by Fred Aceves
“Poor little dude needs love,” she says. “Just like everybody else.”
(Like me and you!)
Never seen it that way, but he is a poor little dude. Amy’s right. This dog needs love, and lucky him that he can get it from anywhere. What a cinch to keep this dog. Just take him home, feed him, and he’s part of the family. Wish we humans could choose our family.
It’s a good time, me and Amy kicking it on the field, our conversation all over the place, hitting school and music and the dumb things kids post on the internet. We laughing like we been hanging out forever, and I realize that I ain’t been analyzing nothing.
I decide to come clean. “I’m scared of dogs. Don’t know why.”
She smiles big. After a pause she says, “I’m scared of spiders so let’s make a deal. I keep dogs away from you, and you keep spiders away from me.”
“Deal.”
She gets up and brushes off grass from the back of her pants. “I better go, but we gotta hang out more, Marcos.”
(Like couples do!)
It’s the perfect time to ask her, so I do. “Do you wanna go to the school play tomorrow night?”
She looks surprised, like maybe school plays are lame, so I add an important detail. “Zach’s in it.”
“Sure,” she says. “Sounds cool. I’ll meet you there.”
I wanna tap-dance or scream so all this happiness in me don’t give me a heart attack or something.
Walking back across the field, the dog trots beside her, tail keeping beat with his paws. Between me and him is my soon-to-be girlfriend and then my bike as an extra shield. I ain’t so scared anymore.
Amy stops when we get to the end of the grass.
“These cars out here will squash you,” she tells him. “Go!”
“Pretty sure the dog don’t understand English.”
But after she shouts it again he takes off, no doubt returning to the patch of night in the light-drenched field.
Walking along the dark street I wonder if Amy’s on edge like me. She’s acting normal. Probably ’cause girls ain’t under pressure to make the first move, just wait for it. Is she waiting? Should I hold her hand? Skip that and ask her to be my girlfriend?
Her stepdad might be smoking his after-dinner cigarette outside, she says, so we end up under the two palm trees outside her building. A lightbulb hanging off the roof ledge stretches the skinny palm tree shadows straight across the street.
With her in front of me I’m nervous and got nowhere else good to look. So I turn my eyes up to the sky.
The stars clustered together up there shock me. “Wow,” I say.
She also looks up. “Holy shit. They’re extra bright tonight.”
I remember from Mr. Ramirez’s science class that the togetherness up there is just an illusion. That stars are so far apart that the distance is measured by light-years instead of miles.
I notice one dart away from the cluster.
“Check it out,” Amy says. “A shooting star.”
“Dope.”
Sometimes I have these nightmares where I start floating up, from the basketball court, the classroom, or wherever, and nobody notices me going higher and higher through the sky, speeding up out of view, faster all the time until I’m rocketing through space in a blinding white light. There’s no wall or net to stop me, no border where outer space ends.
It scares me so much I wake up in a sweat, feeling my heart beat through my whole body.
Now I look at Amy and ask, “Do you ever get so lonely that it’s like you’re blinded by white light and your heart’s about to burst?”
Did I really just say that? I feel my cheeks get hot from embarrassment. That was crazy weird, easily the lamest thing I’ve ever said.
She says, “I’m lonely most of the time.”
What comes outta my mouth next surprises me with how easy it is to say. “Same here. With people around too. It sucks, but I gotta admit that sometimes, for a few seconds, it feels good to be in my room all alone.”
“Because it makes sense.”
“Exactly,” I say, no longer feeling even a little lonely.
“What’s going on inside me doesn’t match what’s going on around me,” Amy says. “So when I’m alone it feels right because I’m literally alone.”
And there it is. She gets me. Like she’s already my girlfriend. Right here it’s going down. I know it’s the right moment. I’m supposed to kiss her.
The nerves hit me again. Maybe you ain’t allowed to kiss a girl until she’s your girlfriend. Or do you kiss a girl so she becomes your girlfriend? Them two thoughts battle in my head until I notice a man across the street coming this way, taking a puff of a cigarette that is mostly butt.
I take a step back.
Amy turns and stiffens with fear. Our moment has passed.
The man’s so round it’s a wonder he can walk that fast. My neck sweats. He takes another puff, keeping me locked in sight, and flicks the butt onto the street.
“Go home, Marcos,” she says. “Catch you later.”
She starts to take off, but then the man’s voice booms. “Amy!”
The shout stops her. He’s crossing the street, causing a car to slow and honk. He’s coming right at us.
Something’s different about Amy. She looks breakable and super small, tiny enough to pick up with one hand and carry away. She’s one way at school and another way at home. That’s what she said in the dugout and I’m seeing it now.
I’m shaking as her stepdad takes the last few steps. He stands between us, looks back and forth, maybe expecting us to keep talking. Then fixes his eyes on me. His bushy blond beard has some gray in it.
Dads ain’t supposed to like their daughter’s boyfriends and maybe stepdads are no different. For all he knows I am her boyfriend. That icy stare he’s giving me? It’s like he’s caught us having sex or something. Talk about injustice. If he’s gonna kill me for having sex, at least me and Amy coulda done it, and if not sex then a real kiss and not that quick peck she gave me.
He turns to Amy. “Home. Now.”
My spine freezes up.
“Later, Marcos,” she says, hurrying away.
Just me and him now. The man, already close, steps closer. Though he’s got only two inches on me, his big roundness makes me feel like a bug, squishable. “A little late to be out, don’t you think?”
He says it all helpful, a librarian comment. It ain’t even nine.
“I don’t know.” My voice comes out wavy.
He strokes his beard. “Why’re you hanging around Amy?”
“I came by to . . .” What did I come by to do? “She’s my . . .” What’s the word? Will friend get me killed? “I know her, you know, from school and all . . . I just—”
“Pull the burrito out your mouth, amigo. Can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
So he’s one of those. Usually it ain’t this obvious. You just get a salty stare or else they look away, like you some stinky wacko trying to bum change.
With my boys around, we’d be stomping this guy right now. But with my boys around, Duck Dynasty wouldn’t be talking shit.
I get on my bike. “Guess I’ll go.”
“That right there’s a great idea,” he says.
I ride away. They only words, and tonight they hurt less than usual. Maybe ’cause I just spent time with awesome Amy, the girl who’ll become my girlfriend. Whether that racist piece of shit likes it or not.
14
HANNA HIGH’s alive with families tonight. On both sides of the street and in the parking lot they step outta cars and SUVs, sets of relatives, also grandparents, many looking sharp as they head to the auditorium. I bike through the swarm and lock my orange Huffy to the rack.
My boys are watching TV at Jason’s or Art’s, no idea that I’m at school when I ain’t gotta be. On a Saturday night.
It sorta feels like the spring dance, the thrill of the night filling me before I step into the music-filled gym, all t
hem kids outnumbering teachers and chaperones, me and my boys with free run of the halls. Except tonight the thrill’s being with Amy.
The plan’s to watch the play and then, after walking her home, I’ll pop the question.
Will you be my girlfriend? Will you go out with me? I been practicing both in my head and can’t make up my mind. Will you be my girlfriend? sounds super fancy, something you say down on one knee while holding flowers or a shiny ring. But what if I ask Will you go out with me? and she answers Where?
In the auditorium lobby I wait on a bench to watch the steady flow of people.
Mr. Davis, my English teacher and the director of the play, is smile-nodding at every person entering the auditorium. Happy like there’s admission and it’s making his pockets fat.
Some kids unattached to families come in twos or threes, mostly juniors and seniors. A few groups are double that.
On the other side of the glass door is the happiest family you’ve ever seen, the father suited up, an arm around a hot lady, their two little kids with new clothes like yesterday was their birthday.
Then I see Amy’s face between two sets of grown-up shoulders, her lips moving. Talking to someone next to her. I catch sight of some punked-out kid, the sides of his head shaved, the top part buzzed army-short. The room goes wobbly.
Who’s that chump? He’s skinny like me. Wonder if I can take him.
Why do I wonder that? It ain’t like I’d fight him anyway. And so what if she’s with him? It could be a friend. Girls have guy friends. It could totally be a friend.
He looks older. Could it be a brother?
They come into the lobby, share a glance that says, Yep, that’s Marcos, and something about how their eyes meet, the way they walking, tells me he’s a boyfriend for sure.
“Marcos!” Amy’s face brightens. “There you are!”
Like it’s the happiest she’s ever been while this is the most crushed I’ve ever felt. This girl I loved thirty seconds ago I now hate. I really do.
“Hey” is all I can get out.
I get up and give her a hug like the world’s perfect. I look at Punkboy who’s an inch taller than me. Skinny arms but thicker than mine. Older for sure. A senior maybe, but he doesn’t go to Hanna. Are mature guys Amy’s thing? Here I been worried about my skin color, my hood, my clothes and friends, and maybe I ain’t never had a chance ’cause I’m a sophomore.
“Wassup?” He gives me a nod.
Hooray for that. Didn’t know if punks slapped hands, rubbed their shaved heads together, or did one of those elaborate handshakes that last ten minutes.
Amy says, “This is my boyfriend, Mike.”
“Cool.” I go for normal and am pretty sure it comes out that way.
“Let’s go,” she says to both of us.
I follow them in, feeling like the dumbest third wheel ever. Why don’t I just go home? But then she’d know how I feel. Hurt. Pissed. Plus Zach’s in the play.
Brown fold-out chairs line up neatly at a slight curve, some thirty rows, the first five already full. Punkboy points to the center and Amy nods. His hand moves down and without looking she grabs it, closes her fingers over his. They walking hand in hand now, him leading her, leading me, through the tight space between two rows.
This romance damn sure ain’t new. I got a hundred questions for her like How long? and Why?
After we sitting down, Amy in the middle, she tells him about the play—that it’s a comedy and our friend Zach’s in it. Punkboy’s too busy holding her hand to talk and I’d rather shave the sides of my head and both nuts than say a word.
How could I assume Amy was single? And here I wore my new black tee and made sure my hair was right when she prefers idiots with ripped jeans and goofy haircuts.
Mr. Davis walks on the stage and finger taps the microphone twice. The audience chatter slowly dies out. More dads take out their phones and video cameras. There are dozens of miniature Mr. Davises on tiny glowing screens.
He thanks us for coming and talks about how hard they worked on the play. “We” spent three afternoons a week rehearsing, he says. “We” are very happy to present this play.
“We” means him (the teacher) plus the cast and crew members (the students). That we sounds sorta nice.
Then I’m thinking of the “we” sitting next to me and I feel the beef flavor ramen noodles I ate an hour ago do a turn in my stomach. Can I make it to the end of this thing without throwing up? Hey, that gives me a great idea! I’ll hurl right here in front of Amy’s feet and go home sick, the perfect excuse. That’s when I notice the I ♥ M again, right on the tip of her sneaker. M is for Mike, not the band Misfits. She loves that stupid guy.
The room dims and the curtain spreads open. Stage lights shine onto the two people talking up there. I hear and feel the laughter around me as I watch the couch on center stage. Amy’s naked on it, legs up, Mike on top banging her. When I try to stop my thoughts they get worse. Amy and Punkboy getting it on in a bunch of positions, the ones I’ve seen on porn and some new ones my brain’s thinking up.
I finally shake those images outta my head.
Then Zach’s on the real stage and I’m paying attention to what’s really happening. He’s hilarious as the neighbor who complains nonstop.
At one point, everybody busting up laughing, Amy turns to see me laughing too. Such a nice moment, our eyes meeting, that I forget we’re not here together. Not in the way I wanna be, I mean.
The lights go out to the loudest applause ever. When the stage is lit again, all cast and crew members take a bow. The clapping keeps going, everybody on their feet, the parents raising their cameras even higher. Zach smiles straight at me and I snap outta my sadness for a second to give him a thumbs-up. I wonder if he has any other friends out here, if his mother’s cancer kept her from coming.
The applause dies out and I see something horrible. Amy’s holding Punkboy’s hand with both of hers. Is she trying to push me over the edge?
It worked. I’m outta here. I’m walking sideways down the tight row, feet together, then apart, past Amy—“Where you going?”—past Punkboy, past someone’s annoyed family. The rest of the people step back as much as possible, screeching the chairs.
Amy calls for me but I’m hurrying down the empty aisle and outta the building, soon crossing the dark grass to where my bike stands alone on the rack. Dammit! The entrance light’s too weak to see my combination lock. As my fingertips try to feel the numbers I’m getting more pissed at the chain, at Punkboy for coming. Pissed at Amy for bringing him.
And why do they make stupid fucking locks with numbers you can’t fucking see or feel right?
“Marcos!”
Amy’s heading over as the first family comes out. Punkboy’s leaning against the wall like he’s the auditorium bouncer taking a smoke break. I bust out my otherwise useless cell and shine it on the lock. Snap the 3 in place, then the 8 and 5. My bike lock pops just as she gets here.
“Dude, what’s going on?”
She has no idea. All this time she ain’t been feeling nothing.
I wrap the chain around the bottom of my seat, telling myself to chill. Get me yelling and I might never stop.
People are really pouring outta the exit now. I get on my bike.
“Where you going?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Is something wrong?” she asks, hands on hips.
What’s the meanest thing I can say? Nothing comes to mind. “Why’d you bring Punkboy?”
“Mike’s my boyfriend. What’s wrong with bringing my boyfriend?”
Like she’s gotta use that word twice. Hate’s twisting in my stomach. “Well, how ’bout he’s a fucking loser with half his head shaved?”
“Whoa! What’s your problem?”
Mad at me when I’m being mad at her. Though it’s got me fuming inside I try to speak all calm. “We was supposed to come together.”
“What does that mean?”
It means, Amy, that we
was supposed to hold hands during the play, not you and Punkboy, and right now we supposed to be becoming boyfriend and girlfriend, not fighting while Punkboy watches us like we tonight’s second feature.
Except he ain’t watching, the punk-rocking, half-bald fuckwad. He’s staring off to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets. I wanna kill him for considering this fight too boring to watch.
“Nothing,” I say.
I put my foot on the top pedal. She comes to stand next to me as two kids I recognize walk by.
“It’s not nothing, Marcos.” She lays her hand on my shoulder, her metal bracelets chiming in the dark. “Are you mad because I have a boyfriend?”
“Get over yourself.”
“That’s what this is,” she says, her hand still here, amazingly light and warm. “I never told you, but you never said . . . anything, so don’t be mad at me. We just started hanging out . . . I had no idea.”
Her hand resting on me is so perfect I don’t wanna go, but if I don’t go right now I might flip out.
She gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “Please don’t be mad.”
“I ain’t mad. I just didn’t know ya had a boyfriend.”
“Sometimes I don’t know I have one either. He only calls me when he wants.”
“Why ya want that fucking loser to call you?”
“Watch it!” Her hand’s gone. “Mike did nothing to you.”
“Where ya find a guy like that?”
Amy tells me he’s a junior at Lindell High. “He wrestles there.”
“A punk jock? Are ya fucking serious?”
“We said categories are stupid, remember? Mike’s cool.”
Everything she’s saying hurts, but I know how to make it hurt less. Sometimes you can make the hurt go away. Sometimes it’s a cinch.
I look her straight in the eye. “Right! ’Cause you know what cool is. Look at ya.”
I check her out from bottom to top—the marked-up Chucks, the shiny black tights, the white Dead Kennedys tank top, then back to her face, now frowning.
“And ya wonder why people stare. Blue hair and vandalized sneakers? What the fuck?” Her face changes. This is working. “Plus your boyfriend looks like the evil kid in them drug-prevention brochures. You two freaks deserve each other.”
