Against the Wall (6 page)

I wake up early to make breakfast.

I want to show my appreciation to Noah for helping me get a job and giving me a place to stay. I'm also hungry for some of the dishes I grew up with. My grandma taught me how to make chilaquiles when I lived with her.

It's hard to be out and not see my family, but I can't cross the border and they can't afford to come here. Although my dad was born in the US, my mom never got citizenship or learned English very well. After he died, she went back to Mexico with a broken heart. Now she's remarried and living in Zacatecas. I'll visit her as soon as I'm off parole.

I find all of the necessary ingredients for
chilaquiles
. I brown the chorizo and scramble some eggs. Then I throw in the salsa and corn tortillas, sliced into small squares. My grandma served it with a dollop of
crema,
but April doesn't have that. Instead I grate some cheddar cheese to melt over the top.

Noah comes in from his morning run when I'm finished. His T-shirt is damp with sweat and he looks pretty ripped. I know he has some gym equipment in the garage. I wonder what he's lifting these days. I realize that I'm staring at him so I avert my gaze. He's going to think I turned gay in prison.

“What's that?” he asks.

“
Chilaquiles
. Want some?”

He grabs a plate and helps himself. Then he takes the orange juice out of the fridge and pours several cups. April comes downstairs in a robe belted above her belly, greeting Noah with a kiss. They don't use tongue or anything, but both linger over the contact. I watch them with a mixture of envy and embarrassment.

Jenny joins us in her pajamas, her hair mussed and her eyes bright. “It smells like my
abuelita
was here.”

April makes them both a plate and I serve myself the rest. Then we all sit down at the table like a family. Jenny loves the dish, Noah scrapes his plate, and April gets weepy for reasons I can't fathom. Maybe she's thinking of her own mother. I ask her in Spanish if the food is too spicy, and she says no.

“She cries when she's happy,” Jenny says in the same language.

Noah squeezes April's shoulder and takes her plate to the sink.

After breakfast he helps me load the dishwasher while Jenny and April get ready. “How'd it go yesterday?” he asks.

“Good.”

“You like it there?”

“Yeah. I'm stoked to go back.”

Noah gives me a curious study, as if he remembers me being a mouthy little punk and doesn't quite trust that I've changed. I'm not sure I've changed, either. I was pretty close to making a move on his sister the other day, despite my promise not to. Instead of using Meghan, I used Noemi.

I've never been a nice guy. I don't know if I can be.

I have an appointment with my parole officer before work. He barely glances at my paperwork before shuffling me along. This is the treatment I expect. Most people employed by the corrections system don't have time to give any of us lowlifes their individual attention. It's no wonder we end up back in the system. The waiting room is filled with gang members and violent offenders, like me.

I have a few hours to kill after I leave, so I decide to hit the library again. I'm walking across the parking lot outside of the community services building when a sleek black Impala slows down next to me.

Every nerve in my body stands at attention.

It's not clear if the driver wants to ask for directions or open fire. Eastside isn't gunning for me, as far as I know, but maybe April was right about Noemi. I couldn't keep my dick in my pants, and now I've stirred up a hornet's nest.

The passenger window is open. I don't stoop to look inside. Lowering my head will give the driver a better view of me and a better angle to shoot. I just keep walking in hopes that it's a case of mistaken identity or a false alarm.

“What the fuck,
güey
? You don't call, and now you act like I'm invisible?”

I recognize the voice. It's Junior.

Relief flows through me like fresh paint. I step toward the car window and lean in, grinning at my best friend. It's good to see him again. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Who, Oscar? You fucking killed him, dumbass.”

I laugh at his dark humor.

“Get in.”

“I have to go to work.”

“When?”

“Pretty soon. I can't party.”

“Who asked you to party? I said get in.”

Although I know it's not a good idea to associate with a drug dealer and gang leader if I want to stay clean, I can't resist. Junior is like a brother to me. He might be the devil on my shoulder, but he's always got my back.

I get in.

He steps on the gas and roars through the parking lot.

“Who told you I was out?”

“Conejo saw you. He had an appointment earlier.”

“I didn't see him.”

Junior shrugs, and I realize that he put a call out on me. Conejo is another member of CVL, and he's a shady motherfucker. He didn't approach me to say hi because he was instructed not to tip me off.

I study Junior while he drives, wondering if he has an ulterior motive for tracking me down. He's stocky and muscular, with a shaved head and a goatee. He looks like the kind of guy who'll beat you up and steal your girl, and that's exactly what he is. I don't want to be on the receiving end of his aggression. He's a leader, and sometimes a monster. Standing with him is safer than standing against him.

“You staying with April?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“How is she?”

“Married. And knocked up.”

“Still hot?”

I don't answer; I don't have to.

“Fuck, I'd do her anyway. Cram her even fuller.”

Junior has always had a crush on April, and he's never been shy about sharing his sexual thoughts. Actually he's not shy about anything. He has no boundaries whatsoever. “I'll tell her you said that.”

“Tell her I said hi. She'll get the message.”

I shake my head at the joke, picturing Noah's reaction. He'd rearrange Junior's face.

“I've got a surprise for you.”

My smile fades. “What?”

“You'll see. It's not far from here.”

“I only have an hour or two.”

“
No mames, güey
. It won't take long.”

He drives fast enough to make me uneasy, but not so fast that I tell him to slow down. I know from experience that he'll speed up if I complain. Although he appears healthy, he's brimming with intensity, hyper-focused on the road. I suspect he's wired.

“You gotten laid yet?”

“Yeah.”

“With who?
La rubia
?”

He means Meghan. “No. It wasn't her.”

“Who?”

“Just some girl,” I say, looking out the window. It can't get around that I slept with Oscar's ex. Junior would love to needle Eastside by circulating the news. “I met her at the grocery store.”

He gives me a congratulatory fist bump. “How was she?”

“Good.”

“Tight pussy?”

“Why do you always ask that?”

“Why not?”

“She was a nice girl.”

He smirks at my answer. “What was her name?”

“Maria Elena,” I say, which is his mother's name.

He grabs me by the back of the neck and tries to shove my head down on his lap. It's one of his signature jokes, inappropriate and threatening and uncomfortably funny. I punch him in the ribs and break free from his grip, doubling over with laughter. He swerves a little but manages to stay on the road.

“Where did you get this car?” I ask.

“I bought it last month at a charity auction. Nice, right?”

“Hell yeah,” I say, envious. It's a vintage muscle car, expensive without looking flashy. A pang of longing for my old Chevelle squeezes my chest. I miss being behind the wheel, independent and in control.

We talk about his family for a few minutes. He's got a cousin in the hospital and he's been pitching in to pay the bills. Despite his ruthless, reckless behavior, Junior is a caring person. He gives as generously as he takes.

Soon we're headed south toward Border Field. He makes a right turn and we end up on a dusty road near the border. After a couple of blocks he pulls into a place called Scrappy's. There are piles of junk and wrecked cars everywhere. It's deserted. I shift in my seat, thinking this would be an excellent place for an execution.

The last time I went for a ride with Junior, he put a gun to my head.

That was the same day he shot up Oscar's house, led a police chase, and crashed his car into a ravine. He was drunk at the time, and mourning his sister's death, so I forgave him. He was out of his mind with grief.

Right now he's in good spirits, and probably high on meth. I'm pretty sure I can trust him not to kill me, but I also know what he's capable of—and who he answers to. It's possible that La Eme gave him the order. They might want to test his loyalty. By trying to go straight, I've turned my back on the prison gang and made some dangerous enemies.

Blood in, blood out. That's the rule. You can't just walk away.

Junior parks among the rubble and cuts the engine. He smiles a little, as if he knows what I'm thinking. He likes scaring people, even me. “Look around.”

I study our surroundings and one of the cars catches my eye. It's a '72 Chevelle. It's
my
'72 Chevelle. I jump out and run toward it, examining the damage. The front end is smashed. It needs a new bumper and a new hood. Some of the windows are broken. I drop to my stomach on the grass and check the undercarriage.

Fuck. The chassis is busted.

I scramble to my feet, excited nonetheless. “How'd you find it?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says. Maybe he does deals here.

“Can I buy it?”

“You want to?”

“Of course,” I say, lifting the broken hood. The engine block is still there. If I can find another chassis with the same specs, I can take apart the whole car and rebuild it. Replacing the hood and windows won't be a problem.

It would be easier to buy a car that doesn't need so much work, but I can probably get a good deal on this one, and besides, she's my baby. I walk in circles around the wreckage, inspecting the damaged interior and patting the driver's side lovingly. I can't wait to bring her back from the dead.

“Thanks, man,” I say, getting in Junior's car and doing our CVL handshake. “This is awesome.”

Junior drives to a rusted trailer near the front entrance, where we get out and meet Scrappy, aka Steve Scranton. He's old as the hills and smells like BO. He sells parts, not cars, so he won't even let me make an offer. Junior, who's standing behind Scrappy, forms a phantom bat with his hands. He'll get me the car through brute force.

“Do you need any help?” I ask the old man, trying a different tack.

“Doing what?”

“Errands, heavy lifting, removing parts. Whatever.”

“You an auto mechanic?”

“No, but I took auto in high school.” I actually passed that class, too. “I'm a hard worker, and I'm cheap.”

“How cheap?”

“I'll trade services for the car and spare parts.”

“You're a fucking idiot,” Junior says to me. “Let's go.”

“Come back Sunday,” Scrappy says.

“You won't sell it before then?”

“Boy, I don't even sell cars.”

“You won't gut it?”

“No. I'll leave it alone.”

We shake hands.

After leaving the junkyard, Junior buys me lunch at a taco shop about a mile away. He doesn't eat much, which confirms my suspicions that he's on something. Meth kills the appetite. I'm almost finished with my meal when it occurs to me that the place is familiar.

“Have we been here before?” I ask, glancing around.

He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “You don't remember?”

“No.”

“We ate here after a night in TJ once. You were drunk off your ass.”

“Is this where I pissed in the trash can?”

He laughs, nodding. “You pissed in the trash can, knocked it over, and fell down with your dick out.”

“Que cabrón,”
I say, shaking my head. “Who was with us?”

His face grows solemn. “My sister.”

Now I remember. It was my eighteenth birthday. A bunch of us went to Avenida Revolución to celebrate, and Junior kept buying me drinks. Junior's sister, Cristina, was our designated driver. I feel a pang of guilt when I think about how young she was. She was pretty and wild, taken too soon.

We don't speak much after lunch. Junior drops me off at the transit station. He gives me his number and I say I'll call.

But I won't.

On Thursday there's a nasty surprise waiting for us outside the women's resource center.

SLUTS

The word is written across one wall in huge spray-painted letters. Around the corner the message is even more sinister:

STAY HOME

I meet Kelsea by the front entrance and we stare at the vandalism in horror. She takes pictures with her phone while I scroll through a slew of messages on social media. Apparently the event has created quite a stir—and not just among SDSU students. Last night someone linked the news of the slut walk to 4chan, an online community known for sexist trolls. The Men's Rights Activists had responded. Big-time.

There are hundreds of comments on the event page and various social media sites. Slut walk is trending on the SDSU forum. Students are milling around the center, studying the graffiti and chatting about likely suspects.

I'm appalled by the message on the wall and offended by the slurs on social media. It feels like a personal attack.

Kelsea's first reaction is rage, and she's not shy about showing it. She paces in front of the wall, cursing the MRA and the KKK and any other hate-group she can think of. Then she stops and grabs my arm, brightening. “Let's take selfies.”

“Selfies?”

She nods. “We'll treat this like an advertisement for the slut walk and rub it in the haters' faces.”

“They want attention.”

“Yeah, but they want us to be scared and upset, not laughing and hamming it up.”

Kelsea has a point, and her bubbly positivity is infectious. If she's happy about this giant spray-painted threat, I'll go with the flow. “Okay.”

“Take off your jacket and try to look slutty.”

I toss my jacket aside, giggling. I'm wearing jeans and a tank top with three little buttons, which I undo at Kelsea's urging.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I don't even have tits.”

“Sure you do.”

“A-cups are never sexy.”

I roll my eyes at the claim. “Show your stomach, then.”

She's wearing loose sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt. She ties a knot under her breasts. Her tummy is tanned and toned. I'd trade my C-cups for her perfect stomach any day. She adjusts the waistband of her pants and rolls up one leg, hip-hop style.

“Nice touch,” I say.

We pose in front of
SLUTS
, turning the hate speech into a photo op. Kelsea does two backward peace signs, celebrating the word and reclaiming its power and mocking the naysayers all at once. I make a silly duck face.

Another student offers to help us take some wider shots. We stand on opposite ends of the graffiti, smiling for the camera. Kelsea rests her back against the wall, one foot propped up, and makes a vulgar gesture with her tongue sticking out between her fingers. I'm too busy laughing at her audacity to strike my own pose. Then we take a couple of shots together. Kelsea throws her arms around me and licks my cheek.

She posts the best photos on Instagram and the response is amazing. We get a ton of compliments, likes, and shares. On impulse, she tweets an open invitation for students to visit the wall and take their own pictures.

F*ck the haters! Stop by the women's center for a sexy selfie! Support the #slutwalk with a #slutshot!

It gets retweeted like crazy.

“We're going to need more flyers,” Kelsea says.

I have to cram for midterms, so I can't stay at the center. By the time I leave, Kelsea is handing out flyers by the dozens and young women are lining up to take selfies. The entire school is talking about it. My unease grows as I pass by several groups of students looking at us on their phones. Unlike Kelsea, I don't crave attention or notoriety. I'm also worried about Chip's reaction. I can't hide this from him.

He's going to question me about the slut walk and I won't be able to distract him with another blowjob.

I'm ashamed of the lengths I've taken to avoid conflict with him. I don't even know who I am anymore. I feel like I'm betraying myself and betraying Chip. I've been keeping secrets from him, holding back instead of sharing my true feelings. If I continue to stay silent and let him push me around, our relationship is going to implode.

Maybe that's what I want.

I pause outside the library, stricken by the realization. Am I setting Chip up to fail? Waiting for him to snap?

Shaking my head, I continue into the building. The thought of having a major confrontation with Chip makes me nauseous. I'm wary of his hot temper, but what I really fear is the fallout. If we break up, I'll be even more tempted by Eric. There's a reason I moved in with Chip shortly after hearing about Eric's release. I knew Eric had nowhere else to go and I wanted to make room for him. I also wanted to protect myself
against
him.

I've got a killer test in abnormal psych in an hour, so I study my notes before I head to class. The midterm isn't as difficult as I thought it would be. I have a knack for absorbing information quickly and zeroing in on important details. I'm good with facts and memorization, less confident about critical thinking and in-depth analysis. As a result I've got a high GPA but feel like I don't really know anything.

After class I check my text messages. The most recent one from Kelsea says:

Bummer! They're painting over the graffiti! :( I have to get to class.

Chip has an away game in Riverside this afternoon. He texts me a photo of one of his teammates licking another guy's face. It's obviously a joke, and the guy getting licked is leaning away in disgust, but the message is nice:
The boys liked your photos.

I laugh, relieved that he's not mad. Then I check his social media and see that he's shared the photo of his friends, along with links to our #slutshots. One of his teammates added:
Lick a face if you like sluts!

I'm not sure they understand the purpose of the slut walk. Chip and his friends are typical college jocks, more interested in hot girls than equal rights. But they aren't psychos who make anonymous rape threats and spray-paint slurs.

I don't think they are, anyway.

As soon as Kelsea gets out of class, we meet for pizza at the quad. I'm in dire need of caffeine and carbs.

“Did you see Chip's tweets?” she asks.

I nod, taking a big bite of pizza.

“I'm surprised he's being supportive.”

So am I, but I don't say that. I wonder if he's had a real change of heart or if he's just going along with his friends. He didn't comment on the graffiti. Part of me wishes he'd issued a public statement condemning it. Then again, I told him that the slut walk was Kelsea's project, so he probably thinks the message was intended for her.

“I was hoping to get some media coverage of the graffiti but the maintenance guy said school policy requires him to paint over it immediately.”

“It's bad publicity,” I say.

“The good news is that the office manager for the student health center wants to join forces,” Kelsea says. “We're thinking about a slutfest before the slut walk. She's going to set up some tables and pass out condoms and information pamphlets.”

I give her a high-five. Now that my worst midterm is over, and there's no crisis with Chip looming, I'm feeling positive. Maybe the slut walk will be fun and stress-free. Good times and short shorts with a side order of girl power.

After lunch we head to the parking lot. The next item on the agenda is recruiting businesses for slut stations along the route. It's a lot of area to cover, so we take my car. The first stop is Fine Ink. We both check our teeth and hair before we exit the vehicle.

“You want to impress your ex?” she teases.

“No, I want to impress your dad. He's a total DILF.”

“Shut up,” she says, slapping my arm in mock protest. She always laughs when I make dirty jokes about her dad. “I'd do your brother for reals.”

“You would not.”

“If he was single? I'd be on it.”

I snort in disbelief. She could take her pick of single guys at SDSU. I've tried to hook her up with a few of Chip's friends. She's gone out on dates here and there, but she's impossible to please. No one can hold her interest.

We get out of the car and approach the front entrance. The door is propped open. I've been to Fine Ink a few times before. Kelsea used to work here as a receptionist and she fills in on occasion. Rose, the current receptionist, greets us warmly. There aren't any customers in the lounge. Eric is standing on the opposite side of the room with a bucket and a rag. He appears to be scrubbing the wall from top to bottom.

My heartbeat quickens at the sight of him. Always has, always will.

He's wearing a pale blue button-down shirt with jeans and work boots. He gives me a brief perusal, glances at Kelsea, and continues scrubbing.

“Who's the new guy?” Kelsea asks, as if she doesn't know.

“That's Eric,” Rose says.

Kelsea looks back and forth between us, smiling her cute little smile. Then Tank walks in the front door and her face slips. Tank doesn't bother with niceties. He just passes on by, holding his motorcycle helmet under one arm.

I totally get Kelsea's fascination with him. He's in his late twenties, he's bearded and tattooed, he's tough-guy hot. He can probably melt a girl's panties from across the room. Her father would never approve.

I move my gaze back to Eric, who's watching me with interest. He's not as physically imposing as Tank, but he's dark and dangerous in his own way. I can still picture him standing over Jack, his fists dripping blood.

“You here to see your dad?” Rose asks.

“No, I have an appointment with Tank. My first tattoo.”

Tank puts his helmet away and jerks his head toward Kelsea. Score one for her. She caught his attention.

“Very funny,” Rose says in a chiding tone.

Eric returns to his task and Tank disappears into the hallway. Matthew comes out of his office a few seconds later. He's tall and athletic-looking, with a long stride despite his prosthetic leg. He seems surprised to see Kelsea. I realize that she didn't call ahead, and I feel a twinge of unease. He's a cool dad, but he's still a dad. I have no idea how he'll react to the news of the slut walk.

“What's up?” he says. “You girls want to go out to lunch?”

“We already ate,” Kelsea says. “I have a favor to ask.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay.”

“I'm organizing a protest march this Saturday. We're going to walk down University Avenue with signs and stuff. I was wondering if you'd host a station with cold drinks for us and let me put a poster in your window.”

“What does the poster look like?”

She hands him the flyer. “I still need someone to make them.”

He arches a brow. “A
slut
walk? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It's for a good cause.”

“How is being a slut a good cause?”

“The point is to raise awareness about violence against women and gender inequality. Women get called sluts for dressing too sexy. We're shamed and criticized for sleeping around, but guys are celebrated for doing the same thing.”

“So you're going to walk the streets half-naked to promote equality?”

“We're going to carry signs, too.”

“Men won't focus on the signs.”

“Some of them will.”

“Does your brother know about this?” he asks me.

“Um…”

He studies the flyer again, his mouth thin with disapproval. “I can't display a nude poster. It's offensive.”

Kelsea blinks at him in shock. “Are you serious? You tattoo tits for a living!”

“That doesn't mean I'm going to hang them in the front window,” he barks back. “I don't want you participating in a slut parade, either. You won't earn any respect for women that way. You'll just give the perverts a show.”

She clenches her hands into fists, incensed by the quick dismissal. “Mom would have understood.”

Matthew's eyes darken with hurt. It's a low blow, even for Kelsea. Talking about Kelsea's mother always makes him shut down. I put my arm around her shoulders, intending to lead her away before she can do any more damage.

Eric tosses the washrag aside and steps forward to glance at the flyer. “I don't think it's offensive.”

Matthew squints at him in warning. “Nobody asked you.”

“I agree with him,” Rose chimes in. “It's free publicity, too. We could get a ton of new customers.”

“There's a law against profanity in advertising,” Matthew says.

“I can fix that.” Eric sits down at the coffee table and picks up a pencil. Using scratch paper, he makes a quick sketch, writing sl*t across the top and walk across the bottom. Then he draws a figure in a bikini, which is much more innocuous than the original. “You can keep the same look but tone it down.”

“I don't like it,” Matthew says.

“I don't, either,” Kelsea says. “It's censorship.”

Eric and I exchange a glance. They're both impossible.

“How about a different image?” I say. “Maybe that classic one with the woman rolling up her sleeve to go to work?”

Rose brightens. “Rosie the Riveter. I love her!”

Eric isn't familiar with the icon, so Rose shows him a picture from the tattoo book.

“How many posters do you need?” Eric asks, doing another sketch.

“Three,” Kelsea says. “I'm planning to ask Wild Locks and The Q Room.”

Matthew voices no objection there. One of the businesses is an edgy hair salon, the other a gay-friendly bar.

“I wanted to use all of the images,” Kelsea adds.

“Okay, but one image per poster will work best,” Eric says. “It's simple and has the strongest visual impact.”