Miami, Florida.
1984.
I had been knocked out cold four times in my life, and regardless of how it happened, I always woke up with the same panic in my heart. It was a product of living with my father, a constant expectation that something was wrong. I liked to know where I was, to be in control of situations, to have an impact on the things that happened, not to just be someone things happened to.
But this time it was different.
I woke up with a face full of a frilly pillow case that smelled like gas station perfume, my chest aching in a steady rhythm, and a stiff feeling in my cheeks like mud had dried on my skin. I came into consciousness very slowly, first recognizing the sound of the wind dancing through the trees outside, and then the feeling of sunlight on my bare back. I opened my eyes to a white plaster wall and waited for it to stop pitching back and forth.
I was in the little back bedroom of the Reyes house, where Nate and I had spent many nights pretending we liked their nephew, Harvey, so we would have a viable excuse to sleep over. It was barely big enough to stand up in now, and as I heaved myself up onto my elbows I felt like a giant in a dollhouse.
Nate was standing in the doorway, holding my bookbag in one hand, with his strapped on his back. One side of his hair was sticking up and he looked ghastly, like he had hardly slept, but when our eyes met he gave me this perfect, gleeful smile.
"Good morning!"
"Nate," I groaned, flinching at his high voice. "You should be in school. What time is it?"
"Six-thirty. I got your bookbag, too." Nate set the bag down, and eased his off of his shoulders, coming over to help me sit up. He stared openly at the red and blue blotches forming along the contours of my ribs. "That looks really bad."
He was right. I looked terrible. Just sitting up added a weight to my spine that I had never felt before. I ran my fingers over my ribcage, prodding the tender, swollen flesh, marveling at the transformation. In a few days those red marks would be black. I also had a new streak across my stomach, a long, straight red line. It must have happened when I tried to get out of the rafters, when vertigo caught me and I slipped. It was the last thing I remembered from the night before.
Nate kept me balanced on the way to the bathroom, and sat outside fiddling with his bag while I tried to salvage what was left of my face.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
One of my cheeks was swollen, puckered along the top like I was storing acorns in there, and the gash on my forehead opened to reveal bright pink flesh just beyond the surface. Someone must have tried to wash the blood from my face, because it was faded, with only a few fresh streams trickling down to my chin, but they were too gentle. I wet my hands and scrubbed as hard as I could, grunting through the pain, until only the swelling and the cut were left. I could pull a cap down over my forehead, and claim the puffy cheek was from a bee sting.
Even though my face looked the worst, it my was chest that worried me. I was never a scrawny kid like Nate, instead set a little dense like Dad, with wiry muscle, but the flesh was puffed up now. It was hot to the touch, more painful each time I touched it. It looked like I had been hit by a car and backed over a few dozen times.
"Do you have to go to the hospital?" Nate asked.
I limped into the living room, grabbing my bag and smiling when I found a shirt Nate had packed. "No."
Nate buttoned my shirt for me because my eyes refused to focus on the teeny buttons. "We could skip school and go to the arcade instead."
"No."
There were two empty coffee cups on the table. Mr. and Mrs. Reyes must have had a long talk with the police – and with each other – the night before. I stuck my head under the faucet and gulped down as much water as I could without feeling sick, and Nate mimicked me.
I called my mom before we left, shuffling through Nate's backpack to make sure he had his inhaler. He was a mild asthmatic and he was very good at forgetting his medicine.
"Hello?"
She sounded rough. I imagined her night had been chaotic as well. She had to deal with Dad. I had it easy with the street thugs.
"Hey, ma, do you have Nate's inhaler?"
A concerned mother might have asked why she heard sirens and firecrackers the night before.
"It should be in the front pocket of his bookbag."
I unzipped the front pocket, mildly curious about the collection of twigs Nate had accumulated. His inhaler was buried under them. I put it in the main compartment and zipped it back up. "I got it. Do you need anything later?"
"Could you stop and get some milk? I left a coupon on the counter. I'm going to play bingo with Edna. Oh, and she wanted to know if you could walk her dogs. She left five dollars for you at the house. You could use that to buy the milk."
I wanted to say something to her, because I knew she had to be curious about what happened last night, or why my voice sounded like it did, but I held my tongue. If she asked later I would tell her, and if she didn't, she was probably better off not knowing.
"Got it. Bye."
I walked beside my brother on the five-mile journey to his middle school. I had started walking this path when I was a little over seven, when my dad screwed up the Charger and Mom became too ashamed to ask the neighbors for rides everywhere. She didn't let me do it because she trusted me, but because she had put it out of her mind. She knew I went to school, that I got there somehow, but she never wanted to know anything beyond that. It was her approach to parenting.
I had never let Nate walk by himself. He was airheaded and naïve, so the first van that rolled up offering free candy would win his favor. I also didn't like the idea of becoming my mother, so I took an active interest in the well-being of my brother, and of myself.
It took a while for my muscles to loosen up, but once they did the pain became tolerable. I walked in long strides, one hand wrapped tightly around my chest to keep the bones from shaking around and jarring each other. Nate walked in silence for once, perhaps aware, even subconsciously, that I was in no mood to listen to him whine. He meandered away from me, but whenever I swayed or missed a step, he was right beside me again, looking wide-eyed, like he was afraid I was going to collapse. I didn't like him to see me like this, but I had no choice.
I stopped across the street from the school, leaning against the pedestrian crossing sign. Nate lingered at my side for a little while. "Can I stay with you?"
"No."
"But you're hurt."
"It looks worse than it is. Go ahead. I'll pick you up later."
"But can't I just-?"
"No."
Nate's shoulders drooped as he walked up the front steps. I waited until he was inside, and then started toward my own school another half-mile up the road. I could have gotten there on time, but the motivation to sit at a desk all day and contemplate the Reyes situation was just not there. I gave up halfway and slumped against the base of a payphone outside of a convenience store. It was a rural area, bordered by one of the many teeny forests in Miami. I let my eyes slide shut.
It must have been an hour later that I stirred to the sound of tires spinning on gravel. The same fancy car I had seen sink into the shadows the night before – Pete's car – had just slid into the parking lot. He had found me already.
"Crap," I murmured, scrambling to my feet and staggering into the woods. I had even less energy than before, but the vines seemed to part to allow me passage.
Pete shouted my name.
"Can't you take a day off?" I shouted back, hooking my arm on a tree I had almost run face-first into. I tried to put on a little more speed, but my foot got caught in a root and I tumbled into a clearing. I was blinded momentarily by the pain in my chest.
Pete stepped into the open, holding that gun again. "I think I owe you a bullet, Michael."
I held up my hand, scrambling to get away. One of his guys came to my other side, huffing, and put his boot on my shoulder, pinning me with little effort.
"You should really change up your route, Mikey," Pete commented. He cocked his gun. "You're so predictable. I knew we'd find you on that road."
Pete looked like a gangster from an old cowboy movie, complete with a gray ascot tied around his neck and expensive boots clicking in the leaves. He was big and ugly, a former defensive lineman for my high school, with a jaw like Dad and stringy blonde hair that was rapidly disappearing. His new life had made him look more like a middle-aged man than a teenager, but he was young. He was my age, and not much bigger than me.
Our lives had taken drastically different turns.
"Wait, wait!" I struggled to get out from under the boot, prying at it. "Wait, wait, Pete. You wanted your money, right? Isn't that what you said last night?"
Pete sighed. "We went over this."
"You want your money, and I can get it for you. I can get you the money and the guns."
He cocked an eyebrow. "So can I."
"Are you really gonna storm a house loaded with that many guns? Guy's got booby traps all over the place. I saw him rigging up explosives, grenades, uh, tripwires. If you storm in there he's gonna put you all down."
"I think I can handle one old man."
"One old man with that many weapons? Do your guys wanna die?"
Pete glanced around, noting the uncertain looks on his friends' faces. "So you want to deal? Lay it out for me."
"Phil trusts me. I can get the weapons and the money for you. Nobody has to get hurt. I just want to walk away."
He was still holding the gun, but I was sure he was leaning toward my offer. He took a step closer, kicking up leaves, his expression dropping from hatred to morbid curiosity. "I always knew you were slimy, Mikey."
"Slimy and alive," I gasped.
"If you get me those guns by tomorrow morning, you can walk away." I almost let myself be relieved by that, but Pete advanced on me, thrusting the gun into my throat. "But if you're trying to pull something, trying to get the cops involved, I'll see how much damage I can do before they take me down. I know a sweet old lady and a little kid who rely on you. I wonder what their last words would be, Mikey. Aren't you curious?"
Every muscle in my body tensed up, but I did my best to control myself. I had learned that from my father. Reacting to his every taunt was what made it worse.
"If you hurt them, the deal's off. I can get you everything you want without anybody getting hurt. Just let me solve your problem, Pete. Leave my family out of it."
"Oh they'll be left out of it, as long as you deliver."
I watched them go, mystified by my own words. What had I gotten myself into? Did I expect Phil to hand over the merchandise he had stolen because I asked nicely? What did I expect to happen once Pete got those guns? Even if he left my family alone, he would probably kill Phil. Even if he found it in his heart to let Phil live, he would have a whole cache of weapons to play with. I thought about getting Pete arrested with the guns, or for beating the snot out of me, but I knew the gang would just send someone worse to collect the debt.
There had to be something they would care more about. If I could get them to drop this small issue in the interest of something greater, I could keep Pete from making a move on Phil.
I found my way to my feet again, stumbling around in the woods until I found houses. I took the road home, giving up on the thought of going to school. They would probably call the police at the sight of me, anyway. It was better to hug my bed for a while than to end up in the hospital with a huge bill hanging over my head.
It was quiet at home. Dad was snoring from the bedroom, but the door was shut. Mom had left the coupon for the milk on the counter, and a five dollar bill from Edna. My abdomen hurt just thinking about walking the woman's twin labs.
I stayed in the bathroom for a while, carefully peeling the scabs off my body to make myself look a little more decent. I took a short, painful shower and flopped into bed, hastily setting my alarm to pick Nate up from school. My eyes were heavy and before half an hour had passed, my mind started to wander in a dozen different directions.