by Fred Aceves
“Fuck off, Marcos.”
It didn’t work. I’m supposed to feel better while Amy walks away mad. Instead she’s still standing here, watching me. Her lips are trembling. And what’s up with her eyes? It’s too dark to be sure if . . .
I take off, pedaling so fast I almost run over some kid crossing the grass.
15
THE NEXT week goes by with the same boring classes except I don’t clown around, with the same cafeteria lunches except I lose track of what’s going on at the table. At home it’s the same jittery evenings.
Me and Amy ain’t talked. One time we passed in the halls, my heart wiggling in my chest, and she wouldn’t even look at me.
Here at Future Success I’m trying to check her out less than before, my head turned a bit and ready to move when she looks back. Which ain’t happened yet.
My neutral face is in full effect. Inside I’m raging, one second from hopping up and smashing all the goddamn windows. It’s crazy to admit but I wish I could cry like a little kid. As long as nobody saw me I think it’d make me feel better.
This class has me thinking of my future again. Me as a grown man, alone on my birthday and Christmas. Calling up my boys to drink beers or play, but they spending the day with their girls, with their kids too if they have some.
Breckner has just congratulated someone for reading their weekly objectives and successes out loud. I’m lucky he didn’t choose me. I woulda felt bad, listing all the stuff I pretended to do.
But why should I care about Breckner or even this class?
Why am I still here? This class is voluntary. I can get up and leave right now, head to my regular history class, and when the bell rings I go home instead of hanging out at school for another half hour.
But I actually like being here. I was chosen for this and it makes me feel special. Part of me wants to be a good student.
At the end of class Breckner says, “Those of you who haven’t turned in your field trip form need to do so next week.”
My one reason for going to the baseball game is now the reason to not go. But how can I stay home and let Amy think she hurt me, destroyed my life so completely that I’ll change my plans? I tried to bring up the game one more time, but my mom just shook her head.
When Breckner dismisses us I wait for the classroom to empty. It’s hard to take your time with no backpack to fill and zip up. After everybody’s gone but the teacher, I roll my folder in my fist and head out.
Zach’s in the hall, looking sharp in a dark-gray bow tie over a lighter-gray shirt. People gotta be making fun of his clothes but he wears them anyway. Which is pretty dope.
He says, “My weekly objective is to not fall asleep in Future Success.”
Though he always cracks me up, right now nothing’s funny. I force a smile.
He starts talking about his grandma who’s preparing herself for her daughter’s death. It’s why she does living room yoga, a young DVD lady guiding his grandma into different poses. Zach keeps talking but I ain’t sure about what. If Amy used to pop into my brain a million times a day, she’s now stuck there, making it impossible to join the real world.
He asks, “So what’s up with Amy?”
It’s her name that snaps me back into the moment. “Don’t know.”
“She came with her boyfriend to the play,” he says. “I didn’t even know she had one.”
I suddenly hate him. “Why the fuck would you?”
He don’t know Amy as well as I do and I sure as hell didn’t know she had a . . . boyfriend. That word pisses me off. Why does she have one and why can’t I be it? And why would Zach bring that up, the dumbfuck?
I still don’t got him figured out. A theater boy with two girls as best friends. It ain’t just drama club that makes me 80 percent sure he ain’t crushing on either one of them. All the times I’ve talked to him about Amy, he never once brought up a girl he liked, or dated, or even thought about more than normal.
I guess it don’t matter if Zach’s gay but the curiosity gets you.
We walk in silence until we get to the corner where Zach busts a left and I keep straight, past the train tracks and into the last two ugly blocks before I’m home.
Crazy how your legs can move without your brain paying attention.
“I’m out,” Zach says.
“Yeah, see ya.”
As Zach crosses the street toward the cars for sale, prices on the windshields in white paint, it sinks in that I was mean to my friend. Asking questions wasn’t him getting all up in my business. It ain’t Zach’s fault I fell in love with a dumb punk girl, tried to get with her, and got shot down.
I guess the pain came roaring outta me to hurt him.
And what kind of asshole forgets his friend’s mom is dying? And what about Zach’s big night on the stage? It came and went without a word from me.
In the middle of the street he waits in traffic to finish crossing. A passing UPS truck ruffles his hair. After the last car hums past I shout, “You was great in that play!”
He whips around. “Hey, thanks!”
“Hilarious! I had to go right away so I couldn’t, ya know . . .”
It’s the perfect time to cross, both lanes empty, and he looks like he might cross back over to me. “Marcos? Are you okay?”
Why’s he asking me how I’m feeling? I can’t look at him and I can’t look away. It’s like trying to avoid direct sunlight that’s somehow coming from everywhere. And I can’t ignore his question and I can’t answer it without being a liar.
“I’m fine,” I say, and hurry away.
16
IT’S BEEN five weeks since Amy ripped my heart out and I’m still wondering about my chances at having a girlfriend one day.
I’m not angry with her anymore, but I can’t look at her neither. Passing her in the halls, being with her in homeroom and Future Success, I keep my head turned and my thoughts on something else.
In algebra I could sometimes finish all the problems during class, turn it in the next day as homework, but I ain’t done that lately. For last week’s chemistry test I didn’t try to make smart guesses. I filled in the multiple choice circles randomly. I’ve gone from little effort, barely getting by, to zero effort. At this point, my grades gotta be in the negatives.
Basketball helps me out of my sadness, but not as much as working like now. I’m sweeping the Chinese buffet parking lot on a Saturday morning, the sun low and behind a hazy cloud, the only heat from the Florida humidity. I’m getting fast, will probably knock this out under an hour. With ten bucks in my pocket I’ll have enough for a haircut, ’cause my hair has grown too much again. The rest I’ll save for sneakers.
But it’s hard to stay strong, to not reach into my pocket when passing by the discount bakery or when I see the cups of chocolate pudding in the cafeteria.
I won’t be needing any money for dates. That’s for sure.
Just before 9:00 a.m., I take the half-full garbage bag to Mr. Zeng who takes his time looking out at the parking lot. Last time I think he collected from the gift shop and the hardware store that share the same lot, and just gave me a cut. Oh well. Most parking lots ain’t littered and I’m running outta neighborhoods to look for work.
“Nice job,” Mr. Zeng says, and gives me a wrinkly ten-dollar bill. I smooth it out as flat as I can, fold it in half, and put it as deep in my front pocket as I can.
The sun is really blazing when I’m riding my bike home and I remember to put on my poker face now that I’ll be running into my boys. Even if I wanted to tell them that I miss Amy, they don’t know about her.
And I do miss her. For those few weeks, kicking it with her was my favorite thing to do.
Cruising along the Maesta fence I spot something. Is that . . ? Yeah, a new piece on building M, right in front of passing traffic. Taking up the entire space between two front doors. This guy’s balls grow bigger all the time. And you know by the color and style that it’s the same guy, even without noticing the botto
m corner, the hook stabbing the burning ball.
It shows movement, bodies dancing, I think. This guy was in a good mood. It almost puts me in a good mood.
I keep riding down the bumpy sidewalk, where grass pokes through the cracks.
They’re on Art’s porch. Maesta has these tiny slabs of concrete behind the kitchen, barely big enough for two people, so Ruben’s leaning against the wall. Kevin’s sitting shirtless on a bucket and Art’s giving him a fade, the clippers moving up and down. Outta a single speaker Wiz Khalifa’s rhymes flow breezily over a wacky beat and my boys are laughing about something. Happy as hell. That’s what I gotta pretend to be.
Ruben pushes a button on the speaker and the next track comes on.
“Yo!” Kevin says. “Don’t mess with my music.”
I slow along the rusty chain-link fence and stop where the wires have come undone from the post. I lock my bike and lift that corner to duck through, the dirt hollowed from so many kids slipping underneath.
“Hook me up too,” I say.
Art nods, still eyeing his delicate work. He’s been the Maesta barber for almost a month.
Instead of kicking out cash for haircuts, he pulled a Robin Hood at some store and came back with hair clippers. With the help of two mirrors Art did an okay job on his own hair. When his little brother’s fade came out perfect, Art got the idea to charge. Then everybody, even older guys, started coming around for a trim.
Right here, on his back porch, Art’s barbershop opens any time someone with three bucks knocks on the glass.
The clippers came with a small paintbrush thing that Art’s now using to sweep the little hairs from Kevin’s face and shoulders.
I tell them all about the new mural but they already seen it.
Kevin, like he’s got more than three bills and they larger than ones, slowly counts them onto Art’s hand. He disconnects his flash drive. “See y’all later tonight.”
In a rush to see Shanice, I bet. Wonder if the rest of my boys see Kevin the way I do, like an inspiration. I mean, if a kid from Maesta is with a girl as fine and cool as Shanice, well then just maybe . . .
Ruben busts out his flash drive, quick to take care of the silence.
Art’s cleaning the clippers. “None of that lame salsa music.” With a tinier brush he’s getting at the hairs between the metal teeth.
Ruben sucks his teeth. “Ya know I don’t be listening to that.”
Art sings, “Ay mami, ay mami mami,” and does a three-step motion, forward and back in a straight line, hips popping. Sorta passing for a salsa dancer, the bastard.
Ruben plugs in his flash drive. “Some classics for you bitches.”
A press of the button pushes Mobb Deep through the speakers, the piano and slow beat of a Havoc instrumental, nineties stuff, and Ruben bumps fists with me for recognizing it right off.
I take off my shirt and lay it gently on the grass to let the sun dry the sweat. I look down at my chest and stomach, get a good look at my arms too. Though I’m up to forty push-ups a day I don’t notice much difference.
Art says, “I should charge double for cutting white people hair.”
I sit on the upside-down bucket. “Who’s white?”
“For a barber, they two types of hair,” Art says. “Like mine, and not like mine. You got whiteboy hair.”
“Or ya can be like me.” Ruben pats his Cuban curls. “Perfect hair.”
Art slides on a number two guard and asks, “Why ya ain’t been balling?”
I shrug.
“He’s nerding out at them smart-boy meetings,” Ruben says.
“Double-check that thing,” I tell Art.
He pushes on the guard. It don’t budge. “Cool?”
I’m still sorta traumatized from last year’s incident at Benny’s Barbershop. Benny’s nephew got distracted by Monday night football, a Bucs thirty-eight-yard pass, and left a bald patch on top of my head. Benny had to buzz off all my hair, didn’t charge me to look Buddhist for a month.
The glass door slides open and Obie comes out with a glass of water. With the other hand he’s feeling the new fade Art gave him. Ever since he’s been delivering drugs his hair ain’t gone fuzzy.
“Make sure Art don’t mess me up,” I tell him.
“On it.”
When his cell plays a quick melody he busts it out and wanders outta earshot. It’s a fancy Samsung Galaxy that he hides from his mom. He’s become that guy. He’s a dealer.
Do I believe that? Obie said he’d make quick money and stop, like his mom did years back, but will he really?
My other boys are suspicious about the money he’s making from helping his aunt “clean houses.” What Ruben earns from helping his uncle at the Cuban sandwich shop ain’t much, and Jason, when he had to work and save for months to buy that new bike.
Then the sports bar owner found out he was too young to be carrying cases of beers and changing kegs. Maybe I should partner up with Jason and try something. Being white ain’t convenient here in Maesta, but out there, bringing him on my job hunt might help.
Art starts with my sides, my skull vibrating, and says, “Everybody wanna look sharp for Asha’s party tonight.”
Party? What party?
Ruben knows. He’s rocking his head back and forth with the music, winks at an imaginary girl. Then he starts dancing with her, grinding like a fool.
He stops and straightens up. “Look sharp, Marcos. No quiero ser el único. We gotta show these chumps wassup.”
I used to feel sorta bad for dumbass Ruben who’s forever gaming girls and getting shot down. But I admire him. I really do. He ain’t clueless. He just has a lot of heart.
Has it really been a year since Asha’s last birthday? And tonight it’s going down again? This is exactly what I need to get my mind off Amy.
The party room in Asha’s apartment complex was big enough for the hundred kids who showed up. A crazy amount of girls came, some of them from another school, where Asha’s cousin and that hot entourage went. Best of all no grown-ups, only Asha’s older sister coming through every ten minutes to make sure nobody was drinking. Like that stopped us.
Only one bad thing about it. Weeks of flirting had Art thinking he’d hook up with Asha for sure. At the end of the night though, she was in the back corner making out with another guy.
On our way home nobody said jack, not even a “Sorry, man” or something to cheer Art up.
I really wanted to though. The list of stuff you ain’t allowed to say is damn long.
It was an awkward, silent walk home that night until Art picked up a rock the size of a fist. The crash of the truck’s windshield musta woke up half the block and a second later the car alarm woke up everybody else. I’m guessing. We didn’t stick around to see.
“I had no idea about the party,” I say.
“Damn, Marcos, that’s all we been talking for days,” Ruben says. “You stupid fuck.” He gives me a goofy grin.
Forever talking trash at these times, like in class right before the teacher speaks, when you can’t get up to punch him on the shoulder.
Obie don’t say a word. He’d rather keep quiet about not being able to go out past nine. His mom thinks weekend nights are dangerous. Funny that for Obie the danger’s between three and five p.m. on weekdays, the time of his deliveries.
The clippers buzz. Thick clumps of hair tumble over my shoulders and onto the porch.
I see a rip in one of Ruben’s black Nikes, right where sole meets leather, half a finger long. I say, “Trying to bite my style?”
He looks down at his kicks and nods like it’s the most depressing thing ever. “Your style’s so dope.” He looks down again. “I’m gonna find me some of that electrical tape for mine, black on black. It’ll camouflage it better than yours.”
A gunshot rips through the air, coming from the back of Maesta. It’s probably somebody shooting up at the sky, showing off. So far this year nobody’s gotten shot.
“Asha broke up with he
r boyfriend,” Art says.
I’d give anything for this to be a real barbershop, a mirror right here so I could see the expression on my boy’s face. I got a feeling he ain’t just about hitting. He might be in love.
Art tells us the clues he’s picked up from Asha. Two weeks back, her hand on his arm, she told him about the party, before she told anybody else. Best of all, when Art catches her in the halls, she now gives him a full smile and stops to talk.
Damn good clues, I gotta admit, but I’m thinking back to the barbershop tragedy from last year.
“Focus, bitch.”
“Barbers can talk and work.” Art flicks a hand at the back of my head.
“Ow. Value the customer.”
I go for a blind, backward punch and feel the air rearrange behind me. Art laughs.
Jason comes rounding the building, long-striding, cap nearly covering his eyes.
“Six bucks for white people hair,” I tell him.
“Ya paying six bucks?”
Art flicks me again. “See?”
I was right about the new bike. Whiteboy ain’t hanging out much no more, rather be off practicing tricks by himself. Even when he’s here it’s like he ain’t totally with us.
Art runs the clippers over the top of my head. “Fuck!” he shouts.
The clippers click off. He steps back.
Obie’s eyes open bigger than I’ve ever seen. He pushes Art aside and takes a step toward me, leaning in for a closer look. “Daaaamn!”
I turn to Ruben and Jason whose mouths have dropped open.
I touch my head, fingers searching for the fuckup. “Art, I’m gonna kill ya!”
“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry.”
Fuck! I look around for a mirror. Right, ’cause on Art’s magical porch a mirror appears whenever you need it.
The party tonight! Double fuck! I’m showing up bald to the party of the year!
I jet inside—“Don’t get hair inside my house!”—and into the bathroom. Switch on the light. In the mirror I examine my head from every angle, rub the spot they was staring at. My hair’s fine. Better than fine. Besides the sideburns, not yet trimmed, it’s the most perfect haircut ever.
