When I wake up again, the sunlight streaming through the dirty window feels like a knife stabbing me straight in the eyeball. Doesn't help that I'm about to vomit everything I've eaten for the past week, either.
"Well, lookit what the cat dragged in, huh?"
Alberto grins at me like he's real hot shit; I roll over onto the side of my head that's pounding, as though that'll give me some relief. "Wild night?" he asks, his bad attitude playing on his lips.
"Vato, shut up." I wouldn't dare talk to Luis like that, but I've always managed to get along better with Alberto, even though he's a downright crazy motherfucker— he never tries to act like he's my daddy, got Luis off my back a few times when he really lost his temper at me. He just elbows me, and I fight the urge to puke all over his dirty sheets. "How'd I end up here?"
"Figured I oughta drag your sorry ass home before Buck harvested your organs." He sits down on the edge of the bed and sparks a blunt; I about strangle him once the smell of the smoke hits me. "You need one of Luis's lectures 'bout how you can't give an alibi if you're too hammered to remember where you was, or you good?"
"Yeah, I think I'm good," I say with a little more attitude than he deserves. Luis can't decide whether he's my old man, my gang leader, or an older primo who claims I'll like smack if I just wrap a tourniquet around my arm and give it a shot. I'd be fine with the last two if he called it a day on the first one.
"Heard you was gettin' a lil' busy— all right, saw it myself," he says with a rough chuckle, like he smoked a pack before letting it out. "Must've been some real wild hyna between the sheets, if she was grindin' on your lap in front of God and everybody, huh?"
I've never been much of one for bull sessions— that's for kids Curly's age, half of them lying through their teeth anyway— and I especially ain't in the mood for one with Alberto, who's claimed to my face he's been with three broads at once. "She was a nice girl," is all I say, "Catholic, had a cross around her neck and everything. Don't talk dirty 'bout her."
"Ain't no such thing as a nice Catholic girl, haven't you ever seen a porno?" I have, actually. "You get them outta the convent, they'll be on you like a Vegas stripper the night before rent's due."
I give him a dismissive scowl and roll back over onto my other side, hoping that facing the wall will be enough to get him off me, but Alberto's like a feral dog on my leg. "She a Salvi or somethin'?" he asks too casually for a man throwing around ethnic slurs. "Didn't look like the Little Juárez type, she's real dark."
"Don't call her that, either."
"Hey, it's only Luis that's gonna get his panties in a bunch, relax." He rises to go check on one of the marijuana plants he has growing on the windowsill. "So long's she's not another white girl, I'm cool with it. Break my fuckin' heart if you married a gringa, mijo, his too."
Bonnie's an Irish girl like my mama, the same kind of dark that makes her pass if you don't look at her too hard, but Luis and Alberto never liked her from the start. Said I'd inherited my daddy's weakness, that she'd run around on me the second my back was turned long enough, and their smugness was damn unbearable when she ended up doing it. Yet another reason why what she did sticks around like something in my teeth.
"She wasn't one of us," he says, touching the blades of the plant more tenderly than he'd ever touched me. "Never would've been. Glad you're movin' on to the right kind."
"What about me?" comes out of my mouth before I can stop myself.
"Qué?" He's only half-listening at best, checking for any rot and yellowness that might ruin the product.
"My mama's gringa, ain't she?" It's a dumb rhetorical question; I've heard them call her as much, and wilder, about a million times before. "Am I one of you?"
"Burro, you're Ramirez through and through," he says with a fist knocked against the back of my head, "don't say stupid shit like that. Your daddy was thinkin' with his dick, is all. But you better not start makin' no white babies."
My stomach does an unpleasant lurch as I see just how much sunlight is coming in through that window, and for once not from the booze. "What time is it?"
Alberto looks down at the Rolex Tia Mercedes's kingpin husband threw in his direction. "Almost noon, why? You got somewhere to be?"
"Hijo de puta— yeah, a meeting with my PO, that's where." I keep cussing under my breath as I spring out of bed, clutch my skull and regret it, and try to find where the hell either I or Alberto tossed my pants. "Comin' in late, that's sure provin' how bad I don't wanna go back to prison."
"Wait, wait, hold up." He grabs my arm before I can dart straight out the door. "You can't show up there lookin' a hot mess, c'mon. I got a clip-on tie in a drawer somewhere."
The office smells like pine air freshener, like someone's tried real hard to clean up after all the greasy hoods inside. I caught up with a couple of my regular customers in the waiting room, so at least I can't say today has been a total waste.
"I've heard a lot from your previous probation officer, and I wouldn't call most of it good," my new handler says, shuffling through the stack of papers in the SHEPARD, TIMOTHY file; it's impressively thick, except for once, I'm not so impressed by its contents. "Seems you can't go longer than six months without running into some kind of trouble with the law."
"Maybe I just like livin' on the edge," I say, and then immediately cringe— funny how for all of Dally's shit-talking on the outside, he's always getting time off for good behavior, and I can keep it zipped except when I need to most.
I expect some remark about how I'm going to die in prison, but instead he steeples his fingers, studies my face like he'll have to draw it from memory later. "Let's talk about your family life for a moment. When I spoke to her, your social worker was very concerned."
"Everything's fine," I say, on reflex, but vines of anxiety wrap around my intestines as I do. The lie never becomes much easier, no matter how many times I tell it.
"Really?" He raises his eyebrow and maintains a maddeningly neutral game face. "Because from her… let me tell you, vivid descriptions, your mother is a neglectful alcoholic, your father's been dead for years, and you've been caring for your two younger siblings alone since you were very young, that's all in her reports—"
"I ain't alone, I got uncles, they're around." Damn that old bitch, always sticking her nose in our business since Curly first went inside, looking down at how we live. And damn him too, he has a hell of a lot of nerve, shooting his mouth off about us like that. "Had plenty of 'uncles' too, if you catch my drift."
His eyebrow still won't come down. "We got a whole separate file on the Ramirez brothers, trust me, I'm well aware of who they are. I'm worried you ain't in the best environment to avoid parole violations, 'specially since your entire family on your daddy's side is known felons."
"So what are you gonna deduce from this, huh?" I put a foot up on the desk, which my last PO probably would've sent me back inside for. "'Cause I heard it all, trust me. We're victims of a dysfunctional environment, of systemic poverty, of just plain ol' bein' spics—"
"I think Officer Jones was right about you," he says mildly, "you might be a JD who dropped out of tenth grade, but you're brilliant."
"Don't try to sweet-talk me like you're tryna get me into bed, Officer Jones ain't had a nice word to say 'bout me for the past five years." Me? Brilliant? All I can remember is Gabi telling me I'm some fucking genius for knowing how cells divide. Smartest thing I ever did was drop out.
"He told me you were quoting Machiavelli when you were fifteen to try to justify your asinine behavior." The corner of his mouth turns up. "He also said the only decent thing 'bout you is how much you care about your little brother, but I'm not sure if I buy that."
"Excuse me?" If he wasn't one of Tulsa's finest, I would've flattened him in a second. As it is, I just grind my teeth hard enough to file them down.
"He's fourteen and already been locked up twice." The SHEPARD, CARLOS file isn't nearly as thick as mine, but Curls is three years younger and catching up fast. "In his own words, you've encouraged quite a bit of that delinquency."
"I keep my brother in line." I clutch the armrests so hard I'm afraid I'll tear them off. "Ain't my fault he don't listen to me and gets himself mixed up with the law." I tell him to be careful, watch his back in fights, not drink too much booze, not run that big mouth of his all over creation. What the hell else am I supposed to do, tie him to his bed at night?
He crosses his legs and leans back like I'm a fish he's just hooked, flopping around helplessly. "Have you ever thought that being his gang leader might have somethin' to do with that?"
"I ain't eleven no more, sittin' at the school counselor's, talkin' bout my dead daddy." Count to ten, get control of that temper before you do somethin' stupid, Papá always told me— he never had any patience for fights in the schoolyard or shit like that, snapping his belt out the second he thought I was losing my cool. Funny how he died at thirty-two and I'm still here. "I been followin' my probation, I don't get high, I don't associate with known felons—"
"Apart from your own family members," he says again, and he's got me there. "I'm not just tryin' to ride your ass, Tim, it's not in my best interest to see you go back inside. I doubt you'd enjoy Big Mac more than you've enjoyed juvie."
"Probably won't." I stare at the clock behind his head, watching the second hand tick-tick-tick its way to when I'll be free. "So how you want to rehabilitate me? I already tried picking trash up off the highway."
"Have you ever had a job before?"
When Ma's waiting for me at the door with one of Ed's old belts clutched in her fist, I know I'm not headed for my bed any time soon. "You get in here and whoop your brother." She crooks her index finger at me. "Them kids been drivin' me up the wall all day, and where you at? Up to no good, I bet, you always are."
"I had to meet with my new PO, Ma, don't start givin' me shit." Happy belated birthday to me, huh? "Why can't you handle it? He's your damn son."
"He just laughs at me, that's why." I'm surprised to hear it; last I checked, his strategy was to burst into fake tears two blows in and start praying for Jesus to take the sin from his heart, and she'd always eaten it right up. "You're the only one he ever listens to."
"I don't have time for this, whatever he pulled." I try to elbow my way past her, but don't end up having the balls. "I'm goin' back to bed."
She sniffs at me like she's just smelled a pile of shit. "Are you hungover?"
"Are you?" You really wanna go down this rabbit hole?
"Hijo perdido—" She runs her hand down her face. "I don't need social services sniffin' around here any more, whenever he cuts school, I got that snotty little…" She cuts herself off before she can cuss, but it's a close thing. "It's your fault he's like this, he hangs off every word you say. You handle it."
I'm too tired to fight with her any longer— the two of us can get real vicious, snarl at each other like pitbulls in a ring and go for the throat, but I just grab the belt out of her fist. Better I deal with Curly if she's got a few drinks in her. "You owe me," I remind her, "you owe me for all this shit—"
One day, I might come to collect, I want to say, but I don't bother. She's already grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the coffee table, unscrewed the cap, put it up to her lips. She's not listening.
"Curly—" I fling our bedroom door open for dramatic effect— "I'm hungover as shit, I had to listen to my PO talk shit at me for the last hour, I swear I'm actually gonna smack you up this time."
He gives me his best contrite face, but I'm not having it, his acting never works on me the way it manages to charm everyone else. "C'mon, just wanted to start the weekend a little early, is all—"
"What'd you sneak out for, huh?" I sigh about as loud as when Ma's trying to get Angel to do the dishes. "Vato, if I can't trust you to sit your ass at a desk when you're supposed to, I ain't boutta trust you with your own corner. You ever wanna see the inside of a high school?"
"You dropped out when you was sixteen, didn't you?"
He's got me there, and it's why I've never pushed the kids that hard about graduating— to be honest, I'm not even sure why I want them to in the first place, like Curly's ever gonna be anything but a gangbanger. He had to repeat seventh grade because he didn't learn shit in juvie, and probably would've had to without being locked up. I settle for, "High school's a helluva lot more fun than junior high, better broads, better fights. You didn't answer the damn question."
"Tios told me to meet them out by the chainlink fence, after lunch. Wanted me to watch a deal go down with the Kings."
I scrutinize him. Kid's a good liar, all of us Shepards are, but he's not quite meeting my eyes. Not to mention that if I cared enough to verify his story with them, I could easily prove it false. "Ain't in the mood to deal with anythin' but the truth right now, Christ, don't drag this out."
"Don't lose your shit at me." He shifts uncomfortably on his beat-up mattress. "Ain't your business, anyway."
"You think you get to tell me what I can or can't lose my shit about?" I'm tired of playing games with this little asshole. "I'll beat it outta you in the next three seconds."
It's an empty threat, I don't have the stomach to hit them unless Ma's standing over me with her arms crossed, but he still eyes the belt warily and I can't feel too guilty about it. "Fine." He twists a handful of the sheets up in his fist. "I was with my dad, happy?"
I'm the furthest thing from happy, but what comes up my throat is the sour taste of jealousy, like when you start to spew. "Your dad don't want nothin' to do with you. Least that's why I thought we egged his house."
You ain't even my real brother, so why don't you just fuck off? My gaze drops to his left arm, it's still a little weak even months after the cast came off. If I hadn't decided to get into a pissing match with a fourteen-year-old, he never would've climbed that telephone pole.
"Yeah, well, maybe he changed his mind— I mean, damn, I showed up at his door for the first time in years and told him I was his son, what was he supposed to do?"
"He knew." My throat is tight like it's been squeezed by a giant fist. "He knew your whole life, don't fucking kid yourself, he let Ma take you home 'cause he didn't want any part of it. What'd he tell you, huh?"
"That he was sorry." He picks at a hole in the sheet now, his leg bouncing up and down like he's taken a handful of reds. "He drove me out to a diner… he says he wishes he could've gotten to know me."
"You sound like a hooker," I say, and it's the kind of remark I usually reserve for the biggest problems in the gang, not Curly. "He bought you a meal and told you some bullshit to make himself feel less guilty, now you wanna forget all the shit he did? The shit he said?"
He looks up and his voice gets all sharp, bolder than I thought he could be with me. "Get off my back."
I got enough brains even with a tenth grade education to figure out that I'm just making him more appealing— so I give up and shrug, toss the belt onto my own bed. "You do what you want, vato," I say, but my voice is stupid choked and I know he can tell I'm not being genuine.
Maybe if I say it enough times, I'll at least be able to believe myself.
I'm blaring a Stones record and smoking a joint when I hear a rap at the door; my first reaction is to pretend none of us are home, like I usually do when a bill collector or one of our less savory primos rolls up, but it's persistent and sounds like a broad's fist. That's how I find Gabi Lopez on my porch.
"… Hey," I say, and run a hand through my hair. She looks different than she did that night, minimal makeup on, wearing a plaid school skirt, but she's still pretty enough she's got me flustered. "What are you doin' here?"
It's way too soon for her to suspect she's knocked up with my kid, but those Catholic girls, all the sex ed they get at home is not to do it. I don't know what crazy thoughts she might have going through her head, but I can already hear Luis's sage advice.
"You left your wallet at Buck's, the other night." She pulls it out from her purse, and I blush; God, it's a damn good thing Luis didn't hear about any of this, or he'd really hand me my ass on a platter. "I guess you must've dropped it— figured you'd want it back."
"How'd you know where to find me?"
"Says where you live on your license. I didn't even think you'd have one."
Well, Dallas sure doesn't, a decent amount of hoods I know just learned from an older brother or cousin, but I like to have one on file in case shit hits the fan— if you're driving around something illegal, five-o gets a hell of a lot more interested in poking around if you can't even show license and registration. I don't tell her that, though, just snatch it from between her fingers. "Thanks— I'll see you around, yeah?"
I don't mean it to sound half as desperate as it comes out, but she still deigns to give me half of a smile before she pivots off my welcome mat. "Yeah, Tim, maybe," she says cagily, and walks away before I can say anything else.
"That your new girlfriend?" Angela's approached me with her usual quiet footsteps, digging her freshly-painted toes into our cheap carpet. "You could've walked her home, Romeo."
I went to the joint in February and my tomboy kid sister turned into a north side chola while I was gone, all teased hair, skirts that make Ma cluck when she comes out for breakfast, and a brand new attitude to go with the whole ensemble. I tell her just how much I hate it every day and twice on Sundays, but she's not so interested in listening to me as she used to be.
"Mind your business, chismosa." I brush the back of her head with my palm, the gesture far too light to be called a slap. "She ain't my nothin', she's just a broad I know, is all."
"In the Biblical kinda way?"
The next slap is definitely hard enough she can feel it. "Ain't you got homework to be doin' or somethin'?"
She shoots me a withering look, then brightens again. "It's Friday. I'm goin' out with my girls."
I don't scold her half as much as I should, really, or ask where she's headed. It's the most I've seen her smile about in months.