Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
I listen.
Metal siding bangs and howls with gusts of wind. Cars rip along Highway 50, muffled and distant. There’s a soft hum somewhere—maybe a generator.
We walk up the stairs—rubber soles tapping on metal. That familiar sound of kids going up and down bleachers. But softer. Softer.
The office door is locked.
I take out the screwdriver to open it, but Josh just bashes in the glass with the drill. It’s that windshield glass. A web of cracks forms—glinting. Pretty. An intricate design of Swarovski shards.
Josh shrugs. I flick him in the temple. “Patience.”
“Yes, Yoda,” he says, and fans his fingers on the outside of his head.
I unscrew the doorknob and pop it in. It thuds on the thin carpeting, a soft singing-bowl-like hum hanging in the air.
No safe.
It takes all of two minutes to find the bank bag with four piles of cash—wrapped tightly in deposit slips. I sometimes wonder if anybody else in this world watches cable. One
To Catch a Thief
show is enough to teach these people to deposit their money. I hand Josh the bills. He takes out the spray paint and signs
BABYLONIA
on the glass. “They have to replace it anyway,” he says.
On the way out, we tape up the manifesto.
I like to think of somebody showing up, opening the manifesto, and
knowing
that they’ve been robbed. It’s better than them just entering and seeing it. It gives them time to anticipate it, think about it, dread it. And wonder who else knows.
Conviction replaces ideals. Now black-white world.
Sanctuary 3:30 Comma Coffee
I CRADLE A CAFFEINE
blaster in my hands. “Decaf?” Josh asks.
I shake my head. “I fell off the wagon. I’m just so tired.”
He sits next to me. We’re in the back room waiting for others to show. “Do you sleep? After?”
I shake my head. “I just don’t sleep anymore at all. You?”
“Yes and no. At first, when I get home, I crash, like my body needs to turn off. Then I wake up an hour or so later and just lie there—”
“—replaying it all in my head. Going over and over the scene, hoping that—”
“—we didn’t miss anything.”
I bite into a blueberry muffin with crumble topping, sipping on my coffee, wondering why the
Nevada Appeal
didn’t print our manifesto. Why Seth didn’t. Maybe we’re old news. Maybe they don’t get it—why this is so important.
It’s not about us. It’s about Mrs. Mendez and Luis Sanchez. It’s about Caleb and Comba and all the guys who think it’s okay to kill.
It’s about justice—without a price tag attached to it.
The room crams with kids from school. “Wow,” I say.
“This tournament is crazy unpredictable,” Javier says. “It’s too hard
not
to bet.”
“You all get your coffees?” I ask.
A couple of kids groan.
“Listen. Go buy a dollar cookie or something. Like we really need to be booted out of here because you’re cheap.”
By the time everybody’s settled, a calm enters the room. I clear my throat and begin with the reading of the day.
What am I? I am zero—nothing. What shall I be tomorrow? I may be risen from the dead, and have begun life anew. For still, I may discover the man in myself, if only my manhood has not become utterly shattered.
“Yeah. I don’t get that one,” some kid says. “I’m just here to place a bet.”
I roll my eyes. No poetry. How can they
not
know they’ve all got the capacity to be something great—to start again—to be part of something way greater than placing bets and losing money?
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen.” I look in the crowd of faces. “Sweet Sixteen. Big deal. Big upsets. Nothing weird today. Too many bets—straight up, money-line them, or bet the spread. And
please
, unless you’re twelve, don’t come to me with a parlay. I’m not in the mood for wiping up snotty tears Friday night. Saturday I’ll open up Sanctuary for Elite Eight. We’re going to Grandma Hattie’s. Eight o’clock a.m. All in person. No call-ins.”
“Eight? Fuck. That’s
not
human. My
one
day to sleep in.” Tim’s parents make him go to sunrise services at the Catholic church Sunday mornings. Brutal.
I shrug. “It’s up to you.” I wink. “Think of it as tithing for a cause.”
“Yeah. Some cause,” some guy says. “More like a money suck.”
“You guys know the stakes. Am I right?”
There’s some mumbling.
I write everything down. This tournament has been especially fun because only two front-runners are still in the tournament. An amazing ride. So how can they
not
understand that we will rise from the dead, start life anew? And with U-Dub, we’ll have our resurrection. It’s serendipity.
Nim waits until last. “I want to place a bet.” He’s cracking his knuckles. I can hear the pop of synovial fluid between his bones and cringe. I
hate
that sound.
“Go ahead. Just not with me. We’re done, Nim.”
He leans in, so close everything goes a little blurry. If it weren’t for the fact he shares over ninety-nine percent of his genetic material with me, I’d swear he was Saint John’s seven-headed blue beast.
“Enough,” I say. “Just go away.”
“You’re
nothing
,” he spits. Thousands of spittle dots of bad breath soak into my skin. I half expect it to sizzle. I’m probably going to have to run to CVS for Clearasil or some emergency skin-care product that removes Beelzebub’s acidic drool.
That’s a product that would raise some eyebrows. There’s probably a decent market for it somewhere.
“Nothing,” Nim repeats.
Yeah, Nim, I heard you the first twenty thousand times
.
“Then
why
do you keep coming to me?” I ask. I lean in. “I
saw
you there cheering Caleb on, kicking Luis Sanchez. I know who was there that day.”
Nim pales and grimaces; his seven heads return to his one big, dumb head. Even his helmetlike waves of hair have come ungelled. “My word against yours.” His voice wavers. He clears his throat. “All of our words against yours.”
“Just remember.” I glare. “Just remember who
nothing
is.”
Nim leaves, Medusa trailing behind him like she’s some kind of parasite and Nim’s the host.
Josh hands me my caffeine blaster refill. A bitter coffee aroma clings to the furniture in the room. I feel like I’m suffocating. “Hey,” he says. He turns my face to his. “What was that about?”
I bite down and clear my throat. “Saturday?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“He’s on the list.” Anger bubbles up inside me.
“I’ve kind of got plans.” He flashes me tickets to the Aloha Dance.
“Oh.” My heart sinks. I think it’s skipped a beat. I’m supposed to be Josh’s plans. “Sorry. Of course. I mean . . .” I shove my books into my backpack, palms slick, hot. I’ve seen Josh talking to Sadie, Marilyn’s friend, in the hallways. Of course he’s going to want to have a real life outside of what we do.
“So?” he says.
“Another day.”
“I don’t mean
that.
” He smiles. “
That’s
a given. I mean this. Will you go with me?”
I pause. I’ve just been asked to a dance. I expect, any moment, for lightning to crack in the sky and the world to turn to ash.
“So?” Josh asks. “Man, you’d think it’d be easier to ask you to a dance since, well, we do lots of other stuff together.” He laughs. A flock of sandy hair flops into his eyes. “I am feeling totally lame right now.” He wrinkles his nose. “Um. Hello? Protocol here would be a response—verbal or otherwise—to put me out of my misery and make me feel like less of a jackass.”
“Oh. Okay,” I say.
“I’m waiting.”
“That’s it. Um. Yes. Okay,” I say. “A dance.”
“Okay,” Josh says. “So it’s a date.”
“It’s a date.”
This is probably the first awkward silence we’ve had, and I’m not sure whether I should high-five Josh or kiss him or shake his hand or . . . whatever. What’s the procedure for a platonic Hawaiian dance date? Or is it platonic?
He breaks the silence. “Then we can sack Nim’s house for every last penny.”
I smirk, back on comfortable ground. “Okay. Done.”
Slipping into unmapped territory. Predictability gone.
“MARILYN? HELP!” I CALL
her after Sanctuary, and she squeals.
“I
knew
that you and Josh had a thing. I mean,
hello
, all he’s done since he got here is follow you around. He’s
adorable
.”
After we’ve decided that Josh looks best in green because it makes the flecks of green-gold in his eyes stand out, and his sandy-brown curls curlier, and the little scar above his left eyebrow sexier (how a color can do that is beyond me, but when we’re talking, Marilyn has me convinced as well), Marilyn calls in reinforcements and we plan a Friday emergency Hawaiian shopping trip. “What are you going to look for?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” How many options are there for Hawaiian?
“You’re so perfect for a Hawaiian dance theme. God, I wish I had your skin.”
Where’s that coming from?
I wonder who people see when they look at me.
Thursday’s games had two more upsets. I had to deal with a couple of near-tears phone calls late into the night. Josh and I are ripping it up.
We. Can’t. Lose.
Four more games tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and we slide into the Elite Eight.
When we come out ahead this weekend—with the bets we’re going to place—we’ll end up banking almost twelve thousand dollars.
Twelve thousand dollars
.
Most kids don’t make that in four years of part-time work.
That’s enough for Luis’s family
and
Mr. Mendez . . . enough to get Mr. Mendez back on his feet, to get him to set up his restaurant. To get Moch out of la Cordillera.
It’s enough to give to Clinica Olé and Brain Food. This is our chance to make a big splash—not just some dinky donation.
Twelve thousand dollars.
I’m so busy spending our money that I don’t even see Seth’s paper until we’re in first period.
Babylonia Backfire? Local Businesses Lay Off Workers Without Papers
Cash Reward for Babylonia: $3500
Babylonia backfire?
I read the article—once again, filled with supposition.
Are
businesses firing undocumented workers?
By the end of the school day, it’s hard to get excited about shopping. But with Marilyn’s infectious girl thing going on, I soon forget about Babylonia and a rise in homelessness, and focus on fabrics.
I’m trying to shove my hips into some kind of shimmery mermaidlike dress that, on the model, flows in silvery-blue cascades, making her look like she’s from the lost island of Atlantis.
“You okay in there?” Marilyn asks. She, Sadie, and three others I don’t know really well are trying to find me something Hawaiian.
“I don’t think Hawaiian means being some kind of amphibian mutant,” I say. I inhale, exhale, then peek from behind the dressing room door. “Help. I’m stuck.”
Marilyn feeds me dresses. When I try to protest, she interrupts. “Just try.” It’s embarrassing and wonderful at the same time.
After trying on approximately ten thousand ensembles from Bermudas and Hawaiian button-up shirts to sarongs and ridiculous dresses, we find
the one.
Though I’m not convinced a dress is
the one
out of desperation, lack of alternatives, or just plain exhaustion. But when I try it on, it is
the one.
“Oh my God, that’s it!”
“Isn’t it a little dressy?” I ask. It’s a halter dress with a smocked top that goes into a full skirt.
“Oh, no way,” Sadie says. “Just keep your hair down and wear flip-flops. It’s too perfect. Perfect. Can you put a flower behind your ear, like here?” They all surround me, tugging, pulling, until it’s decided my hair will be put back in a clip with a purple flower. Going to the accessory shop becomes the most urgent thing on our to-do list.
After we find a clip and it’s been decided, democratically of course, that I need a real flower in my hair, we buy glittery body lotion, swipe miniature perfume samples from Sephora, then collapse in the overheated Starbucks in the mall. We talk about where we’re going to dinner, who’s double-dating, and who’s going to get lucky.
I clear my throat. I
so
want to ask for kissing tips. I’ve Googled and bookmarked every kissing tip on the planet. There’s a deluge of information on circling tongues, sucking lips, nibbles. But I’m not sure where to begin.
I hope Josh kisses me.
“Hey. Earth to Mike. What about you and Josh? Have you?” Marilyn says, eyebrows dancing on her forehead.
“Have we?”
“Made out? Or more?”
I shake my head and feel my face turn furnace hot.
“Do you want to?” Marilyn asks.
More than anything
. I nod.
The girls oooh and aaah. . . . “Okay. This is what you’ve got to do.”
And it’s like Google information duplicated—with contradictions and tried-and-true techniques. The best tip I get out of it, though, is “Don’t hold your breath.” I wouldn’t have thought about that.
“Let’s all meet up at the dance,” Marilyn says. Sadie and the gang all nod in unison. It’s kind of fun, this sense of solidarity. Maybe it’s a girl thing. We’ll all be uncomfortable in dresses together.
Lillian’s gonna have a fit. Anything that has to do with high school dances she automatically relates to a sex fest and insta-pregnancy. As if wearing a corsage is like having unprotected sex. I sigh. Maybe she’ll have night duty at the clinic. Maybe she won’t even see me dressed up.
Friday’s games are madness—Sweet Sixteen had more upsets than any other year. Saturday morning for Elite Eight bets, we have to leave Grandma Hattie’s because there are too many of us. We have to drive over to Fuji Park. This is getting ridiculous.