Before You (5 page)

Who talks like this? I cannot deal with her another minute, much less a lifetime.

“I have to go,” I blurt. “Sorry. I just have this thing tonight. Great talking with you!”

Outside, I take deep breaths.

In. And out. In. And out. In. And out. And in.

The air is sticky, coating my lungs like tar. The setting sun glows through the clouds, which puff like foam across the sky. What must it be like to have no problems, to be so light that you can float?

I want to join the clouds, to bounce on nothingness for one infinite second. I want to be airy and made of fluff. I want to be free to show my emotions. I want a release, an outlet, a vent. Because even clouds can cry.

I tell my dad that I want to walk home. I need time and space to think.

For some reason, my mind drifts to Diego. I smile. And with that, I no longer remember the weight of everybody's expectations. Or how I wish to be free. All I can think about is seeing Diego at the restaurant. Though I probably should, I don't regret my words.

I laugh to myself.

I can't believe I called him hot.

F
aith called me hot.

I didn't imagine it. I didn't imagine it. I didn't imagine it. I rest my head on the back of the seat as the bus drives me home. When I heard Faith's friend talking about me, I thought it would be bad. I was wrong.

Maybe it was a joke. Maybe they knew that I was behind them. Faith's friend sure knew. She glanced right at me as she said that last thing about how Faith was predictable.

Thing is, when Faith saw me, she looked shocked. And angry. So, I'm not sure it was a joke.

Forget it. I'm thinking about this
gringa
too much. Bennie gave me a warning for the broken dish. But the warning in my mind is worse. I shake my head, dislodge confusion. I glance around. I need a focus point. There are two other people on the bus. Both sitting up front. I am alone in the back. Good. I like being alone.

It's safer that way.

I peer out the window. Slow, steady traffic lines the road, pulsing like resin through the lungs of a smoker. On the street corner, thugs hassle a kid.

“It's a tough life,” I mumble to myself.

The bus stops two blocks from my house, near the high school. Lampposts shine brightly every few feet. Cars pass. One slows down near me. It's a cop. Checking me out. He'll probably stop me and ask what I'm doing, walking near the school at eleven o'clock at night.

In America, it feels like being Latino is a strike against me. Having tattoos is another. And on top of it all, I have too many scars.

Too many scars.

Too many reminders.

I wish I didn't have the scars or tattoos, at least not the ones caused by my time with the cartel. Some of the other scars, though, are uniquely mine.

Like the one on my upper arm. I broke it when I was seven. The bone needed surgery to repair the break. And the small scar below my left eye, just under the lower lashes, where Javier accidentally hit me with a Frisbee. Those I don't mind.

Some of my tattoos are uniquely mine, as well. It's the cartel tattoos that bother me. The ones that mark me as a member. Those are the hardest.

Tattoos claim part of my skin. Shame claims the rest.

Surprisingly, the cop leaves me alone. But I don't get far before 67 steps out of the shadows.

“What's up?” he asks.

I keep walking, but I'm not sure it's a good idea. If I stop, I'm bound to run into trouble. But I can't lead him to my apartment, either. I decide to take a left, the opposite direction from my place. Maybe he'll leave.

“We just want to talk,” he says.

I don't believe him.

I know better.

I am him, one heartbreak later.

I stop, turn toward the sound of his voice. I will not run. I'm not a coward.

Four guys approach from all directions, like dogs herding cattle.

I am prey.

“What's your name?” 67 asks.

“Rico,” I lie with a hard voice. “What's yours?”

“Wink,” he says, stopping in front of me. Obviously his gang, not birth, name.

I'm surrounded. Wink looks at the markings on my arms. His eyes settle on the tattoo on my left hand.
X
, skull,
X
. The
X
s represent links, like a chain. The skull represents death.

Linked to the cartel until death.

Once you are marked with that particular tattoo, you're in it for life.

The MS-13 members know all about what it means to be in it for life. In their gang, there is no leaving or being jumped out. You either live for them, or die.

Sometimes death is better.

It's considered an honor to reach a high enough level within the cartel to be branded with the particular mark tattooed on my skin. But it feels more like a burden.

“Where you from?” Wink asks.

“Not here,” I answer.

Wink smirks. “And the ink?”

“Art,” I say. It's not a complete lie. Some of them are art. Others were forced.

“Nice,” Wink replies, crossing his arms over his chest. His shaved head reflects light like the flash of a Polaroid. “Why you locked up so tight? Protecting someone, or you got somethin' to hide?”

I get in his face without thinking twice about it. I'm not about to take heat from this guy, no matter who he runs with.

“Listen,
cabrón.
Either tell me what you really came for, or leave. But do not expect me to tell you my life story. It's none of your business.”

His friend pulls a gun. Aims it at me.

“From the way I see it,” Wink says, pausing to look at the Glock, “you don't have much of a choice.”

“Wrong,” I say, right before I kick the gun out of his friend's hand. It sails through the air and lands in a bush. My fist connects with Wink's nose. It cracks. I hit him two more times in the same spot. Blood pours out. He goes down.

Red so red is the stain of our sins.

Someone punches me in the face.

Another guy charges. I send a powerful kick to his kneecap. He falls, tries to get up, can't.

I wish I didn't like the surge of adrenaline pounding through my veins like an uncontrolled current. My moves are flawless. I am a weapon. My fists are as dangerous as a double-edged sword.

I shouldn't like this.

I'm a monster.

A third guy is reaching for his gun. I rip his arm backward until it pops. He yells, a sound of pure anguish. Like waves when they hit jagged reefs and split with a roar. He hits me with his good fist. I taste blood. He tries to hit me again but I block him. Twist his good wrist at an unnatural angle. It breaks.

This is all I know.

The guy behind me punches me in the back of the head. I turn toward him in time to receive another punch to the face. It only takes one kick and one punch from me for him to go down.

I need to leave now, before they get up.

When a city falls to ruins, do you pick up the broken pieces and rebuild? Or do you leave it all behind?

Stay or run?

Live or die?

This feels like home. Fighting. Threats. Trouble to come.

Just like I told
mi padre.

There is no such thing as a brighter future.

T
he moment I get home, Grace plows into my legs, almost knocking me backward. Though her five-year-old body is tiny, she's mighty with her affection. As always, she creates moments of joy when I least expect them.

My parents had me young, barely into their twenties. When my dad married his new wife, he was thirty-three, Susan, thirty. They decided to have Grace. Despite the age gap between Grace and me, I don't know what I would do without her.

“Hi, Gracie,” I say, smiling from ear to ear.

She looks like me—same hair, green eyes, high brow bones. It's nice to have someone who loves you so much that they tackle you at the door, begging for hugs and kisses. She can't wait for me to walk into the living room. She has to see me right then.

It's love like the sweetest chocolate. Only better.

“Hi, Faith,” Grace says in her melodic soprano voice. “You didn't ride with us.”

“No,” I agree. “But I'm here now.”

Grace smiles. “Missed you thisssss”—she pauses to stretch her arms as wide as they can go—“much!”

“Aw, I missed you, too.”

“Want to play?” she asks.

Anything to make you happy.
“Give me one second,” I say and race to my room to kick off my shoes.

When I return, Grace is dressed in costume. A fluffy pink skirt with tons of ruffles at the hem, a sparkly purple shirt, and a pointy princess hat with pink tulle coming out of the top. She has a wand in her hand.

She is beautiful, so beautiful.

“Here,” she says, handing me a flowery dress. One of Susan's castoffs. I think Susan purposely gave it to Grace so that I can dress up, too.

I pull the dress over my head. It's a little big.

“How do I look?” I ask with a spin.

“Like the most beautifulest sister in the whole world,” Grace says. She puts one finger to her chin, taps her foot on the ground, looks up. It's her concentration look.

Billions and billions of people to love and you picked me.

“No. Wait,” she says. “What's the word for more than beautiful?”

“Gorgeous?” I suggest.

“No,” she says. “More than that.”

I look down at her. “Not sure. Why?”

“ 'Cause that is what you are,” she says. “More than beautiful.”

My heart
pitter-pats
. Grace is seriously my saving grace. I thought about her while I was away last year. She's one of the few reasons I stayed strong.

Now I pick her up and spin her the way she likes. She squeals. As I tickle her, her head tips back and laughter bubbles out of her mouth. I love her laugh. It's the kind that when you hear it, you can't help smiling, too.

When we're both laughing so hard that it feels like I've run a marathon, we collapse on the ground and catch our breath.

One beat two beats three beats four.

I will always love you more.

“What are we playing tonight?” I ask.

Grace picks up the wand. “I am the magic angel. I will turn you into things,” she explains.

“Okay,” I agree.

First she turns me into a pony, and I give her a ride on my back. Then I am a sneaky fox who keeps hiding; she has to find me, like hide-and-seek. Then Grace shares her magic with me, and we set off together to battle pirates on a ship.

If only we could sail away.

It doesn't feel like we've been playing for two hours, but when I hear Susan call Grace to bed, I realize time has flown by.

“One more. One more. One more,” Grace begs her mom.

Susan sighs. With a smile, she gives in. “Okay. But just one.” She sits on the couch and waits for us to finish.

“For my last magic of the day, I will make everyone better,” my little sister says.

And I believe with all of my heart that she thinks this is possible.

Grace instructs me to lie down on the floor, which, of course, is not any old floor but a special bed in a small town far, far away. I'm supposed to be a sick girl. There are a lot of us who are sick in this faraway town. We've caught a germ that Grace calls the Ick. Grace leans over me and peers into my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. I almost laugh at her serious face. She really gets into her make-believe.

Then she trails her wand from my head to my toes and works her magic.

“Bye-bye, sickness in your vein. I take away all your pain,” she says.

And just like that, I'm better. Grace jumps up and down and claps, and then gives me a kiss good night.

I blink back the tears as Grace walks away with Susan. I wish the flick of a wand could make everything better. I don't mean to get emotional, but Grace's magic makes me think about the real pain in my life.

It's an ache that started ten years ago.

The day she disappeared.

No,
disappeared
is too generous a word. What I mean is: left.

The day my mom left.

Abandoned me. Abandoned
us
.

Dad seems truly happy with Susan, but he was in pain once, too. There were dark years before he met his new wife.

Susan treats Dad well, and she's an awesome mom to Grace. She tried really hard in the beginning to be friends with me. She promised never to replace my mom. I remember her exact words: “Faith, I know that you already have a mom. I respect that. All I'm saying is that, if it's okay with you, I would like to marry your father. We've talked about it. He wants to be a family. Would that be okay with you?”

I couldn't say no to Susan. Not if she made Dad happy.

Anything was better than seeing him in pain.

Plus, Susan had the decency to ask me if it was okay. She didn't need my permission, but she had enough consideration to ask. I think maybe I could like her if I actually gave her a chance. But I don't give her a chance. I can't.

I don't let people in anymore. I never let them close enough to have a shot at seeing the real me. Pain is a strong enough sealant to close my heart.

My mom left when I was eight.

For drugs.

Ever since she left, I've had a serious fear of abandonment. Once she was gone, it was like Dad had left, too. He went to work, preached the Bible, paid the bills. He sat at the dinner table with me to eat, but he wasn't really there. I'd catch him gazing at the wall, lost. A robot: pray, eat, go to bed. Repeat. He didn't talk to me anymore. He was hurting. He thought it was his fault that Mom left. She was a preacher's wife. Stuff like this wasn't supposed to happen.

But it did. Dad tried to get her professional help, checked her into several clinics. It didn't make a difference in the end. She still left. One thing remained: a ghost of a life, haunting.

I would hear Dad at night sometimes, crying. It broke my heart. I cried. Mom caused us so much pain. Her addiction broke her. And us, too.

Addiction is toxic, a drop of poison in pure water, tainting and infecting. It is awful how one tiny drop can ripple so far. The ripple is the worst. It reaches so much further than the original drop, and it lingers for a long time. Maybe forever. Dad and I are part of Mom's ripple. She thought that by leaving she did us a favor. She reasoned that if she was gone, we would move on, be happy.

Wrong.

I was not left with happiness. I was left with abandonment issues. Big ones.

According to the shrink, fear of abandonment is called autophobia. It's more specifically defined as a fear of loneliness. And it's awful. Like the plague, eating me from the inside out, rotting my soul. I do not trust. I cannot trust. I will not trust. Anyone.

Except Melissa. Melissa was there when my mom wasn't. She was two open arms, always constant, always welcoming. We carried each other. Her dad left her family at the same time. We've both experienced a heart tear. Together.

Melissa is sarcastic, edgy. But she has a true, loving heart. She accepts me. Flaws and all.

Melissa is safe.

Some people have places where they feel safe—a house, a car, maybe the park or the beach. Not me. My mind doesn't work like that. I look for safety not in the world, but in the people around me. It's a flaw, for sure. Because, honestly, most people are not safe. They seem good in the beginning, but they only hurt you in the end.

That's the problem with autophobia. It makes me skeptical of everyone. What it comes down to is this: I'm afraid to know someone, really know them, because what if I end up loving them? Will they be like my mom? Will they leave me, too?

There is always a chance.

I cannot take that chance.

Instead, I go about my life being who everyone expects. Happy, predictable Faith.

Sometimes I want to step out of my own skin, watch it fall to the ground like a discarded hide. I did that once, two years ago, but I went about it the wrong way.

I was a sophomore. Dad had already married Susan. He had moved on. I felt abandoned, by him, by Mom. They lived their own lives, oblivious to the fact that I was miserable, decaying inside. So I stepped out. I started secretly going to college parties that Melissa's older sister invited us to. At first it was about cute boys and dancing, but it turned into more. I started drinking. A lot.

Melissa drank, too, but not as much as me. My best friend assumed I'd be careful, that I'd know my limits because of what happened to my mom. She didn't know how much I pushed the boundaries.

Then came drugs. I'd always wondered what was so great about them. What could possibly be so wonderful that family and everything else took a far distant second?

I needed to know.

So I tried them. It wasn't what I expected. The drugs themselves were harsh. But their aftereffect drew me. Drugs made me numb. For once, I didn't feel the pain of abandonment. I didn't
feel
at all. Not anything.

I don't know exactly when it got out of hand. I was in too deep for Melissa to help, suctioned by a cyclone too powerful for her to fight. She had to tell my dad.

That's why I missed my junior year. I was in rehab.

Everyone except Melissa and my family thinks that I went on an international church mission. It sounds exciting. Travel the world; study in beautiful countries. Come back to a school where most people can only dream of doing something like that.

So many people envy me. If they only knew.

Green, green, green is our envy, volatile and vain.

Blue, blue, blue is my soul, withering and chained.

I kept up my relationship with Jason while I was in rehab. My dad gave me notes that Jason dropped off at the house. It was easier than explaining that there were no international addresses where he could send letters. Ink bled onto paper, sentiments too shallow to fill the envelope with anything of substance, anything worthwhile. The notes always talked about football or how the dance team wasn't any good without me.

Even today, when things with Jason aren't exactly exciting, I love that he stuck by me. True, he thought I was on a church retreat, but that's not what matters. Point is that he didn't leave me.

If I were strong, I would tell Jason the truth. But I'm a coward.

I should tell him about the parties. I should tell him that I cheated on him with college guys. I should admit that I got hooked on drugs, just like my mom. But I can't. Only Melissa knows the real reason why Mom left.

My parents' divorce was scandalous at first. Pastors are not supposed to divorce. But people got over it quickly.

I should tell Jason the truth. I should break up with him so he can be with someone more deserving. But I won't. People expect me to be with Jason. I must keep up the façade, keep living the lie. I'm not a good person; I know that. But I can't ruin my dad's life. I'm not sure if my dad's career, or heart, can take the hit of a divorce—and a wayward daughter. So I'm stuck, a pawn in a game I have no intention of winning.

Jason loves the fake me, anyway. He doesn't know the real one. Is it fair to take the fake me, the one he fell in love with, away? And then there's the piece of me that wants to keep Jason because he accepts my mask. It's easier that way.

I fold the pain, bending it at precise angles until it fits into my pocket, always carrying it with me where no one can see. I'm done with drugs and alcohol. I don't want them anymore. I don't even like cigarettes.

Today, tonight, in my room, it all seems like a fading dream. I can't believe I ever used drugs. Especially knowing so intimately the destruction they cause. I just wanted to forget the pain of Mom leaving. Terrible copout, I know. It will never happen again.

Melissa keeps my secret. She's the truest kind of friend. That's why I can't get mad at her for pushing me earlier, at the restaurant. She wants me to step out of my skin. The healthy way this time. Dress how I want to dress, date who I want to date. Melissa says that even though the drugs are gone, I'm still not free.

I don't know what free is.

I imagine a bird, soaring, screeching.

Flap, flap, flap
go its wings, batting the air like a child smacking bubbles.

Melissa wants me to say things like I did earlier, when I admitted that Diego is hot. It's not that she loves the shock value; it's that she loves me. She wants me to be happy.

I wonder if such a thing exists.