Rules Of Attraction (16 page)

I can’t believe he brought it up again. I turn and head for home on

foot. Carlos better drive my car back, because they’ll tow it if it’s

parked there all night. I hear Carlos swear again. “Come back here,” he

says.

I keep walking.

I hear my car tires spin on the gravel behind me. Carlos drives up

next to me. He’s got his shirt back on, which is good because I get

distracted when he’s half naked.

“Get in, Kiara.”

As I keep walking, he inches the car forward. “You’re gonna get in

an accident,” I say.

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

I glance in his direction. “No. But I do. I love my car.”

Someone beeps at him from behind. He doesn’t flinch and keeps the

car moving slowly beside me. At the first bend in the road, he

screeches ahead of me and cuts me off. “Don’t test me,” he says. “If

you don’t get in right now, I’m comin’ out there to get you.” We stare

each other down, the muscle in the side of his jaw twitching in

determination. “If you get in, I’ll wash your car.”

“I just washed it.”

“I’ll do your chores for a week, then,” he says.

“I don’t . . . I don’t mind doing chores,” I tell him.

“I’ll let your brother get a goal off of me and I’ll play with his G.I.

Joe dolls.”

Every day Brandon has been trying to get a goal off of Carlos, with

no luck. My little brother would love to beat Carlos. “Fine,” I say. “But I

drive.”

He slides over the center console and hops in the passenger seat

while I get behind the wheel. When I glance at him, I can’t help but

notice the look of triumph on his face.

“You know what your problem is?” I’m not surprised he doesn’t wait

for me to respond before he goes into his assessment of me. “You make

everythin’ a big deal. Take kissin’, for example. You probably think if

you kiss someone it’s supposed to mean somethin’ monumental.”

“I don’t just go around kissing people for fun like you.”

“Why not? Kiara, didn’t anyone tell you that life is supposed to be

fun?”

“I have fun in other ways.”

“Oh, please,” he says in total disbelief. “You ever smoke weed?”

I shake my head.

“Take Ecstasy?”

My top lip curls in disgust.

“Have wild sex on top of a mountain?” he questions.

“You have a demented view of fun, Carlos.”

He shakes his head. “Okay, chica. What do you consider fun?

Walkin’ up mountains? Doin’ your homework? Watchin’ Madison make

fun of you in class? I heard about that, you know.”

I pull off the side of the road, my poor tires screeching to a stop.

“Being rude . . . doesn’t make y-y-you . . .” I’m about to get caught up on

my words. I swallow, then take a deep breath. I hope the panic and

frustration doesn’t show as I stumble over my words. I know when it’s

coming, but I can’t stop it. “. . . tough.”

“I’m not aimin’ for tough, Kiara. See, you pegged me all wrong. My

goal is to be an asshole.”

He flashes me a big, cocky smile.

I shake my head in frustration and steer the car back on the road.

At home, I find Dad playing with Brandon in the backyard.

“Where have you two been?” my dad asks.

“Kiara took me hikin’,” Carlos says. “Right, K.?”

“A little practice?” my dad asks me, then explains to Carlos, “We’re

going on a family camping trip.”

“Dick, I don’t hike or camp.”

“But he does play soccer.” I tilt my head and smile. “Didn’t you tell

me you were dying to play with Brandon?”

“I almost forgot,” Carlos says, the cocky grin gone.

“Oh, that’s great,” my dad says, patting Carlos on the back. “It’ll

mean so much to him. Bran, you ready to play soccer with Carlos?”

We all look over at my brother, hurrying to set up the goal.

“Awesome! Carlos, I’m gonna beat you today.”

“Don’t count on it, muchacho.” Carlos kicks the ball and starts

bouncing it up and down on his knees like a soccer pro. No matter what

he claimed before, he’s definitely played a lot.

“I was practicing with my dad,” Bran calls out. “I’m ready for you.”

Practice or not, my little brother doesn’t stand a chance against

Carlos unless he purposely lets him win. I can’t wait to see the triumph

in my brother’s face as he sails the ball past Carlos and scores a goal. I

sit on the patio and watch as they warm up.

“Don’t you have homework to do or somethin’?” Carlos asks.

I shake my head.

He’s definitely trying to challenge me in this little game of who’s

going to get the upper hand.

“I think I see some weeds that you missed on your side,” he says.

“Kiara, come play with us!” Brandon cries out.

“She’s busy,” Carlos says.

Brandon looks at me in confusion. “She’s just sitting watching us.

How can she be busy?”

Carlos has the ball under his arm now.

“I’ll just watch,” I say.

“Come on,” Brandon says, then runs over to me. He takes my hand

and pulls me until I get up. “Play with us.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know how to play,” Carlos says to my brother.

“Sure she does. Give her the ball.”

Carlos kicks it to me in the air. I dribble it on my knees, then

bounce it off my head back to him. The guy looks stunned. And

impressed. In a rare diva moment, I brush invisible dust off my

shoulders.

“Surprise, surprise, Kiara can dribble,” Carlos says as he positions

himself in front of the goal. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me. Let’s see

you try and get it past me.”

When I have the ball back, I kick it to Brandon. He kicks it back,

then I whack it toward the goal.

Okay, so I’m not really surprised Carlos intercepted it with hardly

any effort. But now he’s brushing invisible dust off his shoulders like I

did and I’m sorry I didn’t get it to sail past him.

“Want a second chance?” he asks.

“Maybe another day,” I tell him. I’m not sure if I’m talking about

that almost-kiss or about soccer.

Carlos’s eyebrows go up, and I think he realizes my words have

double meaning. “I’ll look forward to the challenge.”

“My turn!” Brandon screams.

Carlos sets himself in front of the goal and leans over, deep in

concentration. “You get three chances, but face the fact, Brandon.

You’re just not good enough.”

Immediately, my brother’s tongue shoots out the side of his mouth.

He’s deep in competitive/concentration mode. I’m sure when he gets

older he’ll give Carlos a run for his money.

My brother sets the ball down and takes five steps back, counting

each one. He kneels down as if he’s a golfer lining up his shot. Is Carlos

going to let him win? I’ve had no signal or sign from him that our little

agreement is still on, and he looks determined to stop my brother’s ball.

“Give up now, cachorro. You’ll never get it past me, and then

afterward you’re going to call me the All-Powerful-Master-Goalie, the

one, the only . . . Carlos Fuentes!”

His taunting makes my brother even more determined; his lips are

pressed tight and his hands are balled at his sides. He kicks the ball as

hard as a six-year-old can, even grunting as his foot connects with the

ball. It flies in the air.

Carlos flies in the air to catch it . . .

And misses by an inch. Even better, Carlos falls and rolls to his

back as he comes crashing to the ground.

I’ve never seen a more triumphant expression on my brother’s face.

“I did it!” he screams. “I did it! On the first try, even!” He runs over to

me and gives me a huge high five, then jumps on Carlos’s back. “I did it!

I did it!”

Carlos groans. “You ever hear of a sore winner?”

“No.” Brandon leans down to Carlos’s ear. “This means you get to

play G.I. Joe with me tonight!”

“Can we do a rematch?” Carlos asks. “Like two out of three. Or

three out of five?”

“No way, José.”

“My name’s Carlos, not José,” Carlos says, but Brandon isn’t

listening. He’s running inside the house to tell my parents that he beat

Carlos.

Carlos is still on the ground when I kneel beside him. “What do you

want?” he asks.

“To say thanks.”

“For what?”

“Holding up your end of the bargain by letting Brandon beat you.

You pretty much succeed in being a jerk most of the time, but you’ve

got potential.”

“To be what?”

I shrug. “A decent human being.”

TWENTY-SEVEN :
Carlos

After dinner, I dig up the cell phone and call Luis and mi'amá.

“¿Te estás ocupando de Mamá?” I ask my little brother.

“Sí. I’m takin’ care of her.”

Loud pounding on my door reminds me that I lost the competition

this afternoon. “It’s G.I. Joe time, Carlos!” Brandon’s voice bellows

through the door.

“¿Quién es ése?”

“The little kid who lives here. He reminds me of you sometimes.”

“He’s that good, huh?” Luis says, then laughs. “How’s Alex?”

“Alex es buena gente. He’s the same.”

“Ma said you got in trouble.”

“Sí, but everything will be fine.”

“I hope so. ’Cause she’s savin’ up to come there for the winter. If

I’m good, she said I can come, too. Podemos volver a ser familia, Carlos.

Won’t that be great?”

Yeah, it would be great if we could be a family again. A complete

family to Luis is the four of us—me, Mamá, Alex, and Luis. Our papá

was dead before Luis could talk. I never want kids, because I’d never

want to leave behind a wife struggling to put food in my kids’ mouths or

have my kids think a family is complete without me in the picture.

Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock. “You in there?” Brandon

yells again, this time his voice coming through the bottom of my

bedroom door. I can see his lips through the tiny space between the

door and carpet. I should open the door with no warning and see the

little diablo scramble to his feet.

“It’ll be great if you and Mamá can come here. Déjame hablar con

Mamá.”

“She’s not home. Está trabajando—she’s at work.”

My heart wrenches. I don’t want her working, slaving away for

almost no pay. I provided for the family when I was in Mexico. Now I’m

going to school while she’s working like a dog. It doesn’t feel right.

“Tell her I called. ¡Que no se te olvide!” I say, knowing my little

brother is so busy havin’ fun with his friends he’s likely to forget I

even called.

“I won’t forget. I promise.”

We hang up as Brandon pounds on the door again. “Stop poundin’,

you’re givin’ me a headache,” I say as I open the door.

Brandon scrambles to his feet quicker than I’ve ever seen anyone

move before in my life. If his swaying is any indication, I think he just

got a head rush. Good.

“Brandon,” Westford calls out as he walks by. “I told you not to

bother Carlos. Why aren’t you in your room reading?”

“I wasn’t bothering Carlos,” he says innocently. “He said he’d play

G.I. Joe with me. Right, Carlos?” He looks up at me, his light green eyes

practically begging.

“Right,” I say to Westford. “Five minutes of G.I. Joe, then I’m done

playing big brother.”

“Ten minutes,” Brandon shoots back.

“Three,” I shoot right back. Two can play this game, kid.

“No, no, no. Five’s fine.”

In his room, he pushes a doll in my hands. “Here!”

“Kid, I hate to break the news to you, but I don’t usually play with

dolls.”

He looks offended as he huffs loudly. “G.I. Joe isn’t a doll. He’s a

marine, like my daddy was.” Brandon pulls out miniature plastic soldiers

from a bucket and places them around the room. You’d think the kid

was making a random mess, but I’ve got a feeling there’s a method to

his madness. “Didn’t you have a G.I. Joe when you were a kid?”

I shake my head. I don’t remember having many toys . . . we pretty

much played with sticks, rocks, and soccer balls. And the odd times

Alex would sneak into my mother’s dresser, we’d make up the craziest

games with rocks inside her panty hose. A few times we cut the legs

off and made slingshots. Other times we filled them with water

balloons and whacked each other. Alex and I did get our butts bruised

by mi'amá a bunch of times for those incidents, but it didn’t matter.

The punishments were worth it.

“Well,” the kid says, getting serious. “The Cobras are the bad guys

who want to take over the world. The G.I. Joes need to capture them.

Got it?”

“Yeah. Let’s get on with it already.”

Brandon holds his hands up. “Wait, wait, wait. You can’t be a G.I.

Joe unless you have a code name. What’d you want your code name to

be? Mine is Racer.”

“I’ll be Guerrero.”

He tilts his head to the side. “What does it mean?”

“Warrior.”

He nods his approval. “Okay, Guerrero, our mission is to get Dr.

Winky.” Brandon faces me with big, round eyes. “Dr. Winky is the

biggest, baddest, toughest bad guy on earth. Badder than Cobra

Commander.”

“Can’t we change the name to something scarier? Sorry, but

Dr.Winky doesn’t sound tough at all.”

“Oh, no, you can’t change the name. No way.”

“Why not?”

“I like the name. Dr. Winky winks all the time.”

I can’t help but be amused by this kid. “Fine. So what did Dr. W. do

that’s so bad?”