by Fred Aceves
The pain’s too much.
“Okay!” I blurt out. “Sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
Another smile and he shifts his weight back. “Not as tough as you think, huh, dipshit?”
He gets on his feet and yanks me up by the shirt, my arms still burning. Brian sits on the armchair to watch his show again, legs spread open.
When my mom’s eyes lower, I also notice it—my tee ripped in two places. The circle of the collar and some of the sleeve have separated from the rest. The new black tee I got for Christmas.
My mom sees her present hanging on me, a rag in three pieces, and still she’s standing there, a total statue. Don’t know about you, but to me if you live with someone, and especially if that someone’s your mom, she should talk. And if not on the daily then that person should talk now, to the cops on the phone or tell Brian to get the hell outta our house.
Don’t think I ain’t noticed how my friend’s moms are—the questions and speeches, the round-the-clock worry.
I realized how messed up my mom is at Art’s twelve-year-old birthday party. The brokest of us all, with two brothers and a little sister, Art got no present other than a chocolate cake with no icing. But I felt jealous of him anyway. The singing did it.
Me and my boys, too cool to sing, just mouthed the words of the happy birthday song. But Art’s family sang loud enough for all of us, sang like they really meant it, like they wanted him to be happy not only that day but every day of the year and for the rest of his life. It was the nicest thing you ever heard, and I ain’t talking about their voices. They’d get booed off any talent show stage.
My mom never sings shit. And for my birthday, which lands at the end of summer, she gives me some back-to-school supplies and says “Happy birthday” the same way she says “The beans are ready.”
All my life I’ve hoped that she had some love for me under her coldness, and that any day she’d bust it out like a family heirloom she was saving for the right time. Now’s the moment for that.
My mom closes the front door all quiet and careful, then slowly hangs the keys on the wooden elephant on the wall. Like they’re the two most delicate tasks ever.
She waits. You’d swear I was blocking her way or something.
My heart’s no longer banging and I’m watching her, my so-called mom, thin and nervous beside the front door. I feel love for her now. Especially now. A love so pathetic I should probably walk away in shame but something’s rooting me here until I figure out, once and for all, what she’s about.
I know there ain’t no guarantee that a person you love will give a damn about you, and I know I shouldn’t be tearing up like some little bitch, but I wanna know something. What am I supposed to do with this love I got? ’Cause even though her favorite words are Leave me alone, and even though she prefers her asshole boyfriend to me, I can’t unlove her no matter how much I try.
I look at my mom. With that curly hair pulled back, face in full view, I see myself in her—the tan skin, the mud-colored sadness living in the eyes. The one photo of my dad got tossed away years ago but it don’t matter. I’m my mom’s kid all the way.
Right now she looks about sixteen, the age she was when she got pregnant. I’m trying to see a mom in front of me, but that right there’s just a girl.
Brian asks, “What the hell ya looking at?”
My mom’s miles and miles away. So far that we might as well be on different planets.
“Don’t know,” I say, and I leave for the courts.
7
I RECOGNIZE some of the faces at the mystery course. Here are the kids who slump in the back rows, the ones the last principal knew by name. Only ten of us in here so far, though the bell just rang. Amy ain’t around, dammit. I had it all worked out: I’d walk in tardy, hurry to find a random seat, and whoops, discover Amy next to me.
What a dump! A reject classroom for reject kids. A whiteboard stained yellowish in some spots. Instead of the regular one-person desks it’s tables for two students, the tops tagged and doodled.
Just like the first day of school, everybody’s small in their chairs, no eye contact or talking. With the back row full I go for the empty table in the middle. I walk over with my poker face on and slide into it. All day I’ve been wearing this face to show everyone how normal I am. Definitely not sad from yesterday.
I take another look around the classroom, half-expecting cops to bust in and arrest everybody.
Zach shows up, the kid I shoved in the cafeteria yesterday. Just my luck. I don’t wanna look at him for some reason. Zach, the skinny front-row kid with the right answers. What’s he doing here with us?
He’s rocking a suit jacket, black corduroy over jeans, and sneakers. That’s his style, sorta old-school and classy. Must be a thrift-shopper. He slows down for a second when he sees me, then takes a seat in the front.
I don’t wanna kick his ass. That’s so forgotten I ain’t even angry no more.
I’m remembering back in sixth grade when he answered questions right and our teacher said, “Very good, Zach!” She said that about a million times a day.
During recess most kids played baby games—four square, hopscotch, tetherball—while some of the boys, like my squad, like Zach, played basketball. He balled good, I gotta admit. Whenever he scored on me I’d say “Very good, Zach!” in the teacher’s voice and everybody peed themselves laughing.
What a mean switcheroo, turning a little victory for him into shame. Now I’m feeling shame, remembering how he looked on the cafeteria floor.
Shoving him is something Uppercut would do. Brian too. That thought chills me to the bone.
Amy comes in with her bored walk, chewing gum like rules can’t mess with her. After recognizing me, her eyes slide away. When she’s near enough, a crazy impulse gives me guts.
“Hi.”
The other kids are looking at me, but she’s gonna keep walking, a total dis. Is that so bad? But no! It’s gonna be way worse! She’s gonna make a scene. Gonna do me like she did Uppercut.
“Hi,” she says back.
Yes! Though she don’t smile, and it’s the quickest hi ever, I count it as a win.
Only one problem. After meeting my eyes she looked at the thumb-shaped hot sauce stain just under my white collar. I tried to get it out with bleach but the red stain just turned bright yellow.
I’m forever worried about how poor I look. My clothes I get from Walmart, a few sizes big so they last. As an employee my mom has dibs on the discounted stuff. Jeans I got in the eighth grade now fit me right. But big clothes on a smaller body’s okay, sorta the hip-hop fashion, maybe started by no-money moms. Only the tube socks fit snug on day one, though weeks later the elastic gives up and pools around the ankles.
Amy goes for the table in the second row with her rocker friend, a fat kid who wears a different metal band tee every day. Though he’s too dorky to consider competition, they could sorta make sense in ways that me and Amy couldn’t. Sure, he’s about metal and she’s about punk, but it’s all rock music.
Times like this make me hear “dipshit” in Brian’s voice, and I guess I am stupid. But if I get shocked by my own stupidity there’s a smart part of me noticing it, right? So I ain’t completely stupid.
Everybody’s staring straight ahead, each latecomer more awkward than the last as they decide between the last few seats. You’d swear we didn’t all sorta know each other from other classes. In the staff lounge the teachers probably say hi to each other, at least, but ’cause we students, the opposite of teachers, I guess we gotta do the opposite.
“Dude, there’s exactly two girls here.” This from Pete in the back who never shuts up. In detention it gets him an extra day.
He’s right though. Lots of guys and two girls, Amy by the window and another girl in the front row, short and tucked into her seat so I can only see the pink headphones clamping her curly red hair.
Amy turns to face the loudmouth. “Pete? Exactly zero people give a shit.”
As a response, he bu
rps her name out—“Aaaaaay–MEEEEEEE!”—really stretching out both syllables.
A man in squarish glasses comes in shouldering a backpack, a simple gray JansSport some kids also haul around. Most teachers carry these soft briefcases with long shoulder straps. He sets it on the desk and introduces himself as Mr. Breckner. The girl up front takes off her headphones.
“Welcome to Future Success, a program that will help put you on the right track.”
How’s this guy know which track we on? He’s definitely on the wrong track with them goofy clothes, a green tee with Future Success across the chest that’s tucked into grandpa jeans. He chills for a few beats before pacing again.
“All of you were chosen by teachers as smart students with tremendous potential. However, you’re not doing well academically.”
Smart? Which teacher considers me that? I run through the list in my head, from first-period English to Ms. J for history and everybody in between. I can’t imagine who it was. In algebra, Mr. Santos has noticed me doing equations without writing them down. Is that smart? And I remember for English I got me an A plus for the first essay we had in class—How I Spent My Summer—but that’s just writing about what happened, not smart.
It feels good knowing a grown-up believes in me, that stupidity don’t explain my bad grades. I know I can do better. And if I put in the work like Obie, maybe I can do great.
I take my hundredth glance at Amy and the rest of my thoughts turn off. Even slouching, boredom on her face, she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. You might say yeah, right, and of course she’s only got a 4.2 on that mean Rate Your Classmates site, but this crush is doing something so black-magicky on me I wouldn’t trade her for a rap video girl.
Now I’m learning that this girl’s beauty, guts, and brains.
Breckner asks, “What is keeping you from reaching your academic potential?”
I wait for the answer.
“The right tools,” he says. “Knowing how to take notes, how to prioritize homework, how to study for tests, and much more. This course will give you the tools you need to improve your grades.”
Maybe I need tools. I need something. The first two weeks of this semester I ain’t done homework or read a single page in my textbooks. It’s always the same with me. I do squat for months and then spend the last few weeks playing catch-up.
Bad grades is what I got in common with Amy and everybody else here.
Still pacing, Mr. Breckner says, “We are to meet here every Friday for your last-period class, and stay for an extra half hour, unless you have a bus pass.”
Everybody groans but me. Ninety minutes every week with Amy? For the rest of the school year? News don’t get better than this. Right here, in this Future Whatever club, things will be different between us. We’ll talk, get to know each other. She’ll forget that day with Uppercut, forget I even know him. She’ll see me for me, Marcos without the Maesta, and catch on that maybe it can be me and her forever.
After the school bell rings and the other classes empty, Breckner keeps talking about how he’ll be tracking our progress, with the help of our teachers and our study journals. He says we’ll have fun every week and even go on a field trip in the middle of the semester.
When he dismisses us, Amy takes off with the metalhead kid. It crushes me inside, knowing that I got the whole weekend before seeing her again, and probably another week until I can talk to her.
Without my boys around, I gotta do my detention day walk, a lonely twenty blocks home. Just as I’m coming up on the gas station I get this weird feeling, a worry that hits me all at once. I turn my head and see Zach half a block behind me.
I pretend I don’t see him and keep walking like I’m scared. It hits me that I am scared. Not of Zach but of what’s in my head. I can’t stop thinking about how I shoved him yesterday.
When did I become Uppercut? The thought’s so awful that I wanna hurry down the sidewalk, but I don’t. I’m not about to run away from who I am.
I stop and turn back. As I’m walking toward Zach he looks around, as if for a hiding place. To his right, a guy at the pump filling his truck. To his left, across the street, the Ely’s Discount parking lot. He stops cold and tenses up.
Then I stop, not exactly calm either. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says in a low voice.
Not knowing what else to say, I come up with “Saw you in Future Success class.”
He nods.
So much for my brilliant small talk. I should just come out with it. “That whole cafeteria thing yesterday? I’m sorry about that.”
Another nod. “Okay.”
With nothing else to say we start walking.
“Weird class, huh?” he says.
“Very weird.”
We talk about the study journals Breckner wants us to keep. Then Zach mentions the funny way Breckner paces and how he talks way too much. After a while it don’t feel strange hanging with Zach. It’s like the new kid on the block that you’ve seen around has finally spoken, and you know he’ll be a friend soon.
He asks, “Did you notice his jeans?”
I tuck in my shirt and hike up my jeans. With Zach laughing I take a few steps like that. Across the street, a man’s coming outta the bakery with a huge loaf of bread.
I shout to him, “If we wanna succeed, we need the tools to succeed!”
The man does a look-around, cap pointing every which way. Then he shakes his head before climbing into his Ford F-150.
Zach’s impression beats mine no contest, especially the way Breckner says, “Okay, people?” He nails the voice and the way Breckner bunches his lips, adjusts his glasses while thinking.
“Hmmm.” Zach tilts his head and puckers his lips to one side. “Did I poop yesterday?” His face relaxes. “I believe I did. Okay, people, let’s study so we can succeed!”
We laughing hard. You’d think that cafeteria shove happened centuries ago. When I’m more than halfway home, curiosity gets me. “You live out this way?”
“Sorta. For now. I don’t know.” The front-row kid with all the right answers stumped by my simple question.
At some point he had the tools to succeed and he probably didn’t lose them. Maybe something else messed him up.
Zach kicks a rock and it does a quick roll before leaping into the street. I guess he don’t wanna answer me, which makes me wanna know even more.
“I’m sorta living with my grandma,” he finally says. “My mom’s got cancer.”
I stand still from the shock. He stops walking a couple of steps ahead. He ain’t playing.
Zach’s stylish haircut and white skin and freckles. It’s crazy. You should be able to look at people and know they got it rough.
“The chemo worked but then, like, it didn’t or whatever.” He’s looking down like it’s his fault. “She doesn’t have much time left.”
“Holy fuck.”
Life can suck in different ways for different people. Something I know but that just got realer with Zach in front of me. His eyes shine with the start of tears. I keep walking so he don’t see me see him cry.
Besides, even if I wanted to talk, where would I find the words?
8
AFTER LUGGING the bucket through new neighborhoods Saturday by myself, offering to wash cars and getting nos, I got so down that on Sunday I just stuck around my hood trying not to worry about money. It’s worse when you need a haircut. Even if you can keep your hand from reaching up and feeling the top of your head, and even if you avoid mirrors, you’ll always have a friend to point it out.
In my case I got four boys talking trash about my wild hair all weekend.
I’m $5.36 away from a haircut at Benny’s Barbershop, the cheapest place I know. I’m trying to look my best for Amy this Friday, and if I can’t get a new wardrobe then at least I can tame this mini-fro that’s starting to cover my ears.
Okay, so I didn’t talk to Amy after Future Success, but at least I said hi to her and she said hi back. N
ext time I’ll say more, talk to her like a friend, just like I did with Zach.
Best of all, I’ll do it with a fresh new haircut and a new shirt, thanks to a brilliant idea I got.
Last night me and Art was talking about Obie’s new Nikes, the blue Hyperdunks with the silver speckles. Art got jealous and angry at being poor, couldn’t believe Obie’s making that kinda money helping his aunt clean houses. (That’s the lie me and Obie are sticking to.)
Since turning sixteen, Art’s been hitting up even more places that hire at that age. Art’s a year older than us, by the way, got held back in junior high for skipping. In the last three months he’s filled out a million applications but ain’t had a call yet.
I got to thinking why and had a lightbulb moment. With all them applications managers receive, the job experience section blank, I figured Art needed to stand out somehow. So I convinced him to meet the managers, shake their hands, so he ain’t some random kid.
And walking to school this morning I got another smart idea when we passed the Amscot shopping plaza. A strong wind sent an empty pretzel bag cartwheeling through the parking lot before it slid across the sidewalk and onto the street. There was more litter, mostly empty wrappers and plastic bottles, and cleaning it up would be a job. I could get paid for that. And with so many parking lots in Tampa I could get me a lot of work. As long as I don’t let anybody else steal my idea.
So I’m extra amped when I pull up in front of Art’s place on my Huffy after school. It’s a beat-up bike the color of Cheetos with a useless back brake. To make a sudden stop without flying over the handlebars, you gotta stay crouched low while squeezing the left brake.
Jason and Ruben are fighting on the porch. I don’t even notice who starts it half the time but it always ends with white jokes and short jokes. The bikes leaning against the building couldn’t be more different—Ruben’s rust on wheels and Jason’s is brand-new, black with gray details, front and back pegs, so dope I still can’t get over it.
Jason bought it himself, which is the coolest thing ever. His mom waits tables at some sports bar on the Hillsborough River—dartboards and baskets of food, a dozen TVs going. On weekends Jason helps out by shucking oysters and changing kegs.
