by Fred Aceves
If there’s something that makes you feel more like a dumbass than that, I’d like to know what.
I worry that Amy’s too cool for me. The way she stood up to Uppercut proves she’s a type of brave that I’m not. But if I’m scared of talking to her, then I prove I’m brave by talking to her, right?
So I gotta do it, can’t wuss out. Who cares if she disses me or laughs?
Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? I care. A lot.
We passing the Quickie Pawn, the boarded-up donut shop, and the weedy lot edged with trash when I see my perfect chance to get back at Uppercut. I’ve been trading punches with him since yesterday. He’s two steps ahead, not suspecting nothing when I land a solid fist to the back of his shoulder.
As my boys laugh he turns to give me a big evil grin.
Careful you don’t clock Uppercut harder than he do you, else the back-and-forth punching won’t stop. Uppercut’s the punching champ, hits harder all the time, can make your shoulder go dead for a day.
He’s rubbing his shoulder.
“Come on,” I say. “That didn’t even hurt.”
When he nods, I realize I’m screwed.
As we walking along the school field, Obie nudges me in the ribs, which means something’s up.
“I gotta take care of something,” he says to everybody.
“I’ll go with ya,” I say, following him onto the grass, toward the baseball field. This is gonna be good. His secrets always are.
Even with the others outta earshot he tells me to hang on, won’t say nothing besides “It’s in my backpack.”
Obie’s the only one of us with a backpack. He’s got textbooks in there, notebooks and pencils galore. Yep, my best friend’s a brain, another thing we don’t talk about. Most people don’t know, and only a couple guys still call him an Oreo for it.
So nerdy, my boy, that last year he finished second in our class. Got beat by Pia Dhindsa.
And here’s another secret: Obie might crush Pia this semester, get a shout-out on the school website with his photo up there and everything, shocking the hell outta them creased-pants dads.
Today Obie seems back to normal after a few days of not saying much and not going out with me to look for work. He mentioned a stomachache on Wednesday and yesterday he said something about an errand with his mom. Suspicious. Maybe he spent two days in his room, extra lonely and sad like I sometimes get.
I see the homeless brown mutt from school, the one the janitor’s always feeding. My whole body goes stiff. It’s coming straight at us!
Obie claps his hands twice—“Hell outta here!”—which sends the shaggy thing darting toward the gym. Anybody else would clown me for my fear of dogs, but Obie just keeps them away from me like I’m paying him for it.
Inside of the dingy dugout, he looks both ways before unzipping his backpack.
I see it. “Daaamn.”
Two baggies of weed, each the size of a fist. Four nickel bags of crystal meth looking like shiny crushed glass. He sets them on the bench. Eight baggies in total. From a smaller zipper pocket on the side he pulls out two nickel bags full of pink pills.
“Molly?” I ask, taking the tiny bags in my hand.
He nods.
They pale and chalky like them hug me and let’s kiss valentine heart candies, only round.
Why does he have this stuff? His aunt deals, but Obie don’t take molly or smoke meth, can’t stand weed. One time we smoked a joint and he turned into a paranoid freak for about twenty minutes before conking out.
“It’s my aunt’s.” He starts putting it away.
“Figures.”
Obie and I ain’t never understood how she moves the stuff. Nearly as wide as the small couch she sits on, that lady don’t leave her apartment. Instead of throwing her garbage in the Dumpster, she puts the small bags of trash into bigger bags and leaves them stinking up her porch. She used to give us two dollars to toss it all out but nowadays she hooks us up with two Coors from the fridge, telling Obie, “Not a word to ya mom.”
He ain’t allowed to visit his aunt, the big-time sinner, though his mom also used to sell, when they lived in Maesta. It’s how she came up with the down payment for her run-down house—another secret of Obie’s that I been knowing.
He says, “I gave up on other ways of making money, and I ain’t trying to rob niggas neither.”
“You think I like being broke?”
“Broke is temporary. We poor. And I’m sick of it.”
I can’t believe this is happening. Dealing? Obie used to call dealing stupid ’cause people always get caught, sooner or later.
People deal until they get caught.
We seen it again and again, last year with Fat Rick and recently, small-time Manrico got busted.
Obie’s change of heart must be all about his crush, Mya, riding off with the big-money kid.
Being flat broke cost him a girl. Being poor, I mean.
“You lost your mind?” I ask him.
“Nah,” Obie says. “I got it under control. There’s no risk.”
I look around to make sure we still alone. “You really saying this? You? Dealing’s always risky.”
“But check it out,” he says. “I ain’t gonna deal. It’s only delivering and nobody finds out ’cause I don’t tell nobody.”
“Except ya telling me.”
“But ya won’t talk.”
“I know.”
“I know too, man. That’s why I’m telling ya.”
I imagine Obie in juvie over this. What would I do without my best friend, this kid who once punched me in the gut and then apologized for it?
That’s how I met Obie, during the summer he moved into Maesta, just before fourth grade. I swiped the Hawks cap off his head and tossed it to Art. A game of keep-away started. Obie ran over to Art who flung the cap back to me. Then Obie stopped right in the middle to talk tough, a general instructing his troops, though he looked only at me. “I ain’t doing this forever. Gimme my cap or else.” I flung the cap over his head and got hit. A fist to the gut so hard I held the pain with both hands and tipped forward, knees on the pavement.
Obie helped me up and spoke in a tiny voice. “Sorry.”
I respected that. The punch and the apology.
We’ve kicked it every day since, minus his trips to his grandma’s, and if I’m straight up, I can tell you that our time together has been the dopest thing in my life.
Now my boy has a backpack full of stuff that could send him to juvie. While I’m happy he’ll be making money, and a little jealous that I won’t be, I’m mostly worried.
Obie in a juvie uniform looking through bars.
“Careful,” I tell him.
The word feels weird in my mouth, and it musta sounded weird too. Obie goes quiet.
Finally he says, “Thanks.”
Which also sounds weird. I guess we almost doing emotions, my one word showing I care and his one word showing appreciation. I should probably leave it at that but I gotta do something else.
“Promise?”
I ball my hand and slowly bring it up. This promise fist bump started years ago behind a Dumpster, when we was catching our breath while five kids were chasing us. With whispers and hand gestures Obie explained how we’d go over the fence and through the other lot. To seal the agreement that we’d do it together, never separate even if one of us got caught, we bumped fists without a word.
Now Obie brings up his own fist. “Promise,” he says, knuckles pressing against mine.
He explains his new gig, the list of places to hit up after school where he’ll collect the paper and hand over the product—an easy hustle.
“And in a few weeks I’ll get me them Nikes,” he says. “The blue ones with the—”
“I remember which ones,” I say, jealous of my own boy.
I spot Amy in the crowd, just a flash of her purple hoodie before she slips down another hall.
I hurry over, super amped, Obie’s energy inspiring me to go for it
. I’m feeling better than ever about Amy, a sweet girl no doubt, no reason to be scared. If I get to know her and be nice, she’ll be nice back. In my head I even fix the words I’ll say. But once I go down the other hall, I feel myself losing heart with every step, becoming weakass Marcos again.
No reason to be scared? I can think of a million reasons.
I wanna talk to her but then I see her and hope she hurries away. What’s wrong with me?
I lose her in a cluster of kids. No! There she is! Drinking from the fountain, hair in a fist behind her head so it don’t get wet. My heart’s thumping all wild. I look left and right, like I’m about to cross a street. None of my boys are around.
I wanna be cool, and here’s my chance. I wanna be the guy who’s brave enough to chat up awesome girls despite the nervy shakes. It ain’t just making good on that promise to myself. I really need a girlfriend.
I walk over, my pulse racing, and stop when she straightens up. She turns to me.
I say the only word I can think of at this moment. “Hey.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah?” She waits.
“Uh . . . I mean . . . um . . .”
My brain goes blank. I get hot and cold all over. You stand in front of some super-amazing girl you been crushing on and remember what you wanted to say.
I gotta freestyle this and make sure I don’t sound too ghetto. “I just want you to know that Uppercut’s a jerk but I’m not.”
“Your friend from homeroom?”
“Antonio, uh-huh, but he ain’t really my friend.”
She does that I-don’t-believe-you head tilt. “So what did your non-friend say that day?” All nosy and challenging she asks me, like the Truth or Dare game, both choices in one.
“Can’t remember.”
She crosses her arms. “Why’re you telling me this?”
’Cause I like you. But I don’t say that. I ain’t stupid.
“’Cause . . . you seem cool. And I want you to know that I’m . . . you know . . .”
“That you’re cool too? So we can be cool and chill together? That would be dope.”
Making fun of how me and my squad talk. Part of me wants to put her in a headlock until she takes it back but the other part of me, most of me, still wants to kiss her.
All around us kids are streaming past, surprise on their faces. The group of girls standing next to room 116 take turns looking at us. Can’t blame them. You got a punk girl with blue in her hair and you got me, Maesta Marcos, in my baggy jeans and Jay Z tee.
As long as they don’t laugh, we good.
“Yeah, whatever,” I say. “Not everybody’s like the people they roll with. Just saying.”
She uncrosses her arms. “So what did Supercuts say that day?”
No way am I gonna repeat his stupid comment. Not ’cause I’m all about protecting Uppercut. It’s her feelings I’m trying to protect. Maybe “skinny crack whore” ain’t that mean or even funny but it could make her feel bad, and I ain’t having that.
“Can’t remember,” I say again.
She rolls her eyes. “That’s bull.”
I try thinking of something smooth to say. Fuck it, I’ll just go with what’s in my head. “Whatever he says, it’s always dumb.”
Her hard look softens now. Neither of us say a word. In this magical pause I feel the tiniest chance of something between us.
“If he’s not your friend, how come you hang out with him?” Suddenly her deep-brown eyes bug at something behind me.
I whip around.
Uppercut smiles. “Wassup, Marcos?” and slams a fist into my chest. It knocks all the air outta my lungs and hurts like hell. I’m slumped over and wheezing. Worse than that, Amy’s watching, mouth hung open.
When Uppercut walks away laughing, she takes a step toward me. “You okay?”
I might be dying. Is this how I’m going out? Suffocating from a payback punch in the main hallway while kids with backpacks watch? Dead at fifteen?
Amy, it coulda been the greatest love this century, but now we’ll never know ’cause you standing here asking me a question instead of calling 9-1-1. I need an ambulance, or maybe just the school nurse.
“Dude?” Amy steps closer. “Are you okay?”
I try to answer yes but nothing comes out.
I’m bent over, hands on my knees to keep me from tipping. Focusing on my breathing, it gets better, little by little, though inhaling still hurts.
I stand up straight. “Okay, sorry. I’m good now. Where were we? What was I saying?”
Amy’s mouth is still open. “What’s wrong with you people?”
You people? Is this girl a damn racist? Maybe she’s one of them neo-Nazis I’ve seen on TV who sorta got a punk look going. The guys shave their heads but maybe the girls don’t gotta.
“Us people?” I ask her.
“Boys are violent idiots,” she says, and takes off, lost in a swarm of kids.
5
ON THURSDAY, a day before my special new class with Amy, they got me in the office. Principal Perry studies the computer screen, steady scrolling the mouse, all them details telling him who I am.
This must be about what went down in the cafeteria today, and I ain’t trying to get suspended. Don’t get me wrong. If the suspensions ain’t too many, if they don’t mean I gotta redo the school year, they like mini-vacations that give me time to work on my game. Sometimes it’s dope to be alone, the court as blank as an after-school whiteboard, the sound of bouncing caused by my hands only, the hush of the ball arcing through the sunshine, toward the hoop.
But I ain’t got no ball and right now suspension would mean hanging out at home with my mom’s boyfriend. Worst of all, if I’m home with Dipshit Deluxe it means I ain’t at the new exciting class with Amy tomorrow, chatting her up, saying funny and suave things to win her over.
That class is my chance to be with Amy, to show her that we got something in common.
This here office is pretty sweet. Ain’t gonna lie. The last pervy principal had this place set up nice, and the new principal ain’t redecorated. Same shiny wooden desk and black leather throne, same beige blinds blocking out most of the sun, some degrees and certificates walling the office, and under them, still swimming like champs, the same colorful fish.
I’ve been into fish ever since the field trip to the Florida Aquarium, where the slogan’s “Inches from Amazing.”
It really was amazing, all those lives in that huge tank, though everybody else was sneaking looks at their phones. I wanted to get closer to the fish, swim with them, even with the slow-flapping stingrays and the sharks wiggling by that coulda messed me up something serious. It’s different seeing something up close instead of on a screen. Maybe all living things are amazing if you get close enough to really look.
At one corner of the fish tank a filter’s spurting tiny bubbles that the red round fish in the opposite corner has gotta be afraid of. I ain’t seen him move yet.
What if the other fish are cool with life in the tank? It ain’t totally crazy. They don’t know oceans from elbows, know nothing about a water wonderland thousands of miles wide, where they could endlessly explore. Best of all, here they got each other, ain’t gotta worry about looking for food or becoming it.
Last semester I counted fifteen and now there’s fourteen. The poor little guy, lollipop red, is sulking in the corner as the other thirteen coast back and forth.
And what’s taking Perry so long? The last principal got both sides of the story, chose a version to believe, and sentenced you—detention or suspension. While I used to hope he’d give me my punishment in a hurry and not lecture my ears off, a part of me also hoped he’d try chatting me up. I know that makes no sense.
Perry now raises his eyes to me. Guy’s got the worst comb-over I ever seen. “Your last semester of sophomore year and you couldn’t go two weeks without visiting me.”
If he wants a response, he better ask me a question. I’m wondering if I can
get outta this. Though Principal Pervert gave out punishments automatically (Small fight? Five days detention. Bloody fight? Two days suspension), this new guy could be different. Maybe I can sorry-up my voice and get outta a punishment.
Perry tells me he knows what happened, that the music teacher, cafeteria cop for today, saw the whole thing with Zach.
“Help me understand why you were going to fight.”
“I wasn’t gonna fight.” Like it’s the craziest idea ever. “I just pushed him a little.”
“And why did you push Zach?”
“He spilled milk on me.” I point to my left sleeve, dry now, but don’t actually touch my shoulder. The bruise my mom’s boyfriend gave me for leaving a plate unwashed still hurts.
“Spilled, that’s correct. He said it was a mistake.” Perry’s big rumbling voice fills the office so completely it’s a miracle my own fits. “Zach didn’t actually pour the milk on you, did he?”
“He coulda said sorry.” I go for calm, figure that might help, but the words come out wrong.
Perry don’t blink. “Perhaps you didn’t give him the opportunity to apologize.”
I shrug.
Here’s the thing: when I felt the whiteboy’s foot trip on my chair leg, I turned to watch the open carton of milk slide down the tray and flip on the edge. I tried dodging it but the milk splashed cold on my shoulder before hitting the floor.
Getting hit with the milk made me angry and sorta happy at the same time. Can’t explain why. Go ahead, twist my arm. All I know’s I hopped up right away to shove Zach’s punkass on the floor.
Since sixth grade when we had the same teacher, I’ve sorta known Zach, the skinny front-row kid with all the right answers. How dope to see him on the cafeteria floor today, his panicky eyes looking up at me. Everybody around me sprung up, my boys and the rest of the free-lunch crew shouting for me to clock Zach. Tonya told me to leave the poor whiteboy alone, but the other girls wanted a fight as much as anybody. Soon the whole cafeteria was standing. Mr. Giles stepped into duty, snaking through the crowd, an action hero in a brown polo shirt. Obie grabbed me and we took off with the rest of our boys.
