We Were Here (32 page)

The third thing I did was go into this store on my way back to the park to get a $5.99 watch, a thing of wintergreen Tic Tacs and a big red flower for Flaca that was wrapped in newspaper. I picked red ’cause everybody says that’s the most romantic kind. When I got back to the baseball field I laid it on the far dugout bench, where we were gonna sleep together.

The flower was a little wilted at the edges, and my ass straight up smelled like chlorine, and I didn’t know how me and Flaca were gonna sleep together on such a narrow bench, but still, man, Rondell was right. I guess I
was
a little happier than on regular days. Maybe that’s what a pretty girl could do to somebody.

I checked my watch, saw I still had over an hour until ten p.m. and pulled my journal. To kill time I decided to write down everything I thought while I waited.

9:03 p.m.:

For some reason I was just remembering something to do with my old man. When I was a freshman we had this big basket ball game: the students versus the teachers and parents. It was something they did every year to welcome people to Stockton High. Anybody who wanted to play could sign up and they were guaranteed at least a quarter of playing time. And when you checked into the game your pop would check in too. If your old man wasn’t around or he didn’t wanna play or whatever, one of the teachers would fill in.

Anyways, I remember I was stressing the whole time I was on the bench waiting to play ’cause everybody else’s dad had on regular gym shorts and high-tops, but not my pop. He had on his damn army fatigues and work boots. There was even this big controversy when me and him were checking in at the start of the second quarter. One of the refs said he couldn’t play because he had on black-bottomed shoes and that those kinds of soles were bad for wood courts. All the refs gathered around and the teachers came over and my dad was saying he just wanted to play some ball with his son and how he shouldn’t be punished for serving his damn country and was it really something to do with him being Mexican?

The principal had to come all the way down from the stands and tell the refs it was okay to let him play. They shrugged and waved us both in and checked the ball inbounds.

I remember feeling so embarrassed of my pop, man. To the point that I didn’t even feel like playing. I was new to the school and the area, so I didn’t know anybody. And here was my old man running around the court in a wife-beater, army pants and combat boots, fouling the shit out of anybody who tried to dribble past him. Yelling at the refs every time they made a call on him. I ended up telling some other kid to come in for me so my dad would have to leave the court too.

In the locker room after the game some of the other kids were talking about the crazy-ass Mexican army dude who was hacking everybody, and when this one kid asked was that my dad I told him he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, my dad was dead. And that shut him up. Nobody said another word about it the whole time we were getting dressed.

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in the bleachers, waiting for him. Almost everybody else had left. But my pop was talking to these two seniors that said they were interested in maybe joining the army. He was telling them all the cool stuff you get to do and the countries you get to visit and how if you’re into the whole school thing they had a great program called the GI Bill.

I remember kicking it there solo, listening to my pop preaching about the army, staring at all the black scuff marks his boots left on the court. They were all over the place. His soles really
did
mess up the wood. And I was just staring at ’em, wondering for the first time in my life what it’d be like to have a different dad. One who at least had regular damn gym shorts. High-tops that wouldn’t scuff up a wood court. I even thought how it’d be if what I told the kid in the locker room was true, that my pop really
was
dead. My mind, man. It went there. Even when I tried to stop it.

Three months later he was sent to the war.

A month after that a guy in full uniform came to our apartment to tell Moms the bad news.

I remember sometimes after I’d still go to the gym, when nobody else was in there, and stare at the faded black marks his boots made, remembering how I said he was dead even though he was still alive. Most people couldn’t even see ’em anymore, the scuff marks, but I could.

9:45 p.m.:

Yo, I just ate my whole thing of wintergreen Tic Tacs. I bought ’em so my breath would be minty fresh for when Flaca got here, but I forgot how good they taste. And how damn addictive they are. My breath better smell good for the whole night, man. Maybe even into tomorrow morning. I keep blowing into my palm and smelling, and I gotta say, yo. Flaca better check herself. I might mess around and make somebody fall in love with this breath.

I wonder did Flaca try on a bunch of different outfits like girls always do? Or did she spend a grip of time doing her makeup in the mirror? Is her hair done up the way she did it for the party? Maybe she even did her own version of the Tic Tac thing.

Anyway, I’m up here at the top of the bleachers now. I wanna watch her get out of whatever car drops her off. See her before she sees me, if you know what I mean.

10:05 p.m.:

I know Flaca told me ten p.m., but I can’t remember if she said to meet her at the baseball field or on the playground where we were hanging out on swings. Maybe it was the playground. That’s where we were talking about everything.

Problem is that’s a completely different part of the park. I don’t know should I run up there and check and then come back down to the field if she’s not there? But what if she shows up when I’m gone and thinks I played her?

Nah, I gotta run up there and at least check. ’cause now that I think about it, maybe she said for us to meet at the playground and then spend the night in the dugout.

10:30 p.m.:

I brought
Catcher in the Rye
up in the bleachers so I could finish it. Man, I haven’t really read this thing since we got here. I’ll probably have to back up a few pages so I remember what’s going on. But after that I only got like thirty pages till the end.

By the way, I made a pact with
myself
this time. If Flaca doesn’t show by the end of the book, I’m gonna go on a damn solo walk somewhere. You can’t sit in a park all night waiting for somebody. Nah, man, if ol’ girl doesn’t show before I’m done reading, then I’m out. Maybe even for good. I could just leave a little note telling Rondell where to meet me and when. I ain’t decided that part yet, but I can’t be hanging here all night waiting for fools.

Girl gots thirty pages before our shit is game over.

11:34 p.m.:

Here’s what I think about
Catcher in the Rye
. It really is a great book, like Jaden said. My only thing is I still don’t get the title. After I finished the last page I went back to the section where he explains it and I read it over and over, but I’m still not sure, man. Is he saying he’s like one of those kids who’s running through the fields? Like maybe he used to be innocent like that and people just let him go by without catching him? Or is he saying he’s older now and pictures himself saving little kids? Or maybe it’s just some metaphor I’m not totally getting.

No matter what, though, it’s still a great book. It totally won me over at the end. Mostly ’cause of how much Holden cares about his little sis. I got a theory that if a big brother looks out for his little sis he’s probably a good person, you know? No matter what bad stuff he might get into. I was thinking the whole time when I was reading it if I’d look out for
my
sis like that if I had one.

And it’s cool when you find out the whole time Holden’s been talking to his therapist—which sort of makes me think about Jaden and how he was always trying to get me to talk about my past.

Nah, man,
Catcher
is definitely one of the best books I’ve ever read. I might have to keep it with me. Then I could look at different sections when I finish the rest of the books I got stashed in Rondell’s bag.

12:15 a.m.:

I just realized I’m the watcher-over person of this park. That’s why we stopped here. It was meant to be. Almost like Holden Caulfield and the rye fields. Only I’m not trying to save random innocent kids who’re running around. I’m trying to make a place where so-called bad ones could come when they wanna get away from the world or even themselves. And not just group-home kids like me, Mong and Rondell. But regular ones too, like I used to be. Ones who maybe messed up once or twice, and now that’s how people think of them. When they get here they can talk to me and Rondell and each other. Or they can just keep quiet. Maybe they only need a rest. It could be up to each individual kid. And whenever they’re ready they can go back home.

I’m under the bleachers now, on my stomach, writing in this journal. Probably sounds schizo or whatever. Me kicking it in the weeds like this. The only person in some run-down park in the middle of San Diego. But I don’t even give a shit. This is where I realized I gotta be for right now. So I could think about being the watcher-over of this field. And I can see across the baseball diamond in case somebody tries to come in here and mess everything up.

12:30 a.m.:

We’re fucked.

I was chilling under the bleachers, writing in my journal, when out of nowhere this thought came in my head. I slid out from under the bleachers and marched over to the far dugout, pulled my bag. Unzipped. Reached in for the leather petty-cash envelope and looked inside.

I sat down.

The money, man. It was gone.

All of it.

The envelope was completely empty except this little Taco Bell receipt with writing on the back.

I flipped it over and read what it said:

No hard feelings, Miguel. You guys did your thing getting this money, and now we’re just doing ours by taking it for ourselves. You understand
.

Jules

P.S. Flaca wants you to know she really did like you
.

I read the words over and over again until my legs went numb. Until my chest got so it was hard to breathe. The money was gone. All we had was the twelve bucks I had left after buying the soap and the watch and the Tic Tacs.

I stood up and looked across the field. And even though I stayed standing like that for a long time it felt like I was tumbling down into a giant hole. The kind my pop said they had to dig during training for the army. I was tumbling into it and there wasn’t nothing to even grab onto. Then a big smile came on my face, I don’t even know why. I felt my nose and lips and hair with my fingertips. I crumbled up the Taco Bell receipt and put it in my mouth, chewed it up, swallowed. I swear to God, man. I ate that shit. Then I laughed a little
about how dumb it was to eat a damn Taco Bell receipt. But at the same time I didn’t even give a shit.

The money was gone.

I sat down on the bench again and felt a lump come into my throat. I dropped the empty petty-cash envelope back in my bag, pushed the bag back under the bench.

A thought kept repeating itself in my head, over and over and over, in Diego’s voice:
What are you gonna do now, punk?

You heard me, punk. What are you gonna do now?

Punk bitch!

I stood up again and went out of the park toward the liquor store where I bought the watch and Tic Tacs and hit the pay phone to call Jaden collect.

You know you’re a punk bitch, right?

That’s what’s up
.

You heard me
.

I wanted to ask Jaden about the title of
Catcher in the Rye
. But when I picked up the receiver I realized I didn’t have the number with me, so I hung up the phone and went into the store and just wandered around looking at the candy bars and the canned beans and the gallons of milk and six-packs of beer. I went to the magazine rack and picked up a couple different sports ones and read the headlines. Then I picked up a porn mag, flipped it open and looked at the big glossy pictures inside. It was a magazine with only black women in it. This one had bright red lipstick and these giant hanging boobs that were pretty much the size of my head. And I’m not gonna lie, it started getting me sort of hyped downstairs, in my jeans. But then I thought how in some of the pictures the woman seemed like she was looking right back at me. Her eyes staring into mine. And I felt bad ’cause she could probably tell I was a punk bitch like Diego kept saying—though it’s not like I felt bad enough to stop looking at her big ol’ titties.

The Mexican guy behind the counter said: “Hey, partner. Hey. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” I told him, barely even lifting my head.

“Yeah?” he said. “Why don’t you come over here and show me some ID.”

I looked up and without even thinking said: “Either that or you could go fuck yourself.”

“What?” he said, and he started coming around the counter with an aluminum baseball bat in his right hand.

I just stood there staring at him, though, still holding open my porn mag. I wanted to see if the guy would actually hit a kid with an aluminum bat. I was watching his face to see how it would change before he swung.

He slapped the barrel into his other hand, said: “What’d you just say to me?”

“I didn’t say shit to you, man. I’m just trying to read my magazine.”

“You stupid little smart-ass, I could have the cops down here in thirty seconds. How’d you like to spend the night in jail?”

He pulled his cell out of his pocket, punched in a couple numbers, held it to his ear.

I threw his stupid mag on the floor and walked out of the store.

I went right back to the park and ducked under the bleachers again with
Catcher in the Rye
and my journal. I tried to read the section where the title comes again, but I couldn’t concentrate on the words, so I got up and went back to the dugout and laid on my back with my eyes wide open, trying not to think about anything except what the graffiti on the roof said. I could barely make out some in the dull light that shines
over the field 24/7. It was mostly initials and cursewords and weird designs, but my eyes kept going to this one line in the corner that said in small block letters:
EVERYBODY IS NOBODY.
I stared at that line for the longest time, thinking who could have written it, and when, and why, and how strange is it that here I was, however many years later, staring up at it in the middle of the night.