Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
The guys are quiet.
“It means it’s a free bet, guys. I don’t get anything. You win, great. You lose, you don’t pay me my vig.”
Some grumble.
“Never mind.” It’s hard to go beyond basic betting with this group.
Nim’s hanging out in the background. He still owes me the three fifty he bet on the Broncos. He’s a locust. A rash.
I rub my fingers and thumb together and glare at him. He holds his hands out, open palmed.
He’s a gnat.
Dean Randolph comes by and
tsk
s. He stops. “Any of you have anything to do with that Babylonia crap?”
Sure, Dean Randolph. Josh Ellison and I broke into Mrs. Martinez’s office, stole the tickets, and distributed them. That, totally unnoticed by staff and administration, sabotaged the Pearly Gates Heavenly Ski Trip.
“Geez, Randolph,” Tim says.
“Mister,” Randolph growls.
“Mr. Randolph, a bunch of us here paid sixty bucks to go skiing. That money’s gone. I’d like to kick Babylonia’s . . . you know what.” Last weekend put Caleb back a good hundred and thirty dollars in just ski passes and bets alone.
Randolph leaves, the bets are placed, and I head to the parking lot, wondering when the gray-slush days of winter will be gone. “You gonna place a bet?” Josh asks.
I shake my head. “I’m satisfied with being a one-hit wonder.” I’m itching for the trip, the surge of adrenaline in my body. Just watching the game knowing that everything’s on the line makes it different. Alive.
“It’s worth it.”
“Nah. I like a sure thing. No bet or plan is foolproof, right?”
Why am I lying?
“Except for abs-tee-nance.”
I laugh. He mimics our health teacher, Ms. Overland’s, southern drawl, pinching her lips together in that prissy-virginal-nobody-touches-my-boobies kind of way.
“Want to go to the movies tonight? Javier and some others are going.”
I automatically crawl back into that tiny safe place where I’m welcome. “That’s okay. I don’t want to be a tagalong.”
“Why would you assume that?”
I pause. “I don’t know.”
“You said you’d go to the movies with me. Remember?”
With him, not half the student body.
“Sure.”
After almost getting killed while hot tubbing. I don’t think I should be held responsible for anything I said that night
.
“C’mon. Movies. Pizza.”
“That’s pretty
normal
. I haven’t ever really done normal. Where’s the danger in it?”
“We could duck into a second film—do a double feature.”
“Now you’re talking. I was afraid we’d become TV teens there for a second.”
“So, we’re on? What time can I pick you up? Six o’clock?”
“Six is good.”
“Six it is.” He walks to his car in a lanky swagger that just makes me want to . . . I mentally splash water on my face. I’ve finally made an awesome friend who’s not a gangster and I don’t think I should blow it harboring lascivious thoughts about him.
On the way home, I swing by Moch’s house. I knock several times. Nobody answers. I work my way around the house, hoping I can peek in, just to see if everything’s okay, when I hear shouting.
Behind Moch’s trailer park is a huge field we call no-man’s-land. It’s where all baseball games have been played since we lived here. It’s the place where we used to build forts and play tag, hide-and-seek . . . whatever. And now that we’re older, it’s the place where kids go to party, drink, probably get stoned. I don’t think they’re doing poetry readings out there.
I follow the voices.
A crowd has already gathered. Kids are shouting. Caleb Masterson holds up a bat and lowers it, cracking down, making a sound like somebody walking on glass. Nim’s there. Laughing. Kicking at the kid who’s curled as tight as a snail shell in the center of the group, a sickening sound coming from his throat, like he’s gurgling his tongue.
I see the flash of metal before I see Comba. Caleb falls to the ground. His varsity jacket turns black by his stomach, his hands a cartoonish red color.
Then everything goes in slow motion. Comba takes the knife, wiping the crimson blood from the blade on a patch of filthy snow. He scans the crowd that’s now gone silent, his eyes lifeless—like two black marbles.
No soul.
A soft moan comes from the kid they were beating up.
The jocks grab Caleb and pick him up in their arms, dragging him through the field. I don’t even realize I’ve dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is the exact location of your emergency?”
“The field.”
“What field, ma’am?”
“Um . . . It’s the one behind Pine Cone Trailer Park.”
“What is your emergency?”
“I think . . .” I shudder and try to keep my voice as even as possible. “I think somebody might be dead.”
Just as I say it, I feel someone’s hand on my phone, pulling it from me, hanging it up. It’s Moch. A bunch of his friends rush to the guy on the ground. He’s unconscious. Comba’s there. I do everything to
not
look at him.
“Is the clinic open today?” Moch asks.
“Clinic?”
“Look at me, Mike. Is
la Clinica Olé
open?”
I nod.
Moch squeezes my arm. “Get out of here. Now.” They pile the groaning kid into a car and drive away, leaving me alone in the field, staring at a puddle of blood. I pick up the bat, staring at red-black spatters on it. A field mouse darts in and out of dried tufts of long grass. A screen door bangs in the wind. Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer.
I watch as the half-frozen earth soaks up the blood; then I turn and throw up.
Gangs: tattoos, knives, lettermen jackets, bats.
THE BAT’S IN THE BACK OF
my closet. I don’t know why I picked it up, why I took it. I tell Josh about the fight. Not the bat. “Did they see you?” he whispers. The movie previews are almost over.
“Not Nim and those guys. Just Moch.”
“Lucky.”
“Yeah. Never really thought about it. Comba scares me. Really scares me. But now, so do they. It’s like they’re all the same. So much hate.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I don’t know.”
Josh grabs my hand, lacing his fingers in mine. “Is this okay?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He turns to watch the movie. I try to focus on the screen but only see the repeat of this afternoon.
What should I do?
Seth calls me on Saturday, asking if I have a scoop. That guy knows
everything
that’s going on. “No comment,” I say.
By the time Monday comes, the fight in the field is legendary, with Caleb Masterson facing the evil gang bangers. Nobody mentions a bat, a kid being dropped off at the ER, or the fact that Caleb’s injury was really superficial. Lots of blood for something so inconsequential. It sounds like I’ve had hangnails worse than that.
From the looks of
PB & J
, Seth didn’t get the info he needed.
Babylonia Needed for Fabric Distribution: Cheerleaders Are Cold
Are YOU a Gang Member? Checklist
According to Seth’s checklist, every person in Carson High is part of a gang, the most ubiquitous presence being that of band members. I’m kind of happy to be reading about the dangers of woodwind instruments and pleated belts, Seth’s term for cheerleaders’ skirts, as opposed to the real world, anyway.
It’s like I’m always caught in the gray area between right and wrong.
Moch isn’t at school. Classes are eternal. I can’t even get into the heated debate in Government about the death of the American dream. When the final bell rings, I rush to my car. I just want to check in on Moch and Mrs. Mendez.
Josh texts me:
My place? Homework.
I reply:
OK. 4:00.
Mr. Mendez is pacing back and forth in the house when I arrive. Mrs. Mendez is lying on the couch.
“Are you still sick?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Finefinefinefine. Just tired. That all.”
“A flu. The doctor says it’s a flu. But I don’t think so.” Mr. Mendez runs his fingers through thinning gray hair.
“Did you see Lillian?” I ask. I get my phone out to dial her number.
“We went to Urgent Care.” Mr. Mendez scowls, deep creases above his nose. “It’s closer, you know. Everybody there had the flu. But this is different. We don’t go to Urgent Care for a flu. He hardly looked at her. She needs more tests.”
“Tests. Heart tests. Blood tests. Pee tests. So we spend a thousand dollars to see my heart dance? Stupid,” Mrs. Mendez says. “That is money for the restaurant.”
“We’ll get the money back.” Mr. Mendez shakes his head. “I think it’s more than a flu.”
“What about heading to the ER? Can’t you just check in there?”
Mr. Mendez bristles. “We pay for our doctors.”
I nod. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m just tired. So he worry. Is normal. Work is hard.”
I picture her bent over greasy Kettle chip carpet stains; my stomach aches.
“You’re tired all the time,” Mr. Mendez says. “You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You’re sick.”
Mrs. Mendez smiles. “Efficient. You don’t have to feed me no more.”
“
No me parece chistoso . . . ni un poquito.
”
Moch peeks out of his bedroom, sees it’s me, then hides away again. I hand Mr. Mendez some papers. “Homework. I picked it up for Moch.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Mendez goes to knock on Moch’s bedroom door, pauses, drops his fist, and comes back to the living room. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
I nod. “Are you sure I can’t call Lillian? She can do something. Maybe we can get dinner for you?”
Mrs. Mendez laughs. “Her cooking put me in the tomb.
No, gracias
.”
I kneel beside her and kiss her forehead, salty with sweat. “Are you sure?”
“Go. Come back next week. With Liliana. We eat real food then.”
I don’t stand up.
“¡Andale, Mija!”
“Yee-haw!” I say.
She laughs. “Silly American girl.” She cups her hands on my chin. “Don’t give up on Mocho. You know why we call him Mocho?”
I shake my head, embarrassed, again, that I don’t know my Spanish.
“In Mexico,
mocho
is for someone who is very, how do you say, a big fan of God.”
“A fanatic.”
My mom.
“Yes. Fan. Anyway, Mocho give mass to us every Sunday when he is a boy. Every Sunday, he call himself Padre Emilio. So my mama see him and say, ‘
Qué muchacho tan mocho.’
Mocho stick to him. He’s no more Emilio.” She sits up and whispers in my ear. “He still wear Santo Pablo, patron santo of writers, on his chain.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s why I tell you. You’re a good friend.”
“Mrs. Mendez, please go to the clinic. Maybe Lillian can have a look at you. She can recommend doctors.” I clear my throat. “That have payment plans. So you can just get a good checkup.” I wait for Mr. Mendez to get upset, but he just sits in the recliner, rocking back and forth, hypnotic. Dazed.
She throws her arm up in the air. “Bah. I prefer my restaurant.
¡Andale!”
“Okay. Okay.” I leave and work my way around the house and knock on Moch’s window.
He pulls the curtains to the side and opens the window.
“¿Qué?”
“Is your friend okay?” I ask. “The one from the field.” I can’t get the sound of the bat cracking on his head out of my mind. It’s the only thing I hear.
Moch shakes his head, the curtain slipping back into place.
I drive away. The warmth of Mrs. Mendez’s callused hand on my face has been replaced by an icy feeling in my stomach. They have spent so much time working and saving and working and saving. She’s got to get better.
Where will she get the money for those tests? I hear Lillian ranting enough to know that a few tests translates to thousands of dollars.
Thousands of dollars.
Where?
The Super Bowl
.
No. No more bets.
What about Moch?
No. To ask him to get more money would mean more deals. . . .
And maybe there’s hope for Mocho. Maybe he’s not lost. Maybe Mrs. Mendez is just tired—pregnant. Whatever. Maybe she doesn’t need those tests.
Maybe Mrs. Mendez and everybody’s just fine.
Mrs. Mendez doesn’t look fine.
Moch is fine. Maybe . . .
Maybe I should stop trying to figure out Mocho’s life for him and worry about my own.
Lost: Hope. Looking to belong, survive.
“IT’S SUPER BOWL SUNDAY,”
Josh says. It’s just hanging there—like a helium balloon we can bring down and hold on to. We’ve worked out a good bet. Almost a sure thing.
Ab-stee-nance
. Mrs. Overland’s southern drawl creeps into my brain.
But this is really, truly, almost a sure thing. It’s like betting with a condom.
I need to keep Planned Parenthood out of my betting vocab.
The week was nuts. The Cardinals, who began the season as a hundred to one for winning the Super Bowl, have now become the popular underdog, which kind of messes up my spread. Sometimes hopeful bets turn out—but when an entire nation gets hopeful, it messes up the balance of things.
I don’t have any cash to bet
.
“Super Bowl Sunday.” He lowers his voice. “You’ve gone back to bench warming. You’re a totally different person when you’re in the game, Michal.”
“Are you really going to do a whole
‘
play the game’ analogy?”
“Totally.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “Ready? You now: ass splinters, bench warming, Pay-per-view spectator, living in the safety zone, perma-time-out. Shall I continue?”
“Here’s the deal. A friend needs money for some tests. Medical stuff.”
“Well, that’s even better! We can call it a gamble-thon. Think about it, Michal. This is the essence of Babylonia—like a Robin Hood gambling enterprise. We’ll take the winnings from our last bet and invest.”