“A what?” Sally laughed.
“A tarsier. You don’t know what that is? It’s a primate, but it’s small, looks like a squirrel, but a squirrel with bizzaro eyes. Did you ever check out the link I sent you to Nature Unleashed on YouTube? It’s totally there.” Sookie shot me a dirty look. “Marco, you better not ask her to the dance.”
“What?” Sally’s back stiffened, and I wondered if she was making a connection between the upcoming dance and me and Erika. Maybe she was jealous?
I took a deep breath, deciding to hope. “I won’t ask her. I swear.”
The eighth-grade dance was still weeks away, and I hadn’t asked anyone yet, mostly because of courage—or my lack of it. But if I did ask anyone, I’d ask Sally.
Truth be told, I’d been practicing asking her for months, maybe even the whole school year. Not out loud. Not even really in the conscious part of my brain. But deep inside, I was always trying out those words. . . .
Would you . . .
Could you . . .
Be my date?
Later, I would connect the dots between Sally’s interpretation of my dream and my hesitance to ask her to the dance, but I didn’t see it then. I stood too close.
“Enough already, Sally Pearl!” Mr. Blake waved his arms, gesturing for her to come over to him. “Now!”
Sally limped off, and Sookie asked, “Think she’ll be okay? He was pretty mad when I went over there, but what’s new?”
“I mean, he’s not the worst.” I glanced at Jade, who sat in the stands with Diego, her knee pushed against his. Lately, Jade’s dad was the worst.
Sookie started to pack up her kit. “I’m serious about the love eyes, BTdubs.” She made her tarsier face and nodded toward Erika, who, coming off that race, looked sweaty and tired and the opposite of love struck.
“Nope. The girl barely knows I’m alive.”
“Ha,” Sookie said, and walked off to run interference between Sally and Mr. Blake, whose agitated hands vacillated between the track and the injured knee. Even Coach Sami eyed them warily.
So by now you’re probably thinking, “Hey, Marco, why pull a Marta here? Do we really need to know all this?” And I’d say, “Yeah, you do.” Because if you don’t know about that particular day and that particular run and that very first fall, you won’t understand what happened next, something equally singular.
That night, at midnight, Sally Blake showed up at my house.
Senior Year
3. I WORK HARD FOR MY MONEY
THAT FIRST BLAST OF AIR is heaven. I stand in that space between the double doors that lead into Grendel & Son’s Market with my eyes closed, arms raised to the ceiling in triumph. The fact that I am here, on time for my shift, is a slight miracle. Just thirty minutes earlier, I was standing in my kitchen, slicing up tomatoes and refereeing another fight between my eleven-year-old twin brothers.
THEM
You told everyone I wet my pants!
Well, you do!
No, I don’t!
You did that one time!
I was sick!
So?
That’s different!
Yeah, right.
And you told Melanie that I liked Celia.
But you do!
No, I don’t!
ME
Stop! Just stop! Seriously stop!
When it comes to conversations between me and my little bros, three phrases always take center stage: No—don’t do that! Just stop! I’m warning you!
So, it’s probably no surprise that many afternoons, including this afternoon, are spent in Principal Johnson’s office at Seagrove Middle. There, I make promises I haven’t been able to keep: that my brothers can do better, that they’ll stop giving each other smacks and shoves, that they’ll cease and desist on the not-so-occasional kicks in the nuts (at least on school property). So far their violence remains localized—the fights, only between the two of them. But Principal Johnson insists that it is only a matter of time before we witness the spillover. Apparently, sibling fighting is like a gateway drug to fighting among the general population.
Anyway, I make promises, and sometimes (less and less so) Principal Johnson buys my promises. He’s got a soft spot for my family because he’s known Pop from when they were “scraggly sixth graders” together at Seagrove Middle to when Pop worked here, as a custodian, back when I was that “scraggly kid” making tarsier eyes at Sally. And even though Pop no longer works at Seagrove and they’re not really close like that, he knows that Pop is a “good guy” whose life was on track until the end of eleventh grade, when Pop knocked Mom up with me.
But all that goodwill doesn’t stop his concerns over my brothers’ “fumbling transition” into sixth grade. Principal Johnson is always surprised by the twins’ nonsense because, to hear him say it, I was “always a sensible kid” and the twins act like they’re “out of their minds.” This is all the kind of stuff he says when he’s “reached his limit.” Today he delivers a hell-and-damnation lecture.
PRINCIPAL JOHNSON
Your brothers need to learn to control their tempers. Your brothers need more individual attention at home.
ME
But I—
PRINCIPAL JOHNSON
Yes, I know you give them your attention, Marco, and yes, I know your mom has to work and your father—well, I know that he is . . . sometimes . . . unable to focus. I’m sorry about how . . . about what happened. But . . .
ME
We’re trying. We’re doing our best.
PRINCIPAL JOHNSON
I know. But you . . . it . . . it has to be better.
Better is what we’ve all strived toward these last four years, since Pop had his head injury followed by his diagnosis with TBI.
For those of you not in the know, TBI stands for traumatic brain injury. And it’s something that can change you for good. TBI is something that can make Pop sit at home while I deal with a middle school principal who always wants more than we have to give.
TBI can mean that on bad days, I have to be the one to stop my brothers from fighting at the kitchen table while Pop sits in the living room, staring out the window. The noise level epic, but Pop not hearing one bit of it. Or, at least, not saying anything about it.
Pop’s random quietness is better than the first year after his diagnosis. That year—the year I started high school—was filled with sudden outbursts. TVs were broken, and dishes were flung across the room at Mom. Mom would fling them back at Pop because, at some point, you lose it. You forget what the doctors tell you. “It’s not him. It’s the injury. The injury can create the outbursts. But we believe that his brain will heal more. That this will stop.”
“That he’ll be the same?” is what Mom wanted to know.
“We don’t know about the same. The injury is different for everyone. Only time can tell,” they had said. “But we believe that he’ll get better.”
One thing I learned from Pop’s injury is “better” is a relative term.
And so we waited, repeating, “It’s not him. It’s the injury.”
Mom cried a lot that year. The twins stayed outside most days. And, yeah, I guess that was when the boys started fighting. I did my best to change the dynamic. To not be the “jerk of a big brother” I had been before Pop’s injury. I stopped shoving them into walls and eating the last of their favorite cereals. I tried to put them first because that’s what Pop would have done. But my changing hasn’t stopped their fighting.
Still, even I need an escape, and Grendel’s has become my salvation. I take pride in restocking shelves, in making order out of disorder, but I also goof around with Diego as we break down boxes in the stockroom, and there’s a lot of relief in that.
Plus, you know how they say repetitive tasks calm the mind? It’s true. When I’m at Grendel’s I feel my blood pressure drop. Maybe that’s because not a lot of drama can happen while you’re putting up cereal boxes in aisle nine or watching your best friend wield a box cutter while demon
strating a how-to on the Kid ’n Play kick step. (Don’t know about Kid ’n Play? Oh, son, look it up!)
Grendel’s also saved us financially. I get paid to be here. And that paycheck has helped a lot these past few years, especially after Pop’s extended leave from the Middle turned into a permanent one and the disability checks weren’t enough to get us through.
But despite my brothers today, there are many days when things flow well enough, when Pop is pretty on point and the money doesn’t feel so tight. On those days, I imagine a different future. A future with a dorm room that doesn’t have the “terrible twins.”
No more talks with Principal J about “strategies” to “develop the boys’ sense of self-control.” A street without yowling cats. Grass as far as the eye can see. No more of Pop’s random quietness and Mom’s stress face.
I’d be free.
I just need to get the twins in line. I tried to talk to Mom about that today.
ME
It’s getting worse.
MOM
They’ll grow out of it. They’re young.
ME
They’re hoodlums.
MOM
They’re your brothers.
ME
I feel like we’re the only thing keeping them in check. And when I leave? You’ll be down a man. Wayne is far away.
MOM
Well, good thing I can handle it.
ME
How? It’s two full-time jobs.
MOM
Marco, I said I’ll handle this.
But can she? Without me? That question keeps me up at night.
I lower my arms. That feeling of triumph is gone.
When I step into the grocery store proper, I pull a collared shirt from my backpack and head to the men’s restroom, where I wipe the stench from my creases with a wad of paper towels. Semi-presentable, I slide my Grendel & Son’s shirt over my head, tucking the edges into my jeans. I’m ready to clock in exactly when my shift begins.
“Yo, that is some funky cold medina,” Diego says when I enter the stockroom. He slashes through the seams of another cardboard box with his utility knife as he sniffs the air. “Why don’t you go buy some baby wipes from aisle seven? Take a poor man’s shower.”
“Nope. Gonna funk it up. That’s my prerogative.”
Alex, a guy who’s a few years older than us, works his own magic in the far right of the room. He smirks at our bit and then tries to slyly glance at his phone. “Nah, Alex, you either can speak twentieth-century pop song or you can’t,” Diego says.
“Dude, I’m learning.” Alex exhales heavily. “I’m new to this. You guys have been doing this forever.”
“Alex, it’s not hard,” I say. “You just listen to your heart.”
“You may not know where it’s going or why, but . . . ,” Diego repeats, monotone.
Alex rolls his eyes. “Just listen to your heart?”
We crack up, even Alex, who never wins the pop song game. When we’re done laughing, I admit, “And . . . I missed the bus.”
“Dude.” Alex groans. “Did you literally miss the bus?”
“That is literally the first time you’ve used ‘literally’ correctly,” I reply.
“You know what? Forget it,” Alex snaps, genuinely flustered. He walks away.
“That gets easier and easier,” Diego says.
I glance around at today’s offerings, about a hundred or so boxes waiting to be emptied and broken down. Their contents will be used to restock the shelves. I pull out my box cutter and start on a stack of emptied boxes. I break the box apart in seconds, feeling the tension from my day leave, little streams of frustration puffing out of my fingertips as I work my hands back and forth, up and down.
After a while I notice that Diego’s shirt is tucked in and ironed to a crisp. Even stranger, his five-o’clock shadow has gone the way of a clean shave and his hair is twisted into a . . . “Dude, what’s up with them dreads?”
“He works hard for his money,” Diego sings, arms raised as he spins. “Looks good, right?”
“Looks like a man bun.”
“Dude, this is the cleaned-up look I gotta have if I wanna get some respect ’round here.”
“Respect? For what?”
“Oh, bro, you lookin’ at Grendel & Son’s next management trainee.” He stands stock-still. Then, extending his arms like he’s the goalpost at a Dolphins game, he begins some new dance moves. Looks like the robot. “I. Diego. Sanchez. Am. The. Latest. Version. Of. An. Excellent. Employee. I. Will. Get. This. Job. And. Become. A. Pioneer. The. Grandmaster. Flash. Of. Grocery. Stores.”
“Stop playin’.” But it’s kind of infectious, so I start my own robot dance routine. We pop and lock for a few seconds. Then Diego leaps into the air, lands on a cardboard square, and slides a good three feet, shoulder checking me along the way.
I crack up. “All right, though. Seriously, D?”
“What? Yeah, seriously.” He returns the box to its band of brothers and glances at the security cameras. There’s one above the door and another near the dock. “You think they saw me? I gotta get better at this being managerial stuff. Bro, you think you could help me with my application? It’s due next week. I want it to be super tight. I could ask Jade, but you’re our Ivy League boy.”
“The Ivies are in the northeast—Harvard, Princeton. I’m just going to Wayne.” Which, not to humble brag, is only one of the most selective science-driven private colleges out west. It took four years of straights As, stellar SAT scores, and a killer essay to get in there.
“This school is the school for you,” Pop had said back in the Middle, when he handed me my first brochure to Wayne. “Great science program, scholarship opportunities.”
I looked at the brochure. “Pop, I don’t have the grades for that.”
“But you have the smarts. You only have to apply yourself more.”
“Apply yourself more” was a phrase that Pop had grown fond of that year, ever since my guidance counselor had sent home a note that said I wasn’t “living up to my potential.”
As if potential was something we had to live up to. It wasn’t that my grades were bad back then; they just weren’t great. I had some As, some Bs, and every now and then, for a quarter only, I’d pull out a C. Pop said the problem with my grades was my daydreaming. “You sometimes go off in your head, and your concentration goes . . .” He took a hand and let it plummet, like a car losing control going down a steep hill. When he said that, though, Mom laughed and pointed from him to me and said, “Tree, apple.”
But besides the whole “potential” debate, I had never been west of the Mississippi River. “What if I want to stay here, in Florida?”
Pop slapped his hands together, suddenly animated. “I want you to see the world. I never got to do that. I want that for you.”
I laughed. California was far, but not that far. “It’s still the United States, Pop.”
“California is about twenty-five hundred miles away. You know what else is that far away?”
I shook my head.
“Brazil, British Columbia, Greenland. Those seem exotic to you?”
I nodded.
“Well, same distance as California. See the world,” he commanded, and stuck the brochure in the top desk of my drawer, where after all these years, the pages became bent and stained with fingerprints and food. Still, even when Wayne sent my welcome packet with a glossy new brochure inside, I kept that wrecked collection of paper, a symbol of Pop’s dream for me.
“So you’ll help, right? You owe me,” Diego says with a wink.
“For what?”
“What?” Diego rolls his eyes. “How ’bout for every time I stopped someone from stomping on you in the Middle?” He flexes his muscles, making like he’s the Incredible Hulk or something.
“Dude, you protecting me in the Middle when I weighed a buck nothing doesn’t make you look like the hero.”
“Don’t it, though?” Diego cocked his head to the side.
“Anyway, you serious about applying?”
“Like a corpse.”
“What?”
“Man, ‘dead serious’ is played. ‘Like a corpse’ is the new thing.”
“I’ll help, ’cause with jokes like that, you need this to be your future.”
Diego jabs quickly in my direction, pulling his fist back inches from my face. I don’t flinch.
“Damn, hard-core lately.”
I tap my belly. “Nickel, iron, and sulfur.”
Diego slow claps. “Them dad jokes, though.” He turns back to his boxes, breaking three down in record time. “So, you really take the bus?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s your truck?”
“No gas.”
“What happened to your gas money?”
“Twins and cavities, timing belt on truck.” I didn’t add paying rent or making minimum payments on the high-interest credit cards Mom opened when Pop got injured because Diego got my point: Blah, blah, blah, money nonsense.
In these parts, the struggle was real.
“That blows. I’d have lent you money—”
“Nope. Bus is free with student ID, so no biggie. I’ll be good again after tomorrow’s paycheck.”
“Okay.” Diego moves on to another stack. We’re quietly working until he asks, “So, what about that Sally being back?”
“What about it?”
He slowly raises an eyebrow for dramatic effect. “You gonna play me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you didn’t have your thinking face on for all of lunch.”
“Dude, that’s what I do. I think.”
“About ghosts.” His voice has an edge to it.
I shrug. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I do believe in thinking all the time. What do you do in that big old head of yours?”
“Store spare change. Old McDonald’s wrappers. Wanna make a deposit?”
“I only make deposits when I can get a return for my investment.”
“Deposit this,” he says, grabbing his crotch. Then he pauses, glancing nervously at the security cameras. “Damn, I gotta remember those cameras. You think they got volume on those things?”
I shake my head and return to breaking down boxes. Soon I’m lost in my thoughts. Mostly I’m compiling a list of things I have to accomplish when I get home: review study guides for tomorrow’s exam in calc, work on my part of an English project with Sookie . . . I’ve got a list of three items and a stack of flattened boxes when Diego smacks my arm.
The Universal Laws of Marco Page 3
