As soon as I think of Becca, it’s like somebody punches me in the gut. Making fun of Lexi and her fool boyfriend can’t protect me from the fact that I’m the one with my ass in the wringer; I’m the one who doesn’t even know what he did or what they’re trying to pin on me. Because there’s Becca’s letter. There’s Becca saying good-bye to me like there’s no going back.
I’ve got to keep from falling into that nothing place where I can’t think nothing but Becca, Becca, get Becca back. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling the pencil through the springs of the cot above me. I flip to the back of Lexi’s notebook and let loose. I guess my brain is all soaked with Lexi’s business, because what comes out on the page is her standing outside that convenience store. Just like she said, she’s got the Sharpie in her hand, only it’s not just her arm that she’s marked up. Her whole body is covered with designs and writing, and for a second I think of the mareros from El Salvador and Honduras that I met a couple of times, their faces and necks and arms and hands tattooed completely. I keep drawing, and the tattoos climb over her face. Then the designs spill out onto the brick wall behind her, and I realize that she’s standing in a pool of ink that comes up to her ankles. I keep drawing, and the ink climbs in spirals halfway up her legs. Her face doesn’t change. She’s still standing there, her whole body saying, “I’m cool, I’m really fuckin’ cool.”
“She doesn’t know,” I say out loud. “She doesn’t know that she’s in deep.”
It freaks me out that I’m talking to myself. I feel kind of shaky, and I put down the pencil real careful this time, making sure not to break it. I’m not sure what the drawing means, but I know I don’t like it.
I find my place again in Lexi’s notebook and yank it back up in front of my face. I have to push my eyes across the lines. It’s slow going, and every word I read has to kick that drawing out of the way before it can hit my brain. But I’ve got to keep reading.
Here is what I didn’t tell Janet about that time Richard took me to McDonald’s when I was eight. I didn’t tell her that I wore my favorite dress, or that I was disappointed when Richard got there. That he was just an old guy with hairs sticking out of his nose, brown splotches all over his hands, and a greasy bald spot in the middle of his gray head. That Richard let me sit in the front seat and did my seatbelt for me even though I was plenty big enough to do it for myself. That he didn’t seem to listen when I answered his questions about my favorite TV shows. That my legs stuck to the leather seat of his big Buick and made a sucking sound when I got out at McDonald’s. That I ate my sundae as fast as I could and asked to go home. That he said no and told me to play on the playground. That I didn’t want to, but I did it anyway because I thought that then we could leave. That he watched me climb the netting all the way to the top of the play set. That when I came down the slide, he was waiting for me at the bottom and smiling. That I didn’t like his smile. That he picked me up and carried me over to an empty bench and sat me in his lap even though I was too big for that. That he just laughed when I tried to get down. That I felt something inside Richard’s pants press against me, something that made me feel dirty even though at the time I didn’t know what it was.
I didn’t tell Janet because I’ve never told anybody.
I wrote Cartoon another letter, and toward the end I reminded him of what a good time we had, just him and me. I write dirty stuff for him because I know he likes it. Meemaw is always telling me I need friends who are girls, but chicks hate me. It’s basically automatic. Girls hate anybody that boys like. And boys like me.
I use what I’ve got, I’m not gonna lie. I make sure my shorts pull tight across my butt, and I wear my tank tops so that plenty of tit shows. Shauna is always trying to say I ought to lose weight, what a knockout I’d be if I did, but no way am I gonna give up Meemaw’s goodies just to have a flat belly. I get plenty of looks the way I am now.
It’s the being wanted that I like, hands and eyes drawn to my body like magnets. Yeah, when I’m walking along and boys are talking about my ass, I act all pissed. But I love it. It makes me feel powerful, like I could karate-chop my way through the whole world right then.
I love being sexy, but I don’t love sex. Maybe it’s because of Richard. Maybe it’s because Shauna took me to get on the Pill when I was thirteen. She said it was for my cramps, but I know it was because she thought I was already doing it. Sex has never been that exciting to me. When I’m actually with a guy and he’s doing his thing, it’s like waiting for laundry to finish or trying to get through the last five minutes of Meemaw’s church without falling asleep. Anyway, lots of people don’t really like sex. What matters is knowing how to pretend that you do.
I make lots of noise and grab the dude’s hips. Make him think he’s driving me crazy. Pull him close, shout some shit, give him a little nip on the ear. Guys are so sure that they’re the shit, they never think you might be faking.
The first guy I kissed was this real sweet kid I knew when I was ten and we lived out in La Porte. Nestor. He had this cute gap between his teeth and long eyelashes. He was always a gentleman, holding my hand and stuff, kissing me with closed lips, never trying to touch me anywhere. He was all the time telling me how smart I was and helping me out at school. That was when Meemaw lived with us, and she always said that Nestor was good people.
Me and Nestor lost touch after a couple of moves, and it wasn’t until last year that I found out he got leukemia when he was thirteen. And he died from it. Dead. I felt so pissed that I hadn’t been there for him, that I hadn’t sat by his bed and told him jokes to make him forget about losing his hair and the tubes in his arms. I wonder if he died a virgin.
I already finished all the sweets Meemaw sent in her package. I’ve been in here long enough to know how to cry so nobody can hear me, and I’m getting by without pills. But I haven’t figured out how to make Meemaw’s cookies and donuts last me the week. It doesn’t matter how much she sends, two days and it’s gone. Because when you’re stuck in a little room with nothing to do, how are you going to keep yourself from pulling that box out from under the bed and scarfing down another peanut butter cookie?
All that’s left in the box now is her note. She didn’t write much, just “I love you and am praying for you.” She sends me these cards with Bible verses and little sayings on them. They’ve got a sticky side like a bumper sticker so you can put them on the wall or something. Here’s one.
“Come now and let us reason together,” says the Lord.
“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as
white as snow.”—Isaiah 1:18
Free! Free! As soon as we give over our hearts to the
Lord, we are free! Free from shame, guilt, fear, and all the
darkness that once surrounded us! Praise the Lord!
I want to tell Meemaw that I have that whole Bible she sent me, so she shouldn’t waste her stickers on me. But that would hurt her feelings.
Those words belong to some other world. I mean, I can read them. I’m not stupid. But it’s like reading a poster on the bus. This stuff is real to Meemaw, but it’s not real to me. All those exclamation points just make me want to laugh. Meemaw might as well send me quotes from the Driver’s Ed manual. Or the phone book.
I guess after these weeks of group I’m kind of used to it, and maybe I even like it a little. But I still don’t say anything. Today when all the girls were telling what was what about their past, how they felt alone or apart and shit, I wanted to say something. I almost did, too, but it was like there was this invisible hand clamped over my mouth. I couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.
I wanted to say, you know how sometimes the thing that sticks with you isn’t that big a deal, or it wouldn’t seem like it to anybody else, but to you it stands for everything that’s busted up and sucky in your life? If I had any balls, I would’ve told about this one time when I was maybe eight and Meemaw made me go into the big church with her on Sunday.
Before tha
t I stayed in the children’s room. I was bigger than the other kids, but I was kind of like a helper to the teacher lady. And I never wanted to leave. Always music playing and juice and graham crackers. I remember all the toys had the name of the church written on them in Sharpie. The Pentecostal Way Living Water Church. Like who was going to steal toys from a church?
Anyway, Meemaw dragged me into the main church room that day. There was singing, which I liked because I have a good voice just like my mom. Then they prayed and this guy in a cheesy white suit talked for a long time. The whole time people were shouting Amen from all sides.
I had my head on Meemaw’s shoulder and I was thinking up new moves for the number-one song on Mega 101 when the preacher called for people to come down to the front, to come down to the altar and be healed of darkness and washed of sin. I looked around and all of a sudden lots of people were crying and shaking. One lady’s false eyelashes were halfway down her cheek. A man fell into the aisle and started saying things I couldn’t understand. A woman in front of us swished her green skirt back and forth. Then she started dancing with her hands lifted.
And the thing is, even though it was crazy, with everybody in their own world like you’d see at a rave, they all looked so happy. Peaceful and excited at the same time, like they could hear some special music that I couldn’t. I looked over at Meemaw, and she was crying the same happy tears. I kept waiting for her to look at me, but she didn’t. Like she didn’t even remember I was there.
I felt like I was the only one in the whole place who was empty inside. When I was a little kid, I prayed with Meemaw for Jesus to come into my heart, and I’d done it a bunch of times at different summer camps and revivals. Because I never felt sure that it’d really stuck. That was the day that I knew it hadn’t. I was standing there all alone with no Jesus in my heart.
I don’t want to feel sorry for her, not even when I read about her sicko dad messing with her. I know if somebody tried to mess with Regina, I’d blow his ass right off the map, but I still want to tell Lexi to forget the boo-hoo, poor-little-white-girl bullshit. She’s never been hungry. She’s never gotten a beating. She’s never been on the run from la migra or the CPS. She’s never had to pack a baby sister off to California just to keep her safe. I want to write, TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK YOU KNOW ABOUT ME in Sharpie across every single page of her little diary.
But reading Lexi’s notebook also makes me think how everybody is off the record in a way. Not just fools like my pops who didn’t get their papers straightened out. Not just dropouts like me and Eddie wanting to stay out of the system. I mean that whole part inside of you that nobody else even knows is there. There’s a Lexi that talks trash to Janet, a Lexi that crosses her arms in group, a Lexi that writes in her journal. But there’s also this Lexi that nobody knows about, a Lexi inside of Lexi. That’s how somebody can be getting high or going to church but at the same time still feel like a seven-year-old kid locked out of the swimming pool. That’s how I can be clicking Eddie in, kicking the shit out of him but somewhere deep inside feel that I’m still his hermanito. Down there, there’s a little guy who just wants us to go home and make some ketchup sandwiches.
CHAPTER 30: NOW
I wake up to the sound of Gabe knocking the bars of my cell with a meal tray. For a second, I’m tripping because I think it’s breakfast and he’s going to take the notebook away. When I scramble out from under my cot tent, though, I see the steak fingers and corn, and I know it must be dinner. I take the tray and thank Gabe, but he just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head like he’s saying, the clock is ticking and why am I taking naps on the job?
I watch him walk away and think how his white hair is dry and fluffy just like this troll doll me and Eddie bought for Regina one time when my Tía Julia came to visit and took us all to Wal-Mart. It was a hippie troll with a little green suit, and she put those clothes on and took them off about a million times a day. When she was tired or upset, she’d suck on its hair until it was all one big slobbery spike. We made fun of her for it, but after she went to Cali, I would have given anything to see her curled up watching TV and sucking on her troll doll.
Now I swallow the corn in three bites and take the steak fingers with me under the cot. I’m about to duck under the blanket when I see the guy in Tiger’s old cell give me a look.
“Y qué, cabrón?” I say. “It won’t be long till you get what it’s like.” But I can’t tell if he even hears me. And I don’t have time to care.
A while back Janet and me played Scrabble, and then when I got sick of it, I just messed around with the tiles. I ended up making his name. It felt like it was on accident, but it also felt right. Like just exactly what I ought to spell out.
At first I just sat there staring at his name, thinking about how I first found out what it was. Gray Suit tossing photos and information sheets over to me in the conference room. His name on the page there like it was nothing.
Janet asked if I knew what Azael meant, and when I said no, she said she’d find out for me. Since then I’ve pissed her off more than once, and I thought probably she wouldn’t tell me even if she did find out. Then today she gave me a little piece of paper with some information on it. The main meaning she found for the name was “Angel of Death” or “Avenging Angel.” She said some magician wrote a long time ago about how the fallen angel Azael was tied up in the desert and tortured for everything he did.
I wonder what Janet thought when she read that.
What sucks today:
#1 – My hair is greasy as hell.
#2 – Powdered eggs for breakfast again.
#3 – No mail.
#4 – I haven’t been outside for three days. Fuckin rain.
#5 – My toilet backed up.
#6 – The cell smells like shit. Big time.
#7 – I’m thinking about him.
Today I started to tell Janet. Started to tell her just like I practiced it with Gray Suit. She brought some Play-Doh again, and I was mashing it in my hands. Halfway through my little performance, though, Janet took the Play-Doh out of my hand and put it away.
She gave me a dirty look and said, “That’s not you talking. Save that bull for your lawyer.” Then she just left me sitting there even though there were fifteen minutes before our time was up.
I should be doing my algebra problems so I can mail them in tomorrow, but my mind just drifts. Mostly I think about things that have to do with him.
Once I saw his name canned on a train car. There’s this spot on Montrose by some tracks where Cartoon and Slots liked to smoke and check out what was new in the pieces rolling by. On the trains you could see what gangs all the way out in LA were doing and who they were fighting, just by how they tagged up the rail cars. Plus there were lots of writers doing throw-ups that had nothing to do with gangs. People just wanting to make their mark. Slots likes to pretend he’s an original, but I could tell he got lots of his ideas just by studying their shit.
Slots started going on about this one piece way before I could see it. My eyes aren’t great. I’m supposed to wear glasses, but I never have. I can see good enough without them.
So anyway, when the train got closer, I could see what he was talking about. It was this design of a cloud that had bullets coming out of it. The curves of the cloud spelled out “R.I.P. Pájaro” in light blue letters. If you looked real hard, you could see that the puddles the bullets were falling into spelled out “Azael.”
Me and Slots were still talking about the piece when Cartoon started walking alongside the train, shaking up a can of brown paint.
I told him not to mess with it, that I liked that one. Slots was on my side, too, but Cartoon said, “This loser’s canning for MS-13. You can tell by the blue and shit. Why should I respect that?”
There was nothing I could say to change his mind, and then it was too late because Cartoon was already spraying over the piece with a sloppy Crazy Crew tag.
So I just sat back down and took a hit off their
joint. When Cartoon came back over to us, I asked him for some bars. Then I just drifted, listening to them talk shit and staring through the ugly brown tag to that light blue cloud raining bullets. I watched all the different colors swirl together. By the time the train rounded the bend and passed out of sight, I was floating on my own cloud of nothing.
I remember canning that boxcar like it was yesterday. It was a while after Pájaro got cut down, but a busted-up feeling was still dogging me all the time. I did the design in my black book, then found a good spot on a boxcar in one of the train yards by Beto’s house. I went by myself that time, nobody to slap me on the back and tell me it was awesome. So I always wondered, did anybody see it? I’d like to beat down this Cartoon fool for disrespecting my artwork and dissing Pájaro’s memory. At the same time, though, I’m just glad somebody saw it first, even if it had to be wasted on Lexi and her little punk friends.
Gray Suit’s been coming twice a week lately because the trial starts in a month. All he does is drill me on my testimony. He even asked me if I could make myself cry.
I told him to piss off. By now he’s used to me, so he didn’t react. He just told me that if I don’t get this right, I’m the one who’ll be screwed.
I’ve been thinking about that for a long time. But I also keep going back to what Janet said. I think about how bad it feels to fake things, like all the times I’ve pretended to cum just to make a dude feel good. Just the idea of forcing tears down my cheeks in front of a bunch of strangers in a courtroom pisses me off.
There’s faking, and then there’s faking.
There’s no reason for me to be thinking about him. No fuckin reason. He’s nothing to me. So what if I know what his name means? So what if I saw a train with his name canned on it? Everybody does what they have to do, that’s just how it is.
The Knife and the Butterfly Page 10
