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Authors: Patrick Flores-Scott

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BOOK: Jumped In
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Figure I might just give McClean a heart attack.

 

THE TWINGE OF WANTING

H
ERE'S THE PROBLEM WITH GOOD THINGS
:

When they happen to me, I think about my mom.

I wonder where she is—okay, I know she's in godforsaken Phoenix, soaking up all the sun she ever needed.

But when a good thing happens, I wonder where she is
right now
.

This second.

I wonder what she's doing. I wonder what she's thinking.

Is she thinking about me?

It sounds stupid.

But it's true. I wonder if she'd even recognize me if she saw me. I wonder if she cares one way or the other. So when good things happen, without her, somehow I can't feel proud. I can't feel all the way happy.

And when I can't feel proud and I can't feel happy, I feel guilty as hell. Because my being down in the dumps all the time—being depressed and dissatisfied with everything—it's like shoving it in Ginny's and Bill's faces. Like telling them,
You're not enough for me. You're not good enough. You're doing a crappy job. And no matter how much you do for me, I'll never be happy as long as you're all I've got.

It makes me feel horrible.

Because those two geezers are here for me.

Every day.

Feeding me. Worrying about me. Trying. Ginny and Bill deserve to see the good stuff I can do. And to see that I can be happy. So they can know they're doing good.

They deserve all that.

Instead, when good things happen, it's just pain followed by guilt. Followed by more pain. Followed by more guilt. It's a downward-swirling cycle of shit.

I'm sick of it!

So I'm vowing to change this thing. I'm gonna break the shit cycle right here and now.

And I'm gonna start by writing my mom a letter. I'm gonna tell her what Luis and I did so I don't have to wonder what she's thinking or if she's caring. I'm gonna tell her exactly what's going on.

Dear Mom,

How's Phoenix? I hope it's treating you well and that you're enjoying the sun.

I did something good at school today. I think you would have liked it.…

 

WHAT IS IT?

I
CALL LUIS'S PLACE
S
ATURDAY
. Sunday morning. No answer. It's like he fell off the face of the earth. I think of the note he left me. It's on top of my dresser next to the CD from the slam. I unfold it and read it again.

I hope you can forgive me. I can't really explain what's going on, but I'll tell you all about it soon.

What is there to tell me about? That he's gone off and joined his brother and Frankie and Carlos's uncle and got himself jumped in and he's a real licensed, card-carrying badass gangster now?

If that's the case, I don't wanna hear about it.

Maybe that's not it.

Maybe he's got the flu and their phone isn't working. Maybe the phone's been disconnected.

It could be anything.

I need to calm my nerves.

I need to get to the bottom of this.

I need to do something.

So I grab my jacket and head up the hill.

Down Pac Highway.

Through the gates of the Viking Glen.

The place looks deserted.

I head toward Luis's apartment. I turn back a second and see these rough-looking black guys hanging out by a side gate, smoking. The way they're checking me out, it's clear they know I'm not from here.

I bounce up to Luis's door and knock. No one answers …
Luis, where are you?
I sneak a peek in their direction. Those guys are still following my every move.

So I book it outta there fast.

As I scramble my ass back down the hill, I wonder if they have anything to do with this situation with Luis. I wonder if they're from a rival gang. I wonder if they wanted Luis to be in their gang, but then Frankie got to him first. I wonder who they think
I
am.

And I worry about Luis even more.

 

HOW LONG?

I
DON'T SEE
L
UIS ANYWHERE
M
ONDAY MORNING
. So I go to Carter's office and ask him how long Luis is suspended for. He tells me Luis isn't suspended. He tells me, “Luis wasn't involved in the incident. As far as I know, he wasn't even there.”

Are you kidding me?

Where the hell is he?

 

BITTERSWEET DOUGHNUT

I
N
C
ASSIDY'S CLASS
I
TURN IN A ROUGH DRAFT OF A PERSUASIVE
essay on voting. I worked on it over the weekend. She says she's looking forward to reading it.

I know it's not as good as it could be. And I want to make it better. So, for the first time ever, I ask for help.

“You got plans after school?” Cassidy asks.

“I do now,” I say.

“Three o'clock. Do not stand me up.”

I don't.

Cassidy is all business. Right off the bat, she reads a section and asks, “What are you thinking here?” I tell her what I'm thinking and she says, “That's good. Cross out the mumbo-jumbo and write
that
. Exactly like you said it.”

I try it. She's right. It's better.

We go on like that for a while and about the time I think my hand is going to fall off my arm, she says, “It's getting much clearer. You have some solid ideas, Sam I Am. Now go ahead and recopy your fixes onto a clean paper so you can actually see what you've got.”

Recopying is the last thing I wanna do, but I don't fight her on it. I shake my hand in the air like helicopter blades to get the blood rushing again.

I'm barely getting started when Cassidy digs into her bag. “Doughnut? It's part of my see-food diet.” She pulls out a Krispy Kreme sack. She hands me a big old O. I chomp it down. My hand feels much better.

“Sam, have you heard anything from Luis?”

“No.”

“I called after the slam. I called Saturday, Sunday,” she says. “I told Carter. I told the counselors…”

“I've called every day, too. Ms. Cassidy?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm freaking out about it.”

“Me too,” she says.

That's about all we can say. She gets to work on her teacher stuff. I work on my essay. We both eat.

And we worry.

 

LEARNING WHAT IT TAKES TO MAKE ME GO BALLISTIC

I
T'S WEDNESDAY
. Five days since the slam.

I'm working in school.

I'm trying.

The last two days, I've turned in my math homework. I've taken notes in science, been a responsible lab partner.

But the worrying does not stop.

I think about what it would be like if Luis were here. Would we be talking to each other? Would we hang out?

In McClean's class, I stare at his seat and lose myself in a daydream. I imagine the two of us taking off after school, talking about stuff as we head over to Bob's 99 Cent Burgers on Pac Highway. We order about three Bobs each and go on and on about how unbelievable it is that you can get a burger this juicy and great for only ninety-nine little Lincolns, plus tax. I picture us sitting there, dipping our fries in tartar and shooting the shit for hours.

Mr. McClean interrupts the dream and hands me back some corrected papers. He's smiling and extends a hand for me to shake. It creeps me out, but I shake the hand. He slaps me on the back and says, “Congratulations!” and tells me how great it is that I'm doing my homework.

Which is nice.

I'm happy for about half a second. Then something tells me he's not done talking and I'm not gonna like what he's gonna say.
Please, McClean, please stop right there
.

He can't.

“Sam,” he says, “I know you like Luis. I do too. But you have to admit you're doing a much better job since he's been gone—without his influence. I don't think there's any coincidence there.”

I boil over and explode on him: “You don't know one thing about Luis!”

I pause for a second and tell myself to stop.

But I can't.

“You have no idea what kind of an influence he is on me! You don't know him enough to like him or dislike him! So the next time you wanna talk to me about Luis, save your breath and shove a couple jelly doughnuts in your piehole and think about who influenced YOU and made you—”

Don't say it, Sam!

“Such a shitty teacher!”

We stand in dead silence for a second.

“I think you need to go to the office,” he says.

“Yes I do,” I say.

 

JELLY DOUGHNUTS

C
ARTER YELLS AT ME
. But it's like
nice
yelling. Like supportive, yet disappointed and extremely frustrated yelling. He makes me wish I hadn't done it. But he doesn't make me feel horrible.

He does have to suspend me. For the rest of the day. And two days after that.

I ask him if I can go back and get my new assignment—another essay from Cassidy—before I take off. He's fine with it. Says he likes my initiative. As I'm walking out of his office, I ask if he's heard anything about where Luis is. He's serious when he says, “Nothing yet, Sam.”

It's lunch. Cassidy's in her room alone. Munching on a salad.

“Headed home?” she asks.

“Yeah. I'm—”

“Suspended. I heard. McClean.”

“He was talking crap about—”

“Luis. I heard.”

“Who told?”

“Everyone, Sam. It's all over school.”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Cassidy.”

“Don't apologize to
me
,” she says.

I collapse into a seat, pissed off at myself for losing it. For wasting my energy on
him.

Cassidy rolls my way in her chair and slugs me in the arm. “Buck up, cowboy! Something had to be done, so you did it. It's over. Now, go home, get some rest, work your tail off on this assignment”—she hands me a paper—“and don't make any plans to run for office until you clean up that gutter mouth of yours. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I start walking out, but there's something I have to say.

“Ms. Cassidy?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For calling you a
B
.”

She snorts a laugh and says, “Well, then, Sam, I'm sorry too.”

“For what?”

“For calling you and Luis a couple of
F
-in' little
S-
heads on several occasions. So we're even.”

I'm laughing now too. I hold my hand out for her to shake. “Yeah, we're even, Ms. Cassidy. As long as you promise to clean up that mouth of yours.”

We shake. She reaches for her bag. “Krispy Kreme? I happen to have a
jelly
doughnut. Perfect for today. You think McClean might want one? For his
piehole
?”

“Nah. I think he might pass.” I bite into the doughnut.

“Sam?” Cassidy says, sounding serious now. “I'm sorry Mr. McClean said that about Luis.”

“It's okay, Ms. Cassidy.”

“No, Sam, it's not.”

“I know.”

 

AIMLESS

I
SPEND THE AFTERNOON WANDERING UP AND DOWN
P
AC
H
IGHWAY
, looking for
L
uis.

A couple kids from school—part-timers—are hanging outside the 7-Eleven. I ask them if they've seen him.

Nope.

I walk all the way down to the airport and all the way back.

I check out Bob's 99 Cent Burgers and talk to the Korean lady who owns the place and works the counter. She asks me what Luis looks like. I try to describe him. She points to one of her two Mexican cooks and says, “That him?”

I get home feeling like the day was a big, fucking waste of time.

But I tell myself I'm not gonna give up.

Maybe Luis is off being a gangster. If he is, that's on him and I can't do crap about it.

But if there's some other reason he's gone—like he's hurt or in trouble—I'm gonna find out what it is. Tomorrow I'm going back at it, back to looking for Luis. I just need a plan. I need a strategy.

I need help.

 

SNEAKING INTO SCHOOL

C
ARTER HAD ONE RULE WHEN
I
GOT SUSPENDED
:

Don
'
t come back until your suspension is over.

What's up with that?
Like the kind of people who get suspended for fights and truancy and booze are clawing and scraping to get back into Puget High School?

I guess it's not as ridiculous as it seems. Because Puget High School is where I am this very second. It's before the first bell. I'm standing just outside the front gate.

Why am I here? When I don't have to be? When I shouldn't be?

Two reasons.

The first: I need a photo of Luis.

The second: I need an ally.

Yesterday, when he escorted me off campus, Mel the security guard said, “Kid, I don't want to see you around here till your suspension is over.”

I peek inside the front door. Of course Mel is right there monitoring the texting cheerleaders from hell. He's wearing his drop-dead serious,
Don't fuck with me or you're headed to Gitmo
—which is what he calls his office
—
face.

So I decide to wait him out. Just then, my first-choice ally walks by.

“Julisa?”

“Hey, Sam.”

It's obvious she cares about Luis. And we talked that one time after the poem, so there's a connection. Plus she's the smartest person I know.

BOOK: Jumped In
2.43Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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