Free Lunch

by Free Lunch (retail) (epub)

  “Nope, I’m done,” I say. “You’re an idiot. That stuff is poisonous. Look, it has a poison symbol right there on the can.”

  Charlie flips me off.

  “Benny, come on, let’s go,” I say.

  Benny looks at me, then looks at his brother. I realize it’s the same way Ford looks at me, like he needs approval. Brad shrugs. Benny says, “I’m staying.”

  “Stay if you want. But don’t do it. Don’t be stupid.”

  “You’re stupid,” Charlie says. This time, I flip him off.

  I want to get as far away from these idiots as possible. I ask Ford, “Want to go get some ice cream?”

  Ford nods, a huge smile on his face. We leave Vista Nueva and walk up the street to the Fast-Mart at the big intersection at LBJ Road. It isn’t that far, but Ford’s still little so it takes us almost twenty minutes. I make him hold my hand the whole time. The only time I let go is when we’re in the store and I have to pay. With the last of the pizza money, I buy us each a chocolate-covered vanilla ice cream on a stick.

  We sit outside in the shade of the convenience store. We nibble the cold treats slowly, enjoying every bite. This is a treat. Mom never lets us get stuff like this. I ask my brother, “How is it?”

  He nods, melted chocolate smearing the lower half of his face like a painted beard. A man walks by and tips his cap, saying, “Hello.”

  Ford says, “Poothy.”

  I snort, but quickly add, “Ford, don’t say that.” Since I’m half laughing, my brother doesn’t take me serious. He keeps saying it. Each time, I laugh harder. When I laugh, he laughs. Finally, I’m laughing so hard, tears stream down my face. When someone else walks by, going into the Fast-Mart, Ford says, “Poothy.” The man laughs too.

  But then Ford says it to a woman getting her gas. She takes off her sunglasses and glares at us. “Excuse me! What did you say?!”

  “Poothy!” Ford says. I’m trying to stop laughing, but I can’t.

  The woman shakes her keys at us, shouting, “What disgusting, foul language! Where is your mother? I hope she washes your mouth out with soap!!”

  Ford gets so scared, he drops his ice cream on the ground. He hides behind me.

  “Calm down,” I say to the woman. “He’s a little kid. He’s just playing.”

  “Well, you’re old enough to know better! You need to teach him manners,” she shouts. Then she storms inside, and starts yelling at the cashier.

  “I in trouble?” Ford asks.

  “No. But don’t tell Mom, OK?”

  “Pomise,” Ford says.

  While I use the store’s water hose to clean Ford’s face, sirens blare past us. Two ambulances, a cop car, and a fire truck speed by, lights flashing. I don’t think much of it as we start the walk home.

  Ford repeats, “Woo-woo-woo-woo!”

  As we approach the apartment complex, we see the flashing lights. The emergency vehicles are everywhere, with cops telling people to get back. A crowd of our neighbors are standing around, watching. I tug on old Mr. Juarez’s sleeve and ask what happened.

  “Bunch of stupid kids got high on Freon, from the air-conditioners. Instead of inhaling it, guess some of ’em drank it. Turned blue and green, started puking all over my sidewalk. One of ’em passed out. So I called the cops. Ambulance already took two of ’em to the hospital. Probably saved their damn-fool lives.”

  I look for Benny. I feel sick to my stomach. I don’t care about Charlie. Would serve him right if he got sick. But Benny’s just a dumb kid, doing whatever Brad tells him to. I walk around the crowd to the other side, and see Benny and Brad sitting on the back of an ambulance. Benny has chunks of wet puke all down the front of his clothes. Their dad is screaming at them while the paramedic tries to calm him down.

  That’s when someone grabs me from behind. I’m about to scream till I realize it’s Mom. She shakes me so hard, I think my head is going to snap off.

  “WHERE WERE YOU?!” she shrieks. “I thought you were dead! Did you and Ford suck that Freon too?!”

  “What? No!” I say, trying to pry myself loose.

  Sam grabs me with his giant hands, and shakes me even harder. “T-t-tell the d-d-damn tr-tr-truth! D-d-d-did y-y-y-you and F-F-Ford s-s-s-suck that ch-ch-ch-chemical cr-cr-cr-crap?!”

  “Tell us if you did now!” Mom shouts. “It’s poison. The ambulances are right here. They can take you to the hospital. Tell us, dammit!”

  “No! Get off me!” I shout. “Ford and I didn’t go anywhere near that stuff. I’m not an idiot! Those kids were doing it, so I took Ford to get ice cream!”

  Then Mom and Sam do something weird—they hug me. Like, really hug me. They pick up Ford and hug both of us. They hug us real tight and real hard. This is our first full family hug. I’ve seen them on TV but never had one. Feels kinda nice, but also kinda alien and real embarrassing ’cause some of the neighbors are watching.

  “See?!” Mom shouts at strangers. “I knew my son wasn’t stupid enough to do that crap!”

  Except she didn’t know. She thought I had, which is why she and Sam wigged out. I roll my eyes.

  We get upstairs and Mom won’t shut up about how worried they were. But Sam is still red in the face, so crimson it’s like the color of the fire truck outside. His hands are shaking. He turns to me, saying, “G-g-go to your room.”

  “What? Why?” I ask.

  Sam starts to take off his belt, and I already know.

  “What are you doing? I didn’t do anything wrong! I told you, we didn’t do anything!”

  “W-w-we tr-trusted you with F-F-Ford. Y-y-you left the ap-apartments,” Sam stutters. He grabs me, dragging me toward my room. I snake out of his grip, he grabs me by the shirt. It rips as I try to get away. But he has both hands on me, picking me up and carrying me.

  “Mom!” I scream. “Tell him I didn’t do anything!”

  Mom shakes her head. “Sam’s right. We told you not to leave the apartments.”

  Ford starts crying. He reaches out for me, saying, “No! Leave Rex lone!” Our mom picks him up while he cries and cries and cries, shouting, “Stop!”

  “Sh-sh-sh,” Mom shushes Ford, like he’s going down for a nap. To me, she says, “We told you not to leave the apartments. Sam needs to teach you responsibility.”

  That’s when Sam starts lashing me with his belt. My legs, my butt, my back. I try to escape, but there’s nowhere to go.

  The worst part for me, though, is Ford watching.

  Little kids shouldn’t have to see stuff like this.

  SUPERHEROES

  When I grab my lunch tray, I notice. The school cafeteria smells better than usual. I crane my neck to see what it is. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes with gravy, all that sort of stuff. They even have cranberry sauce. It’s like paste from a can, not with real berries, which is good. The can stuff is better anyways.

  There’s a big sign that says THANKSGIVING ALL WEEK. I get real pumped ’cause I love holiday feasts. We never have them at home. Mom says Thanksgiving is a big waste of money. I don’t see how, since the whole point is to eat food. Eating food is never a waste of money. Last year, we had microwave TV dinners on Thanksgiving.

  My mouth is all watering and my stomach is like growling all fierce as I get my lunch tray loaded up with all the treats. I’m so excited to eat this, I don’t even care that I have to say, “Free Lunch” to the cashier.

  Ethan waves from our usual table. When I sit down, I wince, scrunching up my whole face.

  “You OK?” Ethan asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. I don’t say the truth—that it hurts anytime I sit ’cause I got whipped so hard.

  “What’d you think of the X-Factor comics I loaned you?” he asks.

  “They’re good, but X-Men is way better. Though I think I like the New Mutants ones the most, ’cause those characters are our age.”

  “I disagree. X-Factor is the best. They’re the five original X-Men.”

  I shrug. “How is it that these heroes
get beat up all the time, and in the next issue, they’re back for more?” I ask. “You never see them in a hospital or resting in bed with a black eye or in a cast or anything.”

  “Excellent question,” Ethan says. He starts giving his theory.

  I keep shifting the way I sit, so the weight is on my legs, not on my bottom cheeks. It’s awkward though. No matter how I sit today, I can’t get comfortable. I even bunch up my sweatshirt and try to make it a pillow, but it doesn’t work.

  The food is real good though, so I try to focus on that. When I eat, I like to get a little bit of everything in my mouth. A bite of turkey with mashed potato and gravy and dressing. Then a tiny bit of the cranberry, ’cause there isn’t much of it. The cornbread stuffing is my favorite, so I try to leave some of it for last. I like the last bite to be the best bite.

  Ethan takes all of his lunch items out of a brown paper bag. Almost every day, he brings his lunch. Usually I’m jealous, ’cause his lunch looks better than mine. Most of the time he brings leftovers, like spaghetti and meatballs, or lasagna. Other days, it’s a sandwich, baby carrots, and a bag of potato chips. His stepmom must buy the variety pack, ’cause every day it’s a different kind or flavor. Ruffles. Lays. Cheetos. Fritos. Sour cream and onion. BBQ. Chili cheese. Cool ranch. I love chips. My mom doesn’t buy them too often, but Abuela always has them stocked up when I come visit. Then when I leave, she gives them all to me to take home.

  “—the other thing I love about the X-Men is that they protect a world that fears and hates them,” Ethan continues. “I really wish I had superpowers so I could be a hero. I’d protect all kinds of people. I mean, I guess it’d depend on my power set, but I’d travel the whole planet to help everyone. You know?”

  I nod. “That’d be cool.”

  “If you had superpowers, what would you do?”

  Without thinking, I say, “I’d kill people who beat up their kids.”

  “Whoa,” Ethan says, putting his sandwich down. “That’s a bit dark, isn’t it? Heroes don’t kill.”

  I shrug. “Wolverine does.”

  “But the X-Men don’t approve of it when he does that. Good guys don’t kill bad guys.”

  “Maybe they should,” I say. “Bad people deserve to be punished.”

  “But if the good guys kill, what’s the difference between them and the evil people?”

  I never thought of it like that. As I’m rolling that idea around in my head, Ethan is looking at me all weird. Like he’s trying to read my mind. He asks, “Are you talking about in real life, or comic books?”

  “Comic books.” I take another bite of my food. Chew. Swallow. I don’t look up when I add, “But in real life too.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s fair,” Ethan says. “I guess that’s why we have police and lawyers. There’s a whole system in place. Do bad things, go to jail. Do really bad things, kill people, and you get a death sentence.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes the law isn’t enough. Bad guys go to jail, they get out, then commit crimes again. It happens all the time. That’s why Batman is stupid. He catches bad guys, puts them in jail, and a few months later, he’s chasing them around again. If you do like Wolverine does, and kill the bad guys, they’re done. They can’t hurt people anymore. They got what they deserved.”

  “I didn’t know you were so hardcore,” Ethan whispers, almost to himself. “I guess if you and I were on a team, I’d be Cyclops, and you’d be Wolverine. I’d play by the rules and you’d do whatever you want. That’s a good dynamic. I’d keep you in check though, so you don’t cross the line.”

  “You couldn’t stop me,” I say. I feel myself getting mad. I don’t know if I’m mad at Ethan, or just ’cause.

  “Be honest. Would you really kill bad guys?” Ethan asks. “Do you think you could take someone’s life?”

  As I think about it, I get this sick feeling inside. Like I’m all alone in the darkness, even though its daytime and I’m surrounded by people. My face gets all hot, my eyes blur a little. It’s like I’m so mad, I want to cry. I won’t cry though. Not in school.

  I think about when Sam hits me. When he hits my mom. I wonder if one day he’ll hit Ford. I feel this rage boil up in my gut, and I question if I could do it.

  I want to be able to—to hurt Sam the way he’s hurt me and my mom. And to hurt my mom the way she’s hurt me. But I don’t think I could. It makes me ashamed. I feel weak. Maybe Sam is right. I am a pussy. And a coward.

  “Rex?” Ethan asks.

  I shake my head. “No. But I wish I could. I know it’s wicked and awful and terrible, but the world has so many evil people in it. You ever watch the news? The bad things people do to animals? To kids? To each other? I’m so tired of people getting away with doing bad things. They should be punished.

  “I mean, that’s what God used to do. People were jerks, so he flooded the whole world, killed off the whole human race except Noah and his family and all those pairs of animals. If I were God, I would punish bad people too. No, wait. You know what? Actually, I’d just make it so that they don’t exist in the first place. Snap my fingers, and poof. They’re gone. I wonder why God doesn’t do that now.”

  Ethan’s eyes get all big. He takes a deep breath. “Man. I wasn’t ready for this. This is a heavy philosophical discussion.”

  “The world sucks,” I say. My whole body is tingling, like I wanna fight someone. Or maybe run out of the cafeteria and just keep running forever and never come back.

  Ethan is staring at me and I realize my eyes are all welled up with tears, ’cause I’m on the verge of crying. He whispers, “You OK?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, fighting really hard not to cry. I’m embarrassed, waiting for Ethan to make fun of me. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, until I catch my breath again.

  He says softly, “You might not think I do, but I get it. We all have our demons. But you can’t let the dark stuff control you.”

  I wonder if Ethan has secrets. I doubt it. He may not like his stepmom, but she makes him a brown-bag lunch. I don’t think I can remember my mom ever making a meal, except maybe cereal. Ethan doesn’t get it, he doesn’t deal with the stuff I do.

  But I guess he’s still right.

  “OK. Maybe I wouldn’t kill anybody. But I’d find ways to punish the bad guys, like in ways they couldn’t recover. Child molesters, I’d cut off their hands. Then tie them up and hang them on a sign and carve what they did into their foreheads so everyone would know. For people who hit their kids, or beat their wives, I’d break every bone in their hands. Tell them if they do it again, I’d come back and do every bone up to their shoulders.”

  Ethan slaps the table. “Hot damn! I love it! That’s so awesome. Why didn’t I think of that? We should write a comic book!”

  My friend keeps talking about all the awesome adventures we could have as superheroes. All I can think is that maybe I’m not one of the good guys. I may not be capable of killing, but I want to hurt people. Good guys don’t think the horrible stuff I do. Maybe I’m not so different from Sam. Maybe I am a bad person.

  The thought makes me want to throw up.

  Suddenly, I lose my appetite.

  TURKEY

  Abuela lives three hours away, in Abilene. But she’s driving to Birmingham to join us today, for Thanksgiving. From my bedroom, I can see the Vista Nueva parking lot. I stand there, watching, waiting for her Toyota to pull up. When it finally does, I run downstairs to greet her.

  We hug for a long time. She smells of Dove bar soap, and her skin is soft, like Kleenex tissue. She kisses me, right on my ear. She does it so hard, my ear pops. It’s so weird, but she’s been doing it since I was little. Now it makes me laugh.

  “How was the drive, Abuela?” I ask.

  “Fácil,” she says. “Easy. I would make a thousand drives to see you, mi hijo.” She kisses my other ear and it pops too.

  “Gandma!” Ford squeals, running toward her. She hugs him and kisses his ears too. He squeals and clasps
his hands over them. “Don’ kiss my ears!”

  “Hello, Mother,” Mom says with ice in her voice. She does not smile, her arms crossed. She keeps her distance.

  “Hello, Luciana,” Abuela says. She walks over and hugs my mom. Mom doesn’t hug her back.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Mom barks at me. “Get her things and bring them upstairs.”

  Abuela’s smile turns into a thin line. “I will help you.”

  “Rex has it,” Mom snaps. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  Abuela doesn’t listen. She comes over and repeats, “I will help you.” When she opens the car trunk, it is full of groceries. Some are in bags, some are in boxes.

  “What is all that?” Mom groans, her pitch higher than usual. “We can buy our own groceries, Mother. We have money.”

  I say, “No, we don’t.”

  Mom glares at me. It’s her look that says I’ll pay for that comment later, after Abuela leaves. I try not to think about it.

  “It is just a few things for the boys,” Abuela says.

  Mom is annoyed. Without a word, she turns and goes back upstairs. I’m already digging through the grocery bags. Variety packs of cereal, chips, and cookies. Fruit roll-ups. Chocolate bars. Granola bars. Loaves of bread, jars of peanut butter and grape jelly. Packets of oatmeal (just add hot water!), canned fruit in light syrup, bags of pretzels, microwave popcorn. Boxes of rice and macaroni and cheese. Cans of vegetables, soup, and SpaghettiOs—my favorite. My mouth waters at the sight of all the future meals and snacks.

  It takes four trips to haul everything up to our second-floor apartment and into our small kitchen. As I proudly stack everything on the empty shelves, I announce, “It’s like Christmas came early!”

  Abuela smiles when I smile. Mom doesn’t. Her arms are crossed, and she sways from one foot to the other, like a cobra waiting to strike.

  Abuela and Ford bring up some plastic bags from her backseat. She starts handing out the contents, some to Ford, some to me. New shirts, socks, underwear. There are several boxes of shoes. “I did not know your exact shoe size or what you like, so try them on and pick whatever you want to keep. I can take back the rest. I saved the receipts.”