Dream Things True (38 page)

Peavey leapt into the air and gave Miguel and Santiago high-fives, while the junior girls mobbed Jonathan with a group hug. Evan hung back, but Conway was headed straight for him.

“Great game, man.” Conway punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Y'all kicked some serious city-boy ass out there.”

Evan didn't respond.

“And that defender—what was he, like, Indian or something? He couldn't touch you, man.”

Seeing Conway in front of him, Evan felt a spark of the hatred that had engulfed him for so many weeks, but the spark wasn't enough to bring back his fire. It was too late. Evan had worked so hard to forget, to pretend that none of it had happened, or at least that none of it mattered. Maybe all of that work was paying off because now he didn't want to fight Conway. He didn't really want to do anything except go home and stare at the walls, but his team had just won a championship, and he was going to celebrate whether he wanted to or not.

 

 

The door flew open, and Flor rushed out, her curly hair wild and her eyes swollen and red. She bounced a screaming infant in the crook of her arm. The baby's face was nestled into her mother's chest. Alma saw a shock of dark-brown hair, interspersed with a few pink barrettes.

Magda stepped forward first, reaching her arms toward the baby.

“Calm down, Flor. We're here. And give me that poor child.”

Magda took the screaming baby, who immediately fell silent.

“Football hold,” Magda announced as she entered the house. “Works every time.”

Alma, Maritza, and Monica followed, but Whit held back, standing frozen by the car. Alma was too concerned about Flor to worry about Whit. She watched Flor stumble into the house and fall onto a red brocade couch. She slouched forward and buried her head in her hands.

“Oh, God. What have I done?” she asked. She seemed to be speaking to herself, so no one answered.

“We don't have much time,” Flor said, looking up. “We need to find him before he does something stupid. We're getting married! He's taking the citizenship test! What if he screws up and gets deported?”

Alma knew it was possible. Manny had his green card, but he could be sent back to Mexico if he committed a felony before becoming a citizen. Manny was definitely capable of committing a felony.

“Just calm down and tell us what happened, Flor. He won't get deported,” Magda said gently.

“I messed up. Again,” Flor said. “I mean, Manny, he's been so great about it all. In the very beginning he wanted to know, and I just said it was one of the country-club kids, and it didn't matter because I loved Manny and it was a mistake. A big one. But now we have Jasmine and she's so beautiful, and it doesn't even feel like a mistake, and she's his—even though she's not.”

“You're not making sense,” Magda said. “Slow down.”

Flor looked at Magda and said, “Manny and I, we have been together since I was fourteen, but since he was so much older we never told anyone. But we weren't like, uh,
together
together. And then last summer—please, you have to promise not to tell anyone this.” They nodded vigorously. “Last summer, I got wasted at a party. I woke up the next morning alone in a fancy house by the golf course. I didn't remember anything, but I was pretty sure—you know. A month later, I was peeing on a stick.”

“Oh, God,” Monica said. “That's horrible.”

“Manny was so mad at first. I was supposed to be saving myself for him, you know? He demanded to know who it was, but I wouldn't tell him. He started to harass all of my friends about it. Yazm
í
n told him that I left the party in a black Hummer, but that was all he knew until now.”

Alma felt light-headed. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and blood rushed to her ears. A series of snapshots ran through her head: Manny confronting Evan at the
quincea
ñ
era
, the strange things he said about a Hummer, Whit standing at the edge of Terrora Dam. It was all beginning to make sense.

“In South Carolina, he almost forgot about it all,” Flor said. “He promised me that it didn't matter, that the baby would be his.”

“So, what happened?” Magda asked.

Alma had to stand up. She walked toward the door and inhaled the warm night air.

“Something about coming back to Gilberton set him off. He said that before we get married, he has to know who it was. I told him I don't know.” She began to cry.

“But he wouldn't let it go,” Magda surmised. She stood with Jasmine peacefully sleeping in her arms.

“No,” Flor replied. “So I just took him by the house. The Hummer was parked in front. As soon as he saw it, he sped home, practically threw me and Jasmine out of the car, and left. He didn't say a word. I think he knows who lives there. He's going after whoever it is.”

Alma leaned against the door frame to balance herself. She wasn't sure that she would be able to produce sound, but she tried.

“Where was the house?” she asked.

“In Lakeshore Heights, on a dead-end street near the country club.”

“A big brick house on the lake? With white columns?” Alma asked quietly. “And white rockers on the front porch?”

“Yeah,” Flor said. “Do you know who lives there?”

“Yeah,” she said. Alma felt herself sinking to the ground.

At the moment her body touched the ground she realized two things: Evan was in real danger, and Whit was still outside. She turned to look out the window. It was dark, but she saw Whit in the glow of the street lamp, slowly pacing in front of the car. He held something in his hand, and his thumb rhythmically rubbed across its surface.

Seeing him, she knew. Alma and Whit were the only two people with the information to piece together this puzzle—unless she counted Conway, and she refused to think of him in the presence of that precious sleeping baby.

She forced herself to stand up.

“Just stay here,” she said. “Don't follow me.”

Alma ran outside and Whit looked up.

“Is it his?” Whit asked. Alma knew that he meant the baby.

“No. But we can't think about that now. Evan's in trouble.”

“What? Evan? Why?”

“Manny made her tell him who the dad is. She couldn't remember, but she showed him the house.”

“Evan's house? Oh, Jesus.”

His hands fell to his side, and a gold chip landed on the asphalt. He breathed too quickly, his chest heaving.

“Give me your phone,” Alma said.

“That's the girl, Alma,” he said, handing over his phone. “It's her. I knew it as soon as she opened the door.”

Alma dialed Evan's number and put the phone to her ear.

“I know, Whit,” she said. “But you have to hold it together.” Evan wasn't picking up. She dialed again.

“I think I'm going to faint,” Whit said.

Still no answer. Alma hung up and handed Whit the phone.

“You are
not
going to faint,” Alma replied sternly. “You are going to get in that car, and you are going to drive like a bat out of hell to the team party. We need to find Evan.” She took his chin in her hand and lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

Whit nodded, crouched down to scoop up the chip, and then jogged toward his car.

 

 

The party was in full swing. Peavey was trying to do a keg stand, but he was too drunk to get up on his hands. Evan watched, mildly amused, as Peavey gave up and sucked the beer directly from the tap. Behind him, Logan and Caroline stood pressed against a wall, making out.

So much for the summer of no strings attached.

Evan sat on a chair in the kitchen, nursing a warm beer. He was bored. He had no interest in being here, but he also didn't have the energy to come up with an alternative. So he sat and watched from a distance as everyone else celebrated.

His phone rang. Whit. Evan ignored it and shoved the phone back in his pocket. It rang again, but he didn't even look. Whit was the kind of guy who called a million times before giving up. Just another way that he annoyed the hell out of Evan.

Mary Catherine tumbled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was wasted. Her already short skirt rode up practically around her waist. He tugged the skirt down far enough to cover her powder-pink undies.

“You take such good care of me,” she crooned in his ear.

“You should stop drinking,” he replied.

“Or maybe you should
start
,” M.C. said. “We're all celebrating
you
, and you won't even celebrate.”

“I'm here, aren't I?” Evan asked.

“Barely,” she replied. She ran her fingers along the back of his neck. Evan closed his eyes and tried to focus on the feel of her touch. He didn't feel a thing.

Mary Catherine rested her forehead on his shoulder.

“I need some air.”

She stood up unsteadily and tugged at his hand, and he followed dutifully out the front door. Evan wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and guided her down the porch stairs. She leaned into him, barely able to stand.

At the bottom stair Evan looked up.

There was a sort of charge in the air. Something felt very wrong.

“Evan Roland.”

Evan heard the voice first, and then he saw its source. Alma's cousin Manny was standing a foot away, leaning against the railing.

“So there you go again,” Manny growled, gesturing toward Mary Catherine, “taking advantage of any drunk girl that falls into your arms.”

Evan had no idea what Manny was talking about.

“Does that make you feel like a man?” Manny asked.

Seeing Manny standing so close, with his wifebeater and ugly tattoos, Evan felt an overwhelming rage.

“Because you're not a man,” Manny said roughly. “You're a scared little boy.”

Manny stepped forward, and Evan released Mary Catherine, who sank to the ground. Evan lunged toward Manny, and then he felt it. An intense searing pain radiated through his right hand and then hurtled into his gut. He stumbled backward.

Just to
feel
was so good.

He lurched forward again, his shoulder and face slamming into Manny's chest. In the space where his teeth met his gums, he felt a tingling sensation. Warm blood coursed from his nose, and he tasted its saltiness on his lips. The blood was thin and watery, but it tasted intense and real. It tasted like the truth.

Manny took a step back. “You're scared,” he said. “And you should be.”

And then Manny's body pounded into his, again and again. The blunt sensation shot through his nerves as he hurled fists, elbows, shoulders into Manny's soft flesh and angular bones. It didn't matter that he had no idea why they were inflicting such awful pain on each other. He knew, somehow, that both were diluting the acid bile of anger and frustration, helplessness and paralysis, with the blood and spit and hate of the other.

Another hit to his gut, and Evan was airborne. His shoulder crashed into the stairs, but before he could register the pain, he was floating free again, legs dangling. Someone was pulling him backward, away from Manny. He twisted his torso enough to see that it was Conway, tightly pinning Evan's elbows back, dragging him to the grass. Evan saw that Manny was being pulled away, too, in a chaotic tumble of red and blue flashing lights.

Two sheriff's deputies dragged him away from Evan. One was Troy.

Evan heard himself call out, “It was me. I started it.” He tried to wriggle away from Conway, his heart pounding in his chest. “Listen to me, damn it. I started it,” he yelled, louder this time, twisting away from Conway's grip.

Peavey stood over him. “Shut up, Evan,” he commanded. “Shut the hell up.”

Suddenly Evan saw it—what Alma always insisted was there but he had refused to see. They wouldn't arrest him. They would only arrest Manny.

Evan watched as Troy's partner pulled handcuffs from his belt and drew them open.

Still struggling to break free, he called out again, “Troy! Why are you leaving me here?”

“Evan, shut up!” Peavey demanded. Logan was standing next to him now, and all three hovered in his face.

“Do you want to go to jail?” Conway asked, struggling to hold him back.

Evan fought to pull away from them. “Goddamn it, Troy,” he yelled across the lawn. “Listen to me! It was me!”

No one listened.

They shoved Manny into the backseat of the cruiser, and then Troy walked slowly over to Manny's red Corvette. By now, the entire party had spilled out onto the lawn, so everyone saw when Troy pulled a small black revolver from Manny's glove compartment.

“Busted,” Peavey said.

“Adios, amigo!” Conway called out, releasing Evan's arms to cup his hands around his mouth for more volume.

Evan ran toward the cruiser. He slammed into Troy, thrusting his bare wrists at Troy's face.

“Cuff me, for chrissake!” he demanded. “I started it.”

Troy turned away from him and stepped into the cruiser. “Go home, Evan,” he said. “Sleep it off. You did not start this, and you'll never find a single person to say that you did.”

Evan turned toward the house. Dozens of people stood watching from the lawn.

“I started it,” he growled at Troy.

Troy pulled out his loudspeaker. He barked at the crowd, “Step forward if you witnessed the beginning of this fight.”

Everyone stood perfectly still.

“If you have any information,” he said, “please step forward.”

No one moved except for Evan. He stumbled backward and collapsed to the ground.

And then, through the sweat and blood and tears, he smelled the sun. The buttery warm scent filled his nostrils, overpowering the metallic odor of his blood. By some miracle, Alma was falling with him.

TWENTY-SIX