Before You

by Amber Hart

  I don’t notice that I am talking loudly. I’m too angry to care. “Diego Alvarez is hot!” I say.

  Behind me, a spoon clanks to the floor. I automatically turn to look. Diego is cleaning a booth two spots away. He’s reaching for the tumbled spoon.

  My lungs tighten. Fear is a boa constrictor, squeezing, terminating my air supply.

  Diego continues cleaning the table, acting oblivious. And I almost believe him.

  If it weren’t for his knowing grin.

  When I get home that evening, my dad is waiting for me. Always waiting.

  I wish he would stop.

  I love him for caring.

  I am two people living in one body. Constant turmoil. There’s not enough space for both of us.

  I wonder about rubber bands. Always stretching to fit situations. Always shrinking back down to size. Versatile, able to accommodate every need. Flexible. Wrapping around everything, holding it in place. Saving it from all falling to pieces.

  I’m a rubber band, but I stretched too far. I broke.

  I cannot save us anymore.

  I cannot even save myself.

  “I was about to call you,” Dad says. It’s almost seven o’clock. Time for Awana, a program at church where parents drop off their kids to learn Bible verses and songs. The children are split into groups and sorted by age. I’m a helper in Grace’s room.

  “Let’s go,” Dad says. “Can’t be late.”

  My family piles into Dad’s SUV. We only live five minutes from church, which can be good and bad. Good, because I can procrastinate until the last minute, like tonight, and not be late. Bad, because a lot of church people take that as an invitation to stop by unannounced. It’s not that I don’t like the church people—some of them go to my school and are really nice. It’s just that I often feel out of place with them. Like a black sheep in a flock of white.

  Certainly you see my stains.

  Or are you truly blind?

  Sure, I’ve read the Bible from beginning to end. And yeah, I know key verses. I even bow my head at the right moments for prayer. But on the inside, I’m different. I have secrets. A dark past.

  Everyone sees me as they want to see me, the pastor’s daughter who comes to church every week and says the right things. They miss who I really am.

  I am a liar.

  If any of them bothered to dig a little deeper, maybe they would uncover the truth.

  Jason’s parents go to our church, as do a few of my friends’ parents. His mom loves me, wants me to be with her son. She’s not the only one. It feels like an arranged marriage, as though it’s already been determined that Faith Watters will be with Jason Magg forever. It’s what everyone expects, and they don’t like to be disappointed.

  Sometimes I wish Dad weren’t a pastor. Maybe then things would be easier. Maybe then Mom wouldn’t have felt so much pressure to be perfect. When she realized that she’d never live up to the church’s impossible standards, she snapped like a twig under the weight of the church’s body. Now I have to be everything she is not. Poor Faith. Can’t turn out like her wayward mother. That would be a disgrace.

  The church would look down on me if they knew the real reason I was gone last year. So they will never know. Just like so many other things in my life.

  We pull up to the church and I enter Grace’s room of five-year-olds. I inhale stale, dead oxygen. The same oxygen my mother breathed, once upon a time. I wish I had no memories.

  But I need the memories.

  They remind me.

  Jason’s mom, Trish, is already there. Of course she is. The woman has never been late to anything. Today she’s dressed in a floral number, her graying hair pinned behind one ear.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” she says, “you ready?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Magg,” I reply.

  Trish, the teacher, handles the Bible lesson; I play with the kids. This is my favorite part of church, seeing their smiling faces. They’re innocent, accepting. They don’t try to mold me into something I’m not. I don’t have to be a rubber band, stretching to fit their needs. And since they’re kids, they make mistakes without everyone pointing an accusatory finger. I love their freedom.

  It’s beautiful.

  I sit quietly while Trish teaches the lesson. When she finishes, I practically jump out of my chair to play with the five girls and three boys. All around the room are props. In one corner is a kitchen; in another are blocks and trucks and cars. There’s a bin of dress-up clothes, too.

  The boys run to the trucks, but I go with the girls to the kitchen corner. I move around the room, making sure to play with everyone—first kitchen, then blocks, then dress-up. By the time the parents return for their kids, I’ve laughed and played so much that I’ve forgotten about my own problems.

  Until Trish approaches me.

  “How is everything, Faith?” she asks.

  “Good, Mrs. Magg. And you?”

  She’s a talker. She prattles on about how the pool boy isn’t doing a good job; she may need to fire him, and she wants to know if I know anyone who would be interested in the job. I don’t. She moves on to another topic. Something about remodeling the house. Is this woman for real? Does she expect me to be sad that her biggest worries in life are the pool boy and how much larger she can make her home? I need to get out of here.

  “So, tell me, Faith,” Mrs. Magg says. “Have you thought about colleges yet?”

  “Um, not really,” I answer truthfully. I have enough to deal with.

  Like life.

  “You should look into UCF. That’s where Jason will be.” She smiles. “Wouldn’t want you too far away. Long-distance relationships are so difficult.”

  I nod. The less I say, the better.

  “UNF is another good school. Also close!” she says.

  She really does not want Jason and me apart.

  “Or maybe I’ll just convince that son of mine to quit wasting time and ask you to marry him.” Trish laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. I feel like crying. Or running away. Marriage? Really?

  “I know you’d love that,” she says matter-of-factly.

  She doesn’t know me at all.

  Just stop.

  Just stop.

  Just stop.

  “Oh, think of it! Wouldn’t it be grand?” she asks.

  Who talks like this? I cannot deal with her another minute, much less a lifetime.

  “I have to go,” I blurt. “Sorry. I just have this thing tonight. Great talking with you!”

  Outside, I take deep breaths.

  In. And out. In. And out. In. And out. And in.

  The air is sticky, coating my lungs like tar. The setting sun glows through the clouds, which puff like foam across the sky. What must it be like to have no problems, to be so light that you can float?

  I want to join the clouds, to bounce on nothingness for one infinite second. I want to be airy and made of fluff. I want to be free to show my emotions. I want a release, an outlet, a vent. Because even clouds can cry.

  I tell my dad that I want to walk home. I need time and space to think.

  For some reason, my mind drifts to Diego. I smile. And with that, I no longer remember the weight of everybody’s expectations. Or how I wish to be free. All I can think about is seeing Diego at the restaurant. Though I probably should, I don’t regret my words.

  I laugh to myself.

  I can’t believe I called him hot.

  8

  diego

  Faith called me hot.

  I didn’t imagine it. I didn’t imagine it. I didn’t imagine it. I rest my head on the back of the seat as the bus drives me home. When I heard Faith’s friend talking about me, I thought it would be bad. I was wrong.

  Maybe it was a joke. Maybe they knew that I was behind them. Faith’s friend sure knew. She glanced right at me as she said that last thing about how Faith was predictable.

  Thing is, when Faith saw me, she looked shocked. And angry. So, I’m not sure it was a jok
e.

  Forget it. I’m thinking about this gringa too much. Bennie gave me a warning for the broken dish. But the warning in my mind is worse. I shake my head, dislodge confusion. I glance around. I need a focus point. There are two other people on the bus. Both sitting up front. I am alone in the back. Good. I like being alone.

  It’s safer that way.

  I peer out the window. Slow, steady traffic lines the road, pulsing like resin through the lungs of a smoker. On the street corner, thugs hassle a kid.

  “It’s a tough life,” I mumble to myself.

  The bus stops two blocks from my house, near the high school. Lampposts shine brightly every few feet. Cars pass. One slows down near me. It’s a cop. Checking me out. He’ll probably stop me and ask what I’m doing, walking near the school at eleven o’clock at night.

  In America, it feels like being Latino is a strike against me. Having tattoos is another. And on top of it all, I have too many scars.

  Too many scars.

  Too many reminders.

  I wish I didn’t have the scars or tattoos, at least not the ones caused by my time with the cartel. Some of the other scars, though, are uniquely mine.

  Like the one on my upper arm. I broke it when I was seven. The bone needed surgery to repair the break. And the small scar below my left eye, just under the lower lashes, where Javier accidentally hit me with a Frisbee. Those I don’t mind.

  Some of my tattoos are uniquely mine, as well. It’s the cartel tattoos that bother me. The ones that mark me as a member. Those are the hardest.

  Tattoos claim part of my skin. Shame claims the rest.

  Surprisingly, the cop leaves me alone. But I don’t get far before 67 steps out of the shadows.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  I keep walking, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. If I stop, I’m bound to run into trouble. But I can’t lead him to my apartment, either. I decide to take a left, the opposite direction from my place. Maybe he’ll leave.

  “We just want to talk,” he says.

  I don’t believe him.

  I know better.

  I am him, one heartbreak later.

  I stop, turn toward the sound of his voice. I will not run. I’m not a coward.

  Four guys approach from all directions, like dogs herding cattle.

  I am prey.

  “What’s your name?” 67 asks.

  “Rico,” I lie with a hard voice. “What’s yours?”

  “Wink,” he says, stopping in front of me. Obviously his gang, not birth, name.

  I’m surrounded. Wink looks at the markings on my arms. His eyes settle on the tattoo on my left hand. X, skull, X. The Xs represent links, like a chain. The skull represents death.

  Linked to the cartel until death.

  Once you are marked with that particular tattoo, you’re in it for life.

  The MS-13 members know all about what it means to be in it for life. In their gang, there is no leaving or being jumped out. You either live for them, or die.

  Sometimes death is better.

  It’s considered an honor to reach a high enough level within the cartel to be branded with the particular mark tattooed on my skin. But it feels more like a burden.

  “Where you from?” Wink asks.

  “Not here,” I answer.

  Wink smirks. “And the ink?”

  “Art,” I say. It’s not a complete lie. Some of them are art. Others were forced.

  “Nice,” Wink replies, crossing his arms over his chest. His shaved head reflects light like the flash of a Polaroid. “Why you locked up so tight? Protecting someone, or you got somethin’ to hide?”

  I get in his face without thinking twice about it. I’m not about to take heat from this guy, no matter who he runs with.

  “Listen, cabrón. Either tell me what you really came for, or leave. But do not expect me to tell you my life story. It’s none of your business.”

  His friend pulls a gun. Aims it at me.

  “From the way I see it,” Wink says, pausing to look at the Glock, “you don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Wrong,” I say, right before I kick the gun out of his friend’s hand. It sails through the air and lands in a bush. My fist connects with Wink’s nose. It cracks. I hit him two more times in the same spot. Blood pours out. He goes down.

  Red so red is the stain of our sins.

  Someone punches me in the face.

  Another guy charges. I send a powerful kick to his kneecap. He falls, tries to get up, can’t.

  I wish I didn’t like the surge of adrenaline pounding through my veins like an uncontrolled current. My moves are flawless. I am a weapon. My fists are as dangerous as a double-edged sword.

  I shouldn’t like this.

  I’m a monster.

  A third guy is reaching for his gun. I rip his arm backward until it pops. He yells, a sound of pure anguish. Like waves when they hit jagged reefs and split with a roar. He hits me with his good fist. I taste blood. He tries to hit me again but I block him. Twist his good wrist at an unnatural angle. It breaks.

  This is all I know.

  The guy behind me punches me in the back of the head. I turn toward him in time to receive another punch to the face. It only takes one kick and one punch from me for him to go down.

  I need to leave now, before they get up.

  When a city falls to ruins, do you pick up the broken pieces and rebuild? Or do you leave it all behind?

  Stay or run?

  Live or die?

  This feels like home. Fighting. Threats. Trouble to come.

  Just like I told mi padre.

  There is no such thing as a brighter future.

  9

  faith

  The moment I get home, Grace plows into my legs, almost knocking me backward. Though her five-year-old body is tiny, she’s mighty with her affection. As always, she creates moments of joy when I least expect them.

  My parents had me young, barely into their twenties. When my dad married his new wife, he was thirty-three, Susan, thirty. They decided to have Grace. Despite the age gap between Grace and me, I don’t know what I would do without her.

  “Hi, Gracie,” I say, smiling from ear to ear.

  She looks like me—same hair, green eyes, high brow bones. It’s nice to have someone who loves you so much that they tackle you at the door, begging for hugs and kisses. She can’t wait for me to walk into the living room. She has to see me right then.

  It’s love like the sweetest chocolate. Only better.

  “Hi, Faith,” Grace says in her melodic soprano voice. “You didn’t ride with us.”

  “No,” I agree. “But I’m here now.”

  Grace smiles. “Missed you thisssss”—she pauses to stretch her arms as wide as they can go—“much!”

  “Aw, I missed you, too.”

  “Want to play?” she asks.

  Anything to make you happy. “Give me one second,” I say and race to my room to kick off my shoes.

  When I return, Grace is dressed in costume. A fluffy pink skirt with tons of ruffles at the hem, a sparkly purple shirt, and a pointy princess hat with pink tulle coming out of the top. She has a wand in her hand.

  She is beautiful, so beautiful.

  “Here,” she says, handing me a flowery dress. One of Susan’s castoffs. I think Susan purposely gave it to Grace so that I can dress up, too.

  I pull the dress over my head. It’s a little big.

  “How do I look?” I ask with a spin.

  “Like the most beautifulest sister in the whole world,” Grace says. She puts one finger to her chin, taps her foot on the ground, looks up. It’s her concentration look.

  Billions and billions of people to love and you picked me.

  “No. Wait,” she says. “What’s the word for more than beautiful?”

  “Gorgeous?” I suggest.

  “No,” she says. “More than that.”

  I look down at her. “Not sure. Why?”

  “
’Cause that is what you are,” she says. “More than beautiful.”

  My heart pitter-pats. Grace is seriously my saving grace. I thought about her while I was away last year. She’s one of the few reasons I stayed strong.

  Now I pick her up and spin her the way she likes. She squeals. As I tickle her, her head tips back and laughter bubbles out of her mouth. I love her laugh. It’s the kind that when you hear it, you can’t help smiling, too.

  When we’re both laughing so hard that it feels like I’ve run a marathon, we collapse on the ground and catch our breath.

  One beat two beats three beats four.

  I will always love you more.

  “What are we playing tonight?” I ask.

  Grace picks up the wand. “I am the magic angel. I will turn you into things,” she explains.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  First she turns me into a pony, and I give her a ride on my back. Then I am a sneaky fox who keeps hiding; she has to find me, like hide-and-seek. Then Grace shares her magic with me, and we set off together to battle pirates on a ship.

  If only we could sail away.

  It doesn’t feel like we’ve been playing for two hours, but when I hear Susan call Grace to bed, I realize time has flown by.

  “One more. One more. One more,” Grace begs her mom.

  Susan sighs. With a smile, she gives in. “Okay. But just one.” She sits on the couch and waits for us to finish.

  “For my last magic of the day, I will make everyone better,” my little sister says.

  And I believe with all of my heart that she thinks this is possible.

  Grace instructs me to lie down on the floor, which, of course, is not any old floor but a special bed in a small town far, far away. I’m supposed to be a sick girl. There are a lot of us who are sick in this faraway town. We’ve caught a germ that Grace calls the Ick. Grace leans over me and peers into my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. I almost laugh at her serious face. She really gets into her make-believe.

  Then she trails her wand from my head to my toes and works her magic.

  “Bye-bye, sickness in your vein. I take away all your pain,” she says.

  And just like that, I’m better. Grace jumps up and down and claps, and then gives me a kiss good night.