Bleed Like Me

To all my tethers. Thank you for keeping me grounded.

I would be lost without you.

This book exists because agent Sarah LaPolla asked for a YA
Sid and Nancy
on Twitter. Twenty minutes later I sent an idea to her, and five minutes after that she replied with “Yes. Do this. I was hoping
you
would take up the challenge.” I will forever be grateful for all of Sarah's enthusiasm, support, and ideas for making
Bleed Like Me
the best book it could be.

Equally immense gratitude goes to the formidable and fearless Liesa Abrams, who understands me in a way that few people do. It is an amazing thing to have an editor who takes risks and pushes you to be the best author you can be. It is an even more amazing thing to have an editor whose brain clicks with yours in such a way that neither of you turns away from the hard stuff. Liesa, thank you for your big ideas and your unflinching willingness to take on this book and the package of me.

To my dear friend and critique partner Lucy, I don't think I could've ever found Brooks inside of me if you hadn't introduced me to your Joseph first. There are no words for your
brilliance. To Jolene and Jay and Carrie, thanks for existing. Thanks for sticking with me in spite of myself. And to Ellen Hopkins, who has fought for my books fiercely and has been a great mentor. You all make it easier for me to breathe in this writing world.

To all the people at Simon Pulse, thank you for making my life manageable. Michael Strother, I cannot tell you how much I rely on your wisdom and your energy. Patrick Price and Bethany Buck, you are absolutely my two favorite “handlers.” I would sit next to you at any party and try desperately not to be awkward. A huge thank-you to the art, publicity, marketing, and education and library teams at Simon & Schuster. You are all incredible.

To Jonathan Lyons at Curtis Brown, Ltd. You are a super-stealthy agent with a heck of a work ethic, and for this I am immensely grateful. You also have a huge brain and amazing legal chops, and you don't seem to mind all my crazy. You and I are funny together and we fit, which I quite like; thanks for being one of my J's.

To all of my dear writer friends and teens who beta read and critiqued this book. It takes a village to make a novel, and all of you brought so much to this party. Katy, Alexis, Kari, Brooke, Jena, Rida, Derek, Amy, Carrie (who has been with me since the very beginning), and all my other bloggy friends, a world of gratitude for all of you. To SCBWI and the incredible writing
community at large, you make this one of the most fun jobs in the world. To the Fourteenery, who have more combined wisdom than any group I have ever met, thanks for
everything
 . . . you are seriously the most spectacular writing collective I know, and I still can't believe you took me on.

To my real-life friends and family, I cannot say enough how much your support and forgiveness have meant to me. Writers sort of suck to be around when they're in the thick of things. We spend too much time in our heads, and our insecurity takes up most of the space in the room. I have no excuses for the times when I am subhuman. And you have forgiven me over and over again. I hope the longer it goes on, I will find better balance. In the meantime, thank you for your patience and grace. I am nothing without you.

And finally, to Julio and my kids. You four are the reason I keep going. You make me the best person I can be. You keep me grounded. You love me unconditionally, and you make waking up every morning awesome. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for traveling with me on this journey. I can't wait for a lifetime of adventures with you. I love you all so much.

I wasn't supposed to be born. My mom's doctors had told her over and over that severe endometrial scarring would make it practically impossible for her to carry a baby. But my infant self didn't care about scarring. Or the partial hysterectomy Mom had to get after my delivery. And for most of my childhood, we were happy in our little pod of three—Mom, Dad, me. Until my parents got a different notion about the magic number three: adopting three boys from Guatemala.

And I learned to disappear.

It was easier for everyone. I became the quiet one. The one who didn't drain my parents of everything they had. Pathetic as it might sound, going to school and working at the Standard Hardware were the good things in my life. When I wasn't there, I was tucked away in my bedroom, coming out only to
referee arguments between Mom and my brothers when one of the neighbors called about the noise. Or to help when Mom gave me the ragged, desperate face she had on now as I stood at the open front door. Her gray roots were an inch thick at the crown of her head, and she was wearing the same outfit she slipped on every day after work: stained, discolored T-shirt, saggy sweatpants with too-loose elastic at the waist.

“Luis has locked himself in the bathroom again and Alex won't eat any of his snack until Luis comes out.” Her exhausted voice passed through me. I'd heard it for almost five years, too long to even remember what the Mom of my childhood sounded like.

I dropped my messenger bag at my feet and opened the drawer of the small side table next to the overloaded coatrack in the hall. I plucked one of the emergency hotel key cards from its box and took the stairs two at a time. My heavy boots squeaked on the scuffed hardwood. The loud explosions from Miguel's Call of Duty game echoed from the living room.

I pounded on the bathroom door at the top of the stairs. “Luis. Get out of there.”

“Fuck off.”

Jesus. What did the other fifth graders think of this kid? He spent more time in the guidance counselor's office than in his own classroom. But no amount of “be respectful and
appropriate” lecturing from my parents or school officials made a dent in his colorful vocabulary.

I shimmied the card along the edge of the doorjamb, wiggling it into just the right spot.
Click.
I swung the door open. The bathroom was trashed. Toilet paper and shaving cream were everywhere. A bottle of cough syrup sat sideways on the sink, its contents spilled all over the toothpaste and toothbrushes. Not quite a childproof cap after all.

Luis stood with his arms crossed. Brown, unapologetic face, black eyes boring into me as if I were personally responsible for the crap state of his life. “That cunt won't let me play video games.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. He'd trashed the bathroom over a video game? I shook my head. Mom didn't deserve this even if she did sign up for it. “Clean it up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Clean it up or I'll hide Alex's blankie.”

His eyes flared in alarm and then burned in hatred. The kid didn't care one bit about himself, but threaten one of his brothers and he came out swinging. He snatched a washcloth from the drawer and dropped it onto the cough syrup mess. “I'm gonna get my brothers out of this shithole. Soon.”

“I'm first,” I mumbled.

“What?” he asked, pausing in his half-assed cleanup job. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

I pointed to the washcloth and he started sopping up the mess again. His thin shoulders shook as he muttered curses. I called down the stairs to Mom, “He's out. Tell Alex he'll be there in five minutes.”

•  •  •

“I need to go to the library to study,” I said at dinner, pushing leftover spaghetti across my plastic plate.

Dinner was the worst time of the day. The “pretend we're a happy family” time where cell phones weren't allowed and we all had to announce two things we'd learned in school. Two. Things. Did my parents ever even go to high school?

Mom had become an expert in making every meal in under eighteen minutes. Eighteen minutes was the maximum allowable time she could leave the boys without chaos erupting. I had no idea how she'd figured this out statistically, but I trusted her on it and got used to dinners that came frozen in bags or popped out of the microwave. Family “together” time was loud boys barking orders at Mom.

My parents had adopted my brothers off the streets of Guatemala City when they were six, four, and three. They were only going to take one of them, but they could tell the brothers were bonded and they wanted to keep them as a unit. We'd had so many family discussions about the benefits of siblings. I was twelve then and just starting to get pissy about being the sole
focus of my parents' relentless hovering. Mom stared at babies everywhere we went, then came home and gushed about how her sister had been her best friend growing up. The sister who'd moved to Germany and rarely called anymore. My dad said he'd always wanted brothers. They both promised it would change all our lives. It did, but not like any of us expected.

“I need to go to the library to study,” I said again, between Luis's demands for more milk and Alex's complaints about how he got too many tomato chunks in his sauce.

“I need to go to the library to study.” Repeating sentences three times gave me the best chance of them actually sinking in.

I hadn't been to the library since seventh grade. But I was testing out the ratio of success in getting away from my brothers. Good lies need to be tucked away for emergency use. Most people don't realize this and use them too frequently, so they're no longer effective. Big mistake.

“You can study here,” Mom answered, the desperate “don't leave me with these monsters” look flashing across her face.

“It's too loud and—” Before I could finish, Luis snatched Miguel's dinner roll from his plate, and then Miguel punched him hard enough to make Luis squeal.

Cue sibling fistfight number three. A new record for family dinner.

I scraped my half-eaten spaghetti into the trash and ran upstairs while Mom pulled the boys apart. I glanced in the
mirror: jeans, black T-shirt, hoodie, boots, stripy hair, chain necklaces, too-pale face, too-thin body. Still the same me. Sometimes I would squint when I looked in the mirror and imagine I was someone else living a different life, but the blur never lasted. The dinginess of my room and the hollowness of my eyes always broke the illusion.

My boots thunked on the stairs as I headed back down, grabbing my bag before returning to the kitchen. When I walked in, Mom was standing at the counter, dropping more dinner rolls onto a baking sheet and lecturing the boys about how they should just ask her to make more if they're still hungry.

“Okay, I'm going.”

“Be back before ten.” Mom waved at me and continued her lecture. Alex flashed his missing-tooth grin and then flipped me off as Mom turned away. Nice. Miguel and Luis were kicking each other under the kitchen table when I walked out. A crash followed by a shriek from Mom punctuated the door click behind me.

•  •  •

The skate park stayed open until eight on weeknights in September, closing for the season on October first. I walked to it on autopilot, having spent so many summer afternoons watching my brothers fly up and down the ramps. They bitched endlessly about the helmet requirement, but after two trips to
the ER for stitches, they'd gotten the point about head injuries.

The night was cool and quiet. I parked myself on top of the high hill I normally sat on to watch the hard-core skaters practice. A chain-link fence surrounded the ramps, and on a clear night I could see the blinking lights of the Chicago skyline in the distance. I lit a menthol cigarette and blew rings of smoke toward the dusky sky. I shut my eyes and listened to the boards zipping down ramps and the low voices trash talking and laughing. Did my parents ever watch me at the skate park when I was younger? Before the boys and all the trouble? I couldn't remember.