Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood (19 page)

I nodded. She was a smart girl, Gigi. I didn’t even know it, but it was me who was crying.

She looked at me. “Ahh, Sammy, you’re crying. Why are you crying, Sammy?”

“I don’t know, Gigi. You’re a good girl. Fine. And I don’t love you. And I don’t love anybody. Maybe I don’t have a heart. Maybe that’s why I’m crying.”

“Pendejo,” she said. “People don’t cry if they don’t have hearts. Don’t be a pendejo.”

That made me laugh. That made her laugh, too. So we sat there and laughed. And laughed. And maybe we were both crying, too. Maybe we were both crying for different reasons. Maybe we were crying for the same reasons. And when we stopped laughing, she grabbed my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and lit one.

“I’m not as good a girl as you think, Sammy.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I was with Pifas the night before he left. You know what I’m sayin’, Sammy?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You think I’m a puta, don’t you?”

“No, Gigi, I don’t think that. That’s not what I think. I think you gave him something. I think he needed something—and you gave it to him. You made him feel like he was somebody, Gigi. What’s so bad about that?”

She was quiet for a long time. Then she started laughing again.

“What?” I said. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re the only boy in the whole stinking world that would say something like that, Sammy.” And then she did start crying. And I held her. Like a brother. Like that. She cried and cried. And when she stopped, she took a breath like she was saying
Okay, it’s done.
It’s done.

That’s when we heard the noise—voices yelling. Like there was a fight. And René gets out of the car and says, “Get in the car, Gigi! Just get in the car! Sammy, did you hear that?” He was wanting some action. I could hear it in his voice. God, that guy always knew what to do at the first sign of trouble. It’s like he woke up, sniffed the air and knew exactly what to do. If there was a fight, he wanted to see if there was a way he
could join in. He was just that way. “Sammy, let’s check it out.” Gigi got in the car. I don’t know why I was going along. I didn’t. Damnit. Then we both listened, “Fucking queers! Fucking queers!” And the sounds of someone or maybe more than one someone getting the holy shit beat out of them by guys who were yelling, “Fucking queers!” René was moving in the direction of the fight. I was right behind him. And then I swear I heard a voice—I knew that voice—I did—and the voice, begging, begging, “Stop, goddamnit, stop—you’re killing him! You’re killing him. God, stop. God—”

“¡Es Jaime!” René said, “¡Es Jaime! I swear to God that’s Jaime. ¡Órale, Sammy, es Jaime!” He took off running toward the voices. I was right after him. I was just running in the dark, trusting René, following him, knowing he had all the right instincts. Like he was leading me into combat. Or something like that. And I didn’t have to worry, just follow him, because he’d show me what to do. Up ahead, I could see about four guys kicking two other guys who were on the ground. You could see with the light coming from inside the car—there in the light—both car doors wide open, the light pouring out. Eric, it was Eric’s car. “Shit,” René yelled. “Hey, damnit to hell! What the shit’s going on!” By then we’d reached them. They didn’t stop kicking. Just didn’t stop. Acted like we weren’t even there.

“Relax, we’re just beating up a couple a queers,” one of the guys said. “Found these two queers kissing each other. Goddamnit makes me fucking sick. What the fuck’s it to ya.”

René didn’t even wait for him to finish. He punched him right in the face. Blood all over the place. I could feel it on my face, on my shirt. The guy fell back yelling, “You fucker, you broke my fucking nose!”

René didn’t even hear him. No pity for the enemy. None. “Jaime?
That you, Jaime? Jaime?” He knelt on the ground. “Jaime.”

“René?”

“You okay, Jaime?”

It was Jaime all right. I could see him, his face all swelled and bloody. And Eric on the ground hardly moving at all.

For a while no one moved—then one of the other guys just kicked René right in the stomach as he was kneeling down over Jaime.

I didn’t even think. I was on that guy. He wasn’t expecting me to jump him like that. I don’t remember too much. When you’re in the middle of a fight, that’s all you know, the fight. René wasn’t down long. He was up and mad as hell—and all business. Two guys were on me, but they weren’t good fighters. They must’ve caught Jaime and Eric off guard. Jaime was normally a good fighter. I’d seen him in action. No, they weren’t good fighters. Not any of them. F.F.A. gringo types who scared people away because they were big and traveled in packs. René could’ve taken them all. He knew how to fight, liked it, understood it. He was a thinker in a fight. And me, well, I knew how to throw a punch—and how to avoid one. I was good at avoiding punches. Guess that was my talent.

I dodged a fist—then kicked one of the guys right in the balls. He fell. That’s the last thing I remember. And then they were running. All four of them. My lip was cut. Not the first time. I could feel blood on my face. Mostly it was other people’s blood. All over me. My left cheek was a little sore. Then I saw headlights, heard Gigi’s voice. “You guys okay?”

She and Angel got out of the car. She looked down at Jaime and Eric who were barely moving on the ground. “Hey,” she whispered. She took Jaime’s hand and squeezed it. René was good at fighting, but after the fight was over, he was lost. He and I just stood around, dazed. All we were good for was breathing. So that’s what we stood there and did.
But Gigi, she knew exactly what to do. She was on her knees, bending over Eric. “God,” she said, “God, no, no, we gotta get these guys to the hospital.” We just stood there, René and me, looking down at Gigi who was leaning over Jaime and Eric. “Damnit to hell!” She was yelling. “Did you hear me?”

God, they were beat up. I felt sick just looking at them.

I was afraid of hurting them more. But we had to move them. Somehow, we got them into the backseat of René’s car. I don’t know how we did that. They were really bad off. I thought they might break.

Gigi followed us to the hospital in Eric’s car. I think I remember praying on our way to the hospital. I remember watching René as he drove. I kept thinking that maybe this was a dream. It wasn’t happening. How could this happen? Were we in a war?

“What happened?”
The doctor wanted to know.

“What happened?”

“Some guys jumped them,” I said. “At the river.”

“What were you doing at the river?”

“Saving their asses,” René said.

The doctor shook his head. “Crazy kids.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Stupid crazy kids.” Sleep deprivation, I guess. I was feeling punchy. “They gonna be alright?”

He nodded. Not very convincing. Then he looked at me. “I think maybe I should take a look at that lip.” He took me in a room, made me sit. He cleaned it up. Hurt. I didn’t wince. “I think it’ll be alright,” he said. “Just don’t kiss anyone the next three or four days.”

“I’m not planning on it,” I said.

We waited for their parents. Eric’s parents walked through the doors first. They looked at us sitting there in the emergency waiting room. I pointed in the direction of the doors. They rushed through them, toward Eric. I knew it would hurt, to see him like that. It would’ve killed my dad if it was me.

Jaime’s mom showed up a little later. Not his dad. Guess his dad wasn’t too interested. “¿Y mi Jaime? ¿Dónde esta mi Jaime?”

I got up from where I was sitting. “Lo golpearon,” I said.

“¿Quién?” She broke down crying. “Es un niño.”

I held her. I thought of my mom. Yeah, I thought, we’re all babies. I let her go. I wiped her tears. “You’re a good boy.” So sweet, when she spoke English. I led her through the doors. The nurse, the doctor, they said nothing. I left her there crying.
Jaime, Jaime, hijo de mi vida.

I called my dad, told him what happened. Left out the queer part. He didn’t have to know everything. I told him I was fine. Yeah, sure, fine, told him not to worry. He was mad, but not too mad. Relieved, I think. “Come home,” he said. I told him after I found out how they were. We might have to talk to the cops. Maybe, who knows? He said I wasn’t excused from going to mass. I said okay. I’ll be home, I said, after I know.

Jaime had two broken ribs. A face so bruised his face swelled like a pumpkin. Eric had a broken jaw. Surgery, his mother said. The cops came. Doctor called them. Had to, he said. We told them what we knew. What we saw. Everything. “And what were they yelling?” they asked again. “Queers. Found these two guys kissing each other. That’s what they said. That’s what I heard.” René was telling the story. I nodded. The cop wrote on his form.

Eric’s parents said nothing. Jaime’s mother said nothing.

We sat there.

Eric’s father never looked up. Eric’s mother hugged us, thanked us, couldn’t stop thanking us.
Thank you, thank you, God bless you, God bless you.
Jaime’s mother just cried. Mothers broke my heart. Gigi handed the keys to Eric’s car to his mother. Hugged her.
God bless you. God bless you.

We had to drive to the police station. The detective separated us. Each of us had to write down what happened, in a separate room. To
make sure we weren’t lying. Each of us. We wrote. We gave our essays to the police. They let us go. It was all just a game. They’d never do anything. We knew they wouldn’t. “Keep away from the river,” that’s what one of the cops told us. They never even asked us if we recognized the guys. The guys who did this. Never asked us.

“I’m in deep trouble,” Gigi said. Then she laughed. “My parents aren’t going to let me go out for the rest of school year.”

Angel shook her head. Her mother was from Mexico. American customs, American kids—none of that meant anything to her. Angel had this look on her face.

“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” Gigi said. “Big deal.” She touched her face. I knew she was thinking of Jaime and Eric. Her face, it was still perfect. She knew that. That’s what she was thinking.

René looked like hell. The sun was rising and we were sitting there in the parking lot of the police station. He looked at me and laughed. “You look like shit.” He had this look on his face. “They’re queers,” he said.

We stood there, as if some devil was preventing us from getting into the car. We stood there. Where did you go? Which way did you drive the car when the world had changed?

“I don’t care,” Gigi said. “Jaime, he’s ours.”

“Yeah,” Angel said.

I didn’t know that much about these things. I’d been with Juliana. That was what I knew about love. I didn’t know shit about what love was for anybody else.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gigi said.

“You’re full of shit, Gigi,” René said. “Just wait till Monday. Just wait till we get to school. The whole damned school’s gonna know. The whole damned school. Those guys are gonna make sure everybody knows. And
they’re gonna make Jaime and Eric pay.”

“For what?” Gigi said.

“Wake up, Gigi. No seas tan pendeja. They’re doing something wrong. Everyone’s gonna know. What’s gonna happen to those jotos, huh?”

“Don’t talk that way about Jaime.”

“He’s a pinche joto.”

“He’s your friend.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Oh, people are gonna think you’re a pinche joto, too, just because you hung out with him since you were five. Take me home.”

“We saved their joto asses, Gigi.”

“And now you’re sorry, huh, René?”

René didn’t say anything. He just looked down at the ground.

Gigi looked at me. “¿Y tú? What do you think, Sammy?”

I shrugged.

“Damnit to hell, say something!”

“I don’t know.”

“We should’ve let those pinche gringos kill ‘em, is that it?”

“No.”

“No. That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Gigi?”

“Figure it out.” She opened the car door. “Take me home.”

No one said anything on our way back to Hollywood. When we left Gigi and Angel, Gigi turned around and looked right at me. “You’re both thinking you never knew Jaime. You’re both thinking you never knew him at all. Well, screw you. Screw both of you. I’m thinking I don’t know you, either.” She slammed the car door shut. I thought it might stay shut forever.
Eric and Jaime weren’t at school on Monday. They weren’t in school all week, but I heard things, heard all kinds of ugly things. I kept my mouth shut. On Thursday, some guy walks up to me at lunch while I’m having a cigarette in the back of the cafeteria—the smoking section—he walks up to me and says. “I hear you’re real good at saving queers. Some people save S&H green stamps. Other people save queers.”

I grabbed him by the collar. He was with four other guys. I didn’t give a damn. “See this fist? I’m saving it for you. You ever come close to me again and you’re gonna have this for fucking lunch.”

“Let go of me, you fucking spic.” That’s what he said. That was the first time anybody actually called me a fucking spic. Right then, I was gonna break his face open—except I heard a voice. “That’s enough.” It was Mrs. Davis, my English teacher. I knew her voice. “Let him go, Sammy.” I loosened my grip on the sonofabitch.