She called me. If it weren’t for the ripped piece of paper with her name and number scribbled on it by my brother Luis, I’d never believe Brittany actually dialed my number. Grilling Luis hadn’t helped because the kid has the memory of a flea and hardly remembered taking the call. The only info I got was that she wanted me to call her back.
That was yesterday afternoon, before she puked her guts out on my shoe and passed out in my arms.
When I told her to be real, I could see the fear in her eyes. I wonder what she’s afraid of. Breaking down her “perfection” wall is going to be my goal. I know there’s more to her than blond streaks and a killer bod. Secrets she’ll take to the grave and secrets she’s dying to share. Oh, man. She’s like a mystery, and all I can think about is unraveling the clues.
When I told her we’re similar, I wasn’t bullshitting. This connection we have isn’t going away, it’s only getting stronger. Because the more I spend time with her, the closer I want to be.
I have the urge to call Brittany just to hear her voice, even if it’s filled with venom. Flipping open my cell as I sit on the sofa in my living room, I enter her number into memory.
“Who ya’ callin’?” Paco asks, barging into my house without ringing or knocking. Isa files in behind him.
I click my phone shut. “Nadie.”
“Then get your ass off that couch and come play soccer.”
Playing soccer is a helluva lot better than sitting here thinking about Brittany and her secrets, even if I’m still feeling the effects of last night’s partying. We head to the park where a bunch of guys are already warming up.
Mario, a guy in my class whose brother died in a drive-by last year, slaps me on the back. “Wanna play goalie, Alex?”
“No.” I have what you call an offensive personality. In soccer, and in life.
“Paco, what about you?”
Paco agrees and takes his position, which is sitting on his ass in front of the goal line. As usual, my lazy friend sits until the ball rolls to his side of the field.
Most of the guys playing are from my neighborhood. We’ve grown up together . . . played on this playground since we were kids and even got initiated into the Latino Blood at the same time. Before I was jumped in I remember Lucky telling us how being in a gang was like having a second family . . . a family who would be there for you when your own family wasn’t. They would offer protection and security. It sounded perfect to a kid who’d lost his father.
Over the years, I’ve learned to block out the bad stuff. The beatings, the dirty drug deals, the shootings. And I’m not just talking about guys on the other side. I know of guys who tried to get out, guys who were found dead or beaten so badly by their own gang they probably wished they were dead.
To be honest, I block it out ’cause it scares the shit out of me. I’m supposed to be tough enough not to care, but I do.
We take our positions on the field. I imagine the ball holds a jackpot. If I keep it away from everyone else and kick it into the goal, I’ll magically transform into a rich and powerful guy who can take my family (and Paco) away from this hellhole neighborhood.
There’s a lot of good players on each team. The other side has an advantage because we have Paco as our goalie, scratching his balls on the other end of the field.
“Yo, Paco. Stop playin’ with yourself!” Mario yells.
Paco’s answer is making a huge point of grabbing his balls and juggling them in his hands. Chris shoots the ball right past him and scores.
Mario picks up the ball from inside the goal and chucks it at Paco. “If you were as interested in the game as you are in your huevos, they wouldn’t have scored.”
“I can’t help it if they itch, man. Your girlfriend must have given me crabs last night.”
Mario laughs, not believing for a second his girlfriend would cheat on him. Paco tosses the ball to Mario, who passes to Lucky. Lucky brings the ball downfield. He passes it to me and I have my chance. I dribble down the makeshift field, pausing only to gauge how far I have to go before I kick it into the goal.
Faking to the left, I pass to Mario and he passes it back. With one swift kick, the ball soars right and we’ve scored.
“Goooaaaallll,” our team sings as Mario gives me a high five.
Our celebration is short-lived, though. A blue Escalade is creeping suspiciously down the street.
“Recognize it?” Mario asks, tensing.
The game stops as guys realize there’s something not cool. “Maybe it’s retaliation,” I say.
My eyes never leave the car window. When the car stops, we’re all waiting for a glimpse of either someone or something to emerge from the car. When it does, we’ll be ready.
But I’m not. My brother Carlos steps out of the car with a guy named Wil. Wil’s ma is in the Blood and recruits new members. My brother better not be one of those recruits. I’ve worked too damn hard making sure he knows I’m in the Blood so he doesn’t have to be. If one family member is in, the rest are protected. I’m in. Carlos and Luis aren’t, and I’ll do anything to make sure they stay that way.
I put on a game face and walk over to Wil, soccer completely forgotten. “New car?” I ask him, eyeing his wheels.
“It’s my mom’s.”
“Nice.” I turn to my brother. “Where have you guys been hangin’?”
Carlos leans against the car, as if hanging with Wil is no big deal. Wil got initiated recently and now he thinks he’s the shit. “At the mall. They’ve got this cool new guitar store. Hector met us there and—”
Did I hear right? “Hector?” The last thing I want is my brother hanging around Hector.
Wil, with his big shirt hanging over his pants, whacks Carlos on the shoulder to shut him up. My brother closes his mouth as if something was about to fly in it. I swear I’ll kick his ass from here to Mexico if he even thinks about joining the Blood.
“Fuentes, you in or out?” someone yells from the field.
Keeping my anger hidden, I turn to my brother and his friend, who’s capable of luring him to the dark side. “Wanna play?”
“Nah. We’re gonna hang at my house,” Wil says.
I shrug nonchalantly, not feeling the least bit nonchalant. ¡Qué me importa!
I walk to the field, even if I have the urge to grab Carlos by the ear and drag him home. I can’t afford to cause a scene that might get back to Hector, who might start questioning my loyalty.
Sometimes I feel my life is one big lie.
Carlos leaves with Wil. That, combined with the fact that I can’t get Brittany out of my mind, is driving me nuts. On the field, when the game starts back up, I’m restless. Suddenly, it’s like the players on the other team aren’t guys I know, but enemies in the way of everything I want. I charge the ball.
“Foul!” a cousin of one of my friends yells at me when I slam into him.
I put up my hands. “That was not a foul.”
“You pushed me.”
“Don’t be a panocha,” I say, knowing I’m blowing it out of proportion.
I want to get in a fight. I’m asking for it. He knows it. The guy is about my height, my weight. My adrenaline is running high.
“You want a piece of me, pendejo?” he says, holding his arms out wide like a bird in flight.
Intimidation doesn’t work with me. “Come and get it.”
Paco runs in between us. “Alex, cool down, man.”
“Either fight or play!” someone shouts.
“He said I made a foul,” I tell Paco, my veins pumping.
Paco shrugs casually. “You did.”
Okay, now when my own best friend doesn’t back me up, I know I’ve lost it. I look around. Everyone is waiting to see what I’m going to do. My adrenaline is in overdrive, matching their heightened anticipation. Do I want to fight? Yeah, if only to get this raw energy out of my body. And to forget, even for a minute, that my chem partner’s number is cued up in my cell. And my brother is on the Blood radar to be recruited.
My best friend shoves me away from the guy wanting to rip my head off and pushes me to the side of the field. He calls out for subs to take our place in the game.
“What’d you do that for?” I ask.
“To save your hide, man. Alex, you’ve lost it. Completely.”
“I can take that guy.”
Paco looks straight at me and says, “You’re the one actin’ like a panocha.”
I shrug his hands off my shirt and stalk off not knowing how, in the matter of a few weeks, I’ve gotten my life screwed up so badly. I need to fix it. I’ll deal with Carlos when he comes home tonight. He’s gonna get an earful from me. And Brittany . . .
She didn’t want me to drive her home from Isa’s house because she didn’t want to be seen with me. Fuck that shit. Carlos isn’t the only one who deserves an earful from me.
I flip open my cell and cue Brittany’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s Alex,” I tell her, although she has caller ID and knows damn well it’s me. “Meet me at the library. Now.”
“I can’t.”
This is not the Brittany Ellis Show. It’s the Alex Fuentes Show now. “Here’s the deal, mamacita,” I say as I reach my house and straddle my motorcycle. “You either show up at the library in fifteen minutes or I’m bringin’ five friends to your house and we’re campin’ out on your front lawn tonight.”
“How dare you—” she starts to say, but I close the phone before she can finish her sentence.
Revving the engine to block out thoughts of last night when she snuggled into my lap, I realize I don’t have a game plan.
I wonder if the Alex Fuentes Show will end up being a comedy or, more likely, a tragedy. Either way, it’ll be a reality show worth not missing.
