Before You (6 page)

M
y face is jacked.

I realize the next morning that there's no way I can hide what happened.
Mi padre
is going to flip. Maybe if he hadn't hidden my gun, none of this would have happened.

Maybe if I didn't own a gun, life would be different.

Even after a shower, I still have dried blood on my lip, like a stain after eating cherries. I wet a washcloth with warm water and dab. It stings but I've had worse. The white washcloth comes away russet. Old blood. Soon it will be another old scar.

My bottom lip is split on the right side. Not bad enough for stitches, though. My left cheekbone is swollen and my right eye is turning purple, like a shadow hovers over it.

As if people don't stare enough already.

Time for school. People will notice. The suspicions they already have about me, confirmed. Screw it. I don't care.

As I leave the house,
mi padre
stops me.

“
Ay, ay, ay,
Diego. What happened?” he asks.

“Nothin',” I say, brushing him off.

“
No me mientas
,” he replies.

“Fine,” I say. “I got in a fight. There, happy?”

I'm being sarcastic, obviously. But
mi padre
already knows what happened. What he's really asking is not what, but why. And by whom.

He stares at me with hard eyes, eyes that have seen unspeakable misery.

“
¿Por qué?
”

“Because some jerk thought he could push me around. No big deal.”

“
No más peleas.
”

He wants me to stop fighting. Even though
mi padre
insists on speaking English in America, he slips up when he's angry.

“Fine,” I say.

I hoist my bag on my shoulder and walk the back way to school. Javier told me about a new route last night when I filled him in on my fight with the MS-13 members. With any luck, they won't be prowling these streets, as well—and Wink got the message that I don't want to be a recruit.

I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it. Relaxation washes over me like hot oil, all of my worries slipping away. It's a relief. I'm too wound up these days. Always watching my back. But that's to be expected. I take another drag and watch the smoke float lazily into the sky.

Won't you take me with you?

Cigarettes are my only addiction. Most people assume that I do drugs. Wrong. Even though I saw a lot in the business, I never touched the drugs. Literally. No dealing. No ingesting. No interest. I know a lot of people who got way too messed up. I've seen the damage drugs can do. That's why I stick to cigarettes. Everybody has a poison, a vice. For some, it's caffeine. For others, the hard kind, cocaine, heroin. For me, nicotine.

In the cartel, it was my job to make sure people stayed in line. Which basically meant that I made sure no one was pinching more than their share, that cartel members had extra protection for drop-offs, that debts were collected. I roughed up a lot of people. Came with the territory. I never hurt anybody too bad, though. I was one of the boss's best fighters.

Some people are good with money, others with drugs. I'm good with my fists.

I am a weapon.

I am a monster.

It was hard at times. But I had to survive. On my street back home, the top killers weren't heart attacks and cancer, like you hear about in America, but starvation and violence. There are always people who will say that joining a gang or a cartel isn't the answer, but until they're lying on a street corner starving or dying of a bullet wound, how can they know?

Joining a cartel was my only option, if I wanted to live and have my family taken care of. I would've done anything for
mi familia
. The cartel offered protection and food in my stomach. Two things I would not have lived to see eighteen without.

Today I try not to think about it too much. It is what it is. Sure, I wish things were different. But they're not.

Inhaling the last drag of my cigarette, I stomp it out with my shoe. Oviedo High is a collection of large, multicolored brick buildings with lush green grass and a courtyard that looks more like a garden. The sparse clouds above are light gray charcoal caked onto a backdrop of sapphire. The sun shines brightly, swollen with arrogance, its rays like arms claiming all it can touch, blocking one whole side of the sky from being seen.

Javier calls me over to a picnic bench where he's sitting with some of his
amigos.
I rest on the dead wood, as well.

“You look terrible,” Javier greets me.

“Thanks, man. You, too,” I say, hassling him. “At least I have an excuse.”

“You didn't get into it with Faith's
novio
, did you?” Luis asks.

For some reason, the thought of Faith makes me tense. I don't show it, though.

“Nah,” I answer. “Just some
pandilleros
.”

“That sucks,” Luis replies. “At least with Faith, you would have a good reason to walk around lookin' like that.”

“Good reason?” Rodolfo asks.

“Don't act like you wouldn't say yes if you had the chance,” Luis replies.

Rodolfo laughs. “You're right. I probably would walk around with a banged-up face for her.”

“Seriously?” I ask. “ 'Cause I don't see it.”

Faith's outside appearance is vague to me. It's the inside that holds the spark. I mean, yesterday, what was she wearing? Some fluffy blouse and a skirt that looked too big. Maybe she doesn't normally look like that.

“Watch the dance team. Then you'll see it,” Javier says.

Ramon joins in. “Faith Watters is
muy caliente
. I bet she only dresses the way she does because of her father.”

“What, he picks her clothes for her?” I ask.

“No, man. I mean 'cause he's the preacher.”

I glance at my cousin for confirmation. “You're messin' with me,” I say.

Luis busts up laughing.

“You should see your face,
ese
,” Luis says.

A pastor's daughter?

“Why didn't you tell me?” I ask Javier.

“I didn't think you wanted to date her.” Javier grins.

“You should have told me.”

“Don't worry,” Rodolfo says. “She will never say yes.”

He's probably not trying to make me angry, but he does. Why do things have to be like that? Who says I can't get a girl like Faith Watters? Not that I want to.

“She might say yes,” I counter.

“Oh no.” Javier gives me a look. “Don't waste your time. The sky has a better chance of falling than of you dating Faith.”

“You're probably right,” I say. “It's just messed up.”

And now thanks to Javier, I can't stop wondering what Faith looks like in her dance uniform. No amount of me telling myself she's a pastor's daughter makes it better.

“A pastor's daughter,” I mumble, and shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

“All the better,” Rodolfo says. “A challenge. Like forbidden fruit.”

Forbidden is not a good way to describe something to me. I love a good challenge. And I do not believe anything is forbidden. Locked up tight, maybe. But not forbidden.

“Forbidden is lookin' pretty good today,” Luis says.

I look up in time to see Faith with her blond friend. My peer helper is wearing a red blouse and black shorts that are practically knee-length. It's not that her outfit is sexy or anything; it's just that red is definitely her color.

As she walks close, my heart breaks through my sternum and beats on my skin like a hammer.

Breathe.

My lungs refuse to cooperate, like a disobedient child.

Breathe.

And then she's gone.

D
iego's face is busted. Purples and browns and pinks and blues all blur into one another, creating a painting of abstract life—an image of anger, of survival in a bleak, hostile world.

One quick peek at him in the courtyard gave me one huge glimpse into Diego's life outside school. I'm not sure if I should ask if he's okay or ignore the bruises. Which is worse, acting like I care or acting like I don't?

Tough. I realize in that moment that I honestly want to know if he's all right.

I'm not sure what to expect from Diego today. He acted like I didn't exist when I sat near him in psychology yesterday, and then he gave me the cold shoulder the rest of the day. Now his face is a mess; plus I'm more than a little embarrassed about calling him hot. But at the same time, I'm not. It felt good to step out of my own skin. Even if it was only for a moment.

Ever-changing like a chameleon, blending in all the same.

I do, however, know exactly what to expect from Jason. My boyfriend is annoyed that I complimented another guy, especially in front of his friends. I don't understand the big deal. It's not like he doesn't find other girls attractive. I don't get bent out of shape.

People like me cannot allow the mask to slip. I won't let it happen again.

I wait for Diego in front of the guidance office, occasionally scanning the halls for his arrival. Then I see him. He's wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that sets off his smoky-amber skin.

Simple.

Striking.

He is fluidity in every move. He is a boy with eyes like hope, with scars that tell stories, with muscles born of a hard life. It's plain to see, so long as you care to look.

I decide not to comment on his face. If he wants to talk about it, he'll tell me. Plus, I don't like the cocky expression he's sporting, like he knows that I think he's hot and now he's going to use it against me.

Maybe I should tell him that he's only hot on the outside, when he doesn't talk.

He stops in front of me, grinning. His eyes glint like the edge of a knife. For a moment, it feels as though they can cut right through me.

“How was your meal last night?” he asks.

I worried he would bring that up. Still, I can't help the heat that colors my cheeks, as though my traitorous blood wants Diego to know that his words hit their mark.

“It was great,” I say casually and turn before he has a chance to see me blushing.

Diego is feeling brave today. He doesn't trail me like yesterday. Instead, he keeps pace beside me, smiling devilishly.

“And how's that boyfriend of yours?” he asks.

I stop. Shoot him a hardened glance. He's well aware that Jason heard my comment.

“He's fine, Diego. Why don't you ask what you really want to instead of beating around the bush?”

He laughs. “You surprise me sometimes, Faith.”

There it is again. My name. He says it differently than most people. I don't know if it's his accent or the way my name tastes in his mouth; either way, it catches me off guard.

I don't want to ask why I surprise him. I turn around and continue walking.

“Red is a good color on you,” he comments.

I'm not sure if he means my blouse or my face. I keep walking, wanting to be done with him for now.

And suddenly, I realize something.

I don't trust myself around him.

Not even my fake self. No, scratch that;
especially
my fake self. Fake Faith doesn't stand a chance around Diego. He's slowly unraveling the tight wire I use to secure the real me. He's trying to free her and he doesn't even know it.

Or does he?

Every time he speaks his mind, I want to do the same. And the dangerous part is that I just might. I wish I could dress how I want and date who I want. Why do some people have it so easy?

I glance at Diego's tattooed arms.

Then again, maybe some people have their own version of complicated.

On his lower bicep is an image of a girl on a motorcycle with something written in Spanish on the road beneath her. A five-inch gash on his arm makes her look as though she's been cut in half. The line of the scar is too clean to be an accident. Nothing but a purposeful slice makes a cut like that. I wonder what it was.

A piece of glass? A knife blade?

More tattoos and small scars snake down his arm—two by his elbow, three on his wrist, several on his knuckles. And that's just the left arm. Where the wounds have healed, the images appear slightly blurred, the original ink forever distorted.

And then there's his neck. I try not to look at it but I can't help myself. His lightweight shirt is made of thin stretched cotton. The slight outline of his muscles is clearly visible—especially where his neck meets his strong shoulders. Above the neckline of his shirt a scar sweeps across his skin like a smile. The mark on his esophagus is red and angry.

Raw.

New.

Someone did that to him.

Why?

Diego clears his throat. “Get a good enough look?” he asks.

I'm embarrassed. I shouldn't have stared at him.

“Sorry,” I mumble. I blink several times, hoping that if I close my eyes hard enough, maybe the images of Diego will escape through my lashes into the swarm of bodies around us. My eyes are thieves, stealing glimpses, storing the evidence in my mind, making me guilty by association.

He grins. “There's more if you're interested.”

I scowl. I cannot afford any more slip-ups. He has to stop provoking me. I need to get through the day. Then it's over.

“Go to class,” I say, and turn to walk away.

Suddenly, Diego pulls me close. His body is pulsing, throbbing heat. I make a small whimpering noise. I don't mean to. It's just, God, why does he smell so good? Spicy almost.

His eyes are one thousand points of light blinding my caution.

He reaches around me. My chest presses against him. I'm so aware of my body, of how it's conspiring against me. My mind is urging me to step away, to snap out of it.

Abruptly, Diego releases me. In his fingers are stray hairs.

“Shedding,” he says nonchalantly, letting my hair fall to the floor.

I try to sift through my confusion. Why did I not pull away from Diego when it seemed as if he was embracing me? But he wasn't embracing me. He was just ridding my shirt of hair.

Mistakes, mistakes. Too many mistakes.

“Didn't want to mess up your picture-perfect image.”

Diego winks, and walks toward the classroom door.

I can't let him get away with that. If anyone saw . . . If Jason hears . . . I'll never live it down.

Witnesses, witnesses. Too many witnesses.

I part my lips to say something, anything, but embarrassment floods my mouth, chokes my words. The surge drowns any comeback I might've had.

And I'm left alone, standing in a hall full of snickering students.