On Christmas morning, suppose I should've asked for an advance at work too, because what I bought the kids sure ain't stealing no show.
"Where'd you get this from, huh?" I prod Curly's new record player crankily, which he's admiring with eyes that shine like they're stars cut out of the night sky. I already know the answer, but I guess I want to hear him say it out loud.
"My daddy dropped it off," he looks at me, bold as brass, "you're not gonna make me take it back, are you?" That's not a request from him, neither, it's a challenge. "He says he has a lot of missed Christmas presents to make up for."
Presents? He'd be better off chipping away at his fourteen years of missed child support, but I don't push it, for what feels like the millionth time. I'm not in the mood to pick a fight, not considering what I have coming down the pike once I quit stalling and head out of here. Especially since Angela's walking around with a string of pearls around her neck, and they look real enough to me at a glance, not made out of paste. "Santa Claus rob a Tiffany's on his way from the North Pole?"
"My boyfriend got them for me," she says, fingers them with a dissatisfied crinkle between her eyes. "I told him I wanted something bigger, though, mod style. These make me look like a WASP."
"You don't have no fucking boyfriend, lady, you're thirteen. Much less one who's givin' you expensive jewelry." Who is this little asshole, and do I have it in me to pummel some eighth grader?
... He better be in eighth grade, that's for sure, or any ethical issues I have are going straight out the window. Maybe he's from the West side, a Soc boy, robbing his mama's nightstand. That's the only explanation I can come up with for this that doesn't make me homicidal.
"You an' Bonnie got together in seventh— what's the problem, exactly, that I'm a girl?"
"Finish that." I point at my best attempt at making a holiday breakfast, which was pouring their cornflakes for them. Curly's dipping a Christmas cookie with fossilized frosting into peanut butter and letting the crumbs get everywhere as he chews with his mouth open, avoiding his busted molars. Another thing to hide from his social worker, the way we can't avoid no dentist. "Instead of sassin' back to me."
She stirs her spoon around in the milk, turning the cornflakes to mush. "I'm not hungry."
She's never hungry anymore, and you can see it written on her body, from the way her collarbone's started to peek out and the sharp bump of her wrists as she shakes the loose sleeves of her nightgown down. I don't know if she's sick or what, but I'm more inclined to believe that this is a power play, and I'm not a huge fan of losing those. I didn't ask if you were hungry, I told you to eat your food, I want to snap right back at her, but instead I sit down at the table and, for about the first time in my life, take the softer approach. "Can you at least try to finish it?" I huff out a sigh, bite off some dead skin around my thumb. "Half of it, baby, c'mon."
Curly reaches out and doesn't exactly squeeze my hand, but he brushes the top of mine with his. You know it's a special occasion when he doesn't immediately punch me in the arm, to leaven the sentimentality a little. "You sure you don't want us to come with you?"
"Ma's gonna flip shit if y'all aren't at morning Mass," I say as I shake my head. "I'm fine, I'll be back real quick, yeah? 'S just a favor to Cisco, I'm not the type to start wailin' at graves all of a sudden."
The joke, if you could call it that, falls flat. I stick my thumb in my mouth again, bite down until I taste blood.
We agreed to meet at the grave, and I'm embarrassed that I struggle to figure out where the hell it is— Cisco and Tía Mercedes have to wave me over to it. "Tim, you look like you aren't getting enough to eat," she says as she smoothes the sleeves of my coat, then pulls me into a hug I instinctively stiffen at. Holding me out at arms' length, she gasps as she catches sight of my face; my teeth lock together, it's been the same response from every vieja I've encountered since I got out of the pen. "What have you done to yourself now? Look at this— don't you know well enough to put Vitamin K on a cut before it scars?"
I bite back a smile at the thought of asking for that from the prison doctor who stitched me up, and my mouth opens to tell her my well-practiced cover story, when Cisco cuts in. "Mamá, don't fuss over him." She looks better than she did at the funeral, better than she has in a long while— fuchsia lipstick on, dyed black hair coiffed in the Jackie Kennedy style, wearing a dress that probably costs more than my mother's entire wardrobe. Carries herself like Luis and Alberto's big sister again, and in that moment, we can almost forget that we're spending Christmas morning at a teenager's headstone.
I don't think the guy who did it is any special kind of psychopath, and I'm not haunted by fantasies of hunting him down and making him pay for his sins. Thirteen is half a man in our world, and when drive-by shootings are just a fact of life, when you're drunk off your ass and high on more dexies and reds than they gave soldiers in World War Two, when disrespect is the eighth deadly sin, yeah, you start to get a clearer picture of how the whole thing happened. Unfortunately, my upbringing hasn't left me with a lot of emotional tools once I've cast aside that scenario, which leaves me to examine the smooth white marble as my aunt lays a massive bouquet of peonies down— SANTIAGO YÁÑEZ, 1947-1960, beloved son and brother, the usual trite stuff, not even a Bible verse for some added color. A framed picture of him propped up against it, his cheeks are still soft, when he smiles he shows braces. Does he know that his daddy went back to Juárez a few months after he died, started a new family— that Cisco can't hear his name said out loud without spitting on the floor? He sends money, but I don't think he's been here since.
Do I even have the right to judge him? I haven't been back here either, and I shudder as a sudden gust of wind penetrates the layers of my coat and sweater, chilling me down to the bone. I never believed in catching ghosts until now, face-to-face with my own cowardice. This just isn't how I want to remember him.
Remember when I was bragging my head off because Bonnie had given me a handjob, tellin' tíos that I'd already lost it, and she showed up in front of Temo's house and jumped me? And then you started bragging your head off about how you'd slept with some girl back in Mexico, who we didn't know? You lil' liar. We were both full of so much fucking bullshit, we needed enemas.
Remember how Luis practically had to sit us down for a talk about how he had enough room in his heart for both of us? Your daddy was always driving back down to the border, and Cisco was too old to think we were anything more than little pains in the neck, too young to think messing around with us was a gas, the way Luis and Alberto did. I wanted to hate you for stealing all their attention. I didn't realize how lonely you must've been.
Remember when your mama and your daddy were fighting again, she caught him running around with some other bird again, and I found you crying about it on the porch? You were softer than me, but I didn't make fun of you, for the first time I wasn't jealous of all the nice shit you had— maybe we had something in common after all. I took you climbing up the water tower, a million feet above the ground. Fixed your whole day right up, or at least got you away from it.
We could've been friends, maybe. If there'd been more time.
My eyes sting, but I blink it back before anything can even well up. I don't cry, don't let myself do that shit on principle, and especially not in public. Except Cisco's wiping his snotty nose off on his sleeve, and then my aunt throws her arms around my neck, like a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver. "I'm so glad you came," she says between great big gasps of air, "I thought maybe we'd never see you again—"
I have no idea what to do, I hate being around someone who's crying, and that goes double if it's a broad; her tears soak my lapel, burn hot and then freeze on the skin of my collarbone and sternum, her makeup seeping into my shirt. I feel like I'm in a bad theater production and I'm the only one who's forgotten their lines, can't emote on cue either. I settle for awkwardly patting her on the back in a rhythmic motion, stare off into the gray horizon beyond her shoulder.
My dad's grave is somewhere around here too. I don't visit that either, so I don't know for sure.
Going back to 'work' after that is a relief— not my actual job, the one where I stand on a street corner and look shifty. Gives me a distraction, as I wait for the customer I'm expecting at three, probably some stuffed suit type who likes to destress with pot, has enough spare cash to splash around on it. Maybe a college kid from TU. At least, that's what I assume until he actually rolls up.
I adjust the scarf Gabi knit me for Christmas— it came out real good, makes my heart skip a beat that she went through all that fuss just for me— get it tighter around my neck until it feels like a noose. One way undercover cops are as easy as hell to catch? Look at the shoes. They're always walking around in these heavy-duty boots with steel-tipped toes, like they're itching for a fight, and this one's no exception.
"Hey, buddy," he says as he approaches me, running a hand through his just-left-reform-school short haircut that doesn't jive with his knockoff beatnik outfit, "you're the guy who said he'd sell me some marijuanas, right? Far out."
That's the second way. You'd think with the amount of cash these people rake in from asset seizures every year, they'd be able to afford some acting classes for the whole department.
I'm not in the mood to entertain this shit today, though it can get pretty funny to keep them going through their limited script. "You're not supposed to be over here," I say with a smile that looks more like I'm baring my teeth, a warning sign. "What gives, huh?"
We don't usually have much trouble with the fuzz— Luis pays them off too well. Closest I've had to a run-in with the law in the past six months has been watching our cops and a couple of Tiger cops show up to arrest each other, and I guess that's made me sloppy, careless. Being out past curfew is potentially enough to get me sent back inside, much less the amount of product I have stuffed in my bag.
"I don't know what you're talkin'—"
"Cut the bullshit," I say with more attitude than I should— he's not armed, judging by a quick sweep of his belt. "Your kind don't hang around this intersection, you know Ramirez will slash the tires on your nice unmarked police car soon as you can blink, and that's gettin' off easy. So why don't you beat on outta here before—"
"Why don't you talk to me with some respect in your tone, boy, before I take you down to the station."
The way he says boy makes me want to deck him, but right now I need to focus on getting out of this mess. If I had a heater, I'd wave it around and call his bluff, but he's got a solid thirty pounds of donut gut on me, and I don't trust my abilities with a switchblade enough to be sure he won't get a knee in my back and cuffs around my wrists. I show throat. "Look, I don't need no trouble with the law, I'll give you everything I have on me," I say as I pull out the bag of grass and silently cuss— Luis is going to kill me, for getting caught up in a sting in the first place, and I'm hoping he'll value me staying out of jail over how much the product's worth. Add a five from my wallet to sweeten the pot. "It's good stuff, too, yeah? Already cleaned."
Plenty of cops who bust drug operations end up pushing the product themselves, sneak it out of the evidence room. They're not so slick. He takes the bag and stalks off, and I release a massive breath I didn't know I was holding. What the fuck was that?
Maybe I'm being paranoid, Luis doesn't exactly own Tulsa PD either— they might've started hiring officers with an ounce of interest in doing their jobs, for all I know. But my gut's kept me alive all these years, and it's telling me that someone must've given him my number. Someone on the inside.
"You have to drink it all in one go," I say, and can barely keep the amusement out of my voice as I watch her. "You can't just sip a shot like you're takin' afternoon tea with the queen."
"Well, I'm sorry, it burns, couldn't you have gotten something that tastes better?" Gabi's all indignant when she looks up at me from behind her lashes, finishes licking the last couple of drops out of the shot glass. Her pink tongue darts out, comes back into her mouth real slow, she's teasing me. "You need a girl who can shoot straight whiskey, I guess that's more your speed."
I didn't tell her where I was, yesterday, while she was drinking hot chocolate with cinnamon around a tree, bickering with her brother over who had to pick up the scattered wrapping paper— after what I put her through the night of Luis's party, she doesn't need to be exposed to any more of our ugliness. Not about the cop who almost busted me, either, not when she's about the only sweet and good thing I have in my life. I let her words wash over me, and I abandon my own glass on the floor as I reach for her. "Nah, just you," I say easily as I cup the side of her face and pull her in for a kiss, sink into the syrupy taste of her mouth. We climb up onto the bed pretty quick, and it's probably from the lingering chill of the graveyard, from my desire to forget, but I feel like she's hit me with jumper cables, my whole body on fire. When she's tugging at the zipper of my jeans, pushing them down my hips, I know it's going to happen, even if maybe it shouldn't.
Buck's not going to come in here any time soon, which gives us more of a chance at coitus uninterruptus than at my mama's place. It's only around 4:30, but the sun's already setting and casting a dim glow around the room; we're both down to underwear, when she stills my hands before I can unhook her bra, crawls into my lap. I fold her into my arms real easy. "I don't really know how to do much," she says. "I mean... at all, except what I read in Harlequin, and those books have a bunch of flower metaphors that don't make sense. So I hope you're not expecting fireworks."
She looks so matter-of-fact and determined telling me this even half-naked, and I file away the knowledge that they make girls a hell of a lot less naive at Catholic school than I once thought. "You're nervous?" I'm not trying to make fun of her, but she pouts all the same and then I can't help it, though she buries her face in the crook of my neck. "Ain't like we haven't done it before, and it can only go uphill from there... and trust me, I'm easy to please. I'm a little worried about impressin' you."
That's incorrect. I'm a lot worried about impressing her.
"That's different," she insists, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "That didn't really mean anything. Now we're makin' love—"
My heart skips right into the soft part of my throat, beats a violent tattoo against the skin. "Yeah, that ain't exactly been my specialty lately," I say with a little more sarcasm than I intended. I didn't have that much to drink, so I can't even blame what I come out with next on any amount of booze. "I've made a lot of bad choices... easy choices, I guess. It was fun and it never mattered to me." Girls I brought upstairs or back home or into my backseat because I wanted the ego boost, after Bonnie messed around on me, the reassurance I could still score. Girls I used as sleeves for my dick. "You deserve someone who'll make it special for you... who can do it right."
She's got this real fragile quality to her, though I doubt she'd like it if I said that to her face; she's not going to be able to brush off a misstep half as easy as your average East side girl. And underneath my concern for her is concern for my own dumb ass. I never let myself get attached, but she's hit the nail on the head. If we go here, I won't be able to hold myself back, separate from it emotionally. I'm in way too deep for that.
"Well, let's hurry up before he gets here, then," she says determinedly, which is enough to snap me out of my self-pity. Even makes me smile. "I mean... we're bein' silly. It's just us, no one's givin' a performance review at the end, right?"
"You're so pretty— beautiful," I correct, as I start kissing down her neck. I've never won awards for sweet-talking, but I still feel the need to tell her. "I'm gonna—" now I'm really trying to use the appropriate vocabulary words, God help me— "make love to you all night. Vigorously. You're not gonna be thinkin' about any of this stuff in a minute."
She laughs, but her pupils dilate and she shivers a little underneath me, and maybe I'm not the only one who feels electrocuted right now. "Not all night," she makes sure to add before I get her onto her back, "I should probably be home in time to shower."
We don't talk so much, after that. I guess some things you just have to learn through doing.
She doesn't just have her head on my shoulder this time, she's more collapsed on top of me, sweaty and breathless; I kiss her hair, which is an untold level of sentimentality for me. I can't stop grinning my head off as I stare up at the ceiling— I feel like I've just spent three hours in a hot bathtub, my muscles completely relaxed. Yeah, looks like I've still got it.
"Wow." It comes out half-muffled by my chest. "I didn't know you could do that... with your mouth. Those Harlequin paperbacks sure could've been more descriptive."
"I can do a lot of stuff." I try not to sound unbearably self-satisfied and know I'm failing, as I roll over and go in for another kiss. "You wanna see—"
Then she bursts into tears, as sudden as a summer storm comes on, and all those good feelings wash away in an instant. "What'd I do?" Did she hate it? I mean, she probably wouldn't be burying her face in my shoulder if she did...
"No, no, I'm just... I love you." I'm so shocked, I think I might've imagined it at first; she wipes her nose off with the back of her hand, then gives me a watery smile. "It's a lot to handle, I'm sorry."
I should say it back. Any moron would say it back, regardless of whether or not they meant it, to not hurt her feelings— it's not like she sprung it on me after we'd only known each other for two weeks. "... Uh-huh?" is still all that comes out after my tongue's quit twisting up in my mouth.
"Uh-huh." She's back in my arms now, judging by the way her eyelids flutter, close to falling asleep. "I feel so good now... knowing it for sure."
Well, that makes one of us.