I push the guy up against a sweet, shiny black Camaro, one that probably cost more than my mom makes in a year. “Here’s the deal, Blake,” I say. “You either pay up now, or I break somethin’ of yours. Not a piece of furniture or your fuckin’ car . . . somethin’ you’re permanently attached to. Get it?”
Blake, skinnier than a telephone pole and as pale as a ghost, is looking at me as if I just handed him his death sentence. He should have thought about that before he took the Big 8 and bounced without paying up.
As if Hector would ever let that happen.
As if I would ever let that happen.
When Hector sends me to collect, I do it. I may not like doing it, but I do it. He knows I won’t do drug deals or break into people’s homes or businesses to steal shit. But I’m good at collecting . . . debts, mostly. Sometimes it’s people, but those get to be messy affairs, especially because I know what’s gonna happen to them once I haul them back to the ware house to face Chuy. Nobody wants to face Chuy. It’s way worse than facing me. Blake should feel lucky I’m the one assigned to look for him.
To say I don’t live a squeaky-clean life is an understatement. I try not to dwell on it, the dirty job I’m doing for the Blood. And I’m good at it. Scaring people into paying us what’s ours is my job. Technically my hands are clean of drugs. Okay, so drug money does touch my hands quite frequently, but I just hand it over to Hector. I don’t use it, I just collect it.
It makes me a pawn, I know. As long as my family is safe, I don’t care. Besides, I’m good at fighting. You can’t imagine how many people break down with the threat of their bones breaking. Blake is no different than the other guys I’ve threatened, I can tell by the way he’s trying to act cool while his spindly hands are shaking uncontrollably.
You’d think Peterson would be afraid of me, too, but that teacher wouldn’t fear me even if I shoved a live grenade into her hands.
“I don’t got the money,” Blake blurts out.
“That answer ain’t gonna cut it, man,” Paco chimes in from the sidelines. He likes coming with me. He thinks of it as playing good cop/ bad cop. Except we play bad gang member/worse gang member.
“Which limb you want me to break first?” I ask. “I’ll be nice and let you choose.”
“Just smoke his sorry ass, Alex, and get this over with,” Paco says lazily.
“No!” Blake shouts. “I’ll get it. I promise. Tomorrow.”
I shove him against the car, my forearm pressing on his throat just enough to scare him. “As if I’m gonna take your word for it. You think we’re stupid? I need collateral.”
Blake doesn’t answer.
I eye his car.
“Not the car, Alex. Please.”
I take my gun out. I’m not going to shoot him. No matter who I am and what I’ve become, I’d never kill anyone. Or shoot anyone. Blake doesn’t have to know this, though.
At the first glance of my Glock, Blake holds out his keys. “Oh, God. Please, no.”
I snatch the keys out of his hand. “Tomorrow, Blake. Seven o’clock behind the old tracks on Fourth and Vine. Now get outta here,” I say, waving my gun in the air for him to run off on foot.
“I’ve always wanted a Camaro,” Paco says after Blake is out of sight.
I toss the keys to him. “It’s yours—until tomorrow.”
“You really think he’ll come up with four G’s in a day?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, totally confident. “ ’Cause that car is worth way more than four G’s.”
Back at the ware house, we give Hector the update. He’s not happy we haven’t collected, but he knows it’ll happen. I always come through.
At night, I’m in my room unable to sleep because of my little brother Luis’s snoring. By the way he sleeps so soundly, you’d think he didn’t have a care in the world. As much as I don’t mind threatening loser drug dealers like Blake, I wish to hell I was fighting for things worth fighting for.
A week later I’m sitting on the grass in the school courtyard eating lunch by a tree. Most of the students at Fairfield eat outside until late October, when the Illinois winter forces us to sit in the cafeteria during lunch period. Right now we’re soaking up every minute of sun and fresh air while it’s still decent outside.
My friend Lucky, with his oversized red shirt and black jeans, slaps me on the back as he parks his butt next to me with a cafeteria tray balanced on his hand. “You geared up for next period, Alex? I swear Brittany Ellis hates you like the plague, man. It’s hilarious watchin’ her move her stool as far as she can from you.”
“Lucky,” I say. “She might be a mamacita, but she ain’t got nothin’ on this hombre.” I point to myself.
“Tell your mama that,” Lucky says, laughing. “Or Colin Adams.”
I lean back against the tree and cross my arms. “I had phys. ed. with Adams last year. Believe me, he’s got nada to brag about.”
“You still pissed off ’cause he trashed your locker freshman year after you smoked him in the relay in front of the entire school?”
Hell, yeah, I’m still pissed. That one incident cost me a shitload of money having to buy new books. “Yesterday’s news,” I tell Lucky, keeping up the cool facade I always do.
“‘Yesterdays news’ is sittin’ right over there with his hot girlfriend.”
One look at Little Miss Perfecta and my defenses go up. She thinks I’m a drugged-out user. Every day I’ve dreaded having to deal with her in chem class. “That chick has a head full of air, man,” I say.
“I heard that ho was dissin’ you to her friends,” a guy named Pedro says as he and a bunch of other guys join us carrying either trays from the cafeteria or food they brought from home.
I shake my head, wondering what Brittany said and how much damage control I’ll have to do. “Maybe she wants me and doesn’t know any other way to get my attention.”
Lucky laughs so hard everyone within a few yards stares at us. “There’s no way Brittany Ellis would get within two feet of you on her own free will, güey, let alone date you,” he says. “She’s so rich the scarf around her neck last week pro’bly cost as much as everythin’ in tu casa.”
That scarf. As if the designer jeans and top weren’t fashionable enough, she’d probably added the scarf to showcase how rich and untouchable she is. Knowing her, she had it professionally dyed to match the exact shade of her sapphire eyes.
“Hell, I bet you my RX-7 you can’t get into her pan ties before Thanksgiving break,” Lucky challenges me, breaking my wayward thoughts.
“Who’d want those pan ties?” I say. They’re probably designer, too, with her initials embroidered on the front.
“Every single dude in this school.”
Do I need to state the obvious? “She’s a snow girl.” I’m not into white chicks, or spoiled chicks, or chicks whose idea of hard labor is painting their long fingernails a different color each day to match their designer outfits.
I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it, ignoring Fairfield’s no-smoking policy. I’ve been smoking a lot lately. Paco pointed it out yesterday night when we hung out.
“So what if she’s white? Come on, Alex. Don’t be an idiot. Look at her.”
I take a glance. I admit she’s got it goin’ on. Long, shiny hair, aristocratic nose, slightly tanned arms with a hint of muscle in her biceps to make you wonder if she works out, full lips that when she smiles you think world peace is possible if everyone had her smile.
I shove those thoughts from my mind. So what if she’s hot? She’s a first-degree bitch. “Too skinny,” I blurt out.
“You want her,” Lucky says, leaning back on the grass. “You just know, like the rest of us Mexicanos from the south side, that you can’t have her.”
Something inside me clicks on. Call it my defense mechanism. Call it cockiness. Before I can switch it off, I say, “In two months I could have a piece of that ass. If you really wanna bet your RX-7, I’m in.”
“You’re trippin’, man.” When I don’t answer, Lucky frowns. “You serious, Alex?”
The guy will back down, he loves his car more than his mama. “Sure.”
“If you lose, I get Julio,” Lucky says, his frown turning into a wicked grin.
Julio is my most prized possession, an old Honda Nighthawk 750 motorcycle. I rescued it from a dump and turned it into a sleek ride. Rebuilding the bike took me forever. It’s the only thing in my life I’ve made better instead of destroying.
Lucky is not backing down. Time to either back down myself or play the game. The problem is, I’ve never backed down . . . not once in my life.
The most popular white chick at school would sure as hell learn a lot by hanging with me. Little Miss Perfecta said she’d never date a gang member, but I bet no Latino Blood ever tried to get into those designer pants.
Easy as a fight between Folks and People—rival gangs on a Saturday night.
I bet all it’ll take for Brittany to come around is a bit of flirting. You know, that give-and-take wordplay that heightens your awareness of the opposite sex. I can kill two birds with one stone: get back at Burro Face by taking his girl and get back at Brittany Ellis for having me called into the principal’s office and dissin’ me in front of her friends.
Might even be fun.
I imagine the entire school witnessing the pristine white chick drooling over the Mexicano she vowed to hate. I wonder how hard she’ll fall on that tight white ass when I’m done with her.
I hold out my hand. “Deal.”
“You gotta show proof.”
I take another drag of my cigarette. “Lucky, what do you want me to do? Pluck out one of her fuckin’ pubes?”
“How’d we know it’s hers?” Lucky responds. “Maybe she’s not a real blond. Besides, she pro’bly gets one of those Brazilian wax jobs. You know, where everythin’ is—”
“Take a picture,” Pedro suggests. “Or video. I bet we could make muchos billetes on that thing. We can title it Brittany Goes South of the Border.”
It’s trash-talkin’ times like these that give us a bad rep. Not that rich kids don’t talk trash, I’m sure they do. But when my friends go at it, it’s no-holds-barred. To be honest, I think my friends are damn entertaining when they’re ragging on someone else. When they’re ragging on me, I don’t find it half as funny.
“What’cha talkin’ about?” Paco asks, joining us with a plate of food from the cafeteria.
“I bet Alex my car for his motorcycle he can’t get into Brittany Ellis’s pants by Thanksgiving.”
“You loco, Alex?” Paco says. “Makin’ a bet like that is suicide.”
“Lay off, Paco,” I warn. It isn’t suicide. Stupid, maybe. But not suicide. If I could handle hot Carmen Sanchez, I can handle vanilla cookie Brittany Ellis.
“Brittany Ellis is out of your league, amigo. You might be a pretty boy, but you’re one hundred percent Mexicano and she’s as white as Wonder Bread.”
A junior named Leticia Gonzalez walks by us. “Hi, Alex,” she says, flashing me a smile before sitting with her friends. While the other guys drool over Leticia and talk to her friends, Paco and I are left alone by the tree.
Paco nudges me. “Now she’s a bonita Mexicana, and definitely in your league.”
My eye isn’t on Leticia, it’s on Brittany. Now that the game’s on, I’m focusing on the prize. It’s time to start flirting, but no bullshit come-on lines will work with her. Somehow I think she’s used to those from her boyfriend and other assholes trying to get into her pants.
I decide on a new tactic, one she won’t expect. I’m going to keep riffling her feathers until I’m all she thinks about. And I’ll start next period when she’s forced to sit next to me. Nothing like a little foreplay in chemistry class to spark things up.
“¡Carajo!” Paco says, throwing down his lunch. “They think they can buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria workers wouldn’t know taco meat from a piece of shit. That’s what this tastes like, Alex.”
“You’re makin’ me sick, man,” I tell him.
I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. Disgusted, I shove what’s left of my lunch into my brown paper bag.
“Want some of it?” Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty taco to me.
“Bring that one inch closer to me and you’ll be sorry,” I threaten.
“I’m shakin’ in my pants.”
Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously know better.
“If any of that gets on me—”
“What’cha gonna do, kick my ass?” Paco sings sarcastically, still shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him out so I won’t have to deal with him right now.
As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look down even though I know what I’ll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans.
“Fuck,” Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to shock. “Want me to clean it off for you?”
“If your fingers get anywhere close to my dick, I’m gonna personally shoot you in the huevos,” I growl through clenched teeth.
I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. “You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of pants.”
“How the hell am I s’posed to do that?”
“Be creative.”
“Take mine.” Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard.
“Maybe I wasn’t specific enough,” I tell him, wondering how I’m going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I’ve peed in my pants. “I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me, pendejo. You’re so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus’s elves.”
“I’m toleratin’ your insults because we’re like brothers.”
“Nine minutes and thirty seconds.”
It doesn’t take Paco more than that to start running toward the school parking lot.
I seriously don’t give a crap how I get the pants; just that I get ’em before my next class. A wet crotch is not the way to show Brittany I’m a stud.
I wait at the tree while other kids throw away their lunches and head back inside. Before I know it, music starts playing through the loudspeakers and Paco is nowhere in sight. Great. Now I have five minutes to get to Peterson’s class. Gritting my teeth, I walk to chemistry with my books strategically placed in front of my crotch, with two minutes to spare. I slide onto the stool and push it as close to the lab table as possible, hiding the stain.
Brittany walks into the room, her sunshine hair falling down the front of her chest, ending in perfect little curls that bounce when she walks. Instead of that perfection turning me on, it makes me want to mess it all up.
I wink at her when she glances at me. She huffs and pulls her stool as far away from me as possible.
Remembering Mrs. Peterson’s zero-tolerance rule, I pull my bandanna off and place it in my lap directly over the stain. Then I turn to the pom-pom chick sitting next to me. “You’re gonna have to talk to me at some point.”
“So your girlfriend can have a reason to beat me up? No thanks, Alex. I’d rather keep my face the way it is.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. You want to interview for the position?” I scan her from top to bottom, focusing on the parts she relies on so heavily.
She curls her pink-frosted top lip and sneers at me. “Not on your life.”
“Mujer, you wouldn’t know what to do with all this testosterone if you had it in your hands.”
That’s it, Alex. Tease her into wanting you. She’ll take the bait.
She turns away from me. “You’re disgusting.”
“What if I said we’d make a great couple?”
“I’d say you were an idiot.”
