“And you get your GED before I give you his number.”
“What?! I can't! I have to have the money in two weeks; I need a job yesterday.”
“You can make an appointment to take the test at the Training Center any day this week. You can go today even—they open at nine. It's gonna cost you fifty dollars to take the test. I can call them and let them know you'll pay them for it later.”
“I can't take a test today. I'm failing all my classes; there's no way.”
“Justin, you're one of the smartest students I've ever had. I know what you're capable of, and I have no doubt you can pass the test no problem.”
“I don't think so.”
“I do, and if not, you can study there for a day or two and learn what you need to pass. Go give it a try. Do you know where the Training Center is?”
“Yeah, over on Fulton Street, right?”
“Yep, that's the place. Go try the test; let them know I sent you over, and when you've got that paper in your hand, you let me know, and I'll give you the number.”
“OK, I'll try, but what if I can't?”
“You can try again next week. That will give you seven days to study, and you'll knock it out of the park on that try for sure.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Anytime. I gotta get back to class.”
“For sure. See ya.”
We watched Mr. Reyes walk halfway up the block before he turned back and pointed directly at me, then at his watch, then at the school over his shoulder. We both knew what it meant: my butt better be in class when the bell rang. I smiled at him and gave him a cheesy thumbs-up. We watched him go the rest of the way up the street to the front steps of the school and disappear inside the old wooden doors.
“Haylee, you need to go.”
“I know. Are you going to the place?”
“What else can I do?”
“You'll do great.”
“I don't know—I haven't passed a test since like tenth grade.”
“I know, but just think—this one has a job at the end of it. You can do it. You have to; you can't leave me.”
“I know.” He grabbed my face and pulled it to his. “I love you so much.”
“I know. We'll be OK.” The kiss was quick, but the hug lasted longer than the bell. I was late. I didn't care.
Justin studied that day and aced the test the very next day just like Mr. Reyes knew he would. He reminded Justin it was no diploma and strongly encouraged him to start taking college courses too to make himself look better on paper. Justin promised he would, and I think he meant it at the time. Then Mr. Reyes gave him the name of the man with the job: Raymundo Contreras, his uncle, and owner of a local tire store franchise called Treadmore Quickly.
Mr. Raymundo Contreras, or Coffee, as he insisted Justin call him, was a short, squat man who always had a tire rag in his back pocket; a thin, high-necked shirt under his mechanic shirt; and grease on his hands. He was also a multimillionaire, though few people knew it. His hair was white, a stark contrast to his coffee colored skin that got him his nickname. He wore the undershirts to cover the old, fading gang tattoos he kept around to remind himself of where he came from and why he owed God his life. Coffee was the closest thing to a dad, grandpa, or brother Justin ever had. Other than Mr. Reyes, he was the first person who ever believed in Justin the way I did. He was the one man who gave Justin hope.
Justin came home from his first day and took me out to the old shack to tell me about it.
“He's the coolest old guy I've ever met in my life, Haylee. He's going to put me to work in the tires first; he wants me to stock them and sell them. He says I have charisma, and charisma sells tires. He's going to give me a dollar for every ten dollars I sell—on top of a base pay! The sky's the limit—the more I sell, the more I make!”
He looked like an angel—an angel who had just gotten his face pummeled. But he was so happy and hopeful, I could see the future in his eyes again.
“I told him I had to pay my dad three hundred dollars by the first or I was out, and he gave me the money! Look.” Justin pulled three crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. In all my life I had never seen that much money at once. Clayton got paid with checks, and my mom got her disability check, but I'd never seen that much cash. I couldn't imagine what they would do with it—probably stock the bar—but it didn't matter. Justin could stay.
“I told him how Clayton is,” he said quietly.
“What?! Why?”
“I don't know; it just came out. I told him I couldn't leave you here alone, and when he asked why, I told him everything.”
“What did he say?”
“That his old man was the same way...” Justin stopped talking. As his eyes pooled with tears, he put his head down, letting them drop out, straight onto the ground, and whispered, “and that I don't have to be like him.”
I've only seen Justin cry once in my life, and it was that day. He couldn't hold in the tears. All our life, all those years, he thought no matter how hard he tried to be different he wasn't ever going to be anything but a little Clayton. He hated it, but accepted it more than I even realized, and Coffee had said the magic words even I had never said to Justin.
“I don't have to be like him, Haylee; I don't.”
“I know you don't, Babe. You're not anything like him—you know that, right?”
He sniffled. “No. I look in the mirror, and all I see is his face. I hear him when I yell. It scares me, Haylee. But I don't have to be like that! I can be my own man.”
“I know you can.”
“Coffee told me to wait to give them the money until the first, so I have to hang onto it until then.”
“Don't spend it.”
“No way. It's gonna keep me here, by you.” As he kissed the top of my head, his smile lifted my soul. Everything was going to be OK.
CHAPTER 8
THAT WAS IT—it was all OK. We were going to make it until I was old enough then we were going to ditch them and live happily ever after. I knew it. Life became routine and manageable, until the day it wasn't. In the mornings Justin left for work a little after Clayton did, and often he didn't get home until after dark. He was a grunt for Coffee, but he didn't mind; he liked the work and Coffee was right—he was a great salesman. I think, too, he liked being gone because he didn't have to deal with Mom and Clayton. He wanted to be there for me, and at night and in the morning after Clayton left, he was—but it was good for him to be anywhere but home. It was good for both of us.
Justin kept his word to Mr. Reyes too: he didn't drink or smoke anymore. Like everything he set his mind to, Justin decided to be done, and he stuck with it. Clayton was pissed about that more than anything. I didn't understand why. I mostly quit too, but I was a sucker for whiskey and Coke on a Friday night after a hard week at school, so I admit I still got hammered plenty of times. Justin never made me feel bad for it, but he never caved. His mind was made up, and he wouldn't change it for anything or anyone, not even me.
I think that's when I kind of knew how Mom and Clayton must have felt. I felt like he secretly thought he was better than me because he could say no and I still wanted to drink. The worst part was knowing he was saying no so he could stay with me and I wouldn't quit. I felt like a failure, like he must be disappointed in me but wasn't saying it out loud. It made me mad at him sometimes, and I don't remember being mad at him before that even once in my life. It scared me, but I didn't know what the feeling was or how to say anything about it, so I didn't.
He was also getting stronger, and that pissed Clayton off—or maybe he was scared too, and his fear—like mine—manifested itself as anger. I think if Justin hadn’t been paying them rent Clayton would have kicked him out just out of spite, but he liked the money. He still yelled at Justin and took swings now and then, but I think he was afraid he might be the loser if he pushed Justin too far, so he stuck to yelling more than hitting. I knew it was bound to happen and waited for the day they would come to blo
ws and Justin would come out on top.
The time did come, but Justin figured out a way to beat Clayton at his own game without a real fight in order to save Clayton the slightest bit of dignity. I don't know why he did that, why he cared at all. If it were me, after all the years of Clayton's fists in my gut, I'd have pummeled him and not cared about how it made him feel. But Justin had enough love for his dad to make the point—and make it well—but spare him a beat-down.
It was a normal Friday night at home: I was having fun getting smashed, and since he had nowhere better to be, Justin was down there in the living room with us. He was back to playing his guitar all the time. While we all got more drunk and high, he sat and played his guitar with the music, getting better at his craft, serenading our sorry souls. Then out of the blue when the song he was playing finished, he called out Adrian, one of Clayton's friends. It wasn't a fight he was looking for, but he was going to prove to everyone that he was stronger and better than his Old Man.
Justin's job was physical: he mounted and balanced and lifted tires all day long, which meant he was constantly building up his body. He was strong before, but in the few months he had been working he had honed his strength. He was younger than all the guys there that night by at least a dozen years, and he wasn't drunk. It was his moment to assert himself as the Alpha male, and Adrian was so wasted he walked right into it, no questions asked.
When Clayton wasn't looking, Justin flashed me a knowing look. I knew then he had a plan. I had to watch it play out. He told me later that he waited patiently for the right night, the right party, and the perfect moment. He was patient like that, never rushing anything to happen sooner than it was supposed to. His goal was to beat Clayton—to let him know once and for all who was stronger, who was the boss. It would have been too obvious if he came out and challenged Clayton outright; it would be far better to pretend it was all in fun and then humiliate him in front of his buddies. And so that's exactly what Justin did.
“Hey man, arm wrestle me!” He put his guitar down and chest-bumped Adrian.
“Think you can take me, huh boy?”
“That's right, check out these guns,” Justin said pulling up his sleeve and flexing like a goober. He was joking around, keeping it light-hearted, but I was impressed with the definition and bulk. He looked good. I wanted to touch him; I wondered when he had bulked up and how I had missed it. Then I remembered, we were never alone anymore; I hardly touched him or saw him enough to know how much he was changing, inside and out.
“Alright, but don't cry,” Adrian answered.
“Not a chance.”
The men moved into the kitchen and took sides around our tiny table we never ate at. They pushed the bills and newspapers to the side and then the match was on. There was the grip, then the “GO!” and we all watched.
If I hadn’t known Justin the way I did, I wouldn't have known he was faking it. I don't know if Clayton knew or if my mom could tell, but I could. He pretended to fight, made it look like a struggle, and slowly, slowly, his hand fell closer and closer to the table. He didn't make it a super easy fight— Adrian was straining—but I knew Justin let him win. He played it up, too.
“Oh man, no way!” he said jumping up from the chair, “No way! I want a rematch. Let's go again!”
“Fight the loser of the next match,” Adrian answered, nodding to Cameron, another of Clayton's buddies, over.
It was turning into a pissing match, just like Justin wanted. He sat back and let it play out. Cam beat Adrian, but instead of letting Justin wrestle him again, Cam faced off with Luke. Cam won, and Clayton took him on. It was a tough match, Cam was a scrapper, but in the end Clayton won, as he nearly always did. He stood up and flexed, and then Justin sprang up.
“How about you and me, Old Man?” he challenged Clayton with a nod of his head. I can't explain it— the music was blaring again, but when Justin threw down the challenge, silence hung around us all. A fire blazed in his eyes—a fire kindled long ago, now stoked and raging—and it would not be quenched without a duel. The air grew thick; tension wrapped its tentacles around the room in invisible swooshing swirls that rivaled the blue-smoke haze hovering potently in the air.
“You were out first round, Son; I don't think so,” Clayton answered, eyes locked into those of his grown son. He stood taller than normal, chest puffed out, asserting his dominance, but he shifted slightly to the left, then right, like the drunk he was. He was caught in his intoxication this time, too stupid to know Justin could tell he was too far gone to put up a real fight, too clueless to realize his son had planned this moment for years—the moment Clayton would lose his power, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was too drunk, too out of shape, too old to compete with Justin ever again.
“You afraid?” Justin asked back, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. I loved that smirk; Clayton usually yelled at him when he saw it. “Wrestle me,” Justin demanded.
The challenge lingered in the air like the last note plucked on a string. By then everyone knew it was more than a wrestling match that was about to go down. Clayton was stuck with only two options, and I knew he would lose either way. He was a fighter, so to back down from the challenge meant Justin automatically won, but to take him on and lose meant his son was stronger than he was, and everyone would know his reign of terror was over. In my mind, the possibility Clayton could win was slim.
Apparently, Clayton thought more highly of himself than I did, though. He took Justin on. Venom—and maybe admiration—passed between them; neither took his eyes off the other. The years, the anger, the abuse were all on the line.
Justin's smirk twisted into a half-crooked smile; he moved to the table to sit across from Clayton when he saw the Old Man lower himself back into the chair. Justin already knew he would win. Clayton showed no fear; he didn't look like he knew it, but he was about to lose. I knew it. I felt it in my bones. Maybe the whole room knew it. Justin had to win.
The grip was hard and fierce. Justin had perfected his technique—a squeeze that set his opponent off from the start.
Adrian called the “GO!”
The match was on.
Not that it was a match at all. It was apparent in a second that Justin had let Adrian, who was out in the second round, win. He arced Clayton's hand over and almost down to the table within the first two seconds. I saw it in Clayton's eyes—shock and awe as he looked at Justin. His son had become a man, and he had missed it, like I had. I bet he wondered what happened to the boy he had beaten to a pulp just four months before.
But Justin wasn't interested in putting him down quickly; he wanted to make it clear who was the stronger man. Justin let Clayton take their arms up again, nearly perpendicular with the table, and then he pushed Clayton's hand down again, almost to touching, but up enough to give Clayton a shred of hope to come back. His arm was tired. We all saw Clayton shaking. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his left hand went to grab the edge of the table for leverage.
Justin saw the desperate move. “Go ahead,” he egged on, looking down for the slightest second to acknowledge Clayton's grip on the table. “Do it. It won't help you. I'm going to win.” Then he locked eyes with Clayton again. Justin wasn't shaking at all. He was putting out effort, but nothing near his father's. He even had the nerve to look over at the other guys and joke.
“How long should I hold him here?” he smiled effortlessly. They didn't answer. It wasn't funny. It never had been. It was something they all dreaded—the day their power was threatened and their own sons were stronger, faster, and better than them.
Justin let Clayton up yet again and even let Clayton tilt his arm toward the table, but then, in the flash of a second, he pushed Clayton's hand back up and over and down and SLAM!
It was over.
Justin won.
He stood up and did what any good man would do: extended his hand to the loser. Clayton was had. His dominance was over; he no longer had the power to control us physically, and he knew it. We
were free. Justin had saved us.
They shook. It was a silent truce. Justin would let Clayton keep his place as head of the house as long as Clayton would keep his fists off Justin and his rage away from our faces.
It wasn't his strength alone that was developing; a lot of things about Justin changed after he started working for Coffee. He grew up, he was different. He had his dream back and more.
He was going to fly, and he had a focus and a drive I'd never seen in him before. His dream turned into a written plan he posted on his bedroom wall where he could see it every morning when he woke up. He was capable of working out the details now that he was an adult, and he started to notch them away one by one. He was going to join the Air Force, but not yet—that was like number three or four on the list. He needed to wait for that. He needed time and money to get some college credits so he looked better for the recruiter—and he needed to wait until I was older. I know there was more to it than just me; I could see it on his list. But I felt like I was the thing between him and enlisting. I felt like he put off his plan so I wouldn't be alone, but he talked about it openly in the house, and there was nothing Clayton could do to deter him now that he was beaten.
Justin pushed me to do better in school, and I really wanted to try for his sake. I gave it my best effort, but just because he suddenly had Coffee to guide him didn't mean I felt the hope too. While he was succeeding, my life was still as bad as ever, and in some ways worse. For one, I hardly saw him because he worked so much. He was never home. We used to have the morning rides to school together, plus after-school and weekend laziness—not to mention all the times we skipped school together. None of that was available now. Between work and the college classes he started taking at the beginning of my sophomore year, he was gone all the time, and I was left to take Clayton's lectures and Mom's alcoholism myself.
Lizzie wasn't a comfort anymore either. She too had taken steps to better herself. I wondered sometimes if Justin should have chosen her to love instead of me; she was obviously the better of the two of us. She didn't want to come home with me—without Justin as a buffer it was worse: the yelling and accusing and Clayton-ness of it all. Eventually we only hung out at school, then only in JAG class, and ultimately we barely spoke. It wasn't like we weren't friends; but when we talked, we didn't have anything in common anymore.
Waiting on Justin Page 10
