We Were Here (24 page)

Worst thing is, I sat there for over an hour thinking about it. And I couldn’t think up even one reason why not to. Not
one
. The only explanation for me not dropping my shit right that second and sprinting to the ocean is ’cause I was too much of a pussy to actually do it. Which is even sadder than nothing maybe.

Rondell asked me about Mexico again, but I just stared at him with this crazy-ass smile on my face. Like the one Mong used to get. And I thought how much different it felt to be on the inside of a psycho look instead of on the outside. Or
maybe the look isn’t psycho at all. Maybe it’s just somebody fully understanding how alone we really are, which makes what people say to each other seem like empty sound, no more important than a dog barking or a cat meowing. It’s just random noise, not words, because how can two people communicate if they’re actually existing in completely different worlds?

Does that make sense? ’cause I don’t even know.

Actually, what I really wanted to do was just go to sleep. Like Rondell always could. Only I’d sleep for as long as humanly possible. For days or weeks even. Months. Then I wouldn’t have to think for a while, and thinking is what was making me tired as hell.

The only problem was I didn’t feel tired.

I laughed at myself, and Rondell turned away, probably thinking I was turning crazy. But that wasn’t it. I was just completely stuck in my breakthrough about nothingness with no idea what to do or think and Mong’s psycho smile somehow transferred onto my face.

When it got late and we were bored of watching people we went down by the beach and found this quiet place, hidden from the boardwalk, where we could sleep for the night. We set up our stuff without talking.

After laying there for like an hour, with my eyes wide open, head propped on my bag, I sat up and turned to Rondell, and I couldn’t believe it. Dude was actually awake for once in his life.

“Yo, watch our stuff,” I told him. “I gotta do somethin’.”

He didn’t look at me.

When I got up and stood next to him he turned away.

“What’s wrong with you?” I said.

“Nothin’.”

I booted a rock that was under the toe of my kick and said:
“Look, man, we can talk about shit tomorrow or whatever. Tonight I just don’t feel like it.”

He shrugged, stayed looking away from me.

“Yo, Rondo,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“Rondo!”

Nothing.

I got a frown on my face and said: “Oh, you ain’t talkin’ to
me
now?” I went around the other side of him, where he was looking, and he turned his head the other way, like a stubborn little kid. I stared down at the guy for a sec, shaking my head. I wasn’t some damn counselor, man. How could somebody expect
me
to talk his ass through what happened to Mong?

“Whatever,” I said, and started walking off.

I didn’t get too far, though, before Rondell called out after me: “Hey, Mexico!”

I stopped, turned around.

He sat up and looked at me but didn’t say anything.

I rolled my eyes at him. “Come on, man. Speak. You can do it.”

He looked down at the straps of his bag, said: “If you gonna leave me then just say it.”

I shot him a confused look. “Yo, you lost me, man. What are you talking about?”

“It ain’t right if you don’t tell me,” Rondell said. “That’s my word.”

“Who says I’m leavin’ you?”

He stared at his straps, shaking his head. “If you do, though.”

I marched back over to the guy and dropped my bag. “Look at me, man,” I said.

He looked up at me.

“I ain’t leavin’
nobody
, all right?”

He scratched his big head and nodded, said: “It just seems like maybe you is.”

I stared at him for a sec, thinking. “Okay, what do I gotta do, Rondo? I gotta say it for the record?”

He shrugged.

“All right, man, listen up, then. I, Miguel Castañeda, ain’t leavin’ Rondell Law under no circumstances. All right? That good enough for you?”

A small smile came over his face. He looked down at his sweatshirt, started messing with the zipper.

It wasn’t until I said it that second time, and saw his smile, that I knew it was true.

“Check it out,” I said, “I’ll even leave the petty cash in your bag. I wouldn’t go nowhere without any money, right?”

“Wha’chu mean?” he said, looking up at me again.

“I need money to survive, right? I’m not out here tryin’ to starve to death.”

Rondell looked crazy confused. “Nah, if you don’t come back is what I was sayin’.”

“Say what?”

“Wha’chu mean?”

I stood staring at the guy, completely baffled. Sometimes you honestly couldn’t communicate with Rondell. I’m not even saying that shit to be funny. It was like we were speaking two totally different languages.

He lowered his eyes, said: “I’m sorry, Mexico.”

“For
what?”

“If I did anything wrong to Mong—”

“Nah, nah, nah,” I interrupted, shaking my hand at him. “You don’t gotta be sorry for nothin’, man.” I kicked him in his shoe. “Mong was sick, all right? You even know about that? He had a screwed-up kidney. Why do you think he kept
throwing up all the damn time? Why you think he was always getting tired?”

Rondell was looking at me with total concentration.

“You know what else?” I told him. “I think he planned on doing that shit the whole time. For real, since the day he came in and asked us did we wanna leave too. I think he only brought us along so he wouldn’t be alone on his last couple days.”

“He did?” Rondell said.

I nodded. “I doubt he even has a boy in Mexico like he said.”

Rondell shook his head, said: “Still, though, Mexico. I’m just so sorry about it. I liked him a whole lot.”

“Stop sayin’ you’re sorry, man,” I said. “You don’t got no reason to be sorry. It had nothing to do with me or you. It was totally separate. And besides, he told me that last night how you were his best friend in the world.”

Rondell pulled his zipper down an inch or two, pulled it back up. Pulled it down, back up. He looked up at me and said: “He did?”

I nodded.

He got a little smile on his face.

“Look, I’ll be right back, okay? I promise. If I don’t show up you got the money anyways. You can go buy yourself all the hot dogs and beer in the world.”

He nodded and laid back down, closed his eyes.

I stared at him for a few seconds longer, shaking my head, and then started back toward the street.

My Phone Call:

I got two dollars’ worth of change from this tiny liquor store that had bars on every window, walked over to a pay phone outside a bar playing old-school rock songs. I picked up the
phone, dropped in two quarters and dialed my moms at the house.

She picked up on the second ring, said: “Hello?”

Just hearing her voice, man. I had this stupid-ass lump come into my throat and my stomach got mad butterflies.

“Hello?” she said again.

I tried to think quick what I could say. Like “Hello” right back or “Yo, Ma, it’s Miguel.” But everything sounded all fake-like in my head. And I knew my first words to her in so long had to be real.

“Hello?” she said a third time, and when I didn’t say anything back she hung up.

I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. Then I hung up too, stared at the number pad. I didn’t even know why I was calling her in the first place. She especially wouldn’t wanna talk to me now that I was on the run. But it felt like there was something I had to tell her. I tried to think what it was but nothing was coming. I pulled the phone off the hook and slammed it against the change part as hard as I could. Then I slammed it again and hung up.

This old drunk dude who was stumbling out of the bar turned to me and said: “Hey, hey, hey, young fella. Whatever it is, it ain’t the phone’s fault.”

“You don’t know shit about it, old man,” I shot back. “Best keep your old ass walkin’!” I took a step his way in case he had something else to say.

The guy waved a hand through the air and staggered off, whistling. I watched him round a corner. But soon as he was out of sight I felt ashamed ’cause my old man always taught me and Diego to respect people older than us. And I definitely hadn’t respected his old ass.

I looked at the phone again and tried to think some more about what I wanted to say. But still nothing was coming, so
I started back to where Rondell was with our stuff. I only made it halfway down the block, though, before I spun around and went right back to the pay phone.

I dropped in more change and dialed my mom’s number again.

“Hello?” she said off the first ring.

I didn’t say anything back.

“Hello?” she said again.

I got another lump in my throat just hearing her voice again. But I couldn’t talk. I had no words to say.

“Miguel?” she said.

My eyes went wide.

My stomach dropped out.

I hung the phone up quick as I could and backed off a few steps, staring at it. My legs went to Jell-O right there, like I was about to fall over, but I didn’t.

I hadn’t heard my moms say my name in forever. But at the same time it felt normal, too. Like nothing ever happened and she was just asking me a question about something back home. Or saying if I could help do the dishes. The lump in my throat grew so big it felt like it was gonna choke my ass to death. But when I tried to spit it out on the sidewalk, nothing came out. It was just stuck there.

I looked at the pay phone again, gave myself a little shot in the ribs. One in the temple. I grabbed my left arm with my right hand and squeezed as hard as I could. I spit again, then smacked the shit out of the cut on my lip, where the guy hit me. It started bleeding down my chin and neck. I touched two fingers to it and looked at ’em and for some reason seeing my own blood like that made me calm down some.

I sat down on the curb and leaned my chin in my hands, stared at the bar across the street. The bouncer was in a chair in front of the open door, looking down at a newspaper. I
listened to the music, ignoring my stinging lip and the blood running down my chin, into my hands, down my arms. I wanted to see if they’d play one of the songs Moms used to make me listen to back in the day. Like maybe that “Don’t Think Twice” song by Bob Dylan. Or something by Simon and Garfunkel or Cat Stevens. I thought maybe it could be like a sign or whatever. Like me and her were talking even though I’d just hung up the phone.

I sat there listening for a long-ass time.

Concentrating my ears. Waiting.

But one never came on.

July 27

This morning I woke up feeling much different about Rondell. It was just me and him now. I woke him up by piling both our bags on his legs and laughing my ass off when he popped his head up all scared. When he saw it was just me he laughed too.

We pulled out the leather petty-cash envelope and counted the money we had left. It came to $482.

We decided we should still go to Mexico, and I said we’d just pay for a bus to take us down to the border. Then we could cross over and live off what was left until we got jobs at some resort place like the one Mong told us about.

We looked in a phone book for where a major bus station was and found a Greyhound on Long Beach Boulevard. We went in a gas station and got directions and started walking east like the guy told us, along the busy street.

It’s pretty trippy, by the way, being on city streets again after you’ve spent so much time walking on the beach. It’s mad stressful actually. The constant sound of traffic going
and people blowing their car horns and sirens blaring. I decided it’s a better life when you’re away from all that stuff. When you’re hearing waves instead of cars. Smelling the salty ocean and seaweed instead of bus exhaust. When you’re sleeping on the sand.

When we went past this one section where a guy was digging up the street with a jackhammer I started thinking how Mexico was
exactly
where me and Rondell should go. Mong had it right all along—even if it was just something he was making up to get us out of the Lighthouse with him. A resort place on the beach where we could live simple. Cook fish Rondell caught and meet pretty girls. Never again worrying about cop cars coming up over the hill or policemen walking into the store you’re at.

I actually got so hyped thinking about it I yelled out to Rondell: “Yo, let’s get our asses to Mexico, boy!”

It took him three times to hear me over the jackhammer, but when he finally did he yelled back: “I’m gonna be a fisherman!”

Me and him slapped hands, and I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t worried about me leaving him anymore.

When we finally got to the bus station we bought tickets to San Ysidro, the last city in America before you’re in Mexico. We had a little time to kill before our bus left, so I dragged Rondell with me to another pay phone, pulled out the leather petty-cash envelope and dialed the phone number on the front.

“Hello?” Jaden said.

“We aren’t dead.”

There was a short pause. “Miguel?”

“Yeah. And Rondell. Mong isn’t with us no more.”

“Bro,” Jaden said. “You don’t know how happy I am to talk to you. Everything okay? You guys all right?”

I switched the phone from one ear to the other. “I know it’s pretty messed up how we took the money.”

“Look, I’ll say it outright, bro. I’m really disappointed. I really am. But right now I just wanna make sure you guys are safe and sound.”

“We’re good. But Mong isn’t with us no more. He went somewhere else.”

“Okay, okay. But you two—”

“To be honest, I don’t even know why we left in the first place. We just did it.”

“I think a lot of decisions are made that way, Miguel. People act on impulse. But, bro, sometimes spur-of-the-moment decisions don’t turn out to be so good.”

There was a gap of silence. I looked at Rondell and he mouthed:
What’re you doin’, Mexico?

Don’t trip
, I mouthed back. It wasn’t like I was gonna talk to Jaden forever. I just wanted to reach out real quick to see what he said.