Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
I scuff my foot across the half-frozen metal porch. “I’m okay. Is Moch here?”
Mr. Mendez invites me in. The house is dark. Moch’s cousins are playing checkers in the living room. It takes me a while to adjust to the dim light, compared to the bright winter afternoon outside.
“Is everything okay?”
“Laura is sick.”
“Can I do something?”
“Is okay. Mr. Ellison called. He wants Laura to work in town now—not out in Genoa.”
I exhale. “You could’ve told me. I could pick her up.”
Mr. Mendez smiles. “You’re a good girl. Lillian raised you right.”
I feel like such a phony—like everything I do is for show. “Moch?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Can you tell him I came by?”
I don’t want to go home. I drive out to the river, to the shantytown Moch talked about. I park a short distance down the access road and cut across the rusted iron bridge that has a
BRIDGE CLOSED
sign on it, keeping cars away. The entire center part has crumbled into the Carson River below. I walk on the skeletal structure, its iron bones flaking with my footsteps. It’s easy walking, and the community is easy to find. I just follow the smell of burning sage tainted with the acrid smell of burning rubber.
A ghetto of families lives by the Carson River, tucked far enough away from the road that you don’t have to see them if you don’t want to. Their ramshackle homes are built with our garbage: discarded fiberglass sheeting, old box mattresses with coils of springs coming out, plastic lawn chairs and Coke-bottle walls encased in mud. I circle around and watch from a hill. They light small fires; kids are playing too close to the burning embers.
Why do they come?
I recognize one kid from school—another from Moch’s gang. None of these kids got ski passes. I feel like I’m drowning.
A botched ski trip. A few Commandments. I really thought that would make a difference. But it was just a show.
Back at home, Lillian and I eat our pot pies and salad. The games are over. I organize the bets, payoffs—a spreadsheet of wins and losses. Nim lost. Again.
I’ve done an extra-credit assignment for calculus and one for physics, and I was considering writing an essay on the Donner party for AP History. Somebody should rescue me from me.
Night falls. Messages have been sent—losers and winners notified.
Josh hasn’t called.
I listen to the wind outside my window and stare out the black square of night. It feels like normal again. Like how things were just a couple of weeks ago.
A life of predictability. That’s what I want, what I like. That’s what makes sense to me, how I’ve survived.
Others’ lives unfold. Great sideline view.
Commandment “Thou Shalt Not Covet Your Friend’s Name-Brand Jeans or Boyfriend/Girlfriend” Broken by Sophomore Who Now Has New “Borrowed” Jeans and “Borrowed” Boyfriend
Garbage Disposal, la Cordillera, and . . . Babylonia? Modern-Day Vigilantes, Robin Hoods, or Thugs?
Cuccaro Runs Cardinals to Conference Finals in a Baffling Upset in Divisional Playoffs
SETH’S BUSINESS SECTION—
Wall Street Journal
style—dedicates the entire page to buying and selling popularity stocks. He created a barter/point system that could quantify someone’s popularity based on random criteria: looks; style; extracurricular activities, including those not approved by the school board or parents; access to private transportation and illicit substances; and a few more things. In the end, according to Seth’s Popularity Roulette, Bronek, the exchange student from the Czech Republic, is the most popular.
Seth passed out his first-round copies of
PB & J
. Groups of kids are huddled together, talking about the botched ski trip. It feels like it was weeks ago. The collective consciousness of Carson High is still stuck on Friday. I’m stuck on Saturday at Moch’s house. And the rest of the school is asking who Bronek is. It’s going to be one of those Where’s Waldo days at school. By lunch, Bronek will have a whole lot of new friends.
Irony is lost on the masses.
But something’s different. Kids aren’t just talking about the trip. They’re talking about Babylonia. Babylonia is in every breath taken, every word spoken.
Babylonia is everywhere.
I open my locker, bracing myself for the avalanche of books. Sitting on top of a semi-organized pile is a little box. I open it and find a braided leather bracelet with a silver dice charm dangling from it.
“Do you like it?” Josh is leaning against the locker next to mine. “I couldn’t find anything else really bookie-ish.”
I nod. “Thank you.” I can’t find any other words in my brain, then blurt out, “How’d you get into my locker?”
Josh smiles his crinkly-eyed, half-moon smile. He leans in, clasping the bracelet onto my wrist. “You’re not the only one with tricks up your sleeve.” His lips brush against my ear, and I’m afraid my entire body will go into some kind of nuclear reactor shutdown, like my face will glow red and my head will start spinning. He stands up. “Sorry I didn’t call yesterday. Things were . . .”
“It’s okay,” I say, fighting to keep my composure. I lower my voice. “Mr. Mendez told me Mrs. Mendez will be working in Carson?”
He nods.
“Did you say—”
He shakes his head. “Dad’s got a real skewed sense of morality, so I think bringing up the fact he illegally employs the mother of a gangster wouldn’t be beneficial to anybody.”
I nod. “So why the change?”
“The change of venue? I just asked him to. Since I never ask him for anything, I guess he decided that he could comply with my wishes.” Josh shrugs. “We don’t talk much. He’s more of a memo leaver than a dad. Every morning I wake up to a nice sticky note of instructions.” Josh pauses. “I can’t remember
not
waking up to that. Weird, huh. He even sticky-notes my birthday.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For asking for that.”
He skims through the paper while we walk to class. “Who’s Bronek?”
“I think that’s the point.”
“Seth’s good,” Josh says. “Really good.”
I can’t help but wonder what Moch would write. Like maybe Seth could bring him on as a columnist—“La Cordillera Beat: News from the Front Line.”
We pause at Mrs. B’s door. I see Josh inhale, holding his breath while he peeks around the corner, then rushes to his chair as silently as possible. I follow. Moch is at his desk, head lying in his arms, sunglasses on, hood up, sleeping.
Exhale.
Trinity walks in with her entourage, huffing like a fairy-tale bad guy. She’s wearing tired chic today—her hair swept up in a loose pony, matchy-matchy purple Adidas sweats and old-school Converse. She sits down, crossing her arms in front of her, ready for war.
Inhale.
Mrs. B comes in and slams her books on the desk. Moch jerks awake. “Good morning, class,” she says. “Who’s ready to share?” she asks.
The class, as usual, slips into the silence of dread.
Mrs. B claps loud—unnaturally loud for such small hands. “Wake up, kids! It’s Monday. It’s
your
time. Who’s up?” I wonder what Mrs. B sees from her side of the class—a group of misfits she’s trying to guide through the joys of literature; lost causes; America’s future. Who knows? She smiles. “Miss Ross, I do look forward to hearing what you have to share.” Mrs. B’s eyes narrow just a touch.
Trinity’s jaw tightens. “I have a memoir.”
Mrs. B smiles. “Please. We’d love to hear it.”
“Six words,” someone says.
The class giggles.
“Let’s have Mike keep track of my words. You know all about counting, don’t you?” Trinity flicks her tongue. If she’s trying to pull off femme fatale, it’s working. Every guy in the room is awake—incredibly awake.
“Better than Caleb, anyway,” I say. Her boyfriend lost seventy bucks this weekend. If Trinity blew Sanctuary, Caleb and his friends would probably burn her at a stake à la Salem witch trials. Caleb’s never missed Sanctuary. Ever.
“Miss Ross, we’re waiting.” Mrs. B doesn’t know what’s going on, but we’re smart enough not to continue before she catches on.
Trinity smiles, and I’d swear I just saw some kind of light glimmer off her teeth.
Bling!
She says, “Free breakfast, free health. Culture of handouts.”
“Seven words,” I say under my breath.
Moch stands up. “Can’t accept handouts with clenched fists.”
Trinity fires back, “Drug dealers. Pimps. Tattooed lawn maintenance.”
“Buyers. Hypocrites. Trust fund pampered elitists.” Moch mutters, “Yeah. Like I’d really want to go on
your
ski trip. I can use your ten-dollar words, too, you prissy—”
Catalina Sandoval raises her hand. If anybody goes by unnoticed more than me, it’s her. She doesn’t belong to la Cordillera or any clubs. She just studies. All the time. Every lunchtime she goes to the library. Every afternoon she stays in Mrs. Hensler’s class to get help with calculus. “My family—” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “We don’t have papers. I used to bring home food on the weekends from Brain Food.”
I blush. Everybody knows Brain Food is a program for low-income families. They give kids enough calories for the weekend. I used to take it home, too. Why am I ashamed?
Catalina’s cheeks get redder as she talks. “My parents work hard. They can’t afford doctors or new clothes or anything. I am grateful for free lunches, free health, Trinity. Last week my pa got hurt at work—a nail went all the way through his thumb. His boss sent him home, only paid him half day. We went to Clinica Olé. They took care of him. Gave him a tetanus shot, stitched his thumb up. For free.
“He went back to work the next day. He gets less money because he’s less productive. So you say he got this medicine for free. It wasn’t free, because my pa has built many of your homes here. Nothing’s free. He’d already done his time. And there are lots of places that have made sure that people
get
that.” She turns to Trinity. “I’m not a border bunny, spic, beaner, drywaller. I’m a four-oh student who is determined to get my papers, get legal, and prove you all wrong about who I am. I am Mexican American. I just don’t have a little piece of paper to prove it. But it’s
who I am
.”
We wait for Mrs. B to say something—to bring this back to Creative Writing or memoirs or something. But all she does is sit on her desk, her red nails drumming on the desk, one leg wrapped around the other, her spastic beelike energy drained.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” Trinity says, staring at Moch.
“Yes you were,” Catalina says.
Mrs. B’s finger lands on my name. “Mike? We haven’t heard from you in a while.” Mrs. B is on a Creative Writing–teacher high. It’s like six-word-memoir anger management in here.
I flip open my notebook and read. “Half Mexican. Half American. Not anyone.”
The class is quiet.
“It’s dumb,” I say. “I don’t know why I wrote that.” I bury my face in my notebook, trying to hide from Moch and everyone else.
“Your grandmother is a great lady, Mike. She’s someone to look up to,” Catalina says in a hushed voice. But one everyone listens to. I’m ashamed I never think of my grandma as someone exceptional.
“And you, Mr. Ellison? What do you have to say?”
We turn around to see his hand dangling in the air, half committed. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes, a flush of color to his cheeks.
Josh clears his throat. “Reconciling parents’ sins. Retracing. Backtracking. Sorry.”
Rocky-Style Conference Championships This Weekend: Why We SHOULD Bet on Cardinals, Our Modern-Day David
Kudos to Cultural-Minded Prom Committee: Bronek Picks Theme Song:
“H
ř
íšná t
ě
la, k
ř
ídla motýlí”
by Some Czech Chick We’ve Never Heard Of
Sanctuary goal post 3:00 Thursday
“GOOD AFTERNOON.
Conference championships are going to be big this weekend. Especially after last weekend’s upset between the Cardinals and the Rams.”
A few groan.
“I know,” I say. “Tough break.”
“Seventy bucks tough,” says Caleb.
“Seventy? I lost fifty
plus
getting jacked off for the ski trip. Sixty bucks to stare at a stupid banner and get some lame-ass school Commandments.
Shit
. My entire paycheck. I’ve been bumming rides for the past week. I don’t have cash for gas.” Tim, body-shop guru and resident car mechanic extraordinaire grumbles.
Bet what you can lose
. But I don’t tell them that. They already know. They’re here for the rush. I flip through the pages of
The Gambler
, thankful for the gambling-addict wisdom of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
“Open your books, please.” I read:
Sometimes it happens that the most insane thought, the most impossible conception, will become so fixed in one’s head that at length one believes the thought or the conception to be reality. Moreover, if with the thought or the conception there is combined a strong, a passionate, desire, one will come to look upon the said thought or conception as something fated, inevitable, and foreordained—something bound to happen.
The mood has changed. Conception, reality, fate, inevitability—ideas they needed to hear. That’s probably what Moch should hear, though I don’t really know how I’d pull off pep talks with gang members.
I let the words sink in, feel how everybody’s waiting, calculating, ready to pay for a rush.
“Here are the weekend specials. I’ve got some exotics on the table. Bet on the first team to score, how they score, and if you lose the overall bet, you don’t pay the juice.”