On the Edge

by Allison van Diepen

He gave a shrug. “I’m the one who’s looking out for you. Nothing else matters.”

  I’m the one who’s looking out for you. Something was beginning to dawn on me. “You had people follow me, didn’t you? Is that why they were there when I got attacked?”

  “Yes. My guys were following you.”

  So my instincts had been right. I was being followed. But I still didn’t understand why he’d have them look out for me.

  “I know you have questions,” he said. “But the answers won’t free you from all of this. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  He was right. I wanted to be free of this whole nightmare. I wanted to move on with my life.

  Lobo took a step forward, his black jeans coming in contact with the bed rail. He traced a finger along the side of my face. His touch was gentle, and his energy buzzed through me. I could feel it course through my blood and hum in my ears.

  I lifted my arm, anchored by the IV, and took his hand. He was so close, I held my breath. It felt like everything in the room—everything in the world—stilled.

  Although his hand was much bigger than mine, our hands fit perfectly together. And if I had my way, he would never let go.

  The moment I had the thought, I felt his grip slip from mine. He moved away from the bed.

  “Sleep now, Madeleina.”

  The click of the door told me he had left the room. I wanted to call him back, to keep him beside me. I felt safe with him next to me.

  Lobo had saved my life. He’d had his guys follow me, a girl he didn’t even know. I owed him. I owed him everything. But how could I repay him if I didn’t know who he was?

  And then it hit me that I’d forgotten to thank him.

  In the morning, I was discharged from the hospital. I spent the next few days horizontal. Sometimes I lay on a lounger in the backyard, soaking in the April sun while Dex dug holes in the lawn. I would close my eyes and pretend I was on vacation until an aching part of my body set me straight.

  I couldn’t resist the temptation to watch news stories about my attack and scour the online newspapers.

  WITNESS TO HOMELESS MURDER ASSAULTED.

  BRUTAL ATTACK ON KEY WITNESS.

  The headlines were splashy, but the journalism was shitty—even a high school newspaper editor like me could see that. And the timeline was usually way off. Some news sources placed the attack as early as seven p.m., others as late as midnight.

  I felt an odd detachment from it all. Since I was a minor, my name was never used—I was just “the witness,” which allowed me to pretend it wasn’t me. I got plenty of calls from news agencies; I gave them nothing. But Roz Wilson, the heavyset woman who’d been standing beside me at the bus stop, was all too eager to talk. I admit, I couldn’t help but like Roz. She had a talent for over-the-top descriptions. In an interview with KTU Local 5, she managed to use “horrid,” “horrific,” and “horrifying” all in one thirty-second sound bite.

  My recovery was slow but steady. I ached less every day, which meant fewer meds and a clearer head. By Wednesday I was able to work on my laptop, and I dove into both newspaper and school work. My goal was to return to school on Monday, no matter what.

  My Facebook page blew up with sympathy posts. I spent endless time scrolling through them, assuring people that I was okay. Then Iz called me up, ranting that I should not, under any circumstances, downplay my injuries in case they ever caught the guys who did this to me.

  Fat chance of that. I hadn’t seen my attackers clearly enough to identify them. And even if I could, more Reyes would probably come after me.

  Not according to Lobo, I reminded myself.

  I still didn’t understand how that could be true. But at the same time, I didn’t doubt him. I’d felt something that night in the hospital when we’d held hands, some intense emotion I couldn’t identify, but wanted desperately to feel again. My intuition told me that he would come back to me, somehow—that I couldn’t possibly have seen the last of him. It was only a question of when.

  There were other visitors, though. My friends stopped in to see me often. And Manny sent me flirty text messages to keep me entertained. It all helped. But it was Julia who helped me the most. She’d been through her own nightmare back in Brooklyn, and she understood me like no one else.

  She stopped in to see me on Tuesday, and again on Friday before her four o’clock class. We sat in the living room and drank cans of iced tea. She didn’t have to ask how I was doing. She saw.

  “Emotional day, huh?”

  I felt a lump in my throat. “I looked up Hector Rodriguez last night and found his sister’s Facebook page. She’s a real estate agent with three kids. She wrote about what a good brother he was, and his struggle with mental illness.”

  “Must’ve made him more real to you.”

  I nodded. “I read some more articles about his murder and they made me so angry. They kept calling him ‘the homeless man’ and hardly mentioned his name. Like he wasn’t even a person.”

  “That’s what the press does. It’s just like when they say a murder’s ‘gang-related.’ It means regular people don’t have to worry about it.”

  “I keep thinking how lucky I am that those guys intervened.” Although I wanted to tell her that “those guys” were the Destinos, I knew I had to keep it quiet. “I should’ve done the same for Hector. But I was too scared.”

  Julia shook her head firmly. “Don’t do that, Maddie. You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”

  “I know. But during the attack, I kept wanting someone to help me. Hector must have been thinking the same thing.”

  “There’s no comparison. You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  “What if I’d been able to distract them? It could’ve played out differently.”

  “You couldn’t have saved Hector. You have to accept that. If you’d approached them, they would’ve raped you and set you on fire instead. Your gut told you to stay away, and you followed it.”

  I closed my eyes, taking it in. I so wanted to believe her.

  “But you’re helping Hector now, and you’re paying the price. Look at you, for God’s sake.”

  Yeah, look at me. I was a complete mess.

  “I’ve been there, Maddie,” she said, her tone softening. “When I got jumped, I looked just as bad as you—and it sucked. But at least your friends are standing by you. Mine didn’t.”

  I couldn’t imagine that. “How did you get through it?”

  “Eric. He was my rock. We got through the shitstorm and were stronger for it. It might sound hokey, but I’m one of those everything happens for a reason people.”

  “I like those people.” I wished I could be one. It would be a relief to think that everything happened the way it was meant to. It would mean I didn’t have to feel regret or wonder what if.

  Although Julia’s words were comforting, I still saw myself as a coward. I’d never know what would’ve happened if I’d intervened to help Hector—and I knew that would haunt me forever. All I could do was promise myself that if someone ever needed my help again, I would step up instead of cowering in the dark.

  DOUBT

  MONDAY MORNING I WENT BACK TO SCHOOL. According to Iz, I only appeared “a little banged-up.” Which was a lot better than last week, when I’d looked “so Guantánamo.”

  At least she was honest. Most people made a point of saying how great I looked. I almost believed it until I came face-to-face with the purple-yellow bruises in my locker mirror.

  Thankfully, the story of my attack had died out of the press in the last few days, and Roz Wilson’s fifteen minutes had ended. But the latest headlines were a lot more disturbing. Three girls in their twenties had been found in a makeshift brothel in Kendall. They’d been drugged and abused. It turned out that the girls were illegal immigrants, brought into the country by sex traffickers. Maybe I’d write an article about it for the newspaper.

  At lunch, I met with Ms. Halsall. She greeted me cheerfully, but her eyes were full of c
oncern. “It’s great to have you back, Maddie. You’re looking well.”

  “Thanks.” We sat down at two desks in the middle of the classroom. “How’d the meeting go last week?”

  “Fine. Everybody’s on task for the May edition.” She pulled a stack of paper from her briefcase. “Thanks for sending all this. I really didn’t expect you to get so much done while you were away. I’ve polished up the other articles, so we’re ready for Parminder to do the layout. We can go to print on Friday.”

  “Thanks. That’s a huge relief.”

  Her eyes were kind. “You’ve been through a lot the past few weeks, Maddie. Everyone’s rooting for you. I was thinking it might be easiest if someone else took over the last two papers.”

  I straightened, causing pain to shoot through my ribs. “Are you serious?”

  “You have so much on your plate already.”

  “Did you think I screwed up those articles? I know the sports section was a little confusing, but Josh was away with the soccer team, so I did the best I could to clean it up myself.”

  “You’ve done an excellent job. That’s the thing, Maddie. I’m concerned you’re working too hard.” She smiled gently. “You have nothing to prove. Give yourself time to relax, to heal. To focus on wrapping up your classes. If you step down as editor, no one will think any less of you.”

  “Step down?” Ms. Halsall just didn’t get it. How could she think it would help me to take away the most important thing in my life? I needed to be the editor of Prep Talk. Without it, I was just that girl who’d seen the homeless man murdered. The witness who’d been attacked. I needed to be someone other than that girl.

  “No way. I don’t want to step down. I know you’re trying to help, but please don’t. What I need is to focus on my work. To focus on what I’m good at.”

  She watched me for a long moment, then gave a nod. “Sure, Maddie. Whatever you feel is best.”

  I was tired of it—the sympathetic stares of my classmates, the supportive words of my teachers. I was still me, not some china doll that had shattered into a million pieces.

  All I wanted was for things to be normal again.

  I spent my lunch hours and evenings working my butt off to catch up on every single assignment I’d missed. I probably could’ve gotten out of some of them, but I didn’t want special treatment. Besides, working my butt off was my normal.

  By Thursday, I was caught up. But I wasn’t going to take a night off—I’d just end up thinking too much. So I started to research my new article on sex trafficking. I figured the topic was worth another look, especially because of this week’s headlines. Once I showed it to Ms. Halsall, she’d be sorry she ever doubted me.

  But as I did the research, I got choked up. The more details that came out, the more horrific the story was. The three Honduran girls had signed up to be au pairs in the United States, hoping to one day become landed immigrants. Those girls were just like me—they had big dreams, and they wanted something better than the life they knew.

  I can’t do this, I realized, closing the window on the latest website. All I could think of was how terrible this world was. How humans could be so cruel to one another. A flash of Hector came up, of his death struggle, and tears flooded my eyes.

  No matter what I did, that night kept coming back. Hector kept coming back. A ghost in life because of his mental illness and addiction, a ghost in death because the papers refused to humanize him, to call him by name. He deserved more than that.

  If I had been the one writing those newspaper articles, I would’ve written about his life, not just his death. I would’ve described the Hector Rodriguez his sister had written about on her Facebook page, not just the one who had died violently in the park.

  Then it hit me: maybe I could.

  I’d write a letter to the editor of the Miami Herald. But I’d have to do it anonymously. The last thing I needed was for the press to find out that the key witness was writing a tribute to Hector.

  Damn, I was gonna do this.

  I opened a new Word file and typed an opening paragraph.

  On the night of March 20th, a homeless man was senselessly murdered in Emery Park. You’ve heard about it. And you’ve heard about the epidemic of gang violence, the plight of the homeless. But one thing is missing from all these stories: Hector Rodriguez himself.

  You know the story of his death, but what about his life? Doesn’t he deserve to have his story told?

  I read it aloud. Good, but not good enough. It had to be the perfect opening or no one would bother to read on.

  I reworked it several times, but it still wasn’t quite right. So I switched gears and did some brainstorming on how to proceed. I decided to get some quotes from people who knew Hector. I could ask Ortiz, for starters. He’d said at the party that Hector was his most polite customer.

  A while later, a text from Julia appeared.

  Julia: What you up to, girl?

  Maddie: Working on an article. You?

  Julia: Watching Eric and Ortiz box. Ortiz is a madman tonight. Lots of pent-up sexual energy. I thought of you.

  Maddie: Why me?

  Julia: Because Ortiz asks Eric about you like every day.

  Maddie: You’re joking.

  Julia: I’m not! He heard what happened to you and has been bugging Eric ever since. I told Eric to stop giving him updates and tell him to call you himself. We’re going for a drink with him later. Wanna come?

  Maddie: No way. He’d think it was a setup.

  Julia: Oh come on. Who cares what he thinks? You need to get out, girl. We’ll be at Louis’s patio in half an hour.

  Maddie: Fine. If you say so. ;)

  Julia was right—I needed to get out. Besides, this was the perfect chance to get a quote from Ortiz for my article about Hector.

  I changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a cute yellow muscle tee. I put on some makeup, playing up my eyes and lips, but my final look in the mirror made me cringe. My cheeks were still bruised, similar to when I’d had my wisdom teeth out, and I had a crusty red scab on my forehead where stitches had been removed. Did I really want Ortiz to see me like this?

  Screw it.

  An hour later, on the crowded patio of Louis’s Bar and Grill, I knew I’d made the right decision. It was beautiful out. The sun had dipped low beneath the clouds, shining light crystals across the ocean. We were all laughing and eating appetizers while Julia told a story about her crazy teachers back in Brooklyn.

  Ortiz sat next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking my way more often than he needed to. I tugged a lock of hair over my face self-consciously, hoping he wasn’t staring at my bruises. At one point, I dared to glance back at him, and he flashed a smile that made my toes tingle.

  I remembered something Iz had once told me: The world needs more gorgeous guys. At the time, I’d laughed it off. But now, I decided she was right. I wondered if Ortiz could actually see past my banged-up face, or if he was just being nice. It didn’t matter—a little meaningless flirtation was good for me. Hell, I’d take anything that boosted my spirits and didn’t involve illegal drugs.

  “This calamari is overcooked,” Eric said, though he didn’t stop eating it. “Rubbery, not tender. Chef Belanger would never allow this out of his kitchen.”

  He fed one to Julia. She shrugged. “I’ve never tasted calamari that isn’t rubbery.” She turned to Ortiz and me. “Eric’s a big food critic these days. I keep telling him to start a blog.”

  “Fine with me, Divine,” Eric said, mischief in his eyes. “I’ll do the eating, you can do the writing.”

  Julia raised her brows. “Sounds like a raw deal to me. You should really start a blog about what it’s like to work under a French chef.”

  “Diarie of a keetchen beetch,” Eric said in a fake French accent.

  “How much longer do you think you’ll work there?” Ortiz asked him.

  “I finish my course work in June, then I’ll work there full time until Chef Belanger p
romotes me or fires me. He’s an evil genius, yeah, but he’s the real deal.”

  “I’d give it another year before you crack and strangle the man,” Julia said.

  Eric’s mouth curved in a grin. “That’s a possibility too.” He looked at Ortiz. “What about you? You survive the Krav Maga course?”

  Ortiz nodded. “Survived with all soft tissues intact.”

  “Huh?” Julia said, and we looked at each other in confusion. “What’s this Krav stuff?”

  “It’s an Israeli fighting style,” Ortiz said, taking a sip of Corona. “Picture boxing and jujitsu multiplied by ten. Instead of avoiding a person’s weak spots, you target them.”

  “It’s real fighting instead of sport fighting,” Eric said. Before Julia could say anything, he put up his hands. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do it. It’s hard-core even for me.”

  “Good. I need your weak spots intact, honey.”

  We all laughed. Eric smiled at her, and she smiled back. Then he pulled his chair against hers and hugged her close.

  It was just a hug, not some big tongue kiss like Iz bestowed on her boyfriends, but I felt a prickle of . . . discomfort? Jealousy? Eric and Julia were that couple—the couple that reminded you of what they had and you didn’t. Of what you might never be lucky enough to have. And yet they were such awesome people that you couldn’t resent them for it.

  I wondered if Ortiz was uncomfortable too. He turned to me. “What about your newspaper writing, Maddie? Still digging into Miami’s underbelly?”

  It was cool that he remembered. “I’m working on a new article. I’m hoping I can get it into one of the local papers as a letter to the editor. It’s about Hector Rodriguez.”

  Ortiz raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you should write about him when you’re testifying at his trial? I’d check with the cops on that one.”

  “I wouldn’t publish it under my name. And it would be about his life, not his death.”

  “Oh. That’s cool, then.”

  “I was thinking I’d interview a few neighborhood people who knew him. Thought you could give me a quote.”