We Were Here (19 page)

After only a couple wrong turns Mong led us to the bus station and I paid for three one-way tickets to L.A., the farthest south we could go in one shot. We went to a twenty-four-hour burrito spot and ate carne asada tacos while waiting for our bus to come. Then we climbed aboard and each grabbed our own seat in the back and leaned against the window. Mong and Rondell fell right to sleep, but I stayed up for a while, thinking about Stockton and Diego and all the funny shit that’s happened with us. I had this bad longing to be back there that sat in my stomach like a twenty-pound weight. Out of nowhere I felt incredibly alone and lost on the bus, and I had no idea what I was doing or why or which way was which. My breathing even got rushed. It felt no different than when me and Diego damn near drowned in the ocean
that day I’d just told Rondell about. Just find the sandbar, I kept telling myself. There’s gotta be a sandbar.

But there wasn’t no sandbar.

I stared out my window as we moved through Santa Cruz, past all these homeless long-haired hippies sleeping near this dried-up fountain and down a sleepy neighborhood street where tree leaves scraped the top of the bus and all the houses looked like the olden days.

We veered up the southbound on-ramp and merged onto the quiet highway. Even though the sun was starting to creep up into the sky in the east, it seemed like everybody was asleep on the entire bus except me. And I just sat there, watching the light wash over the mountains, the way it had a million times before. And the way I realized it would a million times after. I reached into my bag and pulled my journal, started writing all the stuff that was happening to us.

What Rondell Thinks About, Part 2:

About an hour into the bus ride, Rondell woke up and looked over his seat at me.

I stopped writing.

“Hey, Mexico,” he said in this half-asleep voice that sounded all froggy and inhuman.

“What’s up?”

He smacked his lips a couple times and closed his eyes halfway, making me think he was
still
asleep. Like he was sleeptalking or something. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Mexico,” he said again.

“What?” I said, kind of irritated. If he wasn’t gonna say anything I wanted to finish my journal stuff so I could go to sleep too.

“I bet he could see us now,” Rondell said.

“Who?”

“God.”

I raised an eyebrow at the guy, trying to think what the hell he was talking about
now
.

“I bet he could see everything ’cause we ain’t in Juvi no more. We ain’t even under no roofs.”

Right then I sort of remembered back to the first conversation me and him had when we were roommates. When he’d asked me did I think God or whatever could see us when we were locked up and I told him that thing about Santa Claus. I couldn’t believe he was still thinking about that.

Rondell opened his eyes a little wider and told me: “I just figured out alls I want out of anything, Mexico.”

“Go ’head, Rondo. This oughta be good.”

“I wanna be see’d by him. That’s it. So he knows I’m here too, just like other people.”

“Okay,” I said, closing up my journal.

“I was in there a long time, though. I been hopin’ maybe he ain’t lost track of me.” Rondell looked down at my journal and then he looked back at me. “I’m fittin’ on asking him ’bout that. When my time comes to go up there.”

“Asking him what?” I said. I was actually kind of interested in what Rondell was gonna say for once. It felt like he was getting at something important.

He wiped a hand down his face and yawned. “If he could see people when they locked up. I had this one guard told me when I was little. He said God couldn’t see nobody who was in jail. I said back how God could do
anything
’cause he allknowin’ and all-bein’, but the man just shook his head at me.”

I stared back at Rondell, wondering why some people thought so much about religion and others didn’t think about it at all. Like me. I wondered who was better off about that.

“And also if cats can be in heaven,” Rondell said. “I’m
maybe gonna ask him ’bout that one too. And dogs. I got things I wanna ask him, Mexico. If I ain’t too nervous, I mean.”

Then Rondell shrugged and his eyelids started falling down his eyes even though he was still sitting up. He jerked and smiled, yawned the biggest yawn that’s humanly possible and went down on his seat again. On his back. Started snoring right away.

I looked at him over his seat back, cracking up to myself. I thought how if there was really a so-called God he
better
be seeing Rondell. Even when the guy was locked up. It’d be entertaining as hell. Plus it’d be messed up if somebody who was God only cared about seeing people who did everything right, or rich people, or smart people. He should see people like Rondell, too. Rondell’s life shouldn’t mean any less than anybody else’s.

I leaned back and looked out the bus window. At the cars flashing by on the other side of the freeway. At the houses and car dealerships and off-ramps and gas station signs and hamburger places and big green trees. It was so weird thinking how I was actually alive to look at it all.

July 22—more

The bus dropped us off in Santa Monica in the late afternoon, and we wandered around for a while in clothes that were still a little damp from the storm. We checked out a bunch of stores and then sat on a curb to watch people on the streets. They seemed different than where we just were. The girls were dressed up more and all of them had on big sunglasses and fancy bags and led around these tiny leashed dogs that looked like little hamsters. The dudes had short spiky hair and big collars and flip-flops and they all walked around
like they were supposed to
be
somebody, but I’d never seen none of ’em on TV.

By the way, everybody says L.A.’s supposed to be about movie stars cruising the streets with their agents and paparazzi hanging out of car windows snapping photos and models sipping tea at every café you go by. But me, Mong and Rondell sat on that curb for almost two hours and we didn’t recognize one person the whole time.

Finally we ate at another cheap burrito spot and went into Ross Dress for Less to buy some new gear. We each got a couple cheap shirts and some different kicks and Rondell got a bigger sweatshirt, one that fit him better. I got a pair of baggier jeans. After we paid for everything we threw our old group-home gear in a Dumpster and wandered around some more until we ended up walking into this hoop gym in Venice Beach.

We went in all hesitant, looking back and forth at each other, not sure it was cool to even be in there if you weren’t a regular. But nobody said anything, so we sat up in the bleachers and watched the guys play. It was a hundred percent black inside, all of them bigger than me and Mong put together. And they could play, too. Guys were raining Js from deep, doing spin moves through the lane and throwing down in traffic. Some guys had finesse, but others were big Shaq Diesel types who could toss somebody around without even trying. And all of ’em were jawing after damn near every trip down the court.

I was loving it just watching. Hoops has always been my sport, man. Back in Stockton me and Diego would hit all the local runs during summers. I never played for a school team or anything, but guys would usually pick me up if they’d ever seen me ball before. I’m quick and got a pretty decent handle and I can shoot threes for days. Ball is one of the few things, other than school, that I can do better than my big bro. So I always wanted to play.

Anyways, we watched a couple good runs, and then the crowd started to thin out. Guys went to the side to unlace their kicks, change into clean shirts. Some jetted right out the front doors. We were about to beat it too, when this dude with ratty dreads came off the court and asked us did we wanna run.

Me and Mong and Rondell all looked at each other, peeped our new jeans, looked back at the guy.

“I’m sayin’,” the guy told us. “We ain’t got a full ten. We need y’all.”

I secretly wanted to play, ’cause it’d been a grip since I even
touched
a ball. But at the same time, we didn’t have hoop clothes and these guys were mad big and skilled. I looked at Mong, who cracked his fingers and then hopped down from the bleachers. “Yeah, we’ll play,” he said, motioning for me and Rondell to get down too.

“That’s what I’m
talkin’
’bout,” the guy said, holding out his big right hand. “I’m Peanut Butter, by the way.”

“Wha’chu mean?” Rondell said.

“Peanut Butter,” the guy said again. “That’s my name.”

We all slapped hands and then they made teams, keeping us three together. After they told us who to guard the guy Peanut Butter tossed the rock in to the other squad and we started playing. I got stuck checking this tall athletic dude people were calling Slim. On the very first play he whipped a no-look to Mong’s man, who cut through the lane for a finger roll over the rim. Next time down Slim hit a deep jumper from the corner with my hand all in his face. He ran back the other way, slapping hands with his teammates and calling out: “Water!”

It was cool watching these guys from the side, but playing was a whole other deal. They were even bigger and faster up close. It was miles away from the barbecue games I could
hang with back in Stockton. My man could pretty much scoot past me any time he wanted. And he did for three out of their first five buckets.

Then big Rondell decided he was gonna do something about that. And this is the part that’s sick.

Rondell Shocks Everybody in the Gym
,
Including Me and Mong:

Next time down the guy Slim took me baseline again, but just as he was laying the rock up over the rim, Rondell came out of nowhere and swatted his shot out of bounds. “Get that shit!” Rondell shouted as he came back to the ground wagging his finger. “You done gettin’ them easy ones, black.”

Guys on the side erupted, laughing and clowning and calling Rondell Mutumbo.

“That’s it, Mutumbo, don’t let nobody come in your house.”

“I see you, Mutumbo. Found the fountain of youth out there in Africa, didn’t you, boy?”

In all the talk it took everybody an extra few seconds to notice Mong laying on his back on the ground at half-court, chest heaving in and out, holding his head.

Me and Rondell rushed over and stood over him. I thought about his kidney problem and wondered if he was gonna be sick right there on the court, in front of everybody. I felt bad for the guy, but I’m not gonna lie, I was more worried it was gonna get us in trouble.

“You all right?” Rondell asked him.

He shook his head no. Kept breathing hard and held his arms around his own middle.

“What should we do?” I asked him, but he didn’t answer.

“He all right?” one of the big dudes from the other team said when he got up to us.

I looked at everybody in the gym, then back down at Mong.

“What’s wrong with him?” someone said.

“He catch a elbow?” Slim said.

Peanut Butter came over and told everybody to stand back, give him some room. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I was so afraid any minute ambulances would come speeding up to the gym, or cops.

But then Mong sort of got his breath back and sat up.

“You all right?” I said.

He nodded and then turned to Rondell, said: “Sick block.”

“Thanks,” Rondell said, smiling big.

Mong held out his hand, and Rondell yanked him up with so much strength Mong actually left his feet. “I’m too out of shape right now,” Mong said, shaking his head. “You guys play without me.”

We watched him walk over to the sideline to get somebody to take his spot, but everybody said they were done for the day. Finally this older black dude with goggles put his shoes back on and said: “All right, all right, one more and that’s it.” He jogged around the court once and pulled the ball out of Peanut Butter’s hands, bounced it twice.

I watched Mong wander over to the drinking fountain. He looked better, but I still wondered how serious his kidney thing was. For the first time since I read his file I wondered if you could actually die from having bad kidneys. And what would we do if it happened while we were still trying to get to Mexico?

Once Mong was sitting back in the bleachers we started up again, and Rondell pretty much took over. He swatted another shot, this one off the backboard. He scored a fast-break
layup with his left hand, pulled us within four. He stripped his man clean in the open court, raced down the right wing and did this nasty reverse dunk. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d read about him playing AAU in his file and all that, but seeing it with my own eyes was something totally different. He was the best player I’d ever seen.

Guys on the sideline were going crazy too, yelling and pointing at each other. They stopped calling him Mutumbo and started calling him Matrix. He blocked another shot, hit a jumper from beyond three-point range, drove the lane and finished with this sick tomahawk over two guys.

After the tomahawk, Peanut Butter pretty much gave Rondell the ball every damn time down the court. He’d dribble down, whip it over to Rondell, and say: “Feed the beast!” I hadn’t even taken one shot, but it didn’t matter. Watching Rondell play ball was like watching those seagulls fly through rain. He didn’t even notice defenders draped all over his arms, trying to stop him from getting in the lane. Didn’t even register. And he was smooth, too. That was the most surprising thing. Off the court Rondell was big and awkward, he moved molasses slow and couldn’t read a word you put in front of him. But
on
the court? Nah, man, on the court Rondell was a damn ballerina. He was valedictorian. Dude zipped up and down the wing on fast breaks like a cheetah, finished at the rim like a bull. Shit gave me goose bumps just watching the guy. I wondered if he could even play in the NBA.

It came down to a super close game at the end. We had game point and they were one behind us, with the ball. This guy everybody called Boo dribbled down the court and tried to dump it into their big man, but Rondell stepped in front of the guy and picked it off. He raced down the other way-just me, him, a defender and the basket. Since he was so far
ahead of the pack I figured he’d just flush it home for game, but he didn’t. He kicked the ball back to me, set a screen on the defender and let me go in for the winning layup.