Rules Of Attraction (10 page)

at us like we were a bunch of aliens sent down to earth to destroy him.

He definitely isn’t happy about having to live with us.

I wonder what he’s going to say when they tell him he’ll either be

expelled or have to go to the REACH program after school. REACH is

for at-risk teens who get in trouble. They can attend school on a

probationary basis. My dad told me Carlos doesn’t know that REACH is

his only choice. I do not want to be in the house when Alex and my dad

give him the news. Alex is checking out the new rearview mirror I just

installed. Not being able to resist, Alex lifts up the hood and inspects

the engine.

“It’s a standard V8,” I tell Brittany, who’s standing beside him.

Alex laughs. “That won’t mean anythin’ to my girlfriend. Brittany

doesn’t even like to pump gas.”

Brittany punches him lightly on the arm. “Are you kidding me?

Every time I even try to fix something with my car, Alex totally takes

over. Admit it, Alex.”

“Mamacita, no offense, but you wouldn’t know a gasket from an

alternator.”

“And you wouldn’t know acrylic from gel,” Brittany says smugly, her

hands on her hips.

“Are we still talkin’ cars?” he asks.

Brittany shakes her head. “I was talking fingernails.”

“I thought so. You stick to nails, I’ll stick to cars.”

The corner of Alex’s mouth quirks up as he pulls his girlfriend

close.

“I think we’re ready for lunch,” my dad yells from the front door.

My mom waves to my brother. “Brandon, sweetie, show Brittany and

Alex where the patio is.”

While Brandon races to the backyard, I help my mom in the

kitchen.

“You’ve got grease on your chin,” my mom tells me. I rub my chin,

then realize it’s not grease. It’s black epoxy.

“Now you’re smearing it. Here—” She tosses me a kitchen towel.

“Thanks.” After I wipe my chin clean, I wash my hands and then

toss my special walnut salad.

On the patio, my mom has set up pink flowery place mats and her

favorite ceramic dishes painted with images of colorful butterflies

that match the teacups. She opened up an organic tea store called

Hospitali-Tea a few years ago. If you live in Boulder, bets are you like

the outdoors and live an active lifestyle. And bets are you drink tea

instead of coffee. Mom’s store is very popular with the locals. I work

there on weekends bagging loose teas, logging in new teas, and pricing

ceramic teapots. I even help with her accounting, especially when her

calculations are off and she needs someone to find where she made a

mistake. I’m the mistake-finder in the family, at least when it comes to

doing the books. I help bring out the salad. I actually made up the

recipe and have kept the dressing a secret so even my parents don’t

know how to replicate it. It’s made with spinach leaves, walnuts, blue

cheese, and dried cranberries . . . and ‘Kiara’s special, secret sauce,’ as

my mom likes to call it. When I get outside, I hold out the bowl to

Carlos.

He peers inside the bowl. “What is it?”

“Salad.”

He peers inside again. “That’s not lettuce.”

“It’s s-spinach.” I stop talking as I feel my tongue getting thicker.

“Just try it,” Alex tells him.

“I don’t need to be told what to do,” Carlos fires back.

“Carlos, I have some lettuce in the fridge,” my mom chimes in. “I

can throw a lettuce salad together quickly if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Carlos mutters.

“I’d like some salad,” Brittany says, motioning for me to hand her

the bowl. I don’t know if she really wants the spinach salad or not, but

she’s trying hard to divert attention away from Alex and Carlos.

I look over at my dad. He’s got his eyes on Carlos. He’s probably

wondering how long it’ll take before he can get Carlos to loosen up and

trust us. Problem is, I don’t know if Carlos will ever let his guard down

now that he got arrested.

“I know you’re here due to extenuating circumstances,” my mom

says to Carlos as she passes around the plate of salmon burgers. “But

we’re happy to offer our home and friendship.”

My dad stabs a burger with his fork. “Kiara can show you around

Boulder this weekend. And introduce you to her friends. Right,

sweetheart?”

“Sure,” I say, although ‘my friends’ consist of Tuck. I’m not one to

hang out with a crowd. Tuck is a guy, but he’s my best friend and has

been since freshman year when Heather Harte and Madison Stone

laughed at me during English class when I was called on to read A Tale

of Two Cities in front of the entire class. Not only did I embarrass

myself with my stuttering, I think Dickens must have rolled over in his

grave when I horrifically butchered his words. I stopped immediately

after hearing them laugh, ran home, and didn’t come out of my room

until Tuck came over and convinced me to face the world. Friday in Mr.

Furie’s class brought me back to that day.

“I think I got an undercooked burger. It’s really pink,” Carlos says

as he stares at the inside of one of my mother’s salmon patties.

“It’s fish,” I tell him. “Salmon.”

“There bones in it?”

I shake my head.

He picks out a bun from the breadbasket, examines it, then shrugs.

I guess he’s not used to whole grains sticking out of his burger buns.

“I have to go to work, but Kiara can take you grocery shopping

tomorrow if you want,” my mom volunteers. “That way you can pick

whatever you like.”

“Do you like sports, Carlos?” Brandon asks him.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who’s playin’. I don’t watch tennis or golf, if that’s what you

mean.”

“I’m not talking about watching sports, silly,” Brandon says, laughing

at him. “I’m talking about playing them. My best friend, Max, plays

tackle football, and he’s my age.”

“Good for him,” Carlos says as he takes a bite of the salmon burger.

“Do you play football?” Brandon asks.

“No.”

“Baseball?”

“Nope.”

Brandon is on a roll and won’t stop until he’s found the answer he’s

looking for. “Tennis?”

“That would be a nada.”

“Then what sport do you play?”

Carlos puts down his food. Oh, no. He’s got a rebellious gleam in his

eye as he says, “The horizontal tango.”

My mom and Brittany start choking on their food. My dad says,

“Carlos . . .” in a warning tone he reserves for extreme instances.

“Dancing really isn’t a sport,” Brandon tells Carlos, oblivious to the

shock at the rest of the table.

“It is when I do it,” Carlos says.

Alex stands and says through clenched teeth, “Carlos, let’s talk. In

private. Ahora.”

Alex walks into the house. I’m not sure Carlos is going to follow. He

hesitates, then his chair scrapes the patio tiles and he heads inside.

Oh, this is definitely not going to be pretty. Brittany puts her head in

her hands. “Please tell me when they stop arguing.”

Brandon turns to my dad with big, innocent eyes. “Daddy, do you

know how to do the horizontal tango?”

FIFTEEN :
Carlos

“Do you get off on being a pendejo?” my brother asks me when

we’re in the kitchen, out of hearing range of the gringos.

“Uh . . . yeah. I had the best teacher. Right, Alex?”

Since our father was murdered when I was four, Alex was the

oldest male in our house from the time he was six. He might be older

than me, but there was nobody else to look up to but him.

My brother leans against the kitchen counter and crosses his arms

over his chest. “Here’s the deal: you got busted with drugs. I don’t give

a shit if they were yours or not, you’re the one who got busted. So suck

it up and live here without causin’ problems, or you get shipped to a

youth home for delinquents with guards watchin’ your every move.

Which is it?”

“Why can’t I go back to Chicago? We’ve got family there. My old

friends are there.”

“Not an option.” Before I can respond, Alex says, “I don’t want you

to get messed up with the Latino Blood. Besides, Destiny isn’t waiting

for you, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

Destiny and I broke up the day my family packed and moved to

Mexico. She said it was no use havin’ a long-distance relationship when

we might never see each other again. Truth is, if it wasn’t for Alex we’d

never have left Chicago. And if we never left Chicago, Destiny and I

would have stayed together and I wouldn’t be stuck livin’ in a room with

damn yellow polkadotted curtains. I expect everyone in my life to leave

me at some point. Since Destiny, I haven’t allowed myself to get

emotionally involved with anyone. If I let myself care about someone,

they’ll leave me, push me away, or die. That’s the way it’s been, and will

always be.

“I’ll stay here for now, but one day soon I’m gonna get back to

Chicago, with or without your help. Just go back to your apartment and

stay out of my life.” I push past my brother and storm up to my room,

slamming the door behind me. But the yellow comforter is a reminder

this is not my room. ¡Mierda!

I’m glad Alex didn’t follow me. I need to be alone and sort out what

happened on Friday. Who put the drugs in my locker? Was it Nick?

Madison, who came to bio late? Or was it a sign from the Guerreros

that no matter where I go they’re never far behind?

Eyeing my duffel on the ground, I open it and put my clothes away.

Actually I toss them in the drawers, not bothering to hang ’em up. I

don’t wear clothes that have to be hung up, anyway. I take out my

toothbrush and shaver and head to the bathroom across the hall.

Assuming the sink with the step stool is Brandon’s, I decide to share

with him. The last thing I need is to be opening a drawer only to find

tampons, makeup, or other female crap. I stick my shaver and

toothbrush in an empty drawer, the one without the cartoon-character

bubble bath in it. In between the sinks, taped to the big mirror in front

of them, is a small piece of paper.

‘WEEKDAY MORNING SHOWER TIMES

Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Kiara 6:25–6:35

Monday, Wednesday, Friday: Carlos 6:40–6:50

Tuesday, Thursday: Kiara 6:40–6:50

Tuesday, Thursday: Carlos 6:25–6:35’

When should I break the news to Kiara that nobody is going to tell

me how long my showers are? I’ve been known to take hour-long

showers when I’m hot, sweaty, and pissed off. Like right about now.

As if it wasn’t bad enough I got busted for somethin’ I didn’t do,

now I have to share a house with a bunch of strangers who make salad

out of spinach.

I head back to my room, but when I see Kiara’s door cracked open I

get curious. Knowing she’s still eating lunch, I wander inside. Her desk

is piled with books and loose papers. There’s a corkboard above her

desk with different sayings that belong in a self-help manual: ‘Don’t be

afraid to be unique Love yourself before you love another’ Give me a

fucking break. Does she read that crap before she gets off?

A few pictures of Kiara and that guy she sits with in the lunchroom

every day are pinned to the board. One shows the two of them hiking

or something on a mountain, and the other is of the two of them on

snowboards. In the pictures, Kiara is laughing. I pick up one of the

notebooks on her desk and flip through the pages. I stop when I see

‘RULES OF ATTRACTION’ written on top of one of the pages. My eyes

immediately focus on the words ‘perky privates’ listed under Kiara’s

traits. I laugh, then scan the next column . . . she’s lookin’ for a dude

who is confident, nice, can fix cars, and likes sports. Who the hell

actually writes this stuff down? I’m surprised she didn’t write I’m

looking for a guy to rub my feet and kiss my ass. On the next pages are

pencil drawings of her car. I hear the bedroom door squeak. Oh, crap.

I’m not alone.

Kiara is standing in the doorway in shock. Behind her is the guy

from the pictures. Kiara looks stunned to find me in her room, my paws

on her notebook.

“I needed paper,” I say, keeping a casual tone as I drop the

notebook on her desk.

The guy steps forward. “Yo, yo, wassup homie!” he says.

I wonder what Professor Dick would say if I kicked Kiara’s

boyfriend’s ass on my first day here. He never said one of the rules

was not getting into fights. I narrow my eyes at the guy and step

forward.

Kiara quickly rummages through her desk and pulls out another

notebook. She pushes it into my hand. “Here,” she says, alarm laced in

her voice.

I look down at the notebook I didn’t need, annoyed that I’m feeling

like a jalapeño stuck in a bowl of mixed nuts . . . somewhere I don’t

belong and definitely not a good mix. I murmur a “Catch you later . . .

homie,” and head back to the canary yellow room I am officially dubbing

infierno, hell.

Looking out the window, I gauge how far it is to the ground so I can

escape every once in a while and get a small taste of freedom. One day

I might just escape and never look back.

“Carlos, can I come in?” I hear Brittany’s voice say through the

bedroom door.