by Fred Aceves
But now I’m in the office.
Perry crosses one leg over the other. “So what would your parents say about this?”
“No parents. Just my mom.”
“Okay, Marcos.” He must think parents and a mom are the same thing. “What would your mother say about this?”
“She wouldn’t care.”
A half smile, like I told him my nuts are solid gold. “She wouldn’t care?”
So that wasn’t a real question. It was one of them tricks to get you to say what grown-ups think they already know.
“She wouldn’t care, sir,” I say.
Here’s a fun test: tell people your dad’s an asshole ’cause he ain’t around, or ’cause he beats you with a tire iron. You’ll get a that’s-life shrug. But tell them your mom ain’t exactly the greatest person who ever lived and they don’t believe you.
Perry stares me down with the same eyes Uppercut uses to pick out wusses in the halls. Is he looking for fear? My fear?
He uncrosses his legs and picks up the phone. “We’ll see about that.”
He dials and asks for my mom, Maria Rivas, pronouncing it right. I sit listening to the bubbling-hum of the tank filter and watch the fish.
My mom works a checkout lane at Walmart. I imagine a manager walking up to her now as she waves items through the beeping laser bars, another blue-vested lady taking over.
“Yes, Ms. Rivas? This is Principal Perry from Hanna High. I am here with your son . . . You see, he almost got into a fist fight . . . Ms. Rivas? . . . I thought you would like to know . . . Well, I am not sure what we are going to do with him . . . No, there is nothing else. Have a nice day.”
He hangs up and sighs. The weird smile’s gone.
“I’d like to know something, Marcos.” A squeak escapes the throne when he leans back. “Are you going to give me any more trouble this semester?”
I’m giving him trouble? Sorta like two summers ago when I got busted swiping a Snickers from Walgreens. I waited in the back of the squad car until my mom showed up to sweet-talk the mall cop. After it got sorted out, walking from the cop car to her car, the first thing outta her mouth was “How embarrassing.” The second thing, after the car finally cranked, was “How could you do this to me?”
But I didn’t do nothing to her. I did it to the Snickers.
I’m looking down at the gray carpet now. “I won’t give you no trouble, sir.” Am I overdoing it? I keep my head down, focus on the hole in my sneaker.
“I’ve reviewed your record, Marcos, so you have to reassure me somehow.”
I check out the tank again—a shot of red in there. The round fish has started swimming! It’s finning around pretty damn fast.
“I’m talking to you, Marcos. What is going on with you?”
Is he talking about this moment or always? Do I explain why I’m into fish, or tell him my life sucks? Not that I’d go into nothing private.
And besides, you see any Hollywood cameras around? This ain’t no cheeseball movie with the super-caring white person who shows up, does good, and abracadabra, life’s a basket of rainbows. Principals and teachers don’t give a damn. They just want you to sit still and shut up.
I’m a few feet from amazing but I walk over to get closer. I see my reflection in the glass.
“Sit down, Marcos.”
Man, that chubby red fish would take off for miles if it could. Sucks that he’s gotta swim back and forth forever.
“Marcos?”
I turn to Perry. “Who takes care of these fish?”
“What?” It’s like he’s seeing the tank for the first time.
“Who’s in charge of them?”
“I’m not concerned with the fish right now.”
“I guess you feed them since they’re in your office and all, but they’ve always been here. Who do they belong to?”
“Marcos.” His eyebrows are almost touching each other.
Even after answering all their questions, you try asking a simple one and they act like you just farted on their lunch.
I look at the miniature lives again. I can picture both principals sprinkling the flakes over the water, then sitting back down, not bothering to watch the tiny fish mouths sucking in their food with a kiss and a slurp. I can also picture Juan the janitor feeding them on Saturday when school opens for detention, but nobody’s here on Sundays.
“Somebody feed them on Sundays?”
“Don’t concern yourself with the fish,” he says, getting more annoyed. “You should be concerned with yourself right now.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes and go sit down. He don’t wanna say “I don’t know.” Grown-ups can’t say them three words in a row. And he don’t care if the fish eat on Sundays while he probably eats a great buffet breakfast and then lunch and dinner too.
“So tell me, Marcos. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
I picture my mom’s boyfriend sitting on the armchair all day. Amy in that class without me. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
When Perry leans back I can’t tell if he’s nodding or if the throne’s rocking him a bit. “I’m going to let you off the hook this one time, so you can attend your course tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You are skating on thin ice, Marcos. One more bad move and I will suspend you and drop you from the course. I’ll be watching you.”
“I can go?”
I wait as he turns to the computer and types.
“You are already ten minutes late for class,” he says, “so I won’t keep you any longer.”
I thank him and leave. I got away with it, something the last principal wouldn’t let me do. As I head to class I’m feeling pretty good until I remember the other problem.
My mom might tell her boyfriend about this.
6
WITH EVERY step home my bones are getting shakier.
I turn the knob and softly push the door so the hinges don’t squeak. Brian faces me anyway, squinty eyes sucking the life outta me.
I’ve tried a bunch of greetings—Hi, Hello, Hey—and in different ways, sometimes dropping his name at the end. He gives me either a grunt or a nod. Once I didn’t say squat and he told me to learn some damn manners. Yesterday I gave “Good morning” a shot and he called me a faggot. From now on I’m keeping it simple.
Check him out on the armchair, the goofy bastard—long legs spread open, dumb face and bushy mustache. A Nifty at Fifty koozie keeping his beer cold though he ain’t even forty. Since getting fired he mopes around mornings and afternoons too. Only the beer’s different, switched from Bud to nasty Natural Ice.
“Hi,” I say in a low voice.
An annoyed grunt and he’s looking at me again. Staring. When my mom’s around, her eyes can roam the room without ever landing on me.
If Brian found out what went down at school he must be saving it for later.
He moved in last summer, just before the worst heat wave in a decade, but the strangling humidity didn’t faze him none. The douche sat in the armchair (my armchair when my mom’s between boyfriends) with the fan pointed at himself. Even with me and my mom also watching TV, even though the fan has an oscillating setting, it forever pointed his way.
Now I’m just trying to fill up on some grub and head to the court. I’m about to pass Brian when I hear that raspy voice. “Marcos.” No choice but to stop.
“I looked out the window just now,” he says.
Typical Brian comment, outta nowhere, and the smile tips me off that more’s coming.
He don’t always mess with me. It’s a straight-up coin toss when I leave my room or come home, so it’s better to keep my mind on something else. I like to think about myself crushing on the basketball court.
“Saw you with that nigger,” he says. “You getting any?” Big smiles always make his brown mustache stretch straight.
“Desiree’s a neighbor,” I say, and start for the kitchen again.
Nowadays, Brian’s got more tim
e to think up ways to come at me. Seven weeks it’s been since him and another worker fought during some landscaping job, an actual fistfight in a Clearwater condo complex. Despite his busted lip, a sight that cheered me up for days, Brian swore up and down he won.
“Not bad for a nigger,” he says now. “You should get some.”
“Spics” and “niggers” is what he calls us, in a way that makes you think of Confederate flags and burning crosses. He always popping off at the mouth about how niggers don’t work and how spics steal all the jobs. We supposed to be the scummiest of the earth’s scum, but I guess he makes an exception for my mom.
I feel my stomach grumble. When I escaped the cafeteria today, I left almost half my free lunch uneaten. I’ll fix me a quick grape jam ’cause my boys will be waiting for me on the court.
“You need to get along with Brian,” my mom used to say. Right. Like I love getting harassed. Even after hearing how he talks she still kept saying that. Finally I caught on—that I better annoy him less. I do that by staying outta the house.
I was crazy cool with Brian in the beginning. How can you not like a guy who brings over a huge pizza loaded with toppings? We all sat at the table where he cracked some jokes, made my mom sorta smile and talk, which had me wishing he lived here.
Careful what you wish for. Ain’t that what they say? A week later Brian did move in, brought two duct-taped boxes and a Hefty bag full of clothes. That’s how it happens with boyfriends, in a snap. It’s Hi, nice to meet you and one morning, a week or two later, the guy’s sitting in front of the TV in underwear, sometimes a shirt too, if I’m lucky.
I didn’t mind with funny, pizza-bringing Brian. Plus he always wears pants.
Nights we watched TV together. He explained the eighties references of Family Guy, let me be the boss of the remote, shared his food—chips, cookies, even a piece of his steak once. Walking into our living room you woulda thought we was a happy family, perfect except that Pops was the wrong color.
My mom’s boyfriends always made me feel like an overstaying visitor, but with Brian, at first, it wasn’t that way at all. For a few weeks home was an okay place to be.
“I’m serious.” His voice is louder. “Why don’t you get some from that nigger?”
I got two words for him—fuck you—but say them only inside my brain. I tell him, “You get some.”
That sorta back talk, a few hours and many beers later, would get Brian all up in my face, my heart machine-gunning in my chest.
With no time for grape jam, I shove the last flimsy piece of Great Value bread in my pocket and fill a glass from the tap.
“Don’t worry about me, dipshit,” I hear. “I get your mom’s pussy every night.”
I choke on a gulp and set down the glass. Even with the TV cranked and my coughing, Brian’s laugh drifts over. Sticks and stones, I remind myself, heat rushing through me.
I imagine bashing his head with the table lamp until he stops moving. Wonder how many hits it would take. One day I’ll stomp him good, with just fists. Sure, I’m twig-skinny but my daily push-ups are up to thirty, and changes can happen super quick.
It’s true I do stupid stuff sometimes, burn my toast or forget to zip my fly, but hearing “dipshit” has my back teeth grinding so hard they hurt. Plus that comment about . . .
Calm down, Marcos, I tell myself.
I unclench my fists and take a deep breath.
Again I wonder if this Brian is the same Brian I first met. Am I so dumb that the pizza and jokes distracted me? You know, like how a pretty girl can make you tune out that she’s dumber than a stick and sorta mean? Anyway, this Brian’s the only one here now, and I’ve gotten plenty used to him.
Things can switch from weird to everyday business. Like after two weeks of the neighbors fighting I could fall asleep despite the man’s angry words and the lady’s screams, the hitting, all of it seeping through, humming through my bedroom wall.
Same with Brian. After a few weeks of “Hey, dipshit” and “spic” it became normal. When the hating gets worse and comes at you more often, you get used to that too. Maybe you can get used to anything.
I used to pretend me and Brian was tight so my mom wouldn’t pick up on nothing. Crazy, huh? Like I was ashamed (though I did nothing wrong), or like I was his accomplice (though nothing was in it for me).
Not that snitching would help. My mom saw the top of my arm that one time, spotted the bluish-green bruise when I reached for my SpongeBob cereal bowl one morning. She actually looked worried.
I admitted to eating one of his chocolate chip cookies. How was I supposed to know he counted them? My mom sucked her teeth and shook her head. Then she grabbed her margarine tub filled with rice and beans and took off for work.
I guess some kids might call the cops, but snitching ain’t me. That’s admitting you ain’t tough or can’t handle life.
Now I down the rest of my glass, wash it, dry it, and put it back in the cupboard. That’s Brian’s rule. He leaves dirty dishes in the sink, in the living room, the nasty ashtray on the windowsill, empty beer cans beside the armchair, his shirts everywhere. Me, I gotta be crazy neat and clean for all of us like some sorta ghetto butler.
Here I go, doing my ghostly creeping from the kitchen to my room for my basketball clothes. Looks like he didn’t find out about my trouble at school. It’s just a regular in-and-out mission today. But as I head down the hallway I hear him ask, “You getting any pussy at all?”
“Tons,” I say, hoping for a laugh.
I hope for a lot when it comes to Brian. Especially when he does things that can pass for nice, which confuses the hell outta me. One time he drove me to Saturday morning detention so I wouldn’t have to walk in the rain, and on Christmas he gave me his old no-credit phone.
I click my bedroom door closed behind me, the sound calming me a little. This room’s home, the only place Brian don’t hang out though sometimes he barges in. Inside these four tight walls is where I listen to my hip-hop, soul, and also the Smiths. I love how Morrissey sings about whatever he wants, even admits to writing in a diary.
I turn the radio on for a few seconds while I change into my raggedy shorts. It’s that new joint by Drake, another guy who can sorta get away with showing emotions.
Though you don’t choose what plays on the radio, when life sucks extra bad and you feel lonely, you can switch it on and know that a bunch of people, maybe thousands, are listening to the same song or commercial as you, at the exact same time. It can chill you out some.
I take a big bite outta the slice of bread and chew quickly. When I’m on the last mouthful I hear him call me: “Dipshit!”
I swallow it down and open the door. “Yeah?”
“I used to get tons,” he says. “But nothing compares to your mom’s snatch.”
I go pick up the first thing, the ceramic Virgen de la Divina Providencia on my dresser, mine since my grandma died—No, I can’t break this—and set it back down. I take a deep breath and count, but soon lose track of the numbers. Don’t know how my legs move. All I know is I’m standing here in the middle of the living room, behind Brian, the blood in my arms oozing down, curling my hands into fists.
Brian turns to me, smiling like I brought him a gift. “Looks like you’re about to do something.”
What if it ain’t too late? Maybe I can save myself! I ain’t said nothing yet and the fists disappear if I open my hands, right? Then I can join my boys on the court. Except I can’t unclench my fists for some reason. And though fear has kept me zipped quiet for months, right now I’m even more afraid of not speaking. Every time I force my mouth shut when it wants to open, a little piece of me chips away.
Brian gets up and walks over. His silence, his stillness . . . Trust me, it’s scarier than anything. I swallow the lump in my throat, and though my arms tremble, I stare him down. I ain’t gonna let myself disappear completely.
“You a drunk, white trash, no-job-having . . .”
I take just one s
tep back before his hands grab my tee. Then I’m up, the air whooshing under me. My back slams on the floor. I feel it right down to my toes. Brian sits on me so hard my ribs might snap.
“Think you can take me?”
His knees are pinning my arms down. His hand squeezing my throat. I can’t breathe.
“I’ll take you and your faggot friends. Used to take on ten guys at a time.”
Dissing him’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done! He’s gonna kill me. I decide to yell, someone in Maesta will hear me, but a squeaky whisper comes out. When I twist my body some air sneaks into my lungs. Brian grips tighter, his thumb digging into my neck.
A TV joke fills the room with fake laughter.
All of a sudden the door opens. “What? Hey! What’s going on?”
Brian’s hand lets go and my lungs pull in a bunch of oxygen. Breathing ain’t easy. The exhaling happens quickly but the inhaling takes work. You gotta focus on sucking in more air, holding on to it, getting the breathing rhythm right.
My mom’s in the doorway, keys in one hand, her blue Walmart vest in the other. She don’t move toward us, don’t budge at all. Just watches me and Brian with big eyes. My mom’s actually looking at me.
Brian says, “This little shit thinks he can disrespect me.”
When I wriggle an arm loose Brian jams it back under his knee. His wide shoulders tip forward, and though I can breathe now this might be worse. Muscle’s grinding against bone. I’m fighting back the tears. Instead I flex my biceps, which makes them hurt more.
Brian crosses his arms and smiles. I know what he wants. I’ve given it to him five times before.
“Come on, Brian,” my mom says, like he’s running late for a job interview.
Does she think that’s good enough to work? Brian tips forward again, the grinding in my arms going deeper. When I squeeze shut my eyes, a tear slides down and settles in my ear.
“Brian?” My mom’s voice softer now. “Come on.”
