by Dana Johnson
Dad stares down at the grass. There’s this one patch that’s a perfect triangle. It’s the only piece left. He looks at me with one of his eyebrows raised. What kind of people are his family?
I bite my nails for a second. I don’t even know what kind of question that is. I think. Kind of people. I know what Dad is asking me, but I guess I’m just wondering how should I know? I only met his sister once and she was mega awesome. So.
Dad says, He not one of them cholos, is he?
Dad, I say. I don’t know. Why would he be a cholo?
The thing is, he is kind of a cholo, but I think cholos are cool and I don’t want to get into a whole thing about it because Dad always thinks he’s right about everything, so I don’t even try.
I’m not saying he is, Dad says. I’m just asking if he is. Because you don’t need to be running around with people driving around in cars and doing whatever it is they’re doing.
I wish. I wish I could ride around in Carlos’s sister’s glitter-green car listening to oldies. But I just say, Dad. He’s really nice. You can see for yourself. If he comes to the game.
All right then, Dad says. He can come if he want to.
I go to Carlos’s house that day and ask him. I know where he lives because I followed him home one day. He’s watering the lawn, when I get to his house, standing in tan cutoff Dickies and a white T-shirt. I go, I got a ticket to the Dodgers tomorrow. Want to come? He goes, For real, Avery Day? Don’t play girl. And I know he’s coming. He doesn’t say yes or no, that’s all he says. And I’m so nervous about the game today. I figure out an outfit to wear. Tan Dickies that are going to be pressed straight down the middle. Cuffs sharp like blades. My blue Sasson polo shirt and my green jellies. I can’t go full-on cholo because dad will have a cow. But it’s close. It’s my version.
Nice threads, Brenna says when she sees me. I’m so confused, she says. That outfit is confused.
But I put it together with the parts that I wanted. I’m not confused. Carlos is riding up front with Dad and all I can think of is I hate our car. It’s crap. It used to be green, but now it’s brown and yellow and green. And it’s trashed inside. Dad’s a maniac about a clean house, everything has to be spotless all the time. But his car. Man. Newspapers everywhere, books, Kentucky Fried Chicken wrappers. Jack in the Box. And the lining on the roof of the car is torn so it’s hanging down in the middle of the back seat. Also, Dad never fixed that piece of metal that sticks out of the passenger side door and sliced my ankle open last summer. Keith and Brenna don’t care anything about how the car looks, but I’m sorry. It’s embarrassing. After I know Carlos has noticed the three different colors on our car, and the trash in it everywhere, when Carlos is getting into the car, I have to tell him, Carlos. Watch your leg. That metal thing can cut you. And then I want to kill myself.
It’s cool, Avery Day, he says. My dad drives a bucket too. Yeah, I think, maybe. But at least your sister doesn’t.
Dad turns up the radio so he doesn’t have to talk to Carlos. This is what he always does when somebody’s in the front seat with him and he doesn’t feel like talking. Vin Scully and Jerry Doggett are announcing. Bobby Castillo is pitching today. I’m sitting in the back behind Carlos. Keith and Brenna are sitting together, of course. I lean forward and look at the shiny tip of Carlos’s ear. If I kissed it, Dad would never even know, and Carlos would maybe think it was on accident, since I had to lean in to talk to him. But I’m chicken. He’d probably turn around and say, Avery Day what up with you? I stare and stare at his ear, all shiny and brown with just a little red underneath. I say, I miss Sutton. Last time I saw him pitch he was on fire!
That’s right, Dad says. He likes Sutton. Sutton’s his man. But now he’s always talking about a player named Valenzuela. Dad says that dude is bad and we’re going to see a lot more of him, watch and see.
But Carlos is stuck on Sutton. So why you like Sutton better, Mr. Arlington? Carlos asks. He totally scores points for just adding Mr. Arlington at the end of that sentence.
Well, Dad says slow.
No! I know that when he says Well all slow we’re going to get a long-ass story. He turns down Scully and Doggett. Oh no. Here we go.
He says, Sutton comes from nothing. And I mean nothing. A tarpaper shack. You all know what a tarpaper shack is? Oh no! We’re getting ready to get a definition, too. Somebody just say they know what it is so we can move on. But Dad’s got the definition ready. He goes, Tarpaper is just paper that’s got tar in it. It’s tough. But you think it’s tough enough to keep the wind and cold away from you? You think it works as good as a real wall?
Nobody says anything.
Sutton is a hardworking dude, Dad says. Hasn’t missed an opening yet, not cause he’s sick, not cause he’s hurt, not cause of nothing.
Okay Dad, I’m thinking.
And let me tell you something else. He was telling the truth when he let everybody know that Reggie Smith is the money on that team, not that pretty boy Steve Garvey. Smith work hard like Sutton. Born on the same day, Sutton and Smith. Bet y’all didn’t know that.
Brenna looks at me and rolls her eyes. Like this even has anything to do with baseball, she says low, so Dad won’t hear her. But I totally get it. Dad hates lazy asses and people who get other people’s credit just for looking like they ought to. Everybody thinks Garvey and Cyndy are all perfect and pretty. But they actually are to me, though. I don’t tell Dad that.
All American, Dad says. Folks don’t know what American is if it’s just gone be some dude with a pretty face.
Nobody can say anything until Dad is done with this whole Sutton thing. And I’m sorry, but Steve Garvey happens to be a fox and a good first baseman, so why blame him for anything? Like it’s his fault people like him.
Dad turns up the radio, so he’s done with all that anyway.
Traffic is slowing down and we’re almost to the stadium. It only takes about forty-five minutes from home and then you’re eating a Dodger Dog and peanuts. You can always tell when you’re almost there, because of the old wooden houses with their paint peeling off on the right side of the freeway. White houses with blue paint underneath, right in the middle of apartments too. Bars on all the windows. I like those old houses because they don’t seem to fit where they are, right next to the freeway, looking like they’re from a million years ago or someplace else that’s not L.A., like Cape Cod. I don’t even know what Cape Cod is, exactly, but that’s what those houses seem like they are.
Then I hear something that sounds like it fell off the car.
What’s that noise? Keith says.
Yeah, Brenna says. She sits up straight. Turns around to look out the back window like she’s looking for something behind us in the road. The car is coughing and then there’s a rattle. Our eyes are all big and Dad eases off to the side of the freeway. Then, the car just stops. Dad turns the key but the car just screams without moving.
Dad says, Shit. He gets out of the car and opens the hood and we all sit in the car watching other people get to the stadium.
Rad, Brenna says. Really. This is awesome. Great ball game.
Keith slides down in his seat. I don’t care if we get to the game or not, he says. I’d rather play than watch these other fools play. But Carlos is bumming like me. He turns around in the front seat so he can shake his head at me. Avery Day, he says. Man.
Dad leans into our side of the car. Y’all might as well get out the car. It’s hotter in there than it is out here. He takes his Dodger cap off so he can wipe his head and then he puts it back on. Bring the radio so you can listen to the game while you’re out here. Let me try to figure out what’s wrong with this car.
We all get out of the car and sit on the freeway ramp. Carlos has the radio and turns it up as loud as it will go. It’s still hard to hear, though, because of all the cars, and the game is going to start in like five minutes. We’re going to miss the beginning of the game, I say. I kick a smashed Burger King cup that’s by my feet.
/> Einstein, Brenna says. Does it even look like we’re going to make it to the game? Call your chauffeur, why don’t you. Tell him to pick us up.
Yeah, Keith says. He puts his hand on top of Brenna’s. Tell him to have some refreshments waiting for our asses, too.
Shut up, eh, Carlos says. He’s got the radio up to his ear. I can barely hear the game, he says.
BFD, Brenna says and Keith gives her a kiss on the cheek but only because Dad’s head is under the hood and he can’t see us. They better watch it. They totally better watch it.
Now there’s a truck pulling up behind Dad. A rusted-out truck that looks even crappier than our car. It’s a Fix Or Repair Daily. A Ford. A man gets out. We all stare at the guy. Even Carlos stops listening to the game. The man’s kind of crazy looking. A long ZZ Top beard. A T-shirt that’s got stains all over the chest like he just wipes his hands on it all day long. He says something to a little girl sitting in the front and then gets out of the car. His belly’s sticking out from underneath the shirt and he keeps pulling up his jeans. He’s got a long blonde ponytail sticking out the back of his Dodgers cap. He ignores us and goes straight to Dad. It’s Avery’s husband, Keith says. Moron.
Hey man, the fat dude says to Dad. What’s wrong with your car?
Don’t know, Dad says. Can’t figure it out. They both take off their caps and stand with their hands on their hips. They stare at the car. Let me check it out, the man says. He’s not under it long. Can’t tell what’s going on, he says. Well, Dad says.
You going to the game? the man says.
We was, Dad says.
I’ll give you a lift in my truck, the guy says.
Dad looks at him, thinking about him, I can tell. Dad looks at all of us sitting on the side of the freeway. Brenna leans into me and whispers, Total serial killer.
Yeah, Dad says. I’d appreciate that ride.
Yes! We are going to make the game. That’s all I care about. We all get in the truck and the man puts the kid in back with us so Dad can sit in the front. She’s scared of us since she’s so little. She stares at us with her mouth open and holds on to this baseball like we’re going to grab it from her. Keith pretends he’s going to steal it. No! she screams, and we all laugh. It’s pretty funny. A Dodger’s going to sign it, she says.
What’s your name, kid, Brenna says.
Monica. Her blonde hair is swirling all around her face from the wind. She holds her ball up. Like her name’s on it or something.
Which Dodger’s going to sign? I ask her.
She stands up and almost falls back down because the truck’s moving. She turns around so we can see her shirt. Scioscia. Nice.
Hey, Brenna says. Sit down, kid, before you bust your ass.
She listens to Brenna and sits down, holding on to that ball real tight.
Carlos isn’t paying attention to the kid. He’s listening to the radio. His head is bent close to the radio and his black shiny hair looks like it’s got blue in it, it’s so black. I love you Carlos, I want to make out with you so bad. Hopelessly devoted to you. I’m going to totally transform myself, for reals. Not halfway like today. And then you’re going to be way into me.
I pull the radio from Carlos. They start? I put my ear to it. What’s this? I frown but I don’t mean to. All I hear is in Spanish.
Yeah, foo. Jaime Jarrin, mofo. Carlos winks at me. You like Scully, he says. I like Jaime.
I pass the radio back to him. Well, tell me what’s happening, at least.
He holds his finger up. Lopes at bat, he says. He hits real good off of Steve Rogers. He keeps his finger up to tell me to be quiet. Yes! he says and smiles real big. What I tell you Avery Day? Base hit. He’s on first now.
Keith and Brenna don’t even ask about the game. They don’t even try to act like they’re not into each other. They sit there holding hands and talking to each other. They better not let Dad see them, I swear to God.
We are at the stadium now. Finally. The man parks his truck and we all jump out. Brenna helps the kid out and holds her hand until the man takes her. Dad shakes the dude’s hand. I really do appreciate the ride, Dad says. The guy goes, Nah. Glad to do it. He’s holding the little girl’s hand and he picks her up, puts her on his shoulders. Double-header with this one, he says. He pulls on her foot and she laughs. I thought I wanted a boy, the man says, but old Monica’s all right. For now. He smiles real big when he says that, and he’s got the whitest most perfect teeth. How did he get those teeth? He looks at all of us. Enjoy the game, he says, and then he walks off with the kid on his shoulders. Hurry up, Dad says. Come on, y’all.
But what are we going to do about the car, Dad?
Don’t worry about it, he says. We’ll get towed home. Cost a damn fortune but it was gone cost a fortune whether or not we see the game. May as well get our money’s worth. We done drove all this way. Keith and them walk in front of us, like they even know where they’re going. They don’t know the stadium.
I ask Dad. Who was that guy?
I don’t know. Nice fella, though.
I mean, you didn’t even get his name?
I didn’t ask, Dad says. Don’t matter no how. Looked a little rough, but he was just as nice as he could be. Dad looks at my hands. Who’s got the radio?
Carlos, I say.
Good, Dad says. He squints at Carlos’s back like he’s trying to see him even though he’s right in front of us.
Something just happened because the whole stadium is cheering. I love hearing that sound, a whole bunch of people sounding like they all agree that whatever’s happening is the best possible thing for everybody here.
But walking with Dad, I see them again. Brenna puts her hand on the back of Keith’s neck, real quick. I think nobody sees but me. I have this feeling in my stomach, like when Dad comes home too late on a Saturday night and Mom doesn’t say a word. It’s like Dad is invisible. You know something is going to happen, something so scary, maybe a loud something with screaming and shouting or something so small you don’t hear anything at all, but when you wake up in the morning, the house feels like everybody’s a little bit sadder, and that feeling’s forever.
I AM LOOKING at something I will always remember, like it’s a photograph. I have that kind of feeling. Keith is standing in the kitchen holding a baloney sandwich. Want half? He holds up the sandwich. Ain’t no more bread so we have to split it. He wipes his hands on his white T-shirt and pulls up his dirty blue jeans. He’s leaning against the refrigerator, green like the inside of an avocado. He takes a bite and chews, and the light from the sliding glass door is coming into my eyes, but I keep looking because I think, I will remember this, before Keith knows what he and Brenna did.
No. Thanks. I sit on a barstool next to the stove. Stare at him.
What? Take a picture, he says. Damn. Keith is standing still. My picture of Keith is changing into something else. His eyes are moving to things all over the room. The wall behind me, the clock on the wall behind me. Mom’s plastic yellow roses in the middle of the dining room table. At me. Just past me. I don’t know for sure what he’s looking at, though. I can only guess. I can only look where I think he’s looking and still not see.
I don’t like how you staring at me, Ave. Go find something else to do instead of staring at a motherfucker. But he looks nervous. His face is doing a lot of different things. His eyes are squinting. His mouth is open like there is something strange he can’t figure out. Then he closes his eyes like he’s standing there sleeping. When he opens them they look dead, like doll eyes. You know those doll eyes that flip open? You can look at doll eyes forever but they will never look back at you like they can see you. They’re always crying but then they look at you like they don’t even know who you are. He sneezes. He gets a pitcher from the fridge and pours a cup of Kool-Aid. Then he goes to the sliding glass door with the sandwich in one hand and the cup in the other.
He tries to balance everything, but then tilts his head at me. I can’t get this, he says. I�
��ma spill my drink or drop my sandwich. Open the door for me, Ave. Don’t just sit there. Help a nigga out.
EVERYBODY COMES TO our house. Brenna’s mom and dad. Aunt Janice. They all sit down and I stay in my room and listen through the door.
Well, this is a fucking mess. Brenna’s dad. I won’t lie, kid. I want to bash your fucking face in.
I wish I can see Dad’s face when I hear this.
Joe. You can kick his ass but our kid’s still going to be knocked up. Can I smoke in here? Brenna’s mom.
Then Dad says, We are responsible. He’s living with us.
You don’t teach him he can’t just do whatever he wants? That’s what he does? Just run around screwing little girls?
Brenna’s dad is way off base. He’s talking about Keith like he’s some old dangerous molester guy.
Then Mom tells him like it is. Mom says, They the same age. Look like you let her do whatever she feel like doing. Brenna didn’t know how to keep her legs closed?
Vicky, Dad says.
Brenna’s father says, You ain’t got nothing to add to this bullshit disaster?
Naw, Aunt Janice says, real quiet. I almost don’t hear her.
Then I hear mumbling and mumbling and then Brenna screaming. No! I am not killing it! I’m not going to fucking do that! I will run away, I swear to God. Try and stop me. Better fucking tie me down.
After that, all I hear is more mumbling and then people walking and then the front door closes.
I open my bedroom door. Brenna and them are gone. I sit at the kitchen counter just looking at everybody. I’m so scared. It’s so scary to not know what is going to happen.
Aunt Janice has those doll’s eyes like Keith had. Then all of sudden, she smacks him across the face, and not even one sound comes out of his mouth.
Don’t, Janice. Dad says. It’s too late for all that now. What’s that gone do now?
Adoption, Mom says. That little heifa bet not turn around talking about she want to keep it.
Fourteen goddamn years old, Dad says.
