by Matt Mendez
“Look at this vato,” the driver called out. Juan remembered him, the tattoos on his neck and arms looking more like scars than art. He remembered the shotgun, too. The blackness of the inside of the barrels. “He’s already dressed for his own funeral.” The light turned green but the car didn’t move. “Why are you running? And what are you hiding in your jacket?”
“The cops are after me,” Juan gasped, gripping the laptop. “They’re right behind me.”
“I don’t see no cops,” the driver said, waving him over. “Show me what you’re hiding.”
“I don’t got nothing. Man, the cops are coming.” Juan looked behind him and then down the street. The cholos had probably already seen the laptop. He was fucked.
“What crimes could you be doing dressed like that, with a laptop, in the middle of the night? This ain’t Wall Street, motherfucker!” The driver leaned out the window just as sirens moaned in the distance, the sound slowly becoming louder.
“I told you,” Juan said, relieved for the first time ever to hear the cops, then ready to get away from them.
A voice came from inside the Cutlass. “Fuck this banker. Let’s go!”
“Next time, Banker,” the driver said, keeping his eyes locked on Juan as he sped off.
• • •
Back in his room, Juan was a mess, but at least the suit wasn’t, just a little sweaty, his kicks a little dusty. He hung everything back in his nearly empty closet, carefully placing the jacket and pants inside the thin plastic covering that came from the store. The shoes went back in their box. As he slid them onto a closet shelf, they bumped against something. He reached behind the box and pulled out a Bible. A Bible? The cover was brown, made of leather. The corners curled upward like they’d been rubbed a zillion times. He found his má’s name neatly written on the front page: Fabiola Ramos.
Juan opened his window and lay down on his unmade bed. He closed his eyes, the Bible in his hand. The night air was cool. A car horn blared outside, a man now yelling; music was thumping from a nearby house. A party was just getting started. The sound, Juan knew, would go on for hours, ending with police sirens and the sound of the ghetto bird chopping overhead. Over the years Juan had learned to ignore the commotion, but tonight he felt the uproar buzz in his chest. How long had Los Fatherless, those fuckers in the Cutlass, been out for him? Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone?
He sat up and thumbed through the thin pages of the Bible, looking for the flood story Grampá had told him. He found it in Genesis. In the beginning.
Yahweh saw that human wickedness was great on earth and that human hearts contrived nothing but wicked schemes all day long.
Yahweh regretted having made human beings on earth and was grieved at heart.
And Yahweh said, “I shall rid the surface of the earth of the human beings whom I created—human and animal, the creeping things and the birds of heaven—for I regret having made them.”
As he read, Juan realized Grampá had it wrong, believing God was a fake. God had to be real, and he was as terrifying as all the monsters he’d made.
OVER THE HILL AND FAR AWAY
(CHAPTER EIGHTEEN)
Juan’s ankle was sore from last night’s sprint, but it wasn’t reinjured. He’d gotten all sorts of lucky. A first! He walked to school alone, like he’d done ever since he’d moved to Grampá’s and JD had wrecked his car. It was a new ritual he actually enjoyed. It was Tuesday, his day to practice with Eddie, and he wondered when he should get back to the gym, what with Senior Day only a week away. The entire week was going to be big. He had the game and then the arraignment. A college coach and then a judge, both judging him on totally different kinds of courts. As he got closer to the front steps of the school, Juan suddenly remembered everything hinged on the results of yesterday’s algebra test.
“Danny’s throwing another party on Friday. That’s the day we’re planning to go,” JD said as Juan plopped down beside him on the front steps of Austin. “I just saw that shit on his Instagram.” The wind blew hard around them. Whistled. Juan was glad he’d worn a long-sleeved shirt.
Juan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Roxanne.
How’d the test go?
Juan had missed her. The scent from her lotion stayed on his pillow for a few days, making him crazy. He totally now understood the word “crush.” His brain went to pieces whenever she was around. Even when he thought about her. He’d wanted to call her for days. But he wanted to prove he took her seriously, and instead holed up in his room studying, afraid he would embarrass himself by failing the test. To this point, all he had done was embarrass himself in front of her. He was done doing that.
IDK my ma came in the middle of it to buy me a suit!!!
Or maybe he wasn’t.
WTF!?!?! CALL ME LATER!!
as long as im not shopping 4 briefcases
JD playfully slapped at Juan’s phone. “Wipe that stupid smile off your face. It’s disgusting. Seriously, what are we gonna do about a car? For the trip?”
Juan didn’t want to think about that now. For once things were just working out without going to shit. “I thought you were going to ask Danny to come with us? You said we could go in his car.” Juan couldn’t help but feel pissed at JD, even if Danny throwing a party was totally out of his control.
JD shook his head. “Danny’s been . . . weird lately. I was going to ask him, but he hasn’t been answering texts and hasn’t left the house in days. Then yesterday, boom, a party announcement.”
Juan didn’t find this so weird—Danny sometimes did this. Took a few days of alone time. Wouldn’t answer his phone—no texts, no PMs. Wouldn’t open the door if you came by the house. Then, like a caterpillar busting from its cocoon, he would butterfly out and want to party. Juan never did go back and help him shovel rock; damn, how could he space on that?
“There’s only one option,” JD was saying. “Borrow your mom’s truck.”
What?! No way. That was another thing Juan didn’t want to think about: borrowing Má’s truck. No way would she lend it to him. He barely knew how to drive. So he passed on answering. “Let’s go grab something from the vending machine. I’m hungry.”
But walking into school and down the hallway, he felt increasingly anxious. Had Mrs. Hill graded the algebra exams? The test was hard, but he’d answered most of the questions. He’d studied. Now, at the vending machines, he decided he should talk to her, ask her to grade his test. Beg her to let him do extra credit after explaining how Má had come by during the exam, to buy him a suit for court, and distracted him. That he was facing a year in jail. And that his father was on death row and about to die. And that a college recruiter was coming to watch him play, if he passed. And all he needed was to pass.
JD shoved his shoulder. “So, can we use your má’s truck or not? This is kind of a big problem.”
“I don’t know,” Juan said truthfully. “I’ve never asked her to borrow it before. Can’t you borrow, like, Alma’s car? Or your old man’s?”
“Everyone in my family hates me right now. So . . . no.”
“Okay, let me think about asking my má.” But Juan knew there was no way. And he couldn’t take his mind off that test. “Let’s go find Hill. I need to check on my algebra test. Like, right now.”
JD stopped short and looked ready to fight, his whole body tense. Like a really pissed-off giraffe. “For real? Who gives a fuck about algebra?” The halls were completely empty, long and narrow. Juan liked them this way. Quiet, before all the noise and confusion of people.
“Look, if I didn’t pass this test, all this, my entire future, is for shit anyways.”
“If you didn’t pass a test, meeting your dad is for shit? What are you talking about?”
Juan spun around. “Look, if I didn’t pass this test, I don’t get to play on Senior Day. If I don’t ball out on Senior Day, then I don’t get a scholarship. Then shit could get real fucked up. A judge could decide I’m a total fucking loser and sentence m
e to jail time. Maybe a year. So, yeah, I’m pretty serious about algebra right now.”
“All right,” JD said after a moment. “But I’m going to record you. Since this is such serious shit.”
“Whatever.” Juan turned and hurried toward Mrs. Hill’s classroom. Fuck. He didn’t really want JD to record anything, but arguing with him was a waste of time. JD trailed a few yards behind as he reached Mrs. Hill’s door. It was closed, but she was inside. Juan pressed his forehead against the window like a psycho, like his má had, hoping to get his teacher’s attention. It was just before zero period.
“Try knocking,” JD said, keeping his distance. “It’s, like, a custom.”
Without his having to knock, Mrs. Hill looked up and waved Juan inside. He quickly opened the door and closed it behind him. He didn’t need anyone else to follow him in. Not even JD. The room looked the same without students, but it smelled different. Gone was the smell of bodies, of sweat and plastics and stale air. The room smelled like coffee. The air warm. Sweet.
“What do you need, Juan?” Mrs. Hill asked him with a smile.
“Have you, uh, graded the tests yet?”
“No. The test was barely yesterday.”
Juan stood over her, suddenly unsure what to say next.
“Is that all?”
“I guess so.” But that wasn’t all. Juan wanted her to grade the test. Mrs. Hill looked at him patiently, waiting for him to say something. “I just need to pass the test so I can play in Senior Day. I studied pretty hard.”
“Your coach was telling me that. He said you had a tutor. Is that true?”
“Yes. From a private school.” Juan had no idea why he thought that would impress her.
“Are you here to ask me to grade it? Because, honestly, you just standing there is getting a bit weird.”
“Please!”
Mrs. Hill let out a sigh. “Okay, let’s take a look.” She dug through a pile of papers until she found Juan’s and whipped out her pen. Out of the corner of his eye Juan could see JD holding his camera to the door’s window. His stomach was a jar of angry bugs, desperately crawling along the sides to escape and pulling one another down to the glass bottom. Hissing. Mrs. Hill marked his exam, shaking her head. Eventually, she looked up. Juan wanted to puke.
“This happens every year, Juan. Every year someone like you walks in here, wants me to grade their test, either at the end of the semester or when they need to be eligible for whatever the case may be, and tells me how much they need to pass, and almost every time the same thing happens. You can’t believe how frustrating this is for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Juan said, and he actually meant it. “I really studied this time. I promise.” He felt like an idiot. An idiot for thinking he could pass in the first place. An idiot for bothering Mrs. Hill, who probably now thought he was an even bigger idiot than before he came in. Coach Paul was right. He was a rock breaker. A yard raker at best. Mrs. Hill handed Juan back the test: 75%.
Juan held the test in both hands, making sure the score was real. It was a win. A classroom win, no less. Another first! “Not pretty, but you passed,” Mrs. Hill said. “All it took was a little effort. What is it about you kids? Why can’t you just do this from the start? Just care about your own education as much as you care about basketball or running around in the streets?”
Her voice was like crowd noise. “Thank you,” Juan said.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Juan rushed over and hugged Mrs. Hill in her chair, pinning her arms to her sides.
Then, still in the middle of a bear hug, Mrs. Hill noticed JD filming in the window. “I don’t understand you kids. Not one bit.”
WE GET TO BE TERRIBLE
(CHAPTER NINETEEN)
Finally, it was Friday. The plan was to head to Danny’s party and then hit the road from there. JD packed a gym bag of clothes, a toothbrush, and deodorant. A charger for his phone and camera. He’d already wiped the memory cards clean and packed a notebook and pens. He tossed the old Kinoflex in the bag, even though he never actually got it running. Then he sat anxiously in his room and waited for Juan to show with his má’s truck—he’d finally been cornered into borrowing it, and he’d only agreed to after JD promised to do the driving. He thought of the hours of road ahead, of what they would see at Polunsky—plain grayish buildings wrapped in fencing, the tops coiled in razor wire. Guards in a tower with sniper rifles. Juan’s old man locked inside. Juan had to be nervous too, because he fucking was. JD decided to shoot some B-roll to keep calm.
Flipping on his camera, he panned across the room. As usual he’d made his bed; his side of the room was neat like always. His laptop and shoes were neatly tucked under the bed, the bootlegs now re-alphabetized and grouped by country of origin. He hadn’t seen Alma since that day at the recruiting office almost two weeks ago. Turned out she worked all the time, just like Pops, like Amá, which made avoiding her easy. She’d had his car towed to a junkyard just like the recruiter had suggested. Made a cool hundred bucks. Maybe she should join the air force. JD kept Technical Sergeant Bullard’s card in his pocket. He didn’t want to leave it out where anyone could see, but for some reason he didn’t want to hide it either.
Gliding down the hallway, he passed the camera along the wall. Pictures of him as a toddler with Alma as a little girl, her squeezed in Pops’s arms in most of them, smiling big. He zoomed in on her face, hoping to rip off the Ken Burns effect he’d read about on Wikipedia. There were photos of Amá pregnant with Tomásito and then of her holding a squealing baby. Throughout the house, their childhoods had been documented in pictures—not the kind done at studios, where everyone wore matching clothes and stood in front of black or gray backdrops with fake cheesy smiles, but in snapshots. Some set up—sure, with fake cheesy smiles—but others caught in random moments playing in the backyard or family cookouts. JD liked these best; they were how he remembered those days. When things were good.
As he recorded, he thought about how much his parents must’ve loved babies. There were so many baby pictures! But the camera seemed to have been whipped out a lot less often the older he and his brother and sister got. Suddenly there were only sporadic photos from Christmas mornings or birthdays. As JD filmed, it dawned on him there were fewer and fewer photographs once he hit middle school. Then there were none, as if the family suddenly vanished. Shit. What happened? He shut the camera down. Off to the side there was a picture of Pops from before he and Amá were married, him in his army service dress. His expression was serious, unsmiling. Maybe a little scared. In the photo, he couldn’t have been much older than JD. He remembered a similar portrait of his abuelo hanging in the living room of his abuela’s house, his old man’s old man, who died before JD had been born, uniformed in his army service dress, his face the mirror image of Pops.
He wondered how long Amá would keep pictures like this up now that Pops was gone. He wandered into the dining room; they used to eat meals together when he was little, but after Tomásito was born, Amá took a gig at the State Center and jobbed long hours there, mostly on swing shifts and sometimes overnights. Without her around they mostly ate in front of the TV. Turning the camera back on, it didn’t take long for him to finish going through the two-bedroom house. He moved slowly toward Amá’s room. The door was closed, which it had mostly been since the day she kicked Pops out. JD had no idea if she was inside.
“Anyone in there?” JD said, knocking. He waited, thinking maybe he would turn off the camera, but decided against it, and instead turned the lens on himself. He spoke into the camera. “Tomorrow it will be three weeks since Amá found the condoms. Since then, I’ve gotten into a fight with my best friend. I’ve been kicked off the basketball team. And I totaled my car. I also haven’t talked to my own mom since that day—not that we really talked all the time before that. I did follow my old man driving to his mistress’s house, so I’m up to date on him. Me and my sister aren’t really talking either. And my little brother hates m
e. So things are cooool.”
Amá swung open the door. “Who are you talking to?”
JD quickly lowered the camera. “Myself,” he said, feeling his face flush. “I’m making a movie.” He held up the camera for her to see. She was getting ready for work, dressed in a pair of brown scrubs and white tennis shoes, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you know about making movies?”
“Nothing, believe me.”
“Is this for school? Tell me you’re still in school.”
“I still go to school,” JD said, the camera still recording.
“Shouldn’t you be there right now?”
JD stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say or do. “Maybe,” he finally tried.
Amá disappeared back inside her room, leaving JD in the doorway. “I can’t believe you’re ditching right now,” she called out. “This movie thing has nothing to do with school. I just know it. Turn that camera off.”
“I’m sorry, Amá,” JD said. “I’m really sorry.” He wanted to tell her what he was up to. That he’d skipped the second half of school today to get ready for a road trip straight through the middle of Texas and to death row. To help Juan. But she wasn’t going to be cool with any of that. No way. He left the camera running.
“So what do you want? I need to go to work.” Uninvited, JD cautiously went inside his mother’s bedroom and panned the camera around the room. The walls had been stripped bare. Her and Pops’s wedding pictures had been taken down, which answered JD’s earlier question. He peeked inside the closet. Most of his old man’s clothes were still there, as if at any moment he could come and take his life back like nothing had happened. JD wondered where he’d been without his stuff. If he’d been staying in the Northeast with his side piece or keeping a bachelor pad loaded with new shit. “I told you to turn that thing off!” Amá’s hands were on her hips, her voice annoyed. “Why don’t you ever listen?!”
