On the Edge (2 page)

“LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!”
The second I walked in the door, Iz shoved a lime green margarita into my hand.

Abby and Carmen pushed past her to give me hugs. The music was pumped up. Iz's mom and stepdad manned a food truck in South Beach—Friday and Saturday nights were prime time for them.

And for us.

Iz's house had the same layout as mine, but couldn't be more different. Her personality was splashed all over the walls—bright reds, blues, and yellows, like you'd find in a Mexican restaurant. The living and dining rooms were decorated with flea market finds, including a hurricane lamp, artwork in wicker frames, a driftwood coffee table, and fresh flowers stuffed into mason jars. Iz called it “shabby beach chic.” I had no doubt that with her help, I'd have the coolest dorm room at Florida State.

“Drink up, girl,” Iz said. “We got some guys coming later.”

I sipped the margarita and winced. “Holy, that's strong.”

“It has to be. You're one margarita behind the rest of us.”

We plunked down on the couches and caught up on our week. Iz and I went to a different school from Abby and Carmen. Back in junior high, Iz and I had won spaces, by lottery, to William Morgan Preparatory Academy—a better school in a better neighborhood. A school where the (mostly white) students were actually expected to go to college. A school where I'd gained social acceptance because one of the “in” crowd had said I looked like Demi Lovato.

Luckily, two different schools meant double the drama to rehash every week.

“Which guys are coming tonight?” Carmen asked, stirring the umbrella in her margarita. Short and Kardashian curvy, Carmen could attract a guy's attention, but didn't have the confidence to back it up.

“Not Eric,” Iz said bluntly. “Sorry, hon.”

“You should give up on that one,” Abby said. She was Carmen's physical opposite—tall, thin, and blond. But that was a liability in a neighborhood where boobs and butt reigned supreme.

“I gave up on Eric a long time ago, I swear,” Carmen insisted, but no one believed her. She had been obsessed with Iz's cousin, Eric, since he'd moved here from Brooklyn two years ago. He was undeniably hot, and had landed an impressive position as sous-chef at a fancy French restaurant. “He's a sous-chef I'd love to work under,” Carmen always said, and we knew exactly what she meant.

Problem was, Eric had a serious girlfriend who'd moved all the way from Brooklyn to be with him. From what Iz had told us, they were solid.

“I told you, Carmen,” Iz said, “you've got to do something about your guy karma. You keep obsessing over these really
good
guys. But good guys always have girlfriends, and they never cheat on them or dump them even if they're fifty shades of bitch.”

Abby and I exchanged a knowing smile. Iz was speaking from experience—she was one of those bitches.

“I think you have great taste in guys, Carmen,” I said.

“Yeah,” Abby agreed. “It's a timing thing. You need to snag the guy
before
he gets a girl.”

“Then she'll need to visit a junior high, for God's sake,” Iz said. “The good ones get snatched up early.”

She might be right. I hoped not.

Iz turned to Carmen. “Shake things up, mama! Get yourself a bad boy. He'll be so grateful to be with a girl like you without a dirty past, crying babies, and stretch marks. He'll straighten out his life, laser off his tats, and get himself a decent job. You'll see.”

“I hear ya,” Carmen said glumly, and took a long sip of margarita.

“Good, because all the guys coming tonight will be single except Rob.” Iz looked at me. “I have someone in mind for you. Total hot tamale named Jack. I told Rob that if he's gonna come over, he
has
to bring him. Jack is in college, baby.”

“Sounds promising,” Abby said, gently nudging me. I sometimes envied her—she'd already found her forever guy, a nineteen-year-old marine named Kyle. They'd been together for three years. Five months ago he'd been deployed to Afghanistan, and he wrote to her almost every day.

Around midnight, Rob and four friends showed up, bringing in a gust of night air and cologne. Rob Velez was the star of the track team at Coral Gables High. He and Iz had met last fall when we'd crashed one of their school dances. The second he walked in the door, Rob pulled her close, whispering in her ear. It must have been something romantic, because Iz rolled her eyes and wriggled out of his arms, as if to say, “enough already.” Poor Rob. He should know by now that Iz didn't have a romantic bone in her body.

“Let's introduce Maddie to Jack, okay?” Iz said, then grabbed the arm of a cute blond guy in a Heat jersey and marched him up to me like an early birthday present.

“Maddie, this is Jack. Jack, this is Maddie. Discuss.”

I perked up. “Hey.”

Jack looked me over and grinned. “Niiiice.”

Ugh. In that one word, I knew who I was dealing with: an assclown frat boy. Did Iz actually think I'd go for a guy like him? Sometimes I wondered if she knew me at all.

With no clear escape route, I sat down with Jack and tried to have something resembling a conversation. I asked about college, and he launched into a disgusting story of dorm debauchery, worthy of a
Jackass
reunion movie. I glanced over at Carmen, who seemed to be having better luck. She'd cozied up to Rafael, a guy with a buzz cut and a serious way about him. Soon after, they were making out.

After wasting an hour of my life listening to Jack, I went to the bathroom, and took my time before returning. When I came back into the living room, I avoided his eyes and went over to sit with Abby in front of the TV. It seemed like the most painless way to show I wasn't interested.

By one thirty, Abby and I were dozing on top of each other. Which meant it was time to go.

As we stepped outside, Abby said, “That Jack guy was such a loser. Iz has no idea what type of guy you need. I'll set you up with one of Kyle's military friends when he gets back.”

“Thanks.” I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I couldn't picture myself with a military boyfriend. I could never handle the worry and the loneliness. I'd be less lonely being single than missing a boyfriend overseas.

Abby and I headed off in different directions, and I cut through the park. It was especially quiet—even the late-night basketball players had called it quits. A homeless man sat on a bench muttering to himself. His name was Hector, and he'd been a fixture on these streets for as long as I could remember. He was often drunk, probably schizophrenic, and totally harmless.

I was startled when I spotted two guys on the play structure staring at me. Their gazes raised the little hairs on the back of my neck.

I took stock of them in the space of a second, noting their glazed eyes and tattoos, the beer bottles and crumpled food cartons at their feet. The one in the wifebeater had a cursive
R
on his bicep. It could only mean one thing in this neighborhood: Los Reyes. But from the look of them, I would've known that anyway.

I knew that I had to greet them in the right way—like I was flattered, but didn't want what they offered. If I looked away too quickly, if I showed my disgust, I'd offend them.

And you just didn't do that. Not to Reyes.

Maybe I should've listened to Mom and taken the bus. But I could walk home in the time it took to wait at the bus stop, so I hardly ever waited.

I walked by the play structure, feeling a quiver in my legs, bracing for them to shout something after me.

Seconds passed. I got farther away. Once I cleared the park, I breathed a sigh of relief.

There was far-off laughter, and I risked a glance over my shoulder. They'd turned their attention on Hector.

The Reyes grabbed Hector's bottle, hooting and hollering as they danced around him. He curled up, waving them away.

But they weren't going anywhere.

Without warning, the guy with the shaved head shoved him off the bench. They started kicking him.

Keep walking
, I told myself.
You can't help him
.

My home was two blocks straight and another block right, but I slipped into an alley so I could keep an eye on Hector.

He was huddled in the fetal position. Kicks and punches rocked him side to side. He didn't resist, didn't even try to get away. For some reason, his passiveness only egged them on. It was like they were kicking around a rag doll.

My fingers trembled as I dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1. What's your emergency?”

“A man just got jumped in Emery Park. They've got him on the ground. They're kicking him.”

“We're dispatching a unit right away, ma'am. Stay on the line with me, please.”

“Okay.” I felt so helpless, but I knew that if I got involved, the Reyes would turn on me.

And then they stopped. Hector was crumpled on the ground, not moving. He could be badly hurt. Where were the cops? They practically lived on every corner in this neighborhood. And now? Where were they?

“He's gonna need an ambulance,” I told the dispatcher. “Hurry!”

One of the Reyes was dumping the contents of Hector's bottle all over him. I gritted my teeth. One last insult.

The guy with the shaved head took out a lighter. He stooped down next to Hector.

I froze.
Oh God, please don't. Please don't!

“They're setting him on fire!” I shouted into the phone.

I ran toward Hector, screaming. The Reyes bolted from the scene.

I reached him in seconds. He bucked and twisted on the ground, the flames spreading all over him. I had no coat to smother them. I shouted, “Roll in the sand! The sand!”

He couldn't hear me. He was shrieking, whirling on the concrete. I tried to grab at his shirt so I could drag him to the sand. But wherever I gripped, the flames scalded me, and I kept letting go. I heard sirens, prayed for them to hurry up.

Seconds passed. Too many seconds.

Suddenly an EMT ran up and threw a blanket over him, smothering the flames.

I stood there trembling as the EMTs worked on him.

They must've given him a shot of something, because by the time they'd loaded him up in the ambulance, he was quiet. So quiet.

People had come out of their homes and surrounded the scene. A cop materialized beside me, asking my name. I couldn't think. For several seconds I couldn't even answer him.

“M-Maddie. Diaz.”

“You saw what happened?” the cop asked.

I nodded. “I—I should've stopped them.”

It didn't even occur to me that people could see me talking to the cops.

I WAS IN A DARK ROOM, BREATHING
in the scent of Hugo Boss. My arms were crossed over my chest, as if I could keep myself from falling apart.

“Take a good look at each one before you make your choice,” Detective Gutierrez said. “There's no rush.”

I didn't remember saying I would do this. After I'd talked to two cops at the crime scene, I thought I could go home. But they weren't done with me yet. They brought me in, let me quickly call my mom, and then they made me wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The lights came up behind the glass. Six men were lined up before a height wall. One of them was obviously drunk. A couple looked pissed off. Another one was wild-eyed and high. And two of them, at opposite ends, had no expressions whatsoever. Their faces were stone cold.

One and six, I thought without hesitation. Number one had a shaved head, a soul patch on his chin, and an
R
tattoo on his arm. Number six had darker skin, hair in cornrows, and tattoos all over his arms and neck. But it wasn't only those details that made them easy to identify. It was the vibe they gave off, even now—a vibe that had put me on alert the second I saw them in the park.

“Are the men who set him on fire in this lineup?” Detective Gutierrez asked me.

They can't make you talk
, said a voice in my head.
You don't have to do this
.

The cops had gotten a lot out of me while I was still in shock, before I'd had a chance to think. I'd let them carry me along, too overwhelmed to dig in my heels.

“I need a few minutes,” I said.

“All right. I know you must be exhausted, Maddie. We'll take you right home after you make the IDs. Just tell me yes or no: are the perps here or not?”

And if I said no?

Lying was a mortal sin in my family. Lying is why Mom finally dumped Boyd after a thousand great reasons hadn't been enough. Sure, he drank away her money and put her down; sure, he'd hardly worked a day in his life. But when she caught him lying about going to his mother's place when he was really out gambling, that was it: the proof she needed.

The perp with the
R
tattoo, number one, was looking past the bright lights. For the second time tonight, he was staring right at me. Before, it was degrading and menacing. Now it was pure violence. I felt my hands shaking. Could he see me? I'd assumed it was one-way glass, but I wasn't so sure anymore.

“You're our only witness, as far as we know,” Detective Gutierrez said. “The man who was burned, we know his name. It's Hector Rodriguez. He has family, you know. We've already spoken to his sister.”

“I know who Hector is, okay?”

I couldn't believe I'd snapped at a cop. But I didn't care. I'd told him I needed to think, and he kept putting on the pressure.

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” he finally said.

Then it was me, alone in the darkness, with number one and number six. It felt like they could crash through the glass at any moment and strangle me. Suddenly I wished I hadn't let the detective go.

As if he'd heard my thoughts, Detective Gutierrez returned. “Just got word from the hospital. Hector Rodriguez is dead.”

The floor seemed to wobble beneath me, and I had to steady myself with a chair.
Oh my God. Poor Hector
. Tears came to my eyes. Those psycho motherfuckers.

I took a breath and turned to him. “It's one and six. And yeah, I'm sure.”

Gutierrez nodded grimly. “Thank you.”

Maybe he understood what I'd just done. I wasn't sure if I did.