Rules Of Attraction (13 page)

“The ladies at The Highlands are going to be crushed,” I tell him.

When I told them they’d have two live models for our painting class,

they got really excited. Even after I told them the models would be me

and my friend Tuck, and no, we weren’t going to be in the nude but in

costumes.

“Get someone else to do it with you.”

“Like who?”

“I got it!” he says. “Ask Carlos to be your partner.”

I shake my head. “No way. He’s seriously pissed about getting

busted on Friday. I don’t think he’s in the mood to do favors for other

people. Every time he challenges me I feel like I’m going to stutter.”

Tuck chuckles. “If no words come, you can always give him the

finger. Guys like Carlos respond well to hand gestures.”

Just as he says it, Carlos walks in the cafeteria. Every single eye in

the room turns to him. If I were Carlos, I’d avoid the lunchroom for at

least a month. But I’m not Carlos. You’d think he didn’t notice everyone

staring at him and whispering about the latest Carlos gossip. He walks

straight over to the table he usually sits at, without an apology to

anyone. I admire his confidence.

None of the other guys acknowledges Carlos, until Ram slides over

and invites Carlos to sit next to him. After that, the freak show seems

to be over. Ram is a popular guy, and if Ram gives Carlos his approval,

then suddenly getting busted doesn’t mean Carlos is an outcast after

all.

After lunch when Carlos is at his locker, I tap him on the shoulder.

“Thanks for changing my combination back.”

“I didn’t do it to be nice,” he says. “I did it so I wouldn’t get busted

and kicked out of school.”

When Carlos started here a week ago, he didn’t care whether he

attended classes or got kicked out. Now that getting expelled is a real

possibility, he’s fighting to stay here. I wonder if the threat of getting

kicked out makes him want to stay more.

TWENTY-ONE :
Carlos

Mr. Kinney, my assigned social worker, greets me in the REACH

lobby after I sign in. In his office, he places a yellow piece of paper in

front of me. My name is on the top, and four blank lines are below it.

“What’s this?” I ask. I’ve already signed my life away; what more

could they want?

“A goal sheet.”

“A what?”

“Goal sheet.” Kinney hands me a pencil. “I want you to write down

four goals you have. You don’t have to do it now. Think about it tonight,

and hand it in tomorrow.”

I hand the sheet back to the guy. “I don’t got any goals.”

“Everyone has goals,” he tells me. “And if you don’t, you should.

Goals help give your life direction and purpose.”

“Well, if I have any I’m not about to share ’em with you.”

“That attitude won’t get you anywhere,” Kinney says.

“That’s good, because I don’t plan on goin’ anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just livin’ in the moment, man.”

“Does living in the moment include going to jail on a drug charge?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Listen, Carlos. Every student in the REACH program is at-risk,”

Kinney says. I follow him down a stark white hallway.

“For what?”

“Self-destructive behavior.”

“What makes you think you can fix me?”

Kinney gives me a serious look. “Our goal is not to fix you, Carlos.

We’ll supply you with the tools to reach your full potential, but the rest

is up to you. Ninety percent of the students in our program end up

graduating without a single violation. We’re very proud of that.”

“They only graduate because you force them to be here.”

“No. Believe it or not, it’s human nature to want to succeed. Some

of the teens here are like you. They’ve gotten mixed up in gangs and

drugs and need a safe after-school environment. And sometimes, just

sometimes, it’s because teens don’t have the tools to deal with the

stress of being a teenager. We give them a place where they can

succeed and go on to reach their full potential.”

No wonder Alex was so excited for me to come here. He wants me

to conform . . . graduate from high school, go to college, get a

respectable job, then get married and have kids. But I’m not him. I

wish everyone would stop treatin’ me as if my goal should be to live my

life according to Alex.

Kinney leads me to a room with six misfits sitting in a cozy little

circle. A woman with a long, flowy skirt who reminds me of Mrs.

Westford is sitting with them, a notebook resting on her lap.

“This some kind of group therapy?” I quietly ask Kinney.

“Mrs. Berger, this is Carlos,” Kinney says. “He just enrolled this

morning.”

Berger smiles that same smile Morrisey flashed me in his office

this morning. “Take a seat, Carlos,” she says. “During group therapy you

can talk about anything that’s on your mind. Please, sit down.”

Oh, goodie! Group therapy! I can’t wait!

I am seriously gonna puke.

When Kinney leaves, Berger asks everyone to introduce themselves

to me, as if I care what their names are.

“I’m Justin,” the kid to my right says.

Justin has his long hair dyed green in front. The front is so long,

it’s like he’s got a curtain in front of his eyes.

“Hey, man,” I say. “What’re you in for? Drugs? Petty theft? Grand

larceny? Murder?” I say as if crimes are things you can order at a

restaurant.

Berger puts her hand up. “Carlos, it’s REACH policy not to ask those

questions.”

Oops, I must have been daydreaming during that portion of The

Lecture. “Why not?” I ask. “I say lay it all on the table.”

“Auto theft,” Justin blurts out to our surprise. I think even Justin

is surprised he shared his little secret.

After everyone introduces themselves, I come to the conclusion

that I’ve just been assigned the Group from Hell. To my left is a white

chick named Zana who could easily be cast if they ever decide to make

a reality show called Colorado Sluts. Next is Quinn— I can’t tell if

Quinn is a he or a she. There are two other Latinos—a guy named Keno

and a hot Mexican chica named Carmela with chocolate brown eyes and

honey brown skin. She reminds me of my ex, Destiny, except Carmela’s

got a troublemaking glint in her eye that Destiny never had. Berger

puts down her pen and says to me, “Before you joined us, Justin was

sharing the fact that he punches his fist into walls sometimes when

he’s frustrated, so he can feel pain. We were talking about other

outlets for frustration that are less destructive.”

It’s a little ironic that Justin will hit a wall because he’s desperate

to feel something, anything, even pain . . . I’m just the opposite. I do

anything and everything in my power not to feel anything. My goal most

times is to be numb.

Hmm, maybe I should write that one down on my goal sheet. Carlos

Fuentes’s goal #1: To be numb and stay numb. I don’t think that’ll go

over too well, but it’s the truth.

“So how was your first day?”

After Alex picked me up from REACH at five thirty, he took me to

what I assume is downtown Boulder— a place called Pearl Street Mall.

To the delight of Mrs. Westford, we stopped at her Hospitali-Tea

store/café for a drink and sit at one of the tables on the outdoor

patio. Tea is not the kind of drink I had in mind, but as usual I don’t

have much choice. Mrs. Westford puts down two specialty teas she

made ‘on the house, just for us’ and heads back inside to take orders

from other customers.

I look at my brother as he sits across from me, totally relaxed.

“They’re a bunch of fuckin’ misfits at that REACH thing, Alex,” I

tell him quietly so Mrs. W. doesn’t hear. “One is worse than the next.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“Don’t say that until you see ’em. And they made me sign this

stupid-ass agreement that I’ll abide by their rules. Remember back in

Fairfield when we had no rules, Alex? After school it was just you, me,

and Luis.”

“We had rules,” Alex says, then picks up his drink. “We just didn’t

follow ’em. Mi'amá was workin’ so much, she wasn’t around to keep an

eye on us.”

We didn’t live like kings back in Illinois, but we sure did have family

and friends . . . and a life. “I want to go back.”

He shakes his head. “There’s nothin’ left there for us.”

“Elena and Jorge are there with little JJ. You’ve never even seen

the kid, Alex. My friends are there. I’ve got less than nothin’ here.”

“I’m not sayin’ I don’t want to go back,” my brother says. “We just

can’t go back now. It’s not safe.”

“Since when did you become afraid? Man, you’ve changed. I

remember when you’d tell the entire world to fuck off and do whatever

you wanted without thinking.”

“I’m not scared. I care about bein’ here for Brittany. There’s a

point when you have to stop fightin’ the whole world. I reached that

point two years ago. Look around, Carlos. There are other girls besides

Destiny.”

“I don’t want Destiny. Not anymore. If you’re talkin’ about Kiara,

forget it. I’m not datin’ a chick who wants to control my life and cares

whether I’m dealin’ drugs or in a gang. Look at us, Alex. We’re sittin’ at

a fuckin’ teahouse next to rich white people who don’t have a clue what

it’s like outside this fake reality they call life. You’ve become a chido.”

Alex leans forward. “Let me tell you somethin’, little brother. I like

not havin’ to watch my back every time I walk down the street. I like

that I have a novia who thinks I’m the shit. And I sure as hell don’t

regret givin’ up the drugs and the Latino Blood for a chance at a future

worth livin’.”

“You gonna bleach your skin so you can look like a gringo, too?” I

ask. “Man, I hope your kids are as pale as Brittany so you don’t have to

sell ’em on the black market.”

My brother is gettin’ pissed off, I can tell by the way the muscle in

his jaw is twitching.

“Being Mexican doesn’t mean being poor,” he says. “Goin’ to college

doesn’t mean I’m turnin’ my back on my people. Maybe you’re turnin’

your back on our people by perpetuatin’ the Mexican stereotype.”

I moan and throw my head back. “Perpetuatin’? Perpetuatin’? Hell,

Alex, our people don’t even know the meanin’ of that word.”

“Fuck you,” Alex growls. He shoves back his chair and walks away.

“That’s the old Alex I used to know! I understand that language

loud and clear,” I call after him.

He tosses his cup in a garbage bin and keeps walking. I admit he

doesn’t walk like a gringo yet and still looks like he could kick anyone’s

ass who gets in his way. But just give it time. He’ll look like he’s got a

pole up his ass any day now.

Mrs. Westford is soon back at the table, gazing into my untouched

cup. “You didn’t like your tea?”

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

She notices the now-empty seat. “What happened to Alex?”

“He left.”

“Oh,” she says, then pulls up his empty chair and sits next to me.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Want my advice?”

“Nope.” What am I going to do, tell her that tomorrow I’m going to

sneak into Nick’s locker to see if I can find evidence that he set me

up? While I’m at it, I might as well rummage through Madison’s locker

too. Since she was so intent on having me and Nick meet, maybe she

knows something. I’m not sharing my suspicions with anyone.

“Okay, but if you do, just let me know. Wait here.” She takes my

untouched cup and disappears inside. That was a shocker. Mi'amá is the

opposite of Mrs. Westford. If my ma wants to give me advice, you can

be damn well sure she’s gonna dish it out whether I want to listen or

not.

Mrs. Westford comes back a minute later and sets down another

cup full of tea.

“Just try it,” she says. “It’s got calming herbs like chamomile, rose

hips, elderberries, lemon balm, and Siberian ginseng.”

“I’d rather smoke weed,” I joke.

She doesn’t laugh. “I know smoking pot isn’t a big deal to some

people, but at this point it’s illegal.” She slides the cup further toward

me. “I guarantee this will calm you,” she says. As she walks back inside

to wait on other customers she adds, “And it won’t get you in a heap of

trouble.”

I look down into the cup filled with light green liquid. It doesn’t

look like herbs, it just looks like tea from a cheap ol’ teabag. I look left

and right, makin’ sure nobody is watching, as I bring the cup to my face

and breathe in the steam.

Okay, this is no ordinary tea from a cheap teabag. It smells like

fruit and flowers and somethin’ else I can’t place all rolled into one.

And while the smell is unfamiliar, it makes my mouth water.

I look up and see Tuck walking toward me. Kiara is beside him, but

her attention is on a guy in the middle of the outdoor mall playing the

accordion. She pulls a dollar from her purse and kneels down to put it in

his case.

While she stops to watch the guy play, Tuck pulls over a chair from

another table and sits across from me. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a

tea guy,” Tuck says. “You look like more of a tequila and rum guy.”

“Don’t you have other people to annoy?” I ask.