We Were Here (5 page)

Anyways, the first one I pulled off the shelf was called
The Color Purple
. It’s about this ignorant black woman who gets the shit kicked out of her by her husband and writes all these letters to God. At first I couldn’t get into it because of how she talked—she’s mad stupid. But after a while it got kind of interesting. She had a hard-ass life, man. Now I keep trying to get back in my room so I can find out what’s gonna happen.

I know that shit sounds mad nerdy, right? Me wanting to rush back to my room so I could read. But there ain’t nothing else to do in a group home, man. I ain’t trying to watch no TV ’cause that’s where everybody else is. And like I said, where everybody else is, is where I don’t wanna be. So I might as well read a damn book, you know?

Later On:

Demarcus and Reggie made fun of my ass for reading in the backyard. They said only a bike thief like me would read books in a group home. That’s what some of the guys call me now, by the way. The bike thief. Everybody in this place likes to brag about what got them thrown in here. The bigger the crime they claim, the more cred they got in the system. Tommy tells people he robbed a bank for fifty G back in Walnut Creek. Rene says he beat down some history teacher so bad he put dude in a coma. Reggie and Demarcus both say they’re in here for attempted murder and other gang-type shit. Jackson, before he got kicked out, said he got caught selling coke and weed to business dudes up in San Francisco—which I’m pretty sure is true. (Anybody who tries to smoke
dead leaves in the damn backyard, you know what I’m say-in’?) And everybody thinks it’s all funny to say I’m in here ’cause I stole a bike.

“Yo, Miguel. What they catch you doin’, dawg? Swipin’ somebody’s ten-speed?”

“Dude clipped a chain lock and rode off on some little girl’s banana seat, handlebar tassels all blowin’ in the wind.”

“Yo, it probably had a little basket in the front so he had a place to put his panties.”

“Ha ha! Pink with sparkles, yo.”

“What, the bike or the panties?”

“Both!”

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

“Look, there he go, dawg. Runnin’ back to his room to go finger-bang hisself.”

“The bike thief.”

Trust me, man, pretty much every dude in here swears they’re some kind of comedian.

Most times I don’t say anything back, though. Know why? ’cause on the DL sometimes I pretend it’s true myself. I stole a bike. Somebody’s ten-speed. I clipped a chain and the cops came along and caught me red-handed. That’s all I did.

I’m a bike thief.

Okay.

Anyways, when Demarcus and Reggie laughed at me for reading a book in the backyard I flipped both their asses off and closed my book up. I moved past them toward the house and said: “Yo, at least I know how to read.”

“Ain’t gotta read to pull no trigger, homey,” Demarcus said, faking like he was firing a gun at me.

“Man,” I said, turning back around, “that’s such an inefficient use of space.”

“Wha’chu mean?” Demarcus said.

“Yo, you got the biggest-ass head in the house, right? And there ain’t nothin’ in it but damn carbon dioxide.”

As I slid open the door and ducked back inside I could hear Reggie telling his boy: “Oh, shit, D. Miguel just took his little taquito out his pants and pissed all over you. Oh, damn!”

But I don’t read my book outside anymore. It’s not worth the hassle. And I can just as easily sneak back in my room, where there’s peace and quiet.

June 24

The Color Purple
is pretty much the saddest book you could ever read, man. When I got done with the last couple pages I couldn’t believe how sad it was. But at the same time I liked it a whole lot. It’s probably my favorite book ever. It’s mad crazy how just writing letters makes the woman feel better about herself. And the last one’s to everybody, not just God, which is pretty cool. And also symbolic.

Now I’m reading this book called
Their Eyes Were Watching God
. I’m not gonna lie, I had to read the first page over and over again to know what the hell the writer was even saying, ’cause she doesn’t use regular English in her book. She uses black talk like I used to hear at my school back in Stockton. Ebonics. Like Demarcus and Reggie. Only a back-in-the-day version. It’s actually pretty cool how she does it. Once you catch the rhythm, I mean.

By the way, I decided what I like about reading books. When I’m following what a character does in a book I don’t have to think about my own life. Where I am. Why I’m here. My moms and my brother and my old man. I can just think
about the character’s life and try and figure out what’s gonna happen. Plus when you’re in a group home you pretty much can’t go anywhere, right? But when you read books you almost feel like you’re out there in the world. Like you’re going on this adventure right with the main character. At least, that’s the way I do it.

It’s actually not that bad.

Even if it
is
mad nerdy.

So here’s what I decided I’m gonna do. I’m gonna try and read every single book they got on the bookshelf in the game room. Jaden told me that’s what Malcolm X did when he was in prison. He just learned as much as he could, starting with all the words in the dictionary, ’cause he couldn’t go anywhere anyway so why not take advantage of his time.

Anyways, that’s what I decided today after lunch. I’m gonna read every single book they got in the place. Even if it’s something that doesn’t seem like I’d like it that much. And by the time I’m done reading all the books my year will probably be up, and they’ll let my ass out, and when I walk through them front doors I won’t just be a free man. I’ll also be smart as goddamn hell.

See what I’m sayin’?

June 28

They made me call home today.

The first two Sundays I was here, Jenny (the house counselor) and Jaden said I didn’t have to do it because I was new and still adjusting to a different environment. But today they made me. Jaden even had me go first. They both sat with me and explained how Sundays are phone-call days. Everybody has to call somebody. If you don’t have parents you have to
call your grandparents or your foster parents or some relative or family friend.

I’m not gonna lie, I felt pretty weird thinking about calling my house back in Stockton. I didn’t know what I was gonna say or if my moms would even wanna talk to me. Actually, I was pretty sure she didn’t. But Jaden and Jenny were staring at me, so I dialed the number and sat there listening to it ring, wishing I could just hang up. My hand actually started shaking, and when Jenny saw it she patted my shoulder. Which was nice except I don’t really like it when people touch me. I always hold my breath until they stop.

And then I heard the machine pick up, and Diego’s voice came on telling people to leave a message. And I swear to God, man. I almost lost it. My head got all dizzy and I felt like I was gonna faint or some shit. I hadn’t heard Diego’s voice in forever. My big bro, man. “Peoples, we’re not home right now. Leave a message at the …” My moms laughing in the background and then the beep sounding. Those stupid, simple words, man. That beep. It made me almost wanna cry ’cause I miss ’em so much. Peoples, we’re not home right now. Leave a message at the … I tensed up all my muscles and kept everything super still and looked at the same spot on the wall, trying to make out what shape it was: a tiny person diving off a cliff, a boomerang, a cocoon.

I handed the phone back to Jaden, told ’im: “Nobody’s home.”

Jaden and Jenny looked at each other and nodded and then let me leave the office, saying we’d try again next week.

But just hearing my bro’s voice on the answering machine, man. Thinking about my moms sitting there listening to it ’cause she probably just didn’t want to talk to nobody. Tears going down her face. Or even worse, if there wasn’t no tears left. Picturing her sitting there at the kitchen table with
both hands around her mug of tea, listening to the answering machine message. It got me thinking. Since everything that happened, me and her haven’t said more than ten words to each other. Ten words in four months. That’s gotta be some kind of record for a mom and her son. Especially when you consider we used to talk all the time.

Instead of going straight back to my room to read I went in the backyard, sat on one of the cinder blocks so I could think about everything. The rest of the guys were inside waiting to make their calls or playing cards or watching rap videos on BET. So I had some space outside for once.

Man, I started to feel really bad about myself and where I was in life and how maybe I was gonna end up being a total failure or something, like one of those guys who has nowhere else to go so they just lay around the park all day. Acting all crazy and talking to themselves and digging through the nasty-ass trash. I’ve always known Diego’s her favorite—which never really bothers me since he’s older and he’s pretty much every-damn-body’s favorite. And besides, my moms used to still like talking to me about school or stuff that was happening in the news or how our days went and all that. Especially after my old man died. Whenever Diego was out with his friends on a weekend night she’d come into our bedroom with her CD player, and we’d sit on the end of my bed listening to music.

She’d tell me who was singing. This is Bob Dylan, Miguel. This is Simon and Garfunkel. This is Crosby, Stills and Nash. Al Green. Marvin Gaye. Nina Simone. Cat Stevens. She’d tell me to pay special attention to the words, because according to her, good lyrics were what made a song. And then we’d just sit there. On my bed. Listening to music. Paying attention to the lyrics. Hanging out, almost like if we were friends and not just a mom and her son.

I stayed outside on my cinder block for a long-ass time after my call home. Thinking about that shit. Swatting damn flies. And then I decided something. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault how we don’t talk no more. Me and my moms. Maybe it’s just the situation and it won’t go on forever. I still care about her as much as back when we used to listen to music. Who says people have to talk all the time to care about each other?

So from now on I’m gonna do something to make it even easier on her. Next Sunday, when Jenny and Jaden bring me in the office to call home, I’m gonna dial a fake number. And I’m gonna pretend we’re talking back and forth like a normal call would go. Like we’re catching up about our weeks. But the whole time I’ll just be listening to dead air in my ear. That way Jaden won’t have to write me up, and my mom won’t have to talk to me when I know she probably doesn’t really want to, and I’ll know I’m making it easy on everybody, including myself.

Kind of mad smart, right?

That’s another thing about me you should know. Sometimes I can be good as hell at figuring out stuff when it seems like there’s no possible way.

Here’s the thing: at some point I hope my moms will wanna listen to music again. Even if it’s not in our old apartment, but out somewhere, like a coffee shop. I know it won’t ever be like it was before, but just anything would be cool with me. ’cause I really do like her a lot, man. And deep down she might even still like me too. She just can’t show it ’cause of what I did and ’cause she’s the mom. If you think about it, she’s been through about ten times more than most people. And she still means well. She really does.

Anyways, long as they got me stuck in here and I gotta
make calls home I’m gonna dial a fake number. Every Sunday. I’m just gonna pretend like we’re on the phone together, talking about what everybody else talks about when they call home. And that way everybody’ll be happy.

July 1

Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night I still wonder if I’ll open my eyes and find Mong’s crazy ass standing over me again. This time with a machete or a rifle. A damn Chinese throwing star. But it never happens.

During the day we don’t say a word or even look at each other. He just does his thing, and I do mine. Even when we gotta do a chore together we just get it over with and then don’t bother with each other. Like yesterday. I swept the kitchen floor, made a pile, and Mong set down the dustpan. He pushed the pile in and emptied it in the trash. Then he took the broom from me, put the stuff away, and we went our separate ways.

I’m not gonna lie, the whole time I was waiting for his crazy ass to make a move on me. And I was planning what I’d do back with the broom or my knee. But nothing ever happened. Dude was all business.

Or take the house meeting this morning, when Jaden told us about the new system that’s gonna start in a month. How the rules are gonna be a little tighter and most people’s sentences will now go the full length (instead of how they usually get cut mad short because they need space and don’t have enough funding). Jaden told us he’d know the exact details in a couple weeks when some deal went through. We all rolled our eyes and complained ’cause that’s the one thing everybody had to look forward to, getting out early for good
behavior. Everybody started getting all loud—except Mong. He was just sitting there across from me, all calm like he didn’t even care.

“But I have some good news too, bros,” Jaden broke in. “Our house was picked to go on a special day trip to Alcatraz next Saturday. They’re even funding a nice little dinner for us in a three-star restaurant in SF. We’re gonna be doing some fine dining, bros. Cloth napkins and the whole thing.”

A couple guys nodded their heads in approval, but most of us didn’t seem blown away. Especially after we just heard the news about our sentences.

Point is, if you sat there and watched how me and Mong were around each other, you’d think nothin’ ever happened. No spit, no haymakers, no standing over the bed. You’d think we were just two regular group-home kids living out our sentences. Which is weird if you think about it. Where I’m from people don’t just forget about the scraps they have until somebody wins and somebody loses (unless it’s with family like me and Diego). But maybe that’s how it is in a group home. I don’t even know yet.

Mong: