by Fred Aceves
Once we barked.
The week before Christmas we stood, right hands over our hearts, to recite the last line of the Pledge of Allegiance: With liberty and justice for all.
I see a girl going into Amy’s classroom, probably some office dork with a green slip, which means a family emergency or else you got busted. I know about them slips.
The girl walks over and hands it to Amy. A white slip. I got no idea what they mean.
I check the clock again. Just in time! The thin red hand’s ticking off the last few seconds.
“We have the oldest constitution of any major government,” Ms. J’s saying, “and it’s also—”
We get up, hop onto our chairs, and applaud like our teacher just won The Voice. She looks around, maybe trying to spot the kid responsible for this. Her eyes stay on me a little too long.
Her change from shocked to annoyed is always super quick, like when somebody gets pantsed. She’s gotta be pushing forty but looks super young right now, waiting with arms crossed, squeezing the blue marker in her right hand. It’s the noisiest this class has ever been.
We keep clapping, going on . . . damn! Fifteen seconds! I forgot to tell everybody for how long. Now what? Chloe in the front row whips around first and then everybody’s looking at me, the leader. I stop clapping and sit down. They do the same.
Ms. J’s also sitting, elbows on her desk, face in her hands.
“Please read Unit 16,” she says, so low you can barely hear her. “I need a minute.”
The door opens. Mr. Perec from across the hall, shirt pocket holding pens, pokes his torso through the barely opened door. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” Ms. J says.
Not buying that, he comes all the way in to ask us, “What’s going on?”
I’d also like the answer to that. Ms. J’s hair is a curtain hiding her face. Could she be crying? No way. If the barking prank and Michael Jackson prank didn’t break her, this can’t have neither. Not in a million years.
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Perec,” she says, her head still down.
He leaves. The classroom falls quiet except for Ms. J’s uneven breathing.
Today’s prank kicked ass, but this right now? Not so funny. In fact, it sucks. Ain’t gonna feel bad about it though. Don’t know why they got teachers in this school who can’t take a joke.
Goody-goody Chloe says, “Sorry about the prank, Ms. J. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Pronouncing fine like it’s one word cracked in two. She gets up and hurries outta the classroom, a hand reaching up to touch her hair, sorta blocking her face.
But you can see the tears anyway.
As soon as the door closes Chloe says, “I’m not doing that ever again.”
Me neither but why’re the girls looking at me? Sure, they was clapping ’cause I told them to, but it’s something we all did together.
A few boys smile and shrug, but I don’t believe them forced laughs. They feeling bad.
Just like me, I gotta admit.
The office dork walks into our classroom with a handful of envelopes. That’s what Amy musta received instead of a slip. “Hey, where’s the teacher?”
She looks at all the desks again, as if Ms. J might be sitting with us.
“We killed her,” says Tamara, a girl who might have my detention record beat.
The dork keeps her eyes on the envelope and pronounces slowly. “Mar-cos Rive-ass?”
“Ya gotta be kidding,” I say, meaning the pronunciation and the envelope.
She walks over and drops it on my desk.
Something for me and for Amy. Could this be a sign?
I tear into it right away. Joe asks me what’s inside and a few other kids press around, hovering over my envelope like it’s some treasure chest we found together.
I wait for everybody to back off before unfolding the paper inside.
Marcos Rivas:
Congratulations! You’ve been selected to take part in a new, exciting program. Next Friday, for your sixth-period class, please present this letter to your teacher who will excuse you. Then go promptly to room 212.
Regards,
Principal Jonathon L. Perry
His signature underneath. And I thought I had bad penmanship. I peek in the envelope for information on what makes the program exciting, besides Amy being part of it. Nothing in there, but what other sign do I need? Me and Amy got something in common, even if it’s only this. Us together ain’t crazy. It might be fate.
I try to keep my cool, but inside I’m doing cartwheels.
3
THE NEXT afternoon, I take a deep breath of relief when I’m outside. I’ve made it in and outta my house without trouble from my mom’s boyfriend.
Ain’t sure I could deal with it today since Amy has been soaking up all my brain space since, let’s see . . . about thirty-two hours ago, I guess.
I’m taking a second breath, the air nice and fresh in my lungs, when I see my best friend running this way. Though Obie moved outta Maesta a few years back he still hangs around here just about every day.
“Wait!” he says, slowing down and pretending to grab for the doorknob, his idea of a joke. “Let me say hi to your boy Hitler right quick.”
Easy Obie who never frowns, never says or does a mean thing, don’t take Brian’s racism personal like my other boys who want him dead and wonder why a racist white guy would live here.
“I know Brian’s problem,” he says, his hand grabbing again. “He ain’t met a brother as charming as me is all.”
I shove him away.
If I crack one day and drop the details about my mom’s latest boyfriend, Obie will be the guy to hear it. After the first time Brian kicked me for talking back to him I was quieter than usual and Obie said, “Gotta be hard living with him.”
I nodded, nothing more, and he didn’t mention it again.
He’s always been crazy nice like that. When the Frosty’s ice cream truck used to roll through, back before the man with the Nestlé cap got jacked and the tinny music was never heard again, Obie’d come up with more coins than me and give me half of the ice cream sandwich. He’d break it the long way, so each of us got some of the chocolate-dipped side.
We used to share toys and candy. Nowadays we share secrets, like how I’m scared of dogs and listen to the Smiths. Or that he pulls straight As and goes to Bible study every Wednesday. Together we’ve wondered about girls, about kissing and sex, like if it hurts the guys the way it seems to on porn, them goateed faces all twisted up.
So much in common, me and my boy, we even started jacking off at around the same time (though we didn’t tell each other about it until a month later—him confessing first and me glad I didn’t have to risk being the pervball).
Now I look up at the cloudless sky. With the Florida sun going down in a pink haze, we got time for one quick game, maybe two. We walk through Maesta, passing two kids on the side of the building practicing goal kicks.
“Any new ideas?” Obie asks.
I shake my head.
With my expenses growing all the time (haircuts, deodorant, acne soap) I gotta get my money right. We fifteen, old enough to work in a few places, but those supermarkets and fast-food joints don’t want us. That’s why we tried getting into business together two months ago, went door-to-door offering to wash cars. People looked at us like we was carrying a bomb instead of a bucket.
We’ve also offered to mow lawns, put up Christmas lights, walk dogs, take down Christmas lights, and anything else we can think of. We’ve tried almost everything except dealing drugs. Obie’s too much of a saint for that and I’m too scared. Though doors usually close on our faces, every once in a while a person will look down at our bucketful of clean rags, a bottle of detergent, and a tire brush and ask, “How much?”
Between two sun-bleached cars little Yuri’s getting good with the jump rope, the U flipping over her in a green-and-pink flash. She smiles at me and I smile back.
We pass Do
ña Carmen’s place where a TV astrologer is giving predictions in Spanish.
“Wide open,” I shout to Obie, my hands up.
When he passes me the imaginary ball, I take an imaginary jumper, my mind on revenge.
Yesterday, when I went for the shot that shoulda won the game, Art flew up and swatted the ball outta my hands. I’m talking swat. They coulda heard it on Mars. And after the ball slammed against the fence, the oooo the guys let out was even louder.
I should be getting angry, ready to dominate the court, but I’m still thinking about Amy and fighting the urge to tell Obie about her. Don’t know what it is about a crush that makes you want to talk about it. What could I tell Obie? It’s not like he ever tells me about Mya, the girl he’s been talking to since Christmas vacation. Maybe I should ask him.
“What’s up with Mya?”
He shrugs. “Ain’t heard from her since Saturday.”
Weird. They been spending lots of time lately, mostly sitting on the concrete slab that passes for a porch in Maesta, Mya’s mom peeking through the window to make sure there’s no touching of lips or hands.
Did he get ghosted? Would Mya do that?
I give Obie an imaginary no-look pass and we keep weaving through the two-floor buildings, following the road that runs through the complex, connecting all the parking lots and Dumpsters.
Taking up a square block of central Tampa, Maesta’s a spread of twenty-three look-alike buildings one block south of the train tracks. People who don’t know the area, many driving to the famous Teresa’s Empanadas, swing a right into here, convinced it’s a city road. The man always looks more worried than the woman, and the kids’ mouths go round, wide eyes checking out the graffiti on the dust-covered buildings. Though some drivers 180 outta here right away, most cruise around for the other exit.
We pass that broken streetlight where some guy once stood in the dark, pants down, with a view of Art’s little sister. Art was too small himself to beat the guy up so he called the cops, who never came.
We pass building E where a Dominican woman lives in apartment four, the one who blasts old-school merengue and lets her kid tricycle around on the court when we in classes. She moved in when Fat Rick got locked up.
With all them people coming and going, we knew what was going down in that place. No other way Fat Rick coulda bought a black Maxima, five years on it, and tricked it out with chrome twenties and that booming Rockford system.
Somebody musta called the cops and that time they did roll up, a bunch of them, Tampa Police caps and vests, busting through the flimsy door with guns drawn.
Right now, a red Honda Civic is cruising through, shiny rims spraying sunlight. Our eyes follow as it slows along building G, where Mya lives. Here she comes outta apartment three, looking even hotter than she do at school, wearing a tight sweater and tighter jeans. She hops in and the Honda speeds off, like it’s some sorta rescue operation.
That damn near kills me inside, so it’s gotta be worse for Obie. If we was girls, I could maybe say something, but me and my boys don’t do emotions.
She went for the guy with decent clothes. And a car instead of a rusty bike.
I say, “Can’t believe her mom lets her go out with older boys.”
That’s me trying to get Obie to focus on the kid’s age instead of the money. What else can I say?
Up ahead on the court, Art’s going for a corner shot as the others wait under the hoop, legs bent, ready to leap.
It swishes, the net doing a snappy sway. They still warming up.
If there’s one dope feature to Maesta, it’s the basketball court. Located in the center of this twenty-three-building craziness, it pulls damn near every kid who can dribble a ball. The court, plus the Maesta laundry room, plus the AC our moms yell at us for using, are the reasons why some call this the “luxury projects.”
Older kids ball a few blocks away, on the smooth Bridge Baptist Church court. But on this ghetto court you learn to dribble around the holes, and that bent hoop ain’t so tricky if you don’t shoot off the backboard.
Yesterday’s nasty block shouldn’t embarrass me none. Art balls better than all of us, even better than most older kids. He’s got a wicked dribble, can sink the ball from anywhere, and the air he gets makes you wonder if he’s got springs for leg bones.
I figure them ups are from having no seat on his bike. Art’s been wanting to earn some money so he could get a seat for the rusty ride his brother gave him, which ain’t happened yet. Three years of standing and pedaling muscled his legs so now his fingertips can graze the rim.
After Art swishes another one Obie turns to me. “He’s on fire.”
“Not for long.”
Art’s my boy but today he’s getting stomped.
We all this way, take games crazy serious. During PE, whether it’s volleyball, flag football, or just running laps, Coach Peck tells us winning ain’t everything. But Coach Peck don’t live in Maesta. Here it’s all about winning.
As I step on the court the guys eye me, smiling and nodding.
“What’s good?” I say. Then to Art, “Payback time, bitch.”
He shrugs. We both know who’s the best. If I end up on the opposite team and make a shot or steal the ball from him, he smiles like a proud dad at Little League. But today I can beat him. You just gotta need it more.
We taking free throws to see who’ll choose up teams when Uppercut points out there’s only nine of us.
“Ten.” This is from Trey, Art’s brother, who plays great for eleven.
He’s dressed like Art years ago, light-green hand-me-down sweatpants and sweatshirt stained with red Kool-Aid on the front.
“No way, little man,” Ruben says.
Though Ruben’s talking about Trey’s age, we all wait for the easy comeback.
Trey sucks his teeth. “Who you calling ‘little’? Ruben the midget Cuban.”
Ruben frowns. His shortness is a sore spot anybody can touch. Go ahead and bust on his clothes, on his curly hair, bust on the fact he came here on a boat made of four truck tires and wooden boards. But call him a midget and watch out.
When he stomps his foot forward and cocks his fist back, Trey flinches with his whole body.
Ruben straightens up. “That’s what I thought.”
Years back the pronunciation woulda come out that’s what I taught. His island accent’s just about gone but you remember Cuba when he goofs up expressions, or switches word orders like paper toilet.
“Yo, Trey,” Art says. “Go play with friends.” A big bro authority has crept into his voice since their older brother, Cedric, died.
“Gimme my ball then.”
Like that’s gonna happen. The ball Trey found, totally bald, is our only one since Uppercut punted mine, making it lopsided, after losing a game.
Trey steps back, pissed off, and we shout “Whiteboy!” over and over. Jason’s gotta come out when we short a player or else we bang on his door all day. There he is, stepping out and zipping up a hoodie. We got long sleeves today ’cause even though the sun usually burns you up, January in Florida can get cold.
Jason’s got this determined hit-man stride, his gray eyes so fierce you half expect him to clock you. I’ve seen him do that four times, whenever someone dissed him. He ain’t with intimidation, that back-and-forth trash talk, just bam, a fist to the jaw like when some kid called him “cracker.” White kids are supposed to be soft but growing up in a place fifty-fifty black and brown hardened him up something crazy.
When a blue Jeep shows up bumping Taylor Swift, we turn to it like it’s a spaceship. Another lost person. A hot white girl to be exact, driving around in what might be her sweet sixteen present. Even with her baseball cap on you can tell she’s pretty.
She waves to us and we wave back.
She’s totally out of place, like Amy would be if I ever invited her to Maesta. All my life I’ve seen how couples match, in skin or style, and then I get a crush on a white girl who listens to punk.
“What if someone like her wanted to go out with you?” Damn, I didn’t mean to blurt that out.
With Taylor Swift gone, now the guys are all staring at me.
Uppercut asks, “Fine as her?”
“White as her.”
“Hell yeah, I’d hit that,” Art says, and the others agree, some going into detail of what they’d do.
I reword my stupid question. “What if you wanted to go out with a girl like that?”
Obie asks, “Who you crushing on?”
“Nobody.”
Art says, “The question’s why would a girl like that be cool with someone like us? Unless she’s a Rachel.”
Which bums me out ’cause I know he’s right. Rachel who lives here is white the way Jason’s white. A technicality.
I yank the ball from Art’s hands—“Let’s do this”—and stare him down one last time. He nods. He knows it’s on.
As the nine players scramble, I stand on the sideline with the ball clutched over my head. Jason jukes out Meatball and is wide open.
The moment I toss the ball, little Trey rushes from the sideline to jump, both hands snatching it from the air, and runs off the court. Soon he’s jetting across the parking lot and through buildings K and L.
Some of us give angry looks and words after Trey, while others just curse to themselves, but nobody’s trying to catch that kid. We’ve all tried at one time or another.
4
ME AND my squad are footing it to school, and I can’t get there fast enough. After a week of seeing Amy in homeroom and trying to get a look at her during history class, today I’m going to actually talk to her.
I still don’t know what the exciting new course will be this Friday, but if I get friendly with Amy before then maybe she’ll be happy to find me there. She’ll sit next to me, on a seat I will save for her, and that’s where our romance will begin.
Days ago, I told myself to be as brave as Amy was with Uppercut and just talk to her, no big deal, but every time I saw her she was with friends or I was with mine.
Not true, Marcos. How about yesterday in the hall, both of us with bathroom passes, nobody else around? My weakass didn’t do nothing. When I got close to her, when “hi” or at least a nod woulda been the most normal thing in the world, I turned my head, like the wall suddenly became fascinating.
