Being True (6 page)

Mr. Castillo nodded. “You
bolios
sure pick weird first names,” he said with a playful wink.

“
Dad
!” Javi clearly didn’t appreciate his father’s teasing or addressing me as a white boy. Like Mr. Castillo was the first who’d ever called me that. In the barrio, I heard it on a daily basis.

“It’s okay, Javi,” I conceded. “My name’s pretty weird. And I am a bolio.”

“See,” Mr. Castillo said as he gestured at me. “Some boys know how to take jokes.”

“And how to help set the table,” Mrs. Castillo added.

“Really?” Mr. Castillo glanced at his wife. When she nodded, he turned back to me and smiled. Javi only groaned. He must have sensed what was coming next. “Perhaps we need to swap sons,” he said as he messed up his son’s hair. “The only thing this one concerns himself with is baseball and his hair.”

“Dad, stop!” Javi squirmed underneath his father’s playful gesture. “You know I hate it when my hair’s messed up!”

“I know,” Mr. Castillo grinned at me. “That’s why I do it.”

I sat there transfixed as Javi and his dad playfully tussled with each other in a perfectly choreographed dance. The ease with which they interacted revealed this was how they truly acted, and they weren’t putting on a show. No wonder I’d been overcome by a general sense of welcome upon entering this house.

True love lived here.

It wasn’t like my mother didn’t love me. Or that she didn’t do her best to make a nice life for me. She was just so busy working, trying to make up for the hell we’d gone through since Bart Cox entered and exited our life that we passed like proverbial ships in the night.

Seeing Javi and his family made me miss the family I’d once had even more.

“Okay, enough playing in my kitchen,” Mrs. Castillo said as she swatted her husband on the behind with her wooden spoon. “If the mole burns because of you two, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Both Javi and Mr. Castillo immediately ceased their horseplay. In the kitchen, Mrs. Castillo was the undisputed law.

“Okay, enough,” Mr. Castillo agreed as he released his son from a bear hug. Javi’s long exhalation revealed he couldn’t have been more relieved. “I’m going to wash up, and then over dinner, Tru can tell us about the fight he was in.”

How the hell had he figured that out? I glanced nervously at Mr. Castillo and then to Javi and his mother. I couldn’t tell them about what had happened. If I did, I might lose Javi’s friendship. And after being alone for so long, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the one friend I’d just made.

“Tru fell off his bike, Dad,” Javi said. His mother nodded in agreement. “He wasn’t in a fight.”

Mr. Castillo paused next to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Is that true?”

I nodded. “I did fall off my bike, sir.”

“Told you,” Javi said with a hint of smug righteousness.

“I believe you.” Mr. Castillo, however, refused to break eye contact or take his hand from where it rested. “But were you also in a fight today?”

I opened my mouth to lie, but I couldn’t do it. How could I bring deception into this house? Besides, Mr. Castillo already knew the truth. I could see it in his eyes. “Yes, sir. I was.”

Mrs. Castillo gasped.

“What?” Javi asked as he stood from the table. “With who?”

I didn’t want to answer. It would ruin everything. I was stuck.

“Not now,” Mr. Castillo answered for me. He patted me on the back to let me know it was okay. “For now, we all wash up and eat.”

He nodded at me and then at his family, who stood in silence. When he realized there’d be no more questions, Mr. Castillo exited the kitchen and left me standing there with my mouth wide open.

Somehow, Mr. Castillo had sensed I wasn’t ready to answer, and he’d come to my rescue.

And I hadn’t even had to ask for help.

C
RAMMED
AROUND
the small kitchen table, we ate, and it was perhaps one of the best meals of my life. My mother, God love her, excelled at many things. Cooking was not one of them. Her idea of a meal consisted of Hamburger Helper or any other boxed dinner.

So naturally, I ate everything on my plate. Being a bolio, as Mr. Castillo had so kindly pointed out, I’d never had homemade chicken mole before. How had I lived my life without it for so long? I even ate a second helping Mrs. Castillo deposited on my plate without my having to ask.

“You’ve got a good appetite,” she said after I picked the second chicken breast clean.

The familiar burn of embarrassment flushed my cheeks. “I couldn’t help myself,” I said. “It was delicious.”

Mr. Castillo patted his full stomach and nodded. “My Maricela is the best cook ever, even though she tries to make me fat.”

She huffed. “There’ll be no skin and bones in my house,” she said with a proud jut of her chin.

And Mr. and Mrs. Castillo definitely weren’t skin and bones. They weren’t obese or anything. Just pleasantly plump. Next to them and Javi, who appeared to be all lean muscle, I was a string bean.

“So tell us about yourself,” Mr. Castillo said as his wife cleared the dishes.

“Not much to tell, really,” I replied as I stood to fulfill my end of the bargain with Mrs. Castillo. I placed Javi’s clean plate atop mine and crossed to the kitchen sink. “I’m just your average, boring kid.”

I turned on the faucet to rinse the dishes, hoping breaking eye contact would dissuade Mr. Castillo from continuing his interrogation. I hated talking about myself. Who wanted to hear a sad story after such a good meal? Besides, my tale ended with Javi’s best friend smacking me around the locker room. That could potentially put Javi and me at odds.

“I don’t believe that,” Mr. Castillo said. The scraping of his chair on the linoleum indicated he had backed away from the table. A few seconds later, he was at my side with a dishtowel in hand. “Everyone has a story.”

I nodded. “True. Others are just more interesting than mine.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge?”

I peered over my shoulder to find the kitchen empty. Sometime during the conversation, Javi and his mother had left us alone. When I turned around, Mr. Castillo’s kind brown eyes smiled down at me. They were the same dark ebon as Javi’s.

“I had a feeling we should have this conversation in private,” he said with a wink.

“You asked them to leave? But I didn’t hear you say anything.”

He grinned slyly. Just the way Javi had the first time I laid eyes on him. “In this house, words are sometimes not necessary.”

I turned my eyes down to the soapy water. It always made me uncomfortable telling my story. Not like anyone had ever really asked before. Just the therapist I’d briefly seen shortly after the specter of Bart Cox had been exorcized from our lives.

Mr. Castillo’s hand rested reassuringly on my shoulder. “I sense you are a good boy, Tru. Someone very different from the friends Javi typically brings around. And to tell you the truth, I kind of like that. His teammates are nice, but they are not respectful. And are often unruly. In just the short time I’ve known you, I can tell you have a big heart. Probably bigger than most people I know.”

I blinked back the tears. How could Mr. Castillo see all that when not many others could?

“But I see something more,” he said, lightly squeezing my shoulder. “There’s a lot of pain there too. Probably more than I’ve seen in any one person. Especially someone so young. Your life should be an open road, filled with possibilities and adventure. But something holds you back. Something has darkened the road.”

I sniffled. He was right. My life had been one late-night drive down a pitch-black highway with two broken headlights.

“But I want you to know, I’m not going to push. I won’t force you to tell your story. You’re a man, and a man shouldn’t be forced to do anything he doesn’t want to do. But a real man, a true man, recognizes when he can’t go it alone. When he needs to lean on someone else for a little while. And I’m here to tell you it’s okay to do that. If you’d like to talk, I’d be happy to listen. But you should also know my Javi is a good boy too. He’s there for his friends. No matter what.”

And what would Javi do if he learned his old friend was responsible for beating up his new one?

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered with a nod.

“Good. Now let’s finish these dishes. Then we can get your bike all fixed up so you can get home.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said as I resumed washing. And while we finished cleaning up, Mr. Castillo told me stories about Javi. How he’d been a pitcher since he was a toddler, when he used to hurl his pacifier across the room. Or when Javi had his first girlfriend, or the time they all drove down to Corpus Christi and spent a weekend camping on the beach.

By the time the dishes were done and put away, and Mr. Castillo, Javi, and I had worked to fix my bike on the front lawn, it didn’t seem like I’d stepped into the Castillo house a few hours ago. It was like I’d known them my whole life.

Chapter 3

W
HEN
MY
alarm went off the next morning, I hopped out of bed and into the shower with far more enthusiasm than I’d had in years. The usual dread with which I greeted each day didn’t descend upon me with bone-crushing weight. I even sung in the cramped shower, which was so not like me. I typically got ready in somber silence, as if preparing for a funeral.

And perhaps I was.

I’d been going through the motions for so long, I’d been pretty much dead on the inside anyway. I’d certainly forgotten what hope felt like. But this new outlook kept me light on my toes, and the world around me glowed like a bright summer day.

It felt good to be alive.

“Breakfast’s almost ready,” my mother called at the bathroom door.

“Okay,” I responded with an unusual cheer in my voice. “I’ll be right out.” No doubt my mother stood on the other side of the door with a puzzled look on her face. My standard answer to breakfast was a sigh, because it meant the school day was about to begin.

Even though the threat of Rance waited for me at BHS, his presence was offset by the knowledge that Javi would be there too. In fact, he’d promised to drop by this morning so we could ride our bikes to school together.

I immediately accepted the offer. It certainly was better than making the almost two mile trek alone and on foot. Sure, I could take the school bus, but I’d suffered enough bloody noses in the back of a bus to cure me of ever getting on one again.

And that was when I remembered my face. I hadn’t looked at myself since Mrs. Castillo cleaned me up and put aloe vera salve on my wounds. She’d promised I’d be better in the morning. If she was right, it would spare my mother a lot of pain.

I took a deep breath and gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A big purple bruise spread across my left cheek, thanks to Rance’s fist, and a red skid mark cut an angry path across my forehead courtesy of falling off my bike. But what was far more apparent than the reminders of the pain I’d endured yesterday was the smile that spread across my lips.

Not even seeing my big teeth bothered me.

Today was going to be a good day.

I turned off the cracked bathroom light and headed to the kitchenette, where a plate of scrambled eggs and toast waited for me on the small table we’d owned since I was a kid. It was one of the few pieces of furniture from her marriage to my dad Bart had allowed my mother to keep.

“Good morning,” I told my mother, who stood at the tiny sink washing a pan. Her light golden-brown hair, which was the same hue as mine, was pulled back into a ponytail, and she still wore the waitress uniform from her late-night shift at IHOP.

My positive tone made her freeze. Then, she turned slowly around. Most likely trying to verify I was indeed her son. When her chestnut brown eyes fell upon me, she cried out and dropped the pan with a clang. “Oh, Tru,” she said as she pulled me into an embrace. Under the hint of maple syrup that clung to her, I could still detect the cherry blossom fragrance of the perfume I’d given her for Christmas last year. “Not again. And on the first day too.”

“I’m all right, Mom. I’m fine. I really am.”

She stepped out of the hug and studied me from head to toe. I gazed at her with my dad’s baby blues, hoping to end her scrutiny. I should’ve known better. She gestured for me to spin around, so she could get a good look. After I obeyed, she placed her slender hands on her slim hips and locked onto my eyes. It was her standard posture when she wasn’t buying what someone was trying to sell her. “Just look at you,” she said, as if that alone made her point.

“That’s right,” I said. “Look at me. Look past the bruises and the cuts.”

She averted her gaze. A tear slowly slid down her cheek. “I can’t,” she said. “Not when my son has been hurt.”

I grabbed her hands. When she still refused to look at me, I tugged on them as I used to when I was a kid trying to get her attention. She reluctantly turned her gaze to mine.

“What do you see that’s different about me?”

“You mean beyond the obvious signs that my son was tortured again?
Those
weren’t there when I sent you off to school yesterday.”