I was startled when I spotted two guys on the play structure staring at me. Their gazes raised the little hairs on the back of my neck.
I took stock of them in the space of a second, noting their glazed eyes and tattoos, the beer bottles and crumpled food cartons at their feet. The one in the wifebeater had a cursive R on his bicep. It could only mean one thing in this neighborhood: Los Reyes. But from the look of them, I would’ve known that anyway.
I knew that I had to greet them in the right way—like I was flattered, but didn’t want what they offered. If I looked away too quickly, if I showed my disgust, I’d offend them.
And you just didn’t do that. Not to Reyes.
Maybe I should’ve listened to Mom and taken the bus. But I could walk home in the time it took to wait at the bus stop, so I hardly ever waited.
I walked by the play structure, feeling a quiver in my legs, bracing for them to shout something after me.
Seconds passed. I got farther away. Once I cleared the park, I breathed a sigh of relief.
There was far-off laughter, and I risked a glance over my shoulder. They’d turned their attention on Hector.
The Reyes grabbed Hector’s bottle, hooting and hollering as they danced around him. He curled up, waving them away.
But they weren’t going anywhere.
Without warning, the guy with the shaved head shoved him off the bench. They started kicking him.
Keep walking, I told myself. You can’t help him.
My home was two blocks straight and another block right, but I slipped into an alley so I could keep an eye on Hector.
He was huddled in the fetal position. Kicks and punches rocked him side to side. He didn’t resist, didn’t even try to get away. For some reason, his passiveness only egged them on. It was like they were kicking around a rag doll.
My fingers trembled as I dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“A man just got jumped in Emery Park. They’ve got him on the ground. They’re kicking him.”
“We’re dispatching a unit right away, ma’am. Stay on the line with me, please.”
“Okay.” I felt so helpless, but I knew that if I got involved, the Reyes would turn on me.
And then they stopped. Hector was crumpled on the ground, not moving. He could be badly hurt. Where were the cops? They practically lived on every corner in this neighborhood. And now? Where were they?
“He’s gonna need an ambulance,” I told the dispatcher. “Hurry!”
One of the Reyes was dumping the contents of Hector’s bottle all over him. I gritted my teeth. One last insult.
The guy with the shaved head took out a lighter. He stooped down next to Hector.
I froze. Oh God, please don’t. Please don’t!
“They’re setting him on fire!” I shouted into the phone.
I ran toward Hector, screaming. The Reyes bolted from the scene.
I reached him in seconds. He bucked and twisted on the ground, the flames spreading all over him. I had no coat to smother them. I shouted, “Roll in the sand! The sand!”
He couldn’t hear me. He was shrieking, whirling on the concrete. I tried to grab at his shirt so I could drag him to the sand. But wherever I gripped, the flames scalded me, and I kept letting go. I heard sirens, prayed for them to hurry up.
Seconds passed. Too many seconds.
Suddenly an EMT ran up and threw a blanket over him, smothering the flames.
I stood there trembling as the EMTs worked on him.
They must’ve given him a shot of something, because by the time they’d loaded him up in the ambulance, he was quiet. So quiet.
People had come out of their homes and surrounded the scene. A cop materialized beside me, asking my name. I couldn’t think. For several seconds I couldn’t even answer him.
“M-Maddie. Diaz.”
“You saw what happened?” the cop asked.
I nodded. “I—I should’ve stopped them.”
It didn’t even occur to me that people could see me talking to the cops.
WITNESS
I WAS IN A DARK ROOM, BREATHING in the scent of Hugo Boss. My arms were crossed over my chest, as if I could keep myself from falling apart.
“Take a good look at each one before you make your choice,” Detective Gutierrez said. “There’s no rush.”
I didn’t remember saying I would do this. After I’d talked to two cops at the crime scene, I thought I could go home. But they weren’t done with me yet. They brought me in, let me quickly call my mom, and then they made me wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The lights came up behind the glass. Six men were lined up before a height wall. One of them was obviously drunk. A couple looked pissed off. Another one was wild-eyed and high. And two of them, at opposite ends, had no expressions whatsoever. Their faces were stone cold.
One and six, I thought without hesitation. Number one had a shaved head, a soul patch on his chin, and an R tattoo on his arm. Number six had darker skin, hair in cornrows, and tattoos all over his arms and neck. But it wasn’t only those details that made them easy to identify. It was the vibe they gave off, even now—a vibe that had put me on alert the second I saw them in the park.
“Are the men who set him on fire in this lineup?” Detective Gutierrez asked me.
They can’t make you talk, said a voice in my head. You don’t have to do this.
The cops had gotten a lot out of me while I was still in shock, before I’d had a chance to think. I’d let them carry me along, too overwhelmed to dig in my heels.
“I need a few minutes,” I said.
“All right. I know you must be exhausted, Maddie. We’ll take you right home after you make the IDs. Just tell me yes or no: are the perps here or not?”
And if I said no?
Lying was a mortal sin in my family. Lying is why Mom finally dumped Boyd after a thousand great reasons hadn’t been enough. Sure, he drank away her money and put her down; sure, he’d hardly worked a day in his life. But when she caught him lying about going to his mother’s place when he was really out gambling, that was it: the proof she needed.
The perp with the R tattoo, number one, was looking past the bright lights. For the second time tonight, he was staring right at me. Before, it was degrading and menacing. Now it was pure violence. I felt my hands shaking. Could he see me? I’d assumed it was one-way glass, but I wasn’t so sure anymore.
“You’re our only witness, as far as we know,” Detective Gutierrez said. “The man who was burned, we know his name. It’s Hector Rodriguez. He has family, you know. We’ve already spoken to his sister.”
“I know who Hector is, okay?”
I couldn’t believe I’d snapped at a cop. But I didn’t care. I’d told him I needed to think, and he kept putting on the pressure.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he finally said.
Then it was me, alone in the darkness, with number one and number six. It felt like they could crash through the glass at any moment and strangle me. Suddenly I wished I hadn’t let the detective go.
As if he’d heard my thoughts, Detective Gutierrez returned. “Just got word from the hospital. Hector Rodriguez is dead.”
The floor seemed to wobble beneath me, and I had to steady myself with a chair. Oh my God. Poor Hector. Tears came to my eyes. Those psycho motherfuckers.
I took a breath and turned to him. “It’s one and six. And yeah, I’m sure.”
Gutierrez nodded grimly. “Thank you.”
Maybe he understood what I’d just done. I wasn’t sure if I did.
AFTERMATH
“HI, TOM. I WON’T BE COMING IN TODAY.” I didn’t have to try to make my voice weak and grumbly—it came out that way.
“Heard what happened,” Tom shouted over the noise and beeping in the background. “I said two orders of large fries, not small!”
I closed my eyes. Even my half-senile boss had heard about last night.
That meant everyone in the neighborhood knew. Everyone.
“So is it okay if I stay home today?”
There was a pause. Then, “Hey, back on cash now! Sure, Maddie, that’s fine. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and I’d just woken up. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to be conscious.
Mom came in. She must’ve called in sick too because she usually worked Saturdays at the hotel. “Heard you on the phone. Did you get some sleep?”
“Yeah.”
Mom sat on the side of my bed and cradled me against her. She’d been awake when I got home last night, waiting for me.
“What you need is some good food. I made huevos rancheros.”
“Thanks, Mom.” The last thing I felt like was a big, heavy breakfast meant for farmworkers. But I knew she must have spent a while making it, so I’d better have some.
I took a shower, then joined her in the kitchen. My plate was piled high. Mom showed love through food. She could never afford to spoil me with clothes, high tech gadgets, or music lessons, so food was her only option. She had spoiled Dad, too, and he’d loved her cooking too much to say no. Which was probably why he’d ended up with type 2 diabetes. After his death, I’d learned to say no to the food. Good thing I had, too. Once I’d hit puberty and started to get serious curves, I’d had to watch what I ate.
I took a few bites before Mom said, “Iz keeps calling to check on you.”
“I’ll call her.” It had been a rough night for everyone. When I hadn’t texted Iz to say I’d gotten home safe, she’d called Mom. They’d been about to go look for me when I called Mom from the police station. I’d desperately wanted to contact the girls, too, but I’d dropped my phone at the scene, and the cops wouldn’t let me call anyone but Mom. I knew why. They didn’t want me in contact with anyone who might encourage me not to talk.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops had found my phone and chosen not to give it back to me. It didn’t matter now. I wasn’t going back to the park to look for it.
The park.
A thousand jumbled images flashed before my eyes. Detective Gutierrez’s words echoed in my head. Hector Rodriguez is dead.
I should’ve intervened when they were beating him up. I should’ve screamed and brought down the attention of the whole neighborhood. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve . . .
But I was a coward.
“Maddie?” my mom said gently.
I realized I was gripping the edge of the table. “Sorry, Mom. I don’t feel like eating.”
That’s when I broke down.
Iz was a great distracter, I had to give her that. When I texted her saying I wasn’t up to seeing anyone that night, she didn’t text back. Instead, she showed up at my door with Abby and Carmen and a juice container full of leftover Maddie Diaz Margaritas. She told my mom it was Crystal Light.
I was so touched, I wanted to cry. Iz knew that I hated to be alone. During the Boyd years, she’d been my saving grace. Her house had been my refuge.
Me and the girls went to the basement to watch TV and to escape my mom. She’d been hovering all day, wanting to talk. But I didn’t. How could I when I hadn’t even processed what had happened? When it still didn’t feel real?
The second we sat down, Carmen said, “You don’t have to tell us about last night if you don’t want to. But if you do, we’re here for you.”
Abby stared at her. “We agreed not to mention it. And it’s the first thing you do!”
“I know, but she might want to talk about it,” Carmen snapped back. “We’re not helping her if we ignore it.”
“She’ll bring it up if she wants to, okay?” Iz said.
I raised my hand. “Guys, I’m right here. I’m not allowed to talk about what I saw. All I can say is that I identified the guys who did it, and they’re gonna be charged. That’s it.”
My friends gasped.
“You ID’d them?” Abby asked slowly, like she couldn’t believe what I was saying. “Aren’t you worried that . . .”
“That they’ll come after me? Yeah, I’m worried.” Worried didn’t begin to describe how I felt. Worried. Guilty. Sick.
“Don’t be,” Iz said, squeezing my hand. “Everybody knows you talked to the cops and that’s your best protection. If any of the Reyes touch you, the cops would know it was them. They’re not that stupid.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant it or if she was just trying to make me feel better. But I had to believe what she was saying. If I didn’t, I’d never leave the house again.
I put up the volume on the TV, and we all turned our attention to some music videos. Or pretended to. Finally Abby broke the silence.
“So, Carmen. What happened with Rafael after we left?”
Carmen’s lips curled into a smile. “I decided to take Iz’s advice and shake up my guy karma. He’s supposed to call me next week.”
I hoped Rafael called her. Carmen had been disappointed by too many guys, and it was about time her luck changed.
“Jack told me you blew him off,” Iz said to me. “You didn’t like him?”
“He was obnoxious. What does he study in college, anyway? Dick Jokes 101?”
“I think it’s Douche-ology,” Abby said, and we bumped fists.
“Whatevs.” Iz pointed her finger at me. “I’m not done with you, Maddie.”
After chatting and watching a few more videos, Carmen suggested we hit the store for some eats. My pulse shot up at the thought of leaving the house. I suddenly pictured the two Reyes waiting for me in an alley, ready to go at me with baseball bats.
I shoved the thought aside. Those guys were locked up and wouldn’t be getting out on bail anytime soon—Detective Gutierrez had assured me of that. I couldn’t shut myself away from the world because of last night.
Still, I brought Dex with us. I had no doubt he’d rip to shreds anyone who tried something with me. Thanks to Boyd, Dex hated all men. When I took him on walks, he growled at every guy who passed by. That was why my friends never let me take him to the store with us, since cruising for guys was part of the point.
But tonight, they didn’t protest.
Sasso’s Variety was three blocks away. It was open twenty-four hours, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and had been robbed more times than I could count. It had cameras everywhere now and was probably more secure than the local Citibank. There was a No Dogs Allowed sign on the door, so I tied Dex up outside.
Dex bared his teeth to a group of b-ballers with sports drinks, and they moved a few feet away. Beyond them, a homeless woman sat cross-legged with a cardboard box of change in front of her. I’d seen Hector here so many times. An image of his flaming body rose up in my mind. I shook my head, trying to dislodge it.
We went inside, the shop’s doorbell dinging above us. I glanced behind the counter. Unfortunately, the good-looking cashier was working. He always seemed to be working when I was buying something embarrassing, like tampons or junk food, or when I looked sloppy, like when I was buying milk early in the morning. That was my guy karma.
My friends buzzed at the sight of him—unruly black hair, a chiseled, clean-shaven face. He wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, and had tanned, muscular arms unmarred by tattoos. Nobody knew his name, since this wasn’t the sort of store where you wore a name tag, but it didn’t matter—they appreciated him as pure, unadulterated guy candy.
We went to the chip/candy aisle and filled a basket with whatever looked appealing. I heard Dex barking. My heart leaped into my throat, and I darted a look outside. But Dex was just being Dex, doing his best to intimidate a grizzled guy having a smoke.
Damn it. Was I always going to be this jumpy?
As we moved around the store, I sensed eyes following us. It was the guy at the register. Did he think we were shoplifting? We’d been here enough for him to know that wasn’t our M.O.
When I glanced up, his gaze moved away. Of course. It was me he was watching. He must know
I was the girl. The witness.
We went up to the counter and unloaded the basket. Iz adjusted her red bra strap, which was sticking to her skin—one of her classic moves. “Muggy out, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Okay, I had to admit, I liked that he had always seemed immune to Iz. She knew it, too, and that only made her try harder.
“Working the graveyard tonight?” she asked.
He looked at her like he wanted to say, “Duh,” but instead he said, “Yeah.”
Abby turned to me, desperate not to laugh at Iz’s failure. I sputtered, and when the guy glanced at me, I turned it into a cough. His hazel eyes met mine for a long beat before looking away.
“Must be a long, hard night for you,” Carmen said.
My mouth dropped open. We expected this from Iz, but never from Carmen. Last night with Rafael must have boosted her confidence.
“It takes stamina.” His lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “But it’s no problem for me. I can go all night.”
Abby’s nails dug into my arm as we both fought laughter. Carmen threw a glance at Iz, victorious. She’d gotten him to play along, and it was only her first try.
Outside, Dex bounded high when he saw us. I untied him, glancing back through the glass. The guy behind the counter was still watching me.
Guess I’d have to get used to it.
LOCA
MOM SAID I SHOULD HAVE COUNSELING. That I was suffering from PTSD. That my “faith in humanity had been shattered by witnessing such a horrible crime.” It was a pretty impressive diagnosis, and a testament to her faithful watching of Dr. Drew.
She was probably right.
I had seen a shrink a few times after Dad’s death—or a grief counselor, as she’d called herself, but it was all the same to me. She’d kept asking me about that day, about how it felt to be brought home from school early by my grandmother, only to be told that my dad had died of a heart attack. The shrink wanted to know how I, as an eleven-year-old, was handling this trauma. But all I’d wanted was to stop being pressured to put words to a grief I had no words for.