Wanted (14 page)

The camera zooms from the pile of bodies to the ref back to the bodies until one by one they peel off each other like layers of an onion. The ref stands there, then raises his arms in the air.

“Touchdown!” Josh screams.

“Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!”

“No freaking way,” Javier moans. “That’s just wrong—berserk wrong.”

We stare at the screen, waiting for the main ref to confirm.

“TOUCHDOWN!” My entire body fills with warmth. Seven hundred and eighty dollars! Three hundred and ninety each, minus the one fifty we bet. One fifty I didn’t have. That’ll pay off most of this month’s credit card. And that’s just on the game. We’ll get an extra hundred or so with the proposition bet on yards rushed.

Almost out of debt.

It’s so easy.

So easy.

Josh, Matt, Marilyn, and I huddle and sing, “‘We are the champions . . .’”

Somehow the Kettle chips have been spread all over the room—littering the floor. Matt and Marilyn dance on them—grinding the salty crumbs into the rug, making ugly grease spots.

Who will pick that up?

Seth watches us and rolls his eyes. “So, how much am I getting for
PB & J
?”

“How much do you need?” Josh asks.

“Maybe a hundred dollars.”

“I can pitch in forty.”

“I’ll match it,” I say.

Matt and Marilyn each say they’ll each give twenty-five. That gives him an extra thirty. The good thing about
PB & J
is that it gets photocopied. So by the end of the week, even though Seth puts out two hundred copies, there’ll be a few hundred floating around. Everybody does their share.

“Party’s over,” Javier groans. “I’m gonna go home to watch the other game. It’s just too depressing here.”

Matt and Marilyn follow. I start to pick up the crumbs.

“That’s cool,” Josh says, motioning to the hallway. “We’ve got a vacuum.”

Mrs. Mendez isn’t a vacuum.

He comes back in with an actual vacuum and I exhale. The carpet that looked new a few hours ago has some pretty greasy spots on it. We clean up the room and take the dishes to the kitchen. Mrs. Mendez shoos us away. “Laura,” Josh says, “we’ll take it from here. It’s Saturday. You should probably go.”

Mrs. Mendez smiles and says, “I finish here, Mr. Ellison.” She looks into the den. I watch as she puts baking powder all over the stained carpet; then, after vacuuming what we just vacuumed, she gets on her hands and knees, scrubbing out the grease with a mixture of detergent, water, and vinegar. I squat next to her to help and she glares at me. “I will finish.”

“I can help.”

She doesn’t smile. “I will finish. Alone.”

Seth, Josh, and I leave the room. I can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Mendez stooped over the stupid chip-stained carpet and feel embarrassed.

We sit in the kitchen, quiet. Waiting. Mrs. Mendez comes in, her hands chafed. “Anything else, Mr. Ellison?”

Josh shakes his head. “No. Thank you. I think Mom would’ve had my head if you hadn’t saved the carpet in the den. Thank you.”

She smiles, her spark back. “Good evening.” She picks up her purse and walks out the door. She doesn’t look at me again.
How does she get to work?

“Do you guys want to watch the other game?”

Seth shakes his head. “Man, I’ve got a paper to write—as in newspaper. Plus Mrs. Hensler is
killing
me with calc.”

“I’ve got to figure out my bets,” I say. “I should get home to hang out with Lillian. Have dinner or something.”

“Let’s go.” Josh locks the house up. The sky is that slate color. Flakes of snow drift to the ground in erratic fits—the kind of snow that make things cold, not pretty. We drive toward the main road when we pass Mrs. Mendez, walking.

Josh stops. “Hey, Laura? Can I take you somewhere?”

Mrs. Mendez shakes her head. “Is okay.”

“C’mon. Get in the car. It’s too cold to walk.” I get out of the car and hold out my hand. “Please.”

“I not walking to Carson. Martin will come when he finish work.”

“Call him. Tell him we’ve got you.”

Mrs. Mendez pauses and shivers. “Okay. Thank you.”

We’re quiet on the drive home. Seth is probably mentally composing the entire paper. I’m curious to see the news on the ski trip. Josh plugs in his iPod. Music shuffles from Train to Rascal Flatts to Frank Sinatra. He drops Seth off first, then asks Mrs. Mendez where to go, driving past the airport to their trailer park.

I can’t stop that aching feeling in my stomach; everything’s felt off this whole week. Too many ups and downs.

Mocho is sitting in the same worn lawn chair as the other day. Comba, his friend, sits next to him. It’s gotta be near zero degrees, but they sit outside under the dim streetlamp. After Comba’s sister was killed last year in a drive-by, he dropped out of school and nobody’s seen much of him.

At first Mocho doesn’t even acknowledge us. Comba wears mirrored sunglasses that cover half his face, a gold chain hanging with an even golder pendant from his neck. He sits, elbows leaning on knees, tattoos snaking up his arms, twisting around his neck, his ribbed white tank top hugging his body.

They’ve got to be freezing
.

Moch and Comba look up at the same time. Comba takes off his sunglasses and looks from Josh to his car and back at Josh again. I’m a bit concerned that he wants to turn it into scrap metal. Comba’s got scary eyes—dead eyes—like nothing matters. He’s got nothing to lose. He watches Josh totally detached, like Josh is nothing.

This was a bad, bad, bad idea.

Josh bristles.

Bad bad bad idea
.

Mrs. Mendez jumps out of the car, saying a quick thanks. She squeezes my hand and tries to cut Moch off at the pass, but it’s too late. Moch rushes past her, yanks open Josh’s door, and drags him out of the car, slamming Josh against the hood.

“Moch!” I shout and jump out of the car. I pull on his arm. He throws his hand back, hitting me in the jaw, sending me sprawling. The metallic taste of blood coats my tongue.

“
¿Quién trajó este cabrón aquí?”
Moch is drunk.

Mrs. Mendez goes to him and slaps him across the face. Hard.
“Ingrato chamasco, ¿que crees que estas haciendo?”

“No soy ningún lambiache,”
Moch says, words slurring. He turns to me. “
Usted. Si, usted se agringó.
Mike, do you need me to translate that you’re a kiss-ass gringa from your name-brand clothes to your name-brand friends?”

“Yeah. I’m gringa. That’s exactly what I am, and why is that so bad? You grew up here, too. You’re just as gringo—one that eats tamales and chilaquiles. So what you eat makes you so much more Mexican? Or is it because you talk different now that you’re part of la Cordillera? That’s what makes you more Mexican? A contrived accent? A couple tattoos?”

He stumbles away from the car. “
¡Vete a la verga!
”

He opens his mouth, but I interrupt him. “Yeah. You go to hell too.”

Josh peels his face off the hood of the car. We stand in a semicircle, waiting. Waiting for the ugly words to get sucked away in the gloom of the sky; waiting for some miraculous time reverse to happen, to take this moment away.

Moch punches Josh’s car. I listen to the sickening crack of bone on metal. Mrs. Mendez drops her head in shame. “I so sorry, Mr. Ellis—”

“Don’t fucking apologize for me, Ma.
Just don’t.
”

Mrs. Mendez turns on Moch, swinging at him with her purse, punching him, hitting him, screaming at him,
“¡Qué vergüenza!”
over and over until it looks like her arms won’t be able to lift her purse again. She drops her arms to the side, wipes her tears, and walks in the house. Yellow light comes from the kitchen window.

Moch turns into Comba; his face loses all expression, like he’s become a shell of nothingness, sealing off the rage bubbling inside. He looks from Josh to me.
“Sí, qué vergüenza,”
he mutters. Moch and Comba do synchronized head nods and walk away. I kind of wonder if they talk to each other or just grunt.

I scramble to my feet and push Josh to his car. “Let’s go. Now.” My lip stings. My stomach aches. And I thought we could solve everything with ski trip sabotage. Sure. Let’s have some airplane fly overhead with a cheesy message and everyone will be friends. It all seems so pointless now—like the joke’s on us, on Babylonia.

We drive in silence to my house. When we get there, I say, “Please, Josh. Please don’t fire Mrs. Mendez. She’s a good woman. They’re a good family. Please.”

Josh leans his head against the steering wheel, exhaling. “What just happened?” he asks.

I swallow back the words but can’t keep them down. “Ellison Industries. That’s what.”

Josh pales. I squeeze his arm.

Josh puts one hand over mine and runs his thumb over my split lip. I wince. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

Josh shakes his head. “You know a sad thing?”

I could name about a thousand.

“I knew. I knew about my parents and the people who work for us. I’ve always known.”

He stares ahead. I open the door and step outside; icy wind bites into my cheeks.

Burdened by our parents’ sins. Hopeless
.

Chapter 18

SUNDAY SPREADS BEFORE

me like a life-without-parole sentence. I’m tempted to mark the minutes on the wall with a pencil. I replay the scene at Mocho’s over in my head. When did he start to hate so much? It’s like there’s no difference between him and Nim.

I look at my phone. No messages from Josh.

Nim’s texted me another five times, all with the same message:
please please please.

It’s embarrassing how pathetic he can be. I stare at the message and write back:
Place your bet.

He writes:
$350 Broncos—Moneyline
.

Me:
Spread?

Nim:
MONEYLINE
.

I roll my eyes. The Broncos are seriously favored, so if they lose, Nim’s gonna take a hit. Big-time. And if they win, he won’t even make a hundred dollars. It’s too easy to pick a sure thing. He will always be a total amateur puke. That’s what he is. Regurgitated genetics. Anyone with two cents for brains wouldn’t place that bet.

The TV is white noise in the background. The divisional playoffs are on. Today, watching twenty-two guys run up and down a field is about as interesting to me as watching grass grow. I look at my numbers. Leonard would take a halftime bet.

It was so easy. Then the rush, like having a cerebral implosion of happiness.

I push the thought away. It was a one-time deal. That’s why I’m good at what I do, because I’m never emotionally invested. It doesn’t matter who wins or loses. All I care about is the bottom line and making my money.

Steady income. No risks.

But yesterday.

Never mind.

Lillian is cleaning up the yard, bundled in a heavy coat three sizes too big—one she got at the secondhand shop. She snips off dead branches and tears away the spiderweb-rooted underbrush from below the mailbox.

I bring her hot chocolate.

It tastes good. We sit together, looking out at the yard, an old afghan wrapped around our legs. The yard is pretty—cared for. Something to be proud of. There’s a peace about Lillian when she gardens and works in the yard, like all the political injustices of the world don’t matter because she can pull weeds. She’s not restless or angry or thinking about brochures and legislation.

Times like this, I feel like I matter.

“We need to plant something to go around the mailbox post this spring. The spirea took a turn for the worse.” Lillian points to the mailbox.

I look at the pile of deadish-looking plants Lillian tore out of the half-frozen ground.

“We could change these, too.” I point to the geranium bushes.

“Why change what’s already so perfect?”

“They’re just geraniums,” I say, feeling that wall of thorns crawling between us.

“They’re more than that. The spirea went. The geraniums stay. They’ve been there seventeen years now.”

“All the more reason to change them. Wouldn’t you like a makeover—change something so that you can feel different?”

Lillian wipes her hand across her mouth, glistening with powdered hot chocolate. A couple of freeze-dried marshmallows bob in the watery beverage. “Everybody’d like to change something.” She’s dangerously close to sounding like the high school counselor and beating me over the head with one of those Ten Step books.

“Or someone,” I say, then bite the inside of my cheek, breaking through the skin. It tastes like I’m sucking on my car keys. I sometimes wish she’d just say it—say how much Mom and I screwed up her life plans. That would be easier than living with the constant sense of being a trespasser—unwanted.

Lillian takes another sip, cupping the mug in her hands. “What happened to your lip?”

“Nothing,” I say.

Lillian stares at me—lines webbing around her eyes like spires. “I wouldn’t change a thing, Mike,” she says. “Especially those geraniums.” She says it like those geraniums mean everything in the world.

Geraniums are
just
geraniums. But at least I have my six words for the day:

Purple geranium weeds. Black-eyed violet perfection?

Whatever.

Lillian stretches. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. It’s been a long afternoon.”

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

“We have some pot pies in the freezer. That’ll do for me.”

“I’ll go to the store and get salad. Just for a change.”

“That’d be nice.” She goes inside and gets out her purse, handing me five dollars.

“Lillian, I can afford salad.”

“So can I,” she says, and heads inside. “See you for dinner.”

I swing by Mocho’s house on the way to the grocery store because I can’t stop thinking about yesterday, about Mrs. Mendez.

Mr. Mendez answers the door, opening it just a crack. When he sees me, he smiles and opens the door wide. “Michal, how are you?”