If You Wrong Us (6 page)

I take a seat next to him and his eyes beg me to keep quiet. This time, I comply. He does deserve it.

“This is my day,” Dad says quietly, more to himself than to me. “This is my day.”

We sit there, like that, not saying a word. Dad’s dirty nails strum on the table, and I’m sure Mom is rolling over in her grave at the sight. “Wash up,” she’d say each night, laughing as Dad would paw at her, his hands grubby from working at the shop all day.

Now there’s nobody to say that to him. And none of that special soap Mom used to buy—the kind that could take off a layer of skin if you rubbed hard enough. So here he sits with dirty hands and a bottle of booze.

“S’okay,” I say, patting his arm. Then I take a swig out of the bottle. “You can have your day.”

As long as I can have one too.

That’s how it is now. Dad has the bottle. Cassie has Ava. And I have Becca.

I leave him there to drown in his booze and memories and go to my room to pack up my things for the night. I’m taking my day to remember Mom in my own way.

The equipment I need for tonight rests on my bed in a neat little row. Becca told me to think of our plan as a game. There are no criminals and victims; no captors or hostages. We are simply opponents; competitors in a contest seeking justice.

Strange—this does make it a little easier. I look over the rope, the Swiss army knife, the blanket, the track suit we bought from the Goodwill, cash, bottled water, first-aid kit, my gloves and disguise—checking each one off my mental list as I shove it into my backpack. The final item is waiting for me at the park, but first I have to stop at Poppy’s.

I jump on my bike and head into the heart of Mexicantown. Poppy owns a little bodega there, and he’s expecting me. He knew my uncle Christopher before he was sent away. Chris used to watch Cass and me on weekends when we were kids. We’d spend long lazy days at the park, hang at the bodega, and run Uncle Chris’s many “errands.” Mom and Dad didn’t know about Chris’s “weekend job” until he got caught.

Poppy has a name in the neighborhood, if you know what I mean. “Influential” is a good word to describe his place on the food chain. He knows all and is known by all.

“Johnny,” Chris said before he left, “you need anything, you call Poppy. He’ll be there for you.”

I weave through the crowd; lively music and the scent of spicy tamales fill the air. It’s the last night of the
Día de los Muertos
festival—Day of the Dead—which runs every year from Halloween until the day after All Saints’. I ride through the crowds of people eating, drinking, and touring the
ofrendas
on display. The
ofrendas
are altars designed to honor the dead. Poppy wanted to put one out for Mom. Dad refused.

But thanks to me, Poppy will instead help avenge her killer—even if he doesn’t know it.

There are tables and chairs in the parking lot in front of Poppy’s store. He has someone working an enormous grill on one side of the lot and a beer tent for the occasion on the other. Poppy is mingling when he spies me. He nods and motions to the building. I lean my bike up against a brick ledge and walk into the bodega.

“
Qué onda, primo
?” Poppy asks me, leading me to the back room.

“I’m okay, Poppy,” I tell him.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been a year.”

“Yeah, it is.”

We walk into Poppy’s office and he immediately shuts the door. The click of the lock follows. He motions for me to take a seat. When I do, he opens his safe and takes out a wooden box.

All business.

“So,” he says, opening the box. “You’re sure this will take care of it?” He hands me the pile of twenties. Twenty-five of them.

“More than enough,” I say, feeling the like world’s biggest asshole. I told him Dad was hitting the bottle hard and missing work, and that we needed money. Though this may be true, I’m not going to use the money for a noble cause. I’m using it to buy a gun.

A few months ago, I asked Poppy outright if I could use one of his. I told him it was for protection. His answer was an angry
No hay manera en el infierno!
No way in hell!

Poppy has taken care of plenty for my family in the past. When one of the gangs was trying to recruit me, or when some thugs were giving Dad a hard time at the shop, Poppy was there. He takes care of his own, and we’ve become family to him.

This time, he’s really left me no choice. I had to find a supplier on my own. Last week, everything came together and we set up the handoff. That’s my next stop.

“Thank you so much. I’ll pay you back.”

“No need,” Poppy says. “You know I’m loyal to Chris, and he told me to watch over you.” He runs a hand through his short, thick cap of hair. “You’re a good kid. You let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

I nod, roll up the cash, and put it in my front pocket.

Once we’re outside, Poppy hugs me. Then I jump on my bike and head to the park.

I meet a guy with my name and make the exchange behind the swings near the trees. The other Johnny hands me a bag. I slip my hand inside and run my fingers along the Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. It’s one of the most common guns out on the streets. Easy to use and, most importantly, hard to determine where it came from.

The other Johnny eyes me up and grins. “You sure you know how to use this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Uncle Chris made sure I knew how to shoot.

I just hope I don’t have to. Becca and I agreed that it’s just for looks. An incentive, if you will, to get Travis to do the right thing.
A damn good incentive.

I hand Johnny the money and he gives me a handshake. It’s that easy.

“Oh,” I say, checking out the gun. I almost forgot the most important part. “Ammo?”

“That’s extra, dude,” he says.

“What do you mean, extra? You said you’d hook me up.”

“With a piece, yeah,” he agrees. “But ammo is extra. That shit is at a premium these days. How much do you want? I could get it to you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Hopefully this will all be behind me tomorrow. This is so bad. Becca is going to lose it.

“Tomorrow is too late,” I say. I want to say more, but I know better. Around here, survival is all about who you know and how to avoid pissing off the wrong people.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

I nod and we part ways.

The gun was only supposed to be for show anyway. Now we have no choice—but I’ll keep that from Bec. No reason to get her all worked up.

Once I get home, I add the gun to the rest of the gear. The other items we’ll use are already on site, so we’re good to go. I text Becca and give her the thumbs-up.

Game on.

8

B
ECCA

W
hen we arrived at the hospital, we were forced to play a ridiculous game of
Find the Missing Redhead.
We went to the ER first, which, in retrospect, didn’t make the most sense. It had been a few hours since the crash. But after our police visit, nobody was thinking all that clearly.

To my parents, it was completely logical:
My daughter’s been hurt. We need to get to her. Emergency. Emergency!

My mother ran up to the desk centered in the middle of the waiting room. The front of it was still decorated in skeletons and ghosts from Halloween, something I found wildly inappropriate. Mom checked in with an overweight blonde woman who smelled like perspiration and rubbing alcohol. I held my breath during the entire exchange.

The place was chaotic. There’d been a massive pile-up on the interstate and the ER was full of bloody bodies, blue scrubs, and white coats flailing about. The woman at the desk was no help. She shuffled us along, past the fake skeletons and very real bloody limbs, suggesting we try the ICU.

In the ICU it was the same story. Nobody could locate Brit. And throughout the search for her, I simply became a prop.

“She looks like this,” Mom said, pushing me toward anyone who would listen. Dad said nothing, just nodded his head vehemently at Mom’s words. We listened, followed directions, and moved from place to place, losing hope with each step farther into the bowels of the hospital. I maintained a two-stride distance from my parents, secretly wondering if they’d look this grim if they were here to see me.

I came to the conclusion it was doubtful.

Twenty-two minutes passed before we arrived on the surgical floor and learned that Brit was, in fact, in the operating room. A nurse named Julie greeted us and got us situated in a special family lounge before she explained what was happening. Again the words came out hurried. It didn’t sound promising.

Massive head trauma.

Internal injuries.

Swelling.

Critical condition.

Doing everything we can.

From what we pieced together after discussions with the police and the nurse, Brit had been heading west on Old Hwy 5 when she hit another car in a head-on collision. It was a high-speed, high-impact crash, and they’d had to use the Jaws of Life to get Brit out. The person Brit collided with was pronounced dead at the scene. A woman in her late thirties.

“I don’t understand,” Mom said, her mouth so full of pain and grief it made her sound drunk. “Do you have any idea what she was doing there, Becca? I thought she went to Janie’s house after school.”

Yes, because that’s what I told you.

“That’s what she said,” I confirmed.

Of course, she never went to Janie’s. But I couldn’t tell Mom about the old switcheroo.

We’d once tried switching places at home, a birthright all twins try at least once, but Mom was onto us immediately. It was because of the Brit/Mom connection. Even if I dressed and acted the part, there was something missing. Mom and I both knew that. With everyone else, however, it worked flawlessly.

Brit had me take tests for her when she needed to get her grades up, and sit in for her social engagements when she was double-booked. These moves were usually for her benefit … though there was the one time it was for me.

The kiss.

In sixth grade, Brit declared Josh Duvall her boyfriend. He was the most popular kid in school and Brit conquered him like a foreign land, sticking her flag in his chest and claiming him as her own. All the girls were crazy for this boy. He was
the
topic of conversation at the bus stop, lunchroom, and playground.

Josh was Brit’s third boyfriend and I hadn’t even had one yet. I also had no interest. I liked schoolwork and reading and spending time with my dad putting puzzles together. But by the end of the school year, Brit was tired of my childlike ways.

“It’s time, Bee,” she said one afternoon.

“Time for what?” I asked, scared of her glossy-eyed expression.

“Your first kiss.”

“No, it’s not,” I said, wanting to run and hide. “I don’t even have a boyfriend yet.”

“But I do,” she added, her plan already in motion.

Brit said she was doing this as a favor. Giving me the best possible first kiss with a guy I could never get on my own. I had to admit that her assessment of the situation was completely accurate and she made a very good argument. So, after getting over the initial embarrassment and anxiety about kissing my sister’s boyfriend, I made an erratic decision to seize the day and agreed to her little ruse.

Carpe diem!

The next day after school, I met Josh at the park. I wore Brit’s powder-blue hoodie instead of my usual brown cardigan. Even back then we dressed differently.

Josh took my hand. It was warm and a little sticky, but also nice. He talked about his big win in kickball during gym class and the gross fish sandwich they’d served for lunch. He made me laugh.

I didn’t say much because I didn’t want to give it away. I let him do most of the talking and he seemed to enjoy that, which I later realized was probably not how things usually went down when he was with Brit.

But I had to hand it to her; she knew how to pick ’em. I liked being there with Josh. I liked it quite a lot.

We sat on the swings for a while and had a contest to see who could get the highest. He won. Then, once we slowed down, he jumped off and came over to my swing. I could remember the butterflies in my stomach when he closed in on me like it was yesterday. That homey smell of fabric softener on his clothes. The warmth of his touch, which didn’t make me shut down like it did with other people. This touch made my body buzz.

He slowed my swing to a stop and leaned in. His eyes slowly closed, but mine stayed open. I didn’t want to miss a second of it. I was inexperienced, but I knew what was coming. He inched closer until his lips were on mine. They were a little chapped and dry. Still, I liked that roughness on my own mouth. Then, as easy as that, we were kissing.

It was sublime.