Wanted (9 page)

I much prefer
PB & J
, named after Seth’s favorite sandwich, with just the right mix of irony, sarcasm, and pretty decent reporting.

Josh plops into the spot next to me. “Latte? Two shots of cinnamon dolce, extra shot of espresso.” He hands me the coffee. “How’s your knee?”

I’ve been sitting in the courtyard, watching the stream of students, waiting to see if Moch shows up. I cradle the coffee in my hands and inhale the sweet smell. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Who’re you waiting for?”

“No one.”

“Have something to do with last night?”

I clear my throat.

“Sorry. Just curious. It’s not every night a bloody-kneed damsel in distress comes knocking on my door. I’m feeling pretty heroic today, as a matter of fact.”

I place my hand on my forehead and swoon. “My hero.” He’d probably be insta-repelled if he knew I was really swooning. Like blood-deficient, wishing-he’d-kiss-me-right-here-right-now swooning.

Seth walks by and tosses me a paper. He winks at me and I can’t help but smile. “Friends?” he asks.

“Friends.” I nod.

“Cool.”

“That guy is fearless,” Josh says. “His story?”

“Seth is sibling number four of, like, seven or something.”

“Seven kids?”

I nod. “Very biblical. Anyway, King Hand-Me-Down but wears his clothes with style. When he was a freshman, he refused to shower until his parents stopped making him go to seminary, and the school, after four weeks, wouldn’t let him in the doors. I asked him if he really didn’t believe in the Mormon doctrine or just wanted to sleep in, and he said, ‘I need time to think about it. Just not every morning at five forty-five.’”

Josh nods. “Cool dude.”

I skim the headlines of
PB & J
and read his editorial, a rant against using student-body funds—extra cash earned from the sale of student ID cards—to pad the ski trip to Heavenly that nobody can afford.

The Student Council Synonymous with Bourgeois (and Most Likely Doesn’t Know What Synonymous and Bourgeois Mean)

Elitist Dictionary for Dummies: Word of the Day: Pecksniffian

The Bumpy Road to the Super Bowl: Upsets and Surprises

“He’s right. I mean, everybody had to buy those cards and now they’re using the money for an exclusive ski trip.”

The bell rings.

Callie and Trinity, the student council secretary and treasurer, are selling all-you-can-drink hot chocolate coupons for tomorrow’s trip—a last-minute “Heavenly” special. They finalize the last purchase and close the metallic box filled with money from the sales, a pretty thick pile of tickets remaining.

Exclusive. Subsidized by student-body ID card sales. They put the ski trip to a vote and said they won by a hefty margin. I don’t even remember voting on it.

They walk by, the box latch clanging. “Tomorrow morning will be awesome,” Callie says. “I’m wearing my new Columbia jacket.”

“Columbia?” Trinity scoffs. Like an actual scoff. “That’s cute.”

Callie deflates, then rebounds like some kind of bouncy ball, returning to her singsong happy voice. “It’ll be so fun!”

It’s like watching perky blond clones.

“Tomorrow will be
the best
,” Trinity agrees. “Like . . .
the best
.” She swings her head around, her ponytail practically knocking my new glasses off my face. She flips around. “How about a little spa—Oh. Hey, Mike. Are
you
going on the ski trip?” she asks. “Or maybe it’s not your thing. I mean, growing up, I’m sure your family couldn’t afford this kind of stuff. And it’s hard to start skiing with your full figure, balancing that extra weight.”

Callie looks away, and I think she’s probably embarrassed. Pretending Trinity is anything less than the spawn of evil is like going along for the ride.

I stare at Trinity and get that burning feeling in my stomach. I try to look at her for who she really is. I try to see beyond the lacquered, shiny coat to the dry rot underneath.

Trinity’s pristine smile falters.

“Hey. We’ll be late for class,” Josh says.

Trinity smirks and says, “Hello, Joshua Ellison. I thought you’d never ask.”

Josh scowls and puts his hand on my arm. “Michal?”

Trinity looks from Josh to me and gives Callie a look like she’s seen Elvis. Her cheeks get bright red dots in their centers. She spins on her heel and walks down the hall, Callie trailing behind.

“Hello?” Josh waves his hand in front of my face.

“Yeah. Thanks. I’m in Zombieland today.” I stare at the poster.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Josh asks, eyeing the box tucked under Trinity’s arm. He points to the article.

“You’re the antibullshit president. Not me.”

“You sure about that?” he asks.

Yeah. I’m sure.

Josh and I walk to Mrs. B’s class together. I search the hallway for Moch, wondering if it’s too late, if everything he was, everything he could be, has been swallowed up by drug deals and gang warfare.

I hate feeling like there’s nothing I can do. I hate feeling like I’m just watching everybody’s life pass by like some parade.

When we walk in the door, my stomach knots. He’s sitting in his chair, hunched over his desk, scribbling in a notebook, blue hoodie pulled over his head.

“Talk later, then?” Josh asks.

“Definitely,” I say.

I sit behind Moch and tap his shoulder.

“Hey,” I say.

The anger I saw the night before is gone. “You look like shit,” he says.

“You, too.”

He squeezes my hand. “Cool?”

“I don’t know. Who are you?”

Moch rolls his eyes, his mask back on. He coughs, smelling like a distillery.

Mrs. Brooks asks if anybody wants to share a memoir. Her finger lands on Moch’s name. The class inhales, waiting for another memoir about congealing blood and waxy cold skin. I’m waiting for one about drop sites and meth labs. Instead, he reads, “No country. No nationality. Mex-American exile.”

Mrs. B exhales. She wipes at her nose and smiles at Moch, getting
that
look in her eye—the look teachers get when they want to save someone from himself and believe they’ve found a way.

I hope she’s right.

Her watery eyes home in on me. I scrunch down in my chair and pass as invisible. She holds up her bony, yellowed, tobacco-stained finger, and it lands on another name. “Trinity Ross. Why don’t you read what you’ve got?”

Trinity glares in our direction, then flashes Mrs. B her ten-thousand-dollar headgear, braces, retainer-straight, laser-whitened smile. All those years of being a human satellite dish paid off. I make a note to call her “Crest” in my mind.

Mrs. B crosses her arms in front of her thin body. “We’re waiting, Trinity.”

Trinity opens her notebook, the corners of her mouth turned up—a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes but stays frozen on the lower half of her face. She says, speaking right at Moch, “No papers. No English. No service.” She pauses. “Go home.”

Mrs. B is gobsmacked.

Trinity’s words hang in the air like pogonip—an ice fog that won’t dissipate. I can practically hear them crystallize above our heads, leaving us under a film of ice. The class settles in an uncomfortable silence. I watch Trinity, the sneer on her face, the look of entitlement, like she was branded when she slipped out of her mom’s body—
American.
Moch doesn’t even look up at her.

Look at her
.
Look her in the eyes.

He sits huddled in his chair. Defeated. Like he doesn’t belong here.

“That’s eight words, Trinity,” I say, feeling like fire is radiating from my stomach up through my esophagus.

“Technicality,” she says.

“Technically, then, I have to quote Pat Paulsen on this. ‘All the problems we face in the United States today can be traced to an unenlightened immigration policy on the part of the American Indian.’” I try to keep my voice as even as possible, keep out the anger and the quiver. Keep it in control and look at her like she’s just another bet to place—a bet that will lose. “I guess the Native Americans forgot to put up the
KEEP OUT EUROPEAN BUNGHOLES
sign.”

Josh bursts out laughing—the class follows. But it’s not natural laughter, just that awkward, get-me-out-of-here laughter.

Moch stands up, gathers his books, shoving them in his backpack. The laughter stops.

If you leave, she wins.

Mrs. B snaps out of her trance. “Ms. Ross, your attitude here is absolutely unacceptable. Mr. Mendez, take your seat.” She looks Moch in the eyes and he pauses, not sure whether to stay or leave.

Stay. Stay. Staystaystay.

Trinity’s voice sounds like an LP on the wrong speed—screechy, frenetic. “Freedom of speech, Mrs. B. Ask my dad. He’s the one who went to law school, passed the bar, pays your salary and
his
education with taxes on money he
earned
. Those who can, do; those who can’t . . .” Trinity crosses her arms in front of her.

“Well, then, you can just head to Dean Randolph’s office and wait until I get there. I’m sure you’ll be talking to your father before I have a chance to arrive. Just tell him that those who teach, suspend. Explain to him why I’m proposing your in-school suspension and, by doing so, expelling you from any school activities until the end of next week.”

“But.” Trinity’s face contorts and turns a weird shade of red.

Mrs. B holds up a hand. “Leave. Now.” She turns to Moch. “Mr. Mendez, I will
not
tell you again. Take. Your. Seat. Where you belong. And take off that hood. We are in class.”

Right on, Mrs. B.

I will Moch to sit down in his chair. He pauses, then sits.

Trinity grabs her things in a huff and is already texting on her BlackBerry. Mrs. B says to the class, “In no way, shape, or form is any kind of racism, classism, ageism, or prejudice okay here. No way. Shape. Or form. Period. Excuse me just a moment.” She makes a hushed call from her desk. “Okay, then, let’s talk graphic novels, my lovelies.” Mrs. B does a Wicked Witch of the West cackle and heads to the back of the class, squeezing my shoulder as she passes.

Chapter 12

I DON’T KNOW WHAT NEWS

traveled around the school faster: news that Mrs. B took a stand and suspended Trinity Ross—the untouchable; news that the administration undermined Mrs. B’s decision—they let Trinity off on a stern warning and sent her back to class with a smile pasted on her face; or news that Moch and a couple of friends got caught ditching with cans of spray paint in the parking lot and suspended for what looked like intent to paint.

I’m not saying Moch wouldn’t have done something like spray the hell out of Trinity’s car, slash the tires, key it, and do oodles of damage. That’s a given. It just all seems like a bunch of crap on a cracker.

So by the end of last block, the plan had gelled.

My legs wobble from crouching in the stall for the past two hours. This could be a new exercise. Bathroom-stall yoga—bend in ways you never thought possible. It’s not only the crouching, hiding, keeping my feet up out of sight, but it’s also the not touching. I mean, there are only so many clean-looking places in a stall.

My brain feels like somebody has clubbed all the creativity neurons—the inside of this door is an English teacher’s worst nightmare. I’ve spent the last two hours reading about love, cheating, comparative penis sizes, misspelled expletives, and GPS messages. Mariela has been here . . . a lot.

My knee throbs.

It’s already dark. The sounds of bouncing balls, ten pairs of shoes squeaking across the gym floor, and echoing whistles have disappeared. Basketball practice, wrestling practice, and all club activities have ended. I listen to distant footsteps in the courtyard—stragglers. Heavy doors slam shut.

I wait until the only thing I can hear is my own breathing.

My knee almost gives out on me when I stand up. I shake it, then peek out the stall door. I listen and put on a Carson High hoodie, pulling it over my head, tucking my hair in.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A tingling travels up my spine—a buzz of nerves connecting, accelerating my heart and breathing. My hands feel slippery. I wipe them on my jeans and creep into the empty hallway—more light here than in the bathroom. It’s already too dark to make out colors. It’s the time of day when everything is cast in varying shades of gray. My ears hurt with thunderous silence; every footstep I take ricochets off the lockers, amplified by a thousand because of the emptiness. I slip off my shoes and pad down the halls in my socks.

Just as I’m about to turn down the science hallway, I hear voices and heavy footsteps. I backtrack to the drinking fountain and crouch underneath it—too late to realize that this is about as effective a hiding spot as if I pretended I was a human statue.

They reach the hallway and turn the other way. I think they’re the basketball coaches. They’re talking about some guy’s prostate. Their voices grow fainter until I can barely make out the words, everything sounding like a muted grumble.

I make my way down the halls, hugging the walls, keeping my backpack in front of me and my face down in case there are security cameras I’ve never noticed before but now’s not the time to look for them.

I feel the blood rushing to my ears, pumping through my body, my heart pounding, filling every inch of space around me with noise. I rifle through my backpack and take out my Leatherman. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing I know how to open locked doors. Just most of the kids in my neighborhood did. There’s a certain skill set needed to be . . . what am I?

I shake my head.

Focus. Basic stuff.
My glasses fog. I take them off, wipe them, put them back on, the rim slipping down my nose. I unscrew the doorknob and pull, pushing the other side in. Metal crashes to the hard tile floor, piercing and sharp, the noise reverberating in the school. I feel like I’m in the epicenter of a catastrophic earthquake and visualize the arcs and circles that they’ll draw to radiate from the boom.