party. I guess they had an idea about what was going on at school and they wanted to celebrate or something.

  Ginny and Bill walk in the room. They don’t say anything to me. Ginny just looks over at Gilbert and says, “Hit it, Gil!”

  The bird starts singing, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …

  It’s my birthday.

  Ginny and Bill join in with Happy birthday, dear Sa-am, happy birthday to you. Bill pats me on the back. Ginny makes me kiss her cheeks a
gain.

  “Thanks” is all I can say.

  “Thank your cousin,” my grandma says. “He worked hard on that.”

  I walk toward the cage but before I can thank Gilbert, he screeches, “HELLO, SAM!”

  Hello, Sam?

  I know I heard that wrong.

  Then he says it again.

  “HELLO, SAM.”

  I freeze in my tracks and drop to the floor laughing. I can’t stop. For the first time since the day I moved in here, he doesn’t say it.

  He didn’t say it!

  “Hello, Gilbert! How the hell are you, you … you beautiful parrot-cousin? You don’t know how happy I am to see you today! Have I told you lately that I love you, man?”

  I catch a look at myself in the framed mirror my grandma has hanging in the living room.

  I look happy.

  We all gather around the table to have our little party. My grandma hands me a plate full of pizza and asks, “How was school today, Samuel?” She casually tosses the question out as she passes Bill the pepper.

  “It was okay…”

  “Really, Sam?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” she sighs. “That’s too bad.”

  I look down at my plate of pizza, then up at Ginny’s sad eyes.

  I gotta tell her.

  “It was the best day I’ve had at school. I wish you guys could have been there.”

  “That is something, Sam.” She closes her eyes, smiling. Reaches over and puts her hand on mine for a second. “That is really something.”

  Bill busts out, “Sam, have a slice of pizza! You’re going to starve. Eat as much as you want. We got plenty! This slice is loaded with pepperoni. Here!”

  “All right, all right, I’ll eat.” I’m laughing like a dumbass.

  We all sit there eating, a bunch of grinning idiots.

  It’s really nice for a while.

  Then I get this thing.

  From down deep.

  The twinge of wanting …

  I try to shake it off because this little party is perfect just the way it is.

  But it’s hard to fight the twinge.

  I concentrate on smiling and thanking my grandparents for nothing in particular.

  Or for everything.

  When the pizzas and ice cream are gone, I go to my room and do some math homework.

  Figure I might just give McClean a heart attack.

  THE TWINGE OF WANTING

  HERE’S THE PROBLEM WITH GOOD THINGS:

  When they happen to me, I think about my mom.

  I wonder where she is—okay, I know she’s in godforsaken Phoenix, soaking up all the sun she ever needed.

  But when a good thing happens, I wonder where she is right now.

  This second.

  I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder what she’s thinking.

  Is she thinking about me?

  It sounds stupid.

  But it’s true. I wonder if she’d even recognize me if she saw me. I wonder if she cares one way or the other. So when good things happen, without her, somehow I can’t feel proud. I can’t feel all the way happy.

  And when I can’t feel proud and I can’t feel happy, I feel guilty as hell. Because my being down in the dumps all the time—being depressed and dissatisfied with everything—it’s like shoving it in Ginny’s and Bill’s faces. Like telling them, You’re not enough for me. You’re not good enough. You’re doing a crappy job. And no matter how much you do for me, I’ll never be happy as long as you’re all I’ve got.

  It makes me feel horrible.

  Because those two geezers are here for me.

  Every day.

  Feeding me. Worrying about me. Trying. Ginny and Bill deserve to see the good stuff I can do. And to see that I can be happy. So they can know they’re doing good.

  They deserve all that.

  Instead, when good things happen, it’s just pain followed by guilt. Followed by more pain. Followed by more guilt. It’s a downward-swirling cycle of shit.

  I’m sick of it!

  So I’m vowing to change this thing. I’m gonna break the shit cycle right here and now.

  And I’m gonna start by writing my mom a letter. I’m gonna tell her what Luis and I did so I don’t have to wonder what she’s thinking or if she’s caring. I’m gonna tell her exactly what’s going on.

  Dear Mom,

  How’s Phoenix? I hope it’s treating you well and that you’re enjoying the sun.

  I did something good at school today. I think you would have liked it.…

  WHAT IS IT?

  I CALL LUIS’S PLACE SATURDAY. Sunday morning. No answer. It’s like he fell off the face of the earth. I think of the note he left me. It’s on top of my dresser next to the CD from the slam. I unfold it and read it again.

  I hope you can forgive me. I can’t really explain what’s going on, but I’ll tell you all about it soon.

  What is there to tell me about? That he’s gone off and joined his brother and Frankie and Carlos’s uncle and got himself jumped in and he’s a real licensed, card-carrying badass gangster now?

  If that’s the case, I don’t wanna hear about it.

  Maybe that’s not it.

  Maybe he’s got the flu and their phone isn’t working. Maybe the phone’s been disconnected.

  It could be anything.

  I need to calm my nerves.

  I need to get to the bottom of this.

  I need to do something.

  So I grab my jacket and head up the hill.

  Down Pac Highway.

  Through the gates of the Viking Glen.

  The place looks deserted.

  I head toward Luis’s apartment. I turn back a second and see these rough-looking black guys hanging out by a side gate, smoking. The way they’re checking me out, it’s clear they know I’m not from here.

  I bounce up to Luis’s door and knock. No one answers … Luis, where are you? I sneak a peek in their direction. Those guys are still following my every move.

  So I book it outta there fast.

  As I scramble my ass back down the hill, I wonder if they have anything to do with this situation with Luis. I wonder if they’re from a rival gang. I wonder if they wanted Luis to be in their gang, but then Frankie got to him first. I wonder who they think I am.

  And I worry about Luis even more.

  HOW LONG?

  I DON’T SEE LUIS ANYWHERE MONDAY MORNING. So I go to Carter’s office and ask him how long Luis is suspended for. He tells me Luis isn’t suspended. He tells me, “Luis wasn’t involved in the incident. As far as I know, he wasn’t even there.”

  Are you kidding me?

  Where the hell is he?

  BITTERSWEET DOUGHNUT

  IN CASSIDY’S CLASS I TURN IN A ROUGH DRAFT OF A PERSUASIVE essay on voting. I worked on it over the weekend. She says she’s looking forward to reading it.

  I know it’s not as good as it could be. And I want to make it better. So, for the first time ever, I ask for help.

  “You got plans after school?” Cassidy asks.

  “I do now,” I say.

  “Three o’clock. Do not stand me up.”

  I don’t.

  Cassidy is all business. Right off the bat, she reads a section and asks, “What are you thinking here?” I tell her what I’m thinking and she says, “That’s good. Cross out the mumbo-jumbo and write that. Exactly like you said it.”

  I try it. She’s right. It’s better.

  We go on like that for a while and about the time I think my hand is going to fall off my arm, she says, “It’s getting much clearer. You have some solid ideas, Sam I Am. Now go ahead and recopy your fixes onto a clean paper so you can actually see what you’ve got.”

  Recopying is the last thing I wanna do, but I don’t fight her on it. I shake my hand in the air like helicopter blades to get the blood rushing again.

  I’m barely getting started when Cassidy digs into her bag. “Doughnut? It’s part of my see-food diet.�
�� She pulls out a Krispy Kreme sack. She hands me a big old O. I chomp it down. My hand feels much better.

  “Sam, have you heard anything from Luis?”

  “No.”

  “I called after the slam. I called Saturday, Sunday,” she says. “I told Carter. I told the counselors…”

  “I’ve called every day, too. Ms. Cassidy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m freaking out about it.”

  “Me too,” she says.

  That’s about all we can say. She gets to work on her teacher stuff. I work on my essay. We both eat.

  And we worry.

  LEARNING WHAT IT TAKES TO MAKE ME GO BALLISTIC

  IT’S WEDNESDAY. Five days since the slam.

  I’m working in school.

  I’m trying.

  The last two days, I’ve turned in my math homework. I’ve taken notes in science, been a responsible lab partner.

  But the worrying does not stop.

  I think about what it would be like if Luis were here. Would we be talking to each other? Would we hang out?

  In McClean’s class, I stare at his seat and lose myself in a daydream. I imagine the two of us taking off after school, talking about stuff as we head over to Bob’s 99 Cent Burgers on Pac Highway. We order about three Bobs each and go on and on about how unbelievable it is that you can get a burger this juicy and great for only ninety-nine little Lincolns, plus tax. I picture us sitting there, dipping our fries in tartar and shooting the shit for hours.

  Mr. McClean interrupts the dream and hands me back some corrected papers. He’s smiling and extends a hand for me to shake. It creeps me out, but I shake the hand. He slaps me on the back and says, “Congratulations!” and tells me how great it is that I’m doing my homework.

  Which is nice.

  I’m happy for about half a second. Then something tells me he’s not done talking and I’m not gonna like what he’s gonna say. Please, McClean, please stop right there.

  He can’t.

  “Sam,” he says, “I know you like Luis. I do too. But you have to admit you’re doing a much better job since he’s been gone—without his influence. I don’t think there’s any coincidence there.”

  I boil over and explode on him: “You don’t know one thing about Luis!”