Getting It

  “But he’s the one who went crazy!” Carlos jabbed a finger toward Playboy.

  The driver plopped Carlos into an empty seat. His eye throbbed with pain.

  Vicky cringed at the sight of him. “Here!” She handed Carlos a tissue from her backpack. “You’d better put some ice on that when we get to school.”

  He dabbed his eye and watched the tissue smear red with blood. It seemed unreal how fast everything had happened. Had one of his best friends actually pounded him? They’d never hurt each other like that before.

  The driver radioed the school about the fight. When they arrived, the school police officer was waiting.

  She escorted Carlos and Playboy through the hallway toward the main office. Students gaped and winced at Carlos’s face, making him wonder how bad he must look. Meanwhile, Playboy, largely unscathed, grinned proudly.

  Carlos felt stupid for his part in starting the fight, but at least he’d gotten Playboy to shut up and leave Pulga alone.

  The vice principal for discipline was at some meeting, so, once again, Carlos had to face Hard-Ass Harris.

  “I didn’t mean to hit him,” Carlos explained. “My hand slipped.”

  “Yeah, my hand slipped too,” Playboy’s voice echoed with sarcasm.

  “I won’t tolerate fighting.” Harris scowled. “Especially on a bus.” He made a long speech about how disappointed he was in both of them, and how he hoped this was an “aberration,” blah, blah, blah … After sentencing them both to a week of after-school detention, to start the following day, he dismissed both boys, ordering Carlos to the infirmary.

  When he saw his reflection in the nurse’s mirror, Carlos cringed. The white part of his left eye was streaked red. Below the eyelid, his cheek was swollen like a puffy black mushroom, oozing blood. No wonder it hurt so much.

  The nurse dabbed on some disinfectant, which made the wound smart even more. Then she made him phone his ma. When he told her about the fight and his detention, she sort of had a nuclear meltdown.

  “You’ve never acted like this!” she screamed into the phone. “What is happening to you?”

  Carlos remained silent, unable to explain.

  Later, at home, she continued her rant as she prepared an ice pack for him. “This weekend, you’re seeing your father, whether you want to or not.”

  Oh, great. The last thing Carlos felt like was a lecture from his so-called father. “Why do I have to see him?”

  “Because!” His ma handed Carlos the ice pack. “I’m not going to have you turn into a delinquent.”

  Carlos rolled his eyes. Getting into a fight with Playboy made him a delinquent?

  “I’m not going,” Carlos muttered, pressing the cold pack against this cheek. “You never want to see him—why should I?”

  His ma stared coldly back at Carlos. In spite of his protests, she phoned his pa. After telling him what had happened, she passed the phone to Carlos.

  He didn’t want to take it, but she looked hostile enough to smack him a second black eye if he didn’t.

  His pa’s voice was stern. “You’re coming with me on Saturday.”

  “No, I’m not,” Carlos mumbled. He wasn’t going back to being treated like a kid, forced to spend time with his toddler stepbrother and the woman who’d broken up his family.

  “You’re coming!” his pa retorted, and hung up.

  The rest of the week sucked more than ever. During classes, Carlos couldn’t concentrate. At detention, he slouched behind a desk like the other “delinquents.” And at lunchtime, he barely ate, watching Roxy feed Senior Creep forkfuls of peach tart.

  In general, Carlos steered clear of Playboy, who also did the same. At lunch, they barely spoke. And on the morning bus, they sat on opposite sides of the back row, with Pulga and Toro as a buffer between them. Yet, even though Carlos remained pissed at Playboy for the black eye, he also felt weirdly relieved. The fight had released something long-simmering in their relationship, though Carlos couldn’t exactly describe what.

  In the evenings, Carlos retreated to his once-again-chaotic bedroom, examining his bruised eye in the mirror as it gradually turned from black to purple. Or he lay in bed, staring up at the empty space where the praying mantis had hung.

  Saturday at noon, his pa cell-phoned from his car downstairs, but Carlos remained lying on his bed, refusing to answer. His pulse quickened with anxiety as his ma stormed into the bedroom doorway. “Carlos, get up! You’re going with your father!”

  “No, I’m not!” He shook his head resolutely.

  “Yes, you are!”

  “No! I’m not!”

  The doorbell rang. His ma whirled around and stamped out of his room.

  Carlos sat up, his heart racing. Would she actually let his pa into their apartment for the first time since the divorce? A moment later, he heard the front door open, followed by heated arguing. Not only were his parents talking more than in the entire past three years, but his ma had actually let his pa into their home again.

  Hearing their approach, Carlos laid back down, summoning every fiber in his body to feign calm.

  Sixty

  AFTER WEEKS OF not seeing his pa, what struck Carlos most was how small he looked. Am I still growing? Carlos wondered.

  “That’s quite a shiner.” His pa peered across the room at his bruised eye.

  Carlos averted his gaze, unwilling to let his guard down, even though it felt good to see his pa and ma talking side by side again.

  “What’s the problem, mi’jo?” his pa asked.

  “No problem.” Carlos strained to keep his voice steady. “I told you, I don’t want to go.”

  “And I told you, you’re coming. Now, put your shoes on.”

  Carlos folded his arms across his chest, refusing to budge, while his heart nearly galloped out of his throat.

  “See?” his ma told his pa. “He won’t listen! And he’s getting into fights.”

  “It was an accident!” Carlos barked.

  “Calma!” His pa turned to his ma. “Let me talk to him alone.”

  “You’d better listen to your father!” His ma shook her finger at Carlos and stomped out.

  His pa sat down in the desk chair, eyeing Carlos warily. “You know, you’ve upset your mother very much.”

  Carlos sneered. “Since when do you care about her anymore?”

  His pa shot him a sharp look. “I do care.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Look, what happened between your ma and me is between her and me.”

  A surge of anger swelled in Carlos’s chest, rising into his throat. “And what about me?”

  His pa frowned, refusing to meet Carlos’s eyes. Then he glanced at his watch. “Mi’jo, we have to go. Lupita and Henry are waiting in the car.”

  “That’s not my fault,” Carlos growled. “I told you I didn’t want to go.”

  His pa tapped his foot impatiently. “Why don’t you want to come?”

  “Because it’s boring! We always do the same thing—take Henry to McDonalds, take Henry to the park, rent a movie for Henry …”

  His pa stared down at his hands as if thinking. “Henry’s my son, same as you.”

  “Then how come everything is always about him?”

  His pa’s gaze moved carefully up and across Carlos’s face. “What do you want?”

  Carlos knew what he wanted to say, but why should he have to say it? The image of Sal flashed across his mind, and Carlos recalled the day Javier had told Carlos, “If you don’t tell him, how will he know?”

  Now, Carlos felt the emotion bubble up inside him. His voice cracked painfully. “Can’t we do something … just you and me … like we used to?”

  Two big tears rolled down his cheeks. Quickly, he turned over on the bed, not wanting his pa to see his face. He’d probably call Carlos a maricón again. Was that part of why he’d felt so ashamed to tell his pa how much he missed him? Because it was considered gay for a guy to express his feelings for another guy?

&
nbsp; His pa cleared his throat, nervous-like. “Okay,” he said softly. “It has been a while since you and I spent time, just the two of us.”

  Carlos rolled back over to face him, no longer so embarrassed by his tears. As he gazed into his pa’s eyes he noticed that they looked a little wet too, brimming with a sadness he’d never seen in them before.

  Carlos put on his sneakers, then tugged on his denim jacket and followed his pa to the living room. His ma was waiting, sitting on the edge of the couch.

  “Good!” She rose to her feet at the sight of Carlos. “Now, listen to your father. And no more fights. Understand?”

  “He’ll be fine,” his pa told her. “He’s just learning to stand up for himself.”

  Carlos assumed his pa was referring to the fight with Playboy. Or did his pa mean standing up to him?

  The three of them stood silently for a moment, looking at each other, and Carlos wondered if his pa and ma were thinking the same thought: Why did all this have to happen? Why couldn’t we he a family again?

  His pa shuffled his feet and told Carlos, “We’d better go.”

  True to his word, after lunch his pa dropped off Lupita and Henry at their home and asked Carlos, “So, what would you like to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Carlos hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Can we just drive around some?”

  His pa nodded and drove toward Town Lake. Neither of them really said much. It almost felt like they were strangers, rather than father and son.

  “Your ma mentioned a girl you’re seeing,” his pa said at last. “Is she a girlfriend?”

  It was the first time in hours that Carlos had thought about Roxy. “No,” he muttered.

  His pa responded with a knowing look. “I forgot how hard it can be at your age. Women can be pretty confusing.” He shook his head and gave a little snort. “Even at my age.”

  Carlos squirmed in his seat, a little surprised. His pa had always sounded like an expert on women. Now, as Carlos gazed at the road ahead, his mind filled with doubts. If his pa couldn’t get his act together at his age, how could Carlos ever hope to? Was he also destined to be confused by women all his life?

  His pa parked the car beside the lakeside park where they’d caught insects when Carlos was little. But, this time, they didn’t stop for bugs.

  As they walked down a trail, Carlos thought how many questions he wished his pa could answer: about why Roxy had wanted to hook up but didn’t want to be his girlfriend; about why he got so flustered around girls; about why his pa had gotten involved with Lupita … Immersed in his thoughts, Carlos strode ahead, unaware that he was leaving his pa behind.

  “Mi’jo, slowdown!”

  Carlos stopped and his pa strode up, a little short of breath. Then Carlos began walking again, a little slower.

  “That was nice,” his pa told Carlos when he drove him home to drop him off. “Let’s do it again soon, mi’jo.”

  He wrapped his arm around Carlos’s shoulder. For a second, Carlos resisted the embrace—the first he’d gotten from his pa in weeks—but then he relaxed. Even if his pa couldn’t give him the answers he longed for, at least for a change he hadn’t had to share him with Henry and Lupita.

  “Te quiero” his pa whispered, and Carlos answered, “Love you too.”

  He watched the car drive off until it disappeared around the corner. Then he bounded up the stairway.

  Inside the apartment, Raúl was on the couch, watching TV. He waved to Carlos. “Hey, want to watch the game with me?”

  Carlos sat down, still happy about his pa. But his stomach began to clench as he wondered: Would Raúl spend the night again?

  All evening, Carlos waited, but Raúl never entered his ma’s bedroom. After dinner, TV, and the ten o’clock news, Raúl kissed Carlos’s ma good night, waved to Carlos, and headed home.

  Carlos channel-surfed as his ma planted a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

  Carlos stared at the TV and thought back over the events of the past few days: his arguments with his ma and pa, and how he’d finally told them the stuff he’d been holding inside; how he was finally learning to open up and stand up for himself; and how so much of it was thanks to Sal.

  On impulse, he picked up the phone and dialed Sal’s number, though he wasn’t exactly certain what to say if Sal answered. His palms began to sweat while the phone rang about a million times. Was Sal screening his number? Finally, the line rolled to voice mail.

  “Hey, it’s Carlos. Call me, okay?” He was about to hang up when he added, “Please?”

  Then he shut off the TV and headed toward bed.

  Sixty-One

  LATE SUNDAY MORNING, Carlos had barely woken up when Pulga called: “Hey, pendejo, you want to go to the mall?”

  Before Carlos could answer, his call-waiting clicked. “Hold on,” he told Pulga and switched lines. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Toro said. “I’ve been thinking about … you know … I want to tell Pulga about me. Will you help me do it?”

  Carlos sat up in bed, grinning at the coincidence. “Sure. He’s on the other line. Want me to conference him in?”

  “No!” Toro shouted in panic. “Are you crazy?”

  “Just kidding.” Carlos tried to calm him down. “He wants to go to the mall. You want to go?”

  He heard Toro catch his breath. “Okay. But you promise to help me?”

  “Yeah,” Carlos assured him. “Come on over.”

  He switched to Pulga’s line. “Toro’s coming. You want to meet here?”

  After hanging up, Carlos walked to the bathroom and peered in the mirror. As he examined his bruised eye—now mostly a barfy yellow color—it struck Carlos how neither of his buds had mentioned inviting Playboy. Maybe Pulga didn’t want Playboy hassling him because of Carlotta. And Toro probably wasn’t ready to come out to Playboy. Or maybe Pulga and Toro were afraid Carlos and Playboy might get into another fight.

  As it happened, both Toro and Pulga arrived at the same time.

  “What happened to your room?” Toro asked. “It looks like a dump again.”

  True, Carlos thought, and it was starting to get on his nerves. “Can you guys help me clean it up?”

  Pulga chuckled. “How much will you pay us?”

  It was good to hear him kidding. He’d started joking a lot more again, ever since getting back together with Carlotta and agreeing to be a real couple.

  The boys started to pick up Carlos’s stuff when Toro’s phone rang. He pulled the cell from his pocket and glanced at the number. “It’s Playboy.”

  Carlos expected Toro would answer it, but Toro let the phone ring, gazing at Carlos and Pulga, as though waiting for them to say something. But they merely stared at Toro, listening till the cell stopped ringing.

  “Should I call him back?” Toro whispered. His eyes darted guiltily between Pulga and Carlos.

  “If you want.” Carlos shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  “He shouldn’t have smacked you like that.” Pulga shook his head at Carlos.

  Toro nodded in agreement. “He’s changed.”

  “No.” Carlos gave a sigh. “He’s the same as he’s always been. We’re the ones who’ve changed.”

  The three boys gazed at one another. Then Toro slipped the phone back into his pocket, and no one said another word about Playboy’s call.

  The boys helped Carlos throw out trash, return dirty dishes to the kitchen, and lug his stinky clothes to the laundry room.

  “Wait!” he told his buds as they loaded the washers. “You’ve got to separate colors and whites.”

  “Really?” Pulga said. “Sure you’re not turning into a fag?” He registered the angry expression on Carlos’s face and added, “Hey, just joking.”

  Carlos continued scowling. “Even kidding, don’t use the word ‘fag.’ Okay?”

  He glanced at Toro, whose ears glowed red as he too spoke up: “Um, yeah …,” he stammered at Pulga. “I don’t like it either.”

/>   Pulga peered at him, curious-like, then broke into a grin. “Well, we already know you’re gay.”

  Toro shot a vexed look at Carlos, but Carlos defended himself. “I didn’t tell him.”

  Pulga raised his eyebrows. “Tell me what?”

  Toro’s eyes darted between Carlos and Pulga. Carlos gave him an encouraging nod. Toro swallowed a noticeable lump in his throat, and told Pulga: “I’m gay.”

  Pulga stared at him, his jaw dropping open, then he turned to Carlos.

  Carlos wanted to say something supportive to Toro, who looked so exposed and vulnerable, he almost seemed ready to cry. But Carlos also sensed that he needed to let Toro stand up for himself.

  “But—but …,” Pulga stuttered. “What about Leticia?”

  Toro glanced down at the concrete floor of the laundry room. “I made her up.”

  “You what?” Pulga shook his head. “Why didn’t you just tell us the truth?”

  Toro’s voice trembled like a child’s. “I was afraid you guys wouldn’t like me anymore.”

  Pulga was silent for a seemingly endless moment. Then he gave a sigh of resignation. Slowly, a smile played across his lips. “And what makes you think we ever liked you in the first place? “He reached up and gave Toro a punch on the shoulder. “Well, since you’re officially gay, you’ve got to help me shop.”

  “Huh?” Little by little, the corners of Toro’s downcast mouth turned up, as the acceptance implied in Pulga’s words slowly dawned on him. “Okay! What do you need to buy?”

  Pulga gave a sheepish shrug. “A birthday present for Carlotta.”

  “But didn’t her birthday pass already?” Carlos asked.

  “Yeah, but … I know it’ll make her happy.”

  Carlos and his buds nodded at one another. After the laundry was dry and folded, they walked to the mall in search of perfume for Carlotta.

  “Would you guys mind if she sat with us at lunch?” Pulga asked. “She’s been bugging me about that.”