“Dad wrote lots of songs,” said my mom. “He was also a great poet.”
“Just a lot of silly words,” muttered my father, brushing off the compliment.
My mom rose from the couch and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Sing La dueña de mi amor, Mark. For me.”
This was the most affection she’d shown him in a while. I glanced at my güela. She seemed to be pleading with her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t refuse.
“Ándale, Marcos,” she coaxed. “Play that beautiful song.”
My father began to play. Then he sang. “A la dueña de mi amor, estos versos le dedico. Si encuentran algún error, que me perdonen, lo suplico.
“Nací, mujer, para adorarte. Y perdona si al cantarte lloro. Mi único placer es contemplarte, porque yo de corazón te adoro.”
I don’t know what he was singing, but it made my mom swoon. She closed her eyes and swayed with the tune. My grandmother’s eyes glistened. My grandfather, completely oblivious to the music, continued reading the newspaper.
My father ended with “Por eso, noche y día yo me siento con orgullo. Porque dices que eres mía, y yo te digo que soy tuyo.”
When he finished, they kissed. They kissed for a long time.
I don’t know if God was answering my prayer, but it was a good start.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On Monday morning, I handed Mrs. Petrosky her autographed picture of the Angel of Death, along with her autograph book. She hugged me tightly, smothering me in her brown wool sweater. It was embarrassing to be hugged that way by my teacher in front of the class. But I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to chance hurting her feelings.
“Who is your father going to wrestle tonight, Jesse?” she asked excitedly.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
That was true. My father seldom speaks about his matches. He goes out and does his job, much like everyone else. Except that he beats people up for a living. When he does talk about wrestling, he usually tells funny stories about the “boys.” That’s how he refers to his fellow wrestlers.
There was the time, for instance, when Ice Man Jacob Sloane, who is an amateur magician, was showing the boys backstage a trick he’d recently learned. He had Red Lassiter handcuff him, hands behind his back, to a metal pole. Sloane bragged that he could uncuff himself in less than fifteen seconds.
But after fifteen seconds, he still couldn’t get free. He tugged and twisted, but the handcuffs wouldn’t open. Minutes later, while the other wrestlers hooted and howled with laughter, Jacob Sloane sent Red Lassiter to get the key for the handcuffs from his dressing room. Lassiter searched everywhere, turning Sloane’s dressing room upside down, but he couldn’t find the key anywhere.
Sloane and Lassiter were scheduled to fight against the Black Mamba and Dr. Inferno, and their match was up next.
While Sloane struggled to get loose, Frank Collins ordered his crew to find a pair of wire cutters. In the meantime, he quickly put together a match between Wally Armstrong, who wasn’t even scheduled to fight that night, and Gargoyle Gorman, who’d wrestled in an earlier bout.
The ring announcer, Dan Greenberg, introduced it as a “bonus match.” But the live audience wasn’t interested in watching two jobbers fight. They booed loudly. They chanted, “Bo-rring! Bo-rring!” as Gargoyle Gorman and Wally Armstrong kept their match going, stalling for time.
Finally, in an instinctive act of pure genius, Frank Collins created a scenario in which the cameras showed Red Lassiter frantically searching for his tag-team partner. He found Sloane “badly beaten” and handcuffed to a pole, purportedly the dastardly work of the Black Mamba and Dr. Inferno. Seconds later, in a TV interview, Red Lassiter vowed revenge against his partner’s attackers. He recruited Kronos to team up with him to avenge the vicious beating of the Ice Man.
The match was pretty decent with a tremendous effort on everyone’s part, considering it had been put together so quickly.
While the show was still in progress and since wire cutters or the key still hadn’t been located, a crew member rushed out of the arena and found a hardware store nearby. He quickly purchased a hacksaw and speeded back.
Jacob Sloane’s handcuffs were finally off. He ran down to ringside before the match was over and helped Red Lassiter and Kronos defeat their opponents, at the same time getting revenge for his “attack.”
Although no one ever found out, Carlos Montoya later admitted to my father that he had taken Jacob Sloane’s key. He’d also slightly bent some of the teeth on the handcuffs so that Sloane wouldn’t be able to undo them easily. Carlos has never liked Sloane. He doesn’t care for Sloane’s arrogant attitude backstage toward the younger, less experienced wrestlers. Ice Man Jacob Sloane plays a face on TV, but backstage, he’s not very well liked by the boys.
Mrs. Petrosky took down a framed photograph of her dog, a brown pug wearing a pink bonnet, from the wall next to her desk. She replaced her dog’s picture with my father’s, then hung it back up.
“Do you think you might be able to get me one of those, too?” Wendell asked hopefully, as he emptied his backpack and stuffed his books inside his desk.
“That picture already belonged to Mrs. Petrosky,” I explained. “I had my father autograph it for her, that’s all.”
“Kissing up to the teacher, dork?”
Oh, no. I turned around. Manny Alvarez, Hugo Sanchez, and Chester Leonard were standing behind me. This was their first day back from their suspension.
Ignoring them, I sat down and pulled out my history book.
Manny leaned over. He whispered in my ear, “See you at the blacktop . . . hero!”
I sat there stunned. I was hoping Manny had forgotten about the other day. Or maybe he’d decided another suspension wouldn’t be worth it.
What was I going to do? I didn’t want to fight him. I’d probably get suspended, too, not to mention getting a busted nose or a black eye. I dreaded to think how my mom would react if that happened.
I glanced over at Wendell. I wondered if he’d be any help if the three of them started beating me up. If I weren’t so nervous, I’d laugh. Poor Wendell couldn’t beat a drum. Maybe the other guys would jump in—Goose, Terrance, and some of the others. They’d been so anxious to be my friends. Could I count on them now? I didn’t think so. I couldn’t blame them, really.
I could let Coach Johnson know about Manny. He was already aware of the situation. But how could I live that down later? Everybody would know I snitched. They’d accuse me of being a chicken.
After visiting the Alamo, I had actually looked forward to coming to class. I was beginning to find Texas history a fascinating subject. But it was almost impossible to concentrate on what Mrs. Petrosky was saying. I could feel Manny’s hot breath in my ear saying, See you at the blacktop . . . hero.
When Texas history was over, we filed out of the room for our next class. Manny purposely bumped me as he passed by. I ignored him, which by doing so, I’m sure I only verified his belief that I was scared of him.
Out in the hall Wendell said, “Cody says he saw your dad outside your house. Is he still in town? ‘Cause if he is, maybe we could come over after school to meet him.”
I started to tell Wendell that I had no idea who Cody was. Instead I said, “My father was here this past weekend, but he’s gone now. He’s wrestling tonight.”
Wendell’s face sank. “Well, when will he be back?”
“I don’t know.”
We headed down the hall. Finally Wendell blasted me. “If you don’t want us to meet your dad, why don’t you just say so?”
“Wendell, it’s not that.”
“Look, Jesse, I’ve tried to be friends with you, but you act like you’re too good for us. Well, maybe your dad’s a hotshot wrestler, but you’re not. You’re just a kid like everybody else at this school.”
“I’m not lying, Wendell! I really don’t know when my father’s going to be home. You watch ACW every Monday night, don’t you? They give a schedule of upcomin
g wrestling appearances during the show. Baton Rouge one night, Atlanta the next, Jacksonville the night after. Maybe your father comes home from work every evening, but mine doesn’t, okay?”
Wendell grew silent. Then he said, “I don’t have a father.”
“What do you mean, you don’t . . . ”
“My parents are divorced.”
His words knocked the wind out of me. “Wendell, I–I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He shrugged. “That’s all right. They’ve been divorced for a while.”
“But you still have a father,” I said, trying to smooth my blunder. “Even if your parents are divorced.”
Wendell lowered his eyes and stared at the floor. He kicked a wadded gum wrapper someone had carelessly dropped and sent it skidding across the hallway. “No, I don’t. Not really. My dad hasn’t come around, not even once since he left us almost four years ago. He’s never written or called or anything. So as far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a father.”
“What happened? I don’t mean to pry in your business, Wendell, but why’d your parents get divorced?”
Wendell hesitated. He glanced around the hallway, checking to see if anyone was listening to our conversation. Talking about it probably made him uncomfortable. But I wanted to know. I had to know.
“Did your parents fight a lot?”
“No. That’s the weird thing about it. They never argued at all. At least not that I can recall. One day he just packed his stuff and moved out.”
“But there had to be a reason they split up,” I persisted.
“I’m sure there was. But every time I ask my mom, the only thing she says is, ‘It was your father’s choice.’ She won’t give me any more information than that.”
“And you never heard them have any disagreements, arguments of any kind?”
All couples argue, I heard my father say in my mind.
“I wish I had,” said Wendell. “That way I’d have had some clue as to why he moved out.” His eyes became misty. “Sometimes . . . I think he left because of me.”
“Because of you? Why?”
“You know, ‘cause . . . I’m kinda fat.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his palm.
“Wendell, your being . . . heavy didn’t have anything to do with your parents’ divorce.” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “fat.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think my dad was disappointed he had such a fat kid for a son. He wanted me to be more athletic, like him. He used to work out in a gym all the time. But my mom’s a big lady. I guess I got my size from her side of the family. Maybe he decided he didn’t like being married to a fat lady with a fat kid anymore.”
“No, Wendell, for whatever reason your parents divorced, it wasn’t because of that,” I said.
“I guess I’ll never know, will I?” He took another swipe at his eyes. “I think that if my parents had argued about the problems they were having, there’s a chance they wouldn’t have gotten divorced,” said Wendell. “I mean, as long as people argue, they’re at least talking things out, bringing their issues out in the open. But if they never say what’s bothering them, how are they supposed to resolve their differences?”
That made sense. I knew why my parents fought. I didn’t want them to get divorced, but if they did, at least I’d know the reasons for it. Hopefully, though, they would be able to talk their way through their problems.
It dawned on me that I didn’t know anything about Wendell Cooley. I’d never even tried to get to know him or anyone else at school. Over the years I’d grown so accustomed to distancing myself from my classmates. I figured they just wanted to be my friend because of my father. But, had I ever made any real effort to get to know them? Maybe that’s why I felt I didn’t have any friends.
I had an idea.
“Listen, Wendell, why don’t you and the guys come over to my house tonight to watch Monday Night Mayhem. My father won’t be there, of course, but we have a lot of interesting wrestling stuff that I think you’d enjoy looking at.”
Wendell’s face brightened. “Really? Yeah, sure, that’ll be cool! I’ll tell the others, okay?” He bounded off to his next class like a happy puppy.
I’m not sure what made me do that. I’d like to believe I did it because I wanted Wendell to know I appreciated him, even if his father didn’t. But perhaps, subconsciously, I did it for a more selfish reason. Maybe I was trying to strengthen my support group in case I needed them when I confronted Manny at the blacktop.
Of course, the real person I wanted to invite over was Sara Young. But her parents didn’t allow her to watch wrestling. If they found out she’d watched it at my house, she might get in trouble. I didn’t want to chance doing anything that might hurt her, especially after what I’d put her through with Mr. Gillette.
The rest of the morning flew by quickly. I don’t remember much of what any of my teachers talked about. My mind was focused solely on Manny Alvarez and Thing One and Thing Two. Maybe he’d just bad-mouth me in front of everybody or insult my father or something. I could deal with that. On the other hand, what if he pounced on me, knocked me to the ground, and started swinging? What if Sara watched it happen? That would be worse than any beating Manny could dish out.
. . . When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
“Who is the “he” to whom Blake is referring, Mr. Baron?”
Mr. Gillette’s voice startled me. “I–I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat the question?”
He rose from his desk and walked toward mine. He folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “In his poem, ‘The Tyger,’ who is the ‘he’ to whom William Blake is referring?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” I replied.
Mr. Gillette grabbed my literature book from the top of my desk. He opened it and flipped the pages. “It would help if you followed along with us, Mr. Baron.” He slammed the open book down on my desk. With a huff, he headed back down the aisle and took his seat on top of his desk.
Sara turned to me. She flashed a dimpled smile and winked. Without a doubt, she had to be the most beautiful girl I’d ever met.
When the bell rang for our next class, we headed out the door.
“It would help if you followed along with us, Mr. Baron,” Sara said in a deep voice, imitating our teacher. She laughed affectionately.
“Mr. Gillette’s not so bad,” I told her. “I’ve had worse. Oh, by the way, I have something for you.”
“What is it? Flowers? Diamonds?” Sara teased.
I sat my backpack down against the wall, out of the way from the kids who were changing classes. Unzipping a side pocket, I brought out a manila folder.
“Here you go.” I handed her a 5 x 7 photograph of the Angel of Death. It didn’t have the colorful graphics of the other one nor was it as large, but it was a full-size view of my father.
“He’s awesome!” she gushed. “I can’t believe this is your dad.”
“Of course he is,” I said with a smile. “Don’t you see the resemblance?”
Sara laughed. “Now that you mention it, you look exactly alike—the same skeleton face, the same long, black hair—you’re the spitting image of your father.”
I flung my backpack across my shoulders. “I hope you like it.”
“I love it, Jesse. Thank you for thinking about me.”
Thinking about you? You’re never out of my thoughts.
“By the way, I know your parents don’t like for you to watch wrestling, but if you happen to be channel surfing tonight around nine o’clock, and you happen to stop on channel 36 for a moment or two, you might just be able to catch a glimpse of my father.”
“I’ll look out for him,” she promised. “See you at lunch.”
Lunch! For a moment, I’d forgotten about Manny. I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to do about hi
m. As I headed toward my math class, I realized I had about an hour to come up with an answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ever since I met Sara, I’d been dying to eat lunch with her. But she was always surrounded by a bunch of girls. The only time I got to spend with her was a few brief moments on the blacktop after we’d eaten. Maybe I could meet up with her after school, and we could walk home together again. That is, if I’d be able to walk at all after Manny got through with me.
Across the cafeteria, I spotted him. He was sitting with Chester and Hugo and some other thugs. They were laughing about something. Perhaps they were having such a great time, he’d forget about his threat against me.
To my horror, Manny turned and stared in my direction. Everyone at his table turned and stared at me, too. They were still laughing. It seemed I was the source of their amusement.
“Wendy told us you’ve invited us over to your house tonight to watch wrestling,” said Goose. He sat his lunch tray down next to mine. A french fry hung out of the corner of his mouth like a cigarette.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, diverting my eyes away from Manny’s table.
“Me, too?” asked Terrance.
“Of course.”
“What about me?” asked a redheaded kid with braces.
“I don’t even know who you are,” I said.
“I’m Ronnie Brisco,” he replied, grinning a mouth full of metal. “I’m in art class with Wendell.”
The conversation drifted off into tonight’s show as well as the upcoming pay-per-view event.
“My mom said that if I pass my science test, she’ll order The Final Stand for Sunday night,” said Wendell. “You’re all welcome to come over and watch it if you want.”
“Me, too?” asked Terrance.
“Yeah, sure,” said Wendell.
“What about me?” asked the redheaded kid with braces.
When they finished eating, Manny and his gang rose from their table. They dropped their food trays in the dishwashing area. Then they headed toward us.
“We’ll be waiting for you behind the gym,” growled Manny. He shoved my chair, squishing me against the table.
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