We Were Here (29 page)

After we finally left the kitchen, me, Rondell and the five girls watched dudes rap in the living room for a while, and then Flaca took my hand and pulled me into one of the empty bedrooms to talk by ourselves.

Me and Flaca Alone in a Room:

Flaca opened a random door, peeped the vacant room and pulled me in. Locked the door behind us. As we walked across the room she pointed at my face and said: “I meant to ask you, how’d you get that cut on your lip?”

“What cut?” I said.

We sat in the far corner against the wall, right next to each other so our arms were touching.

“This one right here,” she said, touching her finger just over my lip—my skin still tingling there even after she took back her finger.

“I don’t even know,” I said, looking into my cup of jungle juice. I tried to think if I could still be mellow now that we were alone in a room. ’cause my heart was sort of going now.

She tilted her head to the side, said: “Come on, Miguel, you remember.”

I shrugged. “Me and my big bro were probably messin’ around.”

“You got a brother back in Idaho?”

I nodded, told her: “Diego.”

“Ooh, I like that name.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“I got
two
older brothers. Guillermo and Rene.”

I looked in her pretty brown eyes and felt something flipping around in my stomach. I pushed it out of my head and told her: “Yeah? You guys cool?”

I watched her face get all concentrated as she thought about that question. And I gotta say, man, the stomach-flipping thing wasn’t letting up. Flaca just looked so damn good. Long brown hair all wavy going down her back, like she’d done it up especially for the party. Or maybe me. A little cutoff jean skirt that covered only half her smooth-ass brown thighs. I tried to think what Diego would say if he saw me like this. Sitting at a college house party in San Diego, drinking jungle juice, a girl as fine as Flaca sitting right next to me. He’d probably be proud as shit. Or jealous even.

“I’m cool with
one
of ’em,” she said. “Rene. Guillermo’s kind of an asshole sometimes. All he cares about is racing
cars. He thinks the entire world revolves around his stupid souped-up Civic. It’s not even that sick.”

She told me a couple more things about her brother and his car, and then we both went silent for a while. We drank and looked across the bare room. Flaca fixed one of the silver clips in her hair.

I don’t know if it was the juice or whatever, but I was starting to feel more chill sitting next to her. Just us. I wasn’t even that worried about what I should do next. At least, not as much as I thought I’d be. Plus I figured I should go check on Rondell before figuring out about me and Flaca.

I set down my cup of jungle juice and stood up, said: “Yo, you could wait right here for a sec?”

She looked up at me frowning. “Why? Where you goin’?”

“I gotta go check on my boy.”

She rolled her eyes and said: “What, are you like his dad or somethin’?”

“Don’t let nobody take my seat,” I said.

“Whatever.”

I cruised out of the room and through the hall, past a couple girls waiting for the bathroom, and ducked my head into the living room, where they were still banging hip-hop. Rondell was on the couch next to a few college dudes, just where I’d left him. Some neighborhood kids were behind them drinking.

Rondell looked up at me.

“You good?” I said.

He nodded. “We listenin’ to records now. Look how many they gots, Mexico.” He pointed to a bookshelf stacked to the top.

“People call you Mexico?” some black dude called out from behind the couch. A couple of people laughed.

“Not really,” I said. I pointed at Rondell. “He does.”

“Yo, man,” this big white kid said, looking all around at his boys, “ain’t that shit kinda gay?” Everybody cracked up. “A dude havin’ a pet name for another dude?”

Rondell turned slowly to look at him.

“Come on, man,” I said. “People could have nicknames, right? Why’s it gotta be gay?”

“He’s just fuckin’ with you,” this other black dude said. “My boy Jimmy don’t got no manners. Don’t take it personal. Right, Jimmy?”

Jimmy laughed and took a long swig off his forty bottle. Right then the record ended, and everybody turned their attention to picking a new one.

I looked at Rondell, who was still staring at the guy. “Hey!” I said to get his attention back.

He looked at me and sipped his juice.

“Where the other girls?”

He nodded his head toward the kitchen. He looked back at the white guy, then turned back to me.

“All right,” I told him. “Make sure you keep an eye out.”

He took another sip of juice.

“You need me I’m right around the corner, man. Second door on the left.”

He didn’t say anything.

I could see in his eyes he wasn’t paying attention to anything I said. Either that or he was just drunk. But all I knew was I had to get back to Flaca.

“I’ll be out in a sec,” I said, and then I turned and left.

On my walk back to the bedroom I thought about the one time Diego tried to tell me about being with girls. We were cruising home from this movie we got dragged to about relationships. A romantic comedy or whatever they call it. We both thought it was mad stupid and ducked out before it even finished, ditched everybody we were with.

As we were walking he must’ve still been thinking about the movie, though, ’cause he started telling me how the key to being with girls is to be a hundred percent chill and think about other shit like playing hoop or kicking it at the levee.

“That’s how most guys drop the ball,” he said as we crossed March Ave, walked past the burrito spot with the huge sombrero on the roof. “They think too much. Girls got mad radar for that shit, Guelly. They got this little alarm system that goes off in their heads like: bleep, bleep, bleep. They hear that shit sound off and think: ‘Hold on a minute. Why’s this guy sweatin’
me?
There must be somethin’ wrong with him.’”

I remember right then Diego got me in a little headlock for no reason and then let me go. I tried to punch his ass in the arm, but he blocked it.

“Don’t ask me why,” he said, shaking his head, “but almost every girl I know is the exact same way: they only want guys who don’t want their asses back. Doesn’t make no kinda sense when I say it, right?”

I shrugged.

He pulled his phone to check a text, said: “But it’s true, man. You’ll see.” He flipped closed and looked at me. “Once a girl feels a sweaty palm, yo—and I don’t care how fucking
nice
you are, Guelly—she’ll never look at your sensitive ass the same.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

Diego laughed and shook his head. “Just don’t follow how that movie was. Your big bro’ll tell you how shit
really
is.”

Me and Flaca Alone in a Room, Part 2:

I walked back in the room all chill, thinking about Diego’s talk, and sat against the wall next to Flaca. I looked at her without smiling.

“Jeez,” she said. “You were gone long enough.”

“It’s all good,” I said, picking up my cup. I took a long sip of juice and stared at the far wall. Being buzzed made it way easier to fake like I wasn’t nervous.

She leaned her knee against mine, said: “Did you at least miss me?”

I shrugged, feeling Flaca’s knee heat transferring into my leg.

“How much?”

I looked at the ceiling for a sec, said: “’Bout a six out of ten.”

“A
six?”
she said. “That’s it?”

“Maybe a six point five.”

“Asshole.” She shook her head at me and took a baby sip out of her cup. “Anyways, I just told you all about my brothers. Now I get to ask you questions.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“What’s it like living in Idaho? I’ve never known anybody from there.”

I cracked up a little, I don’t even know why. I think I pretty much forgot about saying I was from Idaho. “It’s pretty regular,” I told her, picturing Stockton instead. “Just less people have all their teeth.”

She smiled, shifted her knee away from mine. “You got all yours,” she said.

“I’m sayin’, though. It’s rare.”

She put her hand on my knee for a sec and then took it off and drank. I peeped my tingling knee and drank too.

The room didn’t have any furniture except an old dresser with no handles. And the wood floor was all scuffed up and broken down in places, especially by the door. I was pretty sure she wanted us to kiss, but I didn’t know how I should do it. I mean, I’d kissed girls before. Like four or five of ’em. I’d
even had sex with this one girl named Cecilia. But they were all Diego’s friends. He probably
told
’em to hook up with me. Either that or it was part of some game we were all playing like Truth or Dare. It’s not like I ever had to
do
anything.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Flaca said.

I shrugged.

“Come on, I wanna know.”

“You, I guess.”

She set down her cup and faced me with this big grin. “Yeah? Like what
about
me?”

I looked at the wood floor for a little while, took another sip. Felt the warm buzz going in my fingers and toes and chest. “I like bein’ in here,” I said. “In this empty room, against the wall, drinkin’. How you can hear the music in the next room and people talkin’, but you’re still away from ’em. Two days ago I never even knew this place existed.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t have nothin’ to do with me.”

I looked at her without even thinking and said: “It has
everything
to do with you.”

Flaca smiled big and touched my face. “All my friends think you’re really cute.”

“Yeah?” I said. “You gonna hook me up with one of ’em?”

“Which one you want?”

I played like I was thinking about it for a sec, rubbing on my chin and all that. “The one with the nose ring,” I said, touching the small hoop in her nose.

“Yeah?”

I nodded.

“I could probably make that happen.”

“Is she mellow, though? I only like girls who can chill out and be mellow.”

“She’s all right,” Flaca said. “Why don’t you see for yourself.”

“Maybe I will.”

She leaned in and kissed me.

On the outside I tried to make like everything was super smooth and calm and my palms were dry as hell, but inside my mind was thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts like: How long do I keep my mouth open? And when do I turn my face? And how much tongue do I use? And where do I put my hands? And how are we supposed to breathe?

She ran her fingers through my hair and then rested ’em on my shoulders and then touched my cheeks and then slowly pulled away and just looked at me grinning. “Hey, Miguel,” she said.

“Hey, Flaca,” I said back, my heart beating all fast like I’d just run a damn lap around some track.

She kissed me again, a real short one this time, but soft as hell, like she made her lips go completely limp or something. “I think I sort of like you,” she said. “And you can even ask my girls, I usually don’t like
nobody.”

“I sort of like you too,” I said.

She touched my cut again, and then kissed it. “How much do you like me?” she said.

I looked at her for a sec, said: “Like an eight point three.”

She laughed and play-punched me in the arm again. Then she reached down for my jeans, all calm-like, never taking her eyes off mine, said: “You nervous for what I’m about to do?”

“Nah, I’m cool,” I said, even though my heart was thumping its ass off. I swallowed hard and watched her take hold of my zipper and start pulling it down all slow with this big grin on her face.

But right then we heard this loud crashing sound somewhere in the house. It made the wall behind us shake. We both spun our heads toward the door, and Flaca pulled her hand back.

“What was that?” she said.

I shot to my feet. “I don’t even know,” I said, though I was pretty sure I knew. I pulled up my zipper and started for the door.

“Wait, where you going?” she said, standing up too.

“I gotta check Rondell,” I said.

“Okay.” She sat back down.

The Fight:

I sprint out of the room and down the hall, my heart climbing in my throat. I already know what I’m gonna find. I get to the living room and there it is: five guys holding back a crazed Rondell. His face contorted and neck veins bulging, arms and legs driving the pile forward like a running back. I follow his eyes to the big white guy now laying on the ground crooked and bloody and motionless.

Everything in my head blurs and speeds up and I shout: “What happened?”

“Your boy!” one of the black guys shouts back. “He just beat the shit out of Jimmy, man. Real bad.”

“Kept hitting him even after he got knocked out,” another kid says.

“Psycho,” somebody says.

“Gotta get him outta here.”

“Call the cops!”

“Hurry!”

“Get him out!”

Everybody is talking over each other as I study the guy Jimmy. His face so mangled and bloody I can barely make out features. I look up at Rondell. The devil in his eyes. Every muscle flexed as he fights to get more of a guy he’s already beaten down. He’s after more than just winning in a fight. He wants to take his life.

But why?

“Rondell!” I yell.

He doesn’t look at me.

“Hey, man!”

Nothing.

Flaca comes rushing into the living room. She stops right behind me and stares down at Jimmy. Covers her mouth with her right hand and turns away. Her girls hurry to her side.

A fat Mexican gangster runs in from the backyard with his fists clenched, a smaller one trailing behind.

White wife-beaters. Chains hanging from pockets.

First guy shouts: “Yo, Jimmy! Jimmy!” He looks down at the body on the floor and his face goes wild. Looks up at Rondell, still fighting to get loose. Big Mexican guy charges, throws a wild punch that glances off the side of Rondell’s face.

Rondell stumbles trying to get away from the guys holding him back. Goes down on one knee but pops back up. Everybody talking over each other and the music still playing and crowds of people rushing in from the backyard to see.