by Alex Sanchez
Diego took a breath, wanting to tell the rest of it like he wished it had turned out.
“What happened, Diego?” Vidas asked, his voice steady.
Diego shook his head with shame and told it as it had truly happened: “I couldn’t do it. I’d promised myself I’d never cry again, but I did. I started sobbing like a coward.”
As he now spoke, his throat choked up and hot tears welled up in his eyes.
“He heard me and woke up, blinking like he was trying to make sense of me pointing a gun at him. Then he got this look like he understood. And he said, ‘You’ll always be my boy, Diego. You know that, don’t you?’ And I knew he was right. I was too much of a coward to stop him.”
Diego lifted his sleeve and wiped his face.
“You weren’t a coward,” Vidas said, his voice gentle but certain. “You wanted to save your brother. In my book that’s pretty heroic. But shooting Mac would’ve been the wrong way to do it. Somewhere inside you, you made the right decision.”
Diego shook his head, unconvinced. “He just reached out and I handed the gun over. Just like that.”
“And then?” Vidas asked.
Diego’s voice came out rasping. “The next day he shot himself.”
“The next day?” Vidas leaned forward.
Diego nodded, his eyes burning with tears. “I wanted to kill him. And he knew it. That’s why he did it. He’s dead because of me.”
Vidas sat quietly a moment. “Diego, you’re not responsible for what he did. Wanting to kill him and actually doing it isn’t the same thing. What he did was his decision.”
“I wanted him to die,” Diego insisted. “He’d destroyed me.”
“He didn’t destroy you,” Vidas said firmly. “I know it feels like he did, but he didn’t. You survived. You’re here. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“You don’t know what it’s like.” Diego sobbed, tears cascading down his cheeks, out of control. “I wish I could just have one day, one minute, when I wouldn’t think about what he did to me; when I didn’t feel so dirty I want to crawl out of my skin. Don’t tell me you know, because you don’t know!”
Through the blur of tears he watched Vidas open his mouth a little, as if wanting to tell him something, until in a quiet voice, Vidas said, “I know.”
Diego stopped sobbing, suddenly disoriented. “What do you mean?”
Vidas glanced away, as if debating whether to continue, before gazing back at him. “First I need to say that I’m not here to talk about me. The focus needs to be on you. Okay?”
Diego nodded quickly, not even aware he did it.
“The only reason I’m willing to tell you this,” Vidas went on, “is because I think it might help you.” He paused, cautious. “Like you, Diego, I was abused.”
Diego turned completely still, stunned. For years, he’d felt like he was the only guy in the world this had happened to. Now, only a few feet away, sat somebody else—a guy, like him.
“And I chose to deal with it,” Vidas continued. “It was hard, but I faced it, so I could move forward with my life.”
Diego’s mind raced with curiosity. “How old were you?”
“Nine. In fourth grade.” Vidas had been a little boy, the same as him.
“A guy did it?” Diego asked.
“Yes.” Vidas gave a slow nod. “Someone in my family. And that’s the last I’ll say about it. We’re here to talk about you, not me. Okay?”
Diego leaned back in his seat, still in shock. He had a million other questions to ask, and yet he felt overwhelmed simply knowing that something similar had happened to this man sitting across from him. Not some stranger. Somebody he knew.
“How’re you feeling?” Vidas asked.
Diego slumped down in his chair, talked-out, exhausted, not knowing what else to say. “Like I just want to sleep.”
Vidas glanced at his watch. “Do you think you can make it through the rest of the school day?”
“I guess.”
“Okay,” Vidas said. “You’re doing great, Diego. Amazing, really.”
Diego shook his head. He didn’t feel amazing.
The rest of his classes passed by in a haze, as if he were moving through them underwater. When he got home, he collapsed into bed and crashed asleep until Eddie came in, play-punching him awake. Throughout the evening, Diego turned over in his mind the things he’d discussed that day with Vidas and, most of all, the thing that Vidas had revealed to him.
CHAPTER 20
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON Diego biked to the beach by himself, wanting to be alone and think about his life, about his conversations with Vidas, about Ariel….
He chained his bike and climbed across the dunes to the water’s edge. After rolling up his jeans, he waded far down the shore until soon the only person around was an old fisherman whose canvas hat was peppered with hooks, sinkers, and feathered fishing flies.
Diego took a seat on the warm sand and his mind drifted to Vidas. On one hand, he felt closer to him because of their secret bond. And yet it also made him a little wary. What else didn’t he know about Vidas?
As Diego watched the waves roll in across the ocean, his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by something he spotted far away among the white caps. Was it a fin? His heart sped up. A shark, especially one that size, wasn’t likely to swim so close into shore. Maybe it was a dolphin. On past occasions he’d seen porpoises swimming and playing offshore. But they usually traveled in groups and never had fins this big.
He leaped up for a better look, his feet sinking into the sand. There it was again: a lone gray dorsal fin, cutting through the water, like in his nightmares.
Diego raced to the fisherman at the surf’s edge. “Hey, did you see that?”
“See what?” The old man squinted to where Diego pointed.
“Like a huge fin.”
“Where? I don’t see anything.”
Diego scanned the horizon. “I think it was a shark or something.”
“Not many sharks around here.” The fisherman gave him a sideways glance. “Except maybe in your mind.”
Diego searched across the ocean for the fin to prove it. But no matter how hard he looked, the fin failed to reappear, until finally he left, frustrated. Maybe it had simply been a wave.
On the morning of Diego’s trial for the fight with Guerrero, he once again put on the tie that Mac had given him and squeezed into his outgrown dress shoes.
“When can I get some new shoes?” he complained to his mom during the drive to court. “I can hardly fit into these.”
“When are you going to stop getting into fights?” his mom replied.
Diego frowned, not knowing what to answer.
When they arrived at the crowded court waiting room, Guerrero was already there, sitting beside his mom, a heavyset woman worriedly clutching her hands. The bandages were off of Guerrero’s nose and he avoided looking at Diego, pretending not to see him.
Diego turned away too, and led his mom to a seat on the opposite side of the room. A short while later, Ms. Delgado arrived.
“Am I going to have to go back to juvie?” Diego asked her.
“I don’t know. I need to talk to the prosecutor and Mr. Vidas. Let’s see what they say.”
While she spoke to them across the room, Diego waited anxiously, hoping he wouldn’t have to go back to jail.
“Here’s the deal,” Ms. Delgado announced when she returned. “Since it’s your second offense, the prosecutor insists you be sentenced to jail time.”
Diego felt a pang, recalling his gloomy cell.
“But the good news,” Ms. Delgado continued, “is Mr. Vidas says you’re doing great apart from this incident. Based on his report, the prosecutor is willing to ask the judge to suspend the jail time—if you plead guilty. You’ll receive credit for the time you served, have to pay fifty dollars restitution for Guerrero’s medical co-payment, and continue on probation indefinitely.”
“You mean forever?” Diego
asked. The idea of spending his entire life on probation seemed a little daunting.
“No, not forever. Probably only a few months if you keep doing as well as Mr. Vidas says and don’t have any more incidents.”
“What do you think Diego should do?” his mom asked.
“I think he’s getting a great deal,” Ms. Delgado replied. “If I were him, I’d take it.”
Diego gazed across the room at Vidas, who stood talking with another family, patting the boy’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Diego said.
When the bailiff called them into the courtroom, Diego slunk into the familiar defendant’s chair. Would Judge Ferrara remember him and chew him out again?
While the prosecution proposed the plea agreement, Judge Ferrara peered through his horn-rimmed glasses at Diego. When the prosecutor sat down, the judge told Diego, “This is your second offense. Do you understand the seriousness of that?”
Diego cleared his throat. “Um, yes, sir. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Judge Ferrara barked. “More than a mistake. You violated your probation. And”—his voice grew louder—“you assaulted yet another individual. Before you make any more mistakes, you’d better understand something. You’ve got two strikes now. One more and you go upstate. You got that?”
Diego knew what “upstate” meant: getting sent away, not just to the local juvie, but to reform school. The sweat trickled down his back as he answered, “I understand, your honor, sir.”
To his relief, the judge accepted the plea bargain. As his mom drove him to school, her voice was softer than before court. “Now, no more fights, okay?”
Diego nodded silently, staring at the road ahead. Of course he didn’t want to get into any more fights. But what if he couldn’t control himself? He changed into his sneakers, peeling his dress shoes off, and hoped he’d never have to use them for court again.
At school, Kenny asked, “How’d it go with the judge?”
While Diego relayed what had happened, he glanced across the hallway toward Ariel, who stood at her locker talking with friends.
He had yet to call her after she’d returned his backpack the day following his scramble from her house. He still wasn’t sure what to say and he wasn’t ready for any more questions. He wanted to talk to Vidas about it first—if only he could preempt him from talking about Mac again.
At their appointment on Thursday, Vidas asked as usual, “How’re you feeling?”
Diego immediately answered, “I want to talk to you about Ariel. Okay?”
“Okay.” Vidas sat down in his swivel chair and extended the candy jar. “I’m listening.”
“She invited me over to her house,” Diego began and took a candy. “A couple of Sundays ago. I’ve been wanting to tell you about it.”
He proceeded to describe his lunch date gone bad. “Why did she have to ask so many questions and push me like that?”
“Because she said she wants to get to know you.”
“Yeah, and once she does, she’ll be like, Hasta la vista, baby.”
“What makes you so sure?” Vidas asked.
Diego thought how to explain. “It’s like that Christmas movie—the one with the misfit toys? When I first saw it I thought, That’s me. No one is ever going to want me. I’m damaged goods.”
“If I remember the movie correctly”—a slight smile tugged at Vidas’s mouth—“don’t the misfit toys join each other and become friends?”
Diego crossed his arms. He didn’t want to be just friends with Ariel; he wanted more than that. Besides, she wasn’t a misfit, he was.
“So, am I supposed to tell her everything?”
“No. Especially when you’re not ready.”
Diego slid down in his chair, definitely not ready. “So then, what do I tell her?”
Vidas thought about it a moment. “Ask her to be patient with you. Then, as you feel comfortable, you can open up. Maybe you’re not ready for dating.”
“I’m ready!” He wasn’t about to give up Ariel. “But why do I have to tell her any of that stuff?”
“You don’t,” Vidas told him. “But then you can’t expect her to open up either.”
Diego gave a low groan. “Can’t I just forget that stuff?”
“You tried that,” Vidas replied. “Remember?”
Diego thought a moment, cracking his knuckles. “But what if she tells her friends and everybody at school finds out? Everyone will say I’m gay.”
“Well, you can’t control what other people say—or think.”
Diego considered that. Clearing his throat, he asked in an uncertain voice, “Do you think…I’m gay?”
Vidas leaned back in his swivel chair. “Diego, being abused doesn’t make someone gay. A person is already naturally either gay or bi or straight. Only you can know who you’re attracted to. The thing is to be honest.”
“Well, I know I’m attracted to girls!”
“Okay.” Vidas nodded. “You sound clear.”
“I am,” Diego agreed, though his legs began to jiggle. “Except sometimes…I have these thoughts…about the things Mac did.” Diego glanced down, recalling how his body had betrayed him. “I hated it. So why…?” He looked up. “Did that happen to you? Did you ever worry after—you know—what happened…that you might be gay?”
“Yes…” The color rose in Vidas’s face and his voice came out uneasy. “I’d have flashbacks, thoughts I didn’t want. That can be one of the consequences of abuse. Although being molested doesn’t change your sexual orientation, it can make it more confusing to sort out.”
“So you think I might be gay?” Diego pressed him. He wanted a clear answer.
“I don’t know, Diego. I wish I could tell you, but only you can sort it out.”
Diego shifted in his seat, still worried. “But what if she wants to do more than kiss…and I can’t?”
“Well,” Vidas said calmly, “that may mean you and she aren’t ready to go further, and you need to slow things down. It doesn’t mean you’re gay.”
“But I could be gay?” Diego persisted. “I don’t want to be gay.”
“I get that,” Vidas replied.
Diego gazed out the window, feeling more screwed-up than ever. How could he ever connect with a girl if he kept having flashbacks to Mac?
“Do you remember,” he asked Vidas, “the first time we talked: You said something about me being capable of love?”
“Yes, I think so. What about it?”
“Well, now that you know how messed-up I am, do you think somebody like me is capable of love?”
“You’re not messed-up, Diego. You were abused. You survived it. Now you’re recovering. You’re learning to love yourself, so you can let others love you. You’re definitely capable of love. No doubt about it.”
Diego took a breath, encouraged, though only for a second. “But what if she doesn’t love me back?”
“That’s the risk,” Vidas replied. “With love there are no guarantees. If she doesn’t love you back, then you move on to someone who does.”
“But what if…nobody does?”
“They will,” Vidas assured him.
How can you be sure? Diego wondered. His gaze drifted to the photos he’d noticed before on the messy desk.
“Who are those people?” He pointed to the pictures.
“My family,” Vidas said, smiling, “and my dog, cat.”
Diego studied the photos but couldn’t figure out which lady might be Vidas’s wife. All the women looked either too young or too old. In one picture, Vidas stood next to some blond white guy. Alongside them were a curly-haired girl and a boy with glasses.
“Are those your kids?” Diego asked.
“Yep. That’s Katie and Carl.”
They didn’t look like Vidas. Maybe they were adopted. Or maybe his wife already had them from a previous marriage.
“Which lady is your wife?”
Vidas hesitated, as though considering the question. “We�
�re not here to talk about me, remember? We’re here to talk about you. You wanted to discuss Ariel. So, what else about her?”
Diego folded his arms, annoyed. Why didn’t Vidas want to tell him more about himself? It took a moment for Diego to refocus on Ariel.
“I guess I’m worried after what she told me about her dad. What if someday I lose it with her? I don’t want to hurt her. Her mom said she’d have me put away for a very, very long time—and the judge would probably do it too.”
“That’s why it’s important,” Vidas replied, “that you’re dealing with your anger and getting to the core of it. You’ve opened up a lot with me. How do you feel about that?”
Diego curled his fingers around the chair arms. “Each time you ask me how I feel, it makes me want to scream.”
“Well,” Vidas said, “that’s one way to let out the anger.”
Diego rolled his eyes. “I meant it as a joke.”
“I don’t,” Vidas said. “Not screaming at somebody, but screaming into a pillow to get the angry energy out.” He pointed to the blue-and-green quilted cushion on the chair next to Diego. “Why don’t you try it now, for practice?”
Was he serious? Diego wasn’t about to scream into a pillow. That was stupid.
“Here, I’ll show you,” Vidas took the cushion. “First, sip some water.” He poured himself a cup from his desk. “Then draw a deep breath. And make the sound come from the nasal region in the back above your throat, so you don’t damage your voice. Watch!”
He brought the pillow to his face, and produced a loud muffled scream. He looked so crazy that Diego erupted in a laugh.
Apparently, Vidas didn’t hear him. When he let the pillow down, his face glowed red from the exertion. “Now you try it.” He tossed the cushion back to Diego and poured him some water. “But remember to scream from up near your nose so you don’t hurt your vocal chords.”
“No, thanks.” Diego refused the water and rested the pillow back on the chair beside him.
“Come on,” Vidas coaxed. “If you truly don’t want to hurt other people—or yourself—you’ve got to find other ways to get your anger out. You think it’s going to just go away?”
