Bait (3 page)

“Sure.” Diego nodded anxiously. What more was Vidas going to ask? When would he finally tell him whether or not he’d have to go to jail?

“Good.” Vidas jotted the appointment onto a name card and handed it to Diego. “Be on time, okay?”

When they said good-bye at the front door, Vidas started to pat Diego’s shoulder, but Diego casually positioned himself out of reach. He didn’t like men to touch him—even if it was only a clap on the back or an arm across the shoulder.

After seeing Vidas drive away, Diego retreated to his room. Sitting at his aquarium, he watched his fish dart between the tentacles of the anemone, and he thought about the visit.

Why had Vidas asked so many questions about Mac? Mac didn’t have anything to do with his court case. And why hadn’t Vidas scolded him about punching holes in the wall or tearing up the family photos? Wasn’t a PO supposed to chew him out for stuff like that? He wished Vidas would just yell at him and get it over with.

Later that evening, when his mom called Diego to set the dinner table, an odd thing happened: Without realizing it, he started to set a place in Mac’s old spot. When he noticed what he was doing, it kind of freaked him out.

“What’s the matter?” his mom asked at dinner.

“Nothing.”

He didn’t want to think any further about Mac, and he hoped Vidas wouldn’t ask anymore.

O
VER THE WEEKEND
,
Diego tried to block from his mind any further thoughts about Vidas. On Saturday morning, he biked to the pet store where he cleaned out cages and tanks, shelved merchandise, and helped customers. He liked both the job and the money it gave him.

That evening when he got home, he boxed with Eddie for a while, teaching him to bob and weave by moving his head in a figure eight. Eddie giggled so much he almost couldn’t breathe anymore.

On Sunday, Diego had planned to bike with Kenny to the beach, as usual. But it rained, so instead Kenny came over to hang out, play computer games, and trade seashells. They’d been swapping lightning whelks, sand dollars, and all sorts of other shells for years. Time and again, Kenny tried to bargain Diego out of his awesome Giant Murex, but Diego always laughed and told him, “No way! Forget it. Give up.”

The following week at school was uneventful, except for a biology test about vertebrates and invertebrates that Diego aced. Mac—the
good
Mac—had always wanted to see Diego’s exams and high-fived him when he did well. Now, Diego left his tests on the kitchen table for his mom, but only rarely did she comment on them.

When Thursday arrived, Diego decided to ride his bike to his four o’clock appointment rather than wait for the bus and then have to transfer to a second one. Besides, he liked to bike. He checked with the neighbors to make sure Eddie could go to their house after school, then he set off for the courthouse.

Unfortunately, the ride took longer than he expected. When he got to the court building, it was already 4:21. He punched the elevator button a dozen times before bounding up the stairs and racing across the waiting room.

A receptionist with graying hair was busy on the phone. Diego hovered over her, watching the minutes tick by on the big wall clock, until he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Excuse me? I’m here to see Mr. Vidas.”

Without interrupting her phone conversation, the woman glowered at Diego and gestured for him to take a seat. Diego narrowed his eyes at her, turned to the row of other boys waiting, and dropped himself into a chair. With each passing minute, his anxiety grew worse.

At last the receptionist finished her conversation. A moment later, she said into the phone, “Mr. Vidas? Your appointment is here.”

While Diego watched Vidas walk out of an office and down the hall toward him, he braced himself to get yelled at.

“Hi, Diego. Come on back.” As they walked down the tile hallway, Vidas gazed up at him. “What happened? Our appointment was for four o’clock.”

“I know,” Diego grumbled and explained that his ride took longer than expected. “Plus that lady back there kept yakking on the phone.”

“Mrs. Ahern? Part of her job is to answer calls. Your job is to get here on time. Right?”

“Yeah,” Diego muttered. Was that the end of the chewing out or just the start?

Vidas opened the office door and motioned him inside. “Have a seat.”

Diego plopped into a green vinyl chair and glanced around. The cramped office was messier than he’d expected. A stack of folders and a jumble of framed photos cluttered the desk. The computer monitor was shingled with scribbled Post-It notes. Coffee spots stained the carpet, and a crumpled candy wrapper lay outside the wastebasket.

When Vidas sat down, the swivel chair squeaked beneath him. He grabbed a glass candy jar from his desk and extended it to Diego. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” Although he liked almost any kind of candy, right now he wasn’t in the mood. He just wanted to get this over with and find out if he’d have to go to jail.

Vidas unwrapped a hard candy for himself, popped it into his mouth, and pitched the balled-up wrapper toward the trash can. It bounced off the rim and onto the carpet beside the previous one. Diego reached over, picked up both wrappers, and tossed them in.

“Thanks,” Vidas said, sounding a little embarrassed, and opened the file with Diego’s name. “I got your school records. You’re a bright guy—mostly As and Bs. Your teachers say you’re hardworking and resourceful. That’s great. You should feel good about that.”

Diego shrugged. He sensed a “but” was coming—and he was right.

“But you’ve also got some teacher comments indicating concern about your anger.”

Diego slunk down in his chair, awaiting the inevitable lecture about his anger.

Instead, Vidas stared across the room at him. “You look like you’ve heard all this before.”

“Yep,” Diego said.

“What do you think your anger is about?” Vidas asked.

Diego hesitated. Nobody had ever asked him that. He wasn’t exactly sure what Vidas meant. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve got a temper—like the judge said.”

Vidas glanced at the folder again. “I see you took an anger-management class. Was that helpful?”

“No, not really. Those things like breathing and counting backward? It’s hard to remember that stuff when something happens.”

Vidas rolled the candy around in his mouth. “You mean ‘something’ like the incident that got you charged with assault?”

“Yeah.” Diego slid a little farther down in his seat.

Vidas picked a pen up from the jumble on his desk. “I spoke with the victim, Fabio, and got his side of it. Now I’d like to hear yours. What happened?”

Diego thought for a moment, deciding where to start. “I didn’t like how he looked at me.”

Vidas raised his eyebrows. “How did he look at you?”

Diego’s heels started to bounce nervously on the carpet as he recalled the look—a casual smile that Diego knew all too well; a grin that masked something underneath. “You know.
That
way.”

“No.” Vidas shook his head. “I don’t know.
What
way?”

“Like
gay
!” Diego sat up in his chair, annoyed. “People made fun of me for it. They’d be like, ‘Fabio’s smiling at you. He wants to be your butt boy.’ Crap like that. So I told him, ‘Stop looking at me like that!’ But he just laughed and said, ‘Like
what
?’ He knew what he was doing. So the next time he did it, I walked over and popped him.”

Vidas leaned back in his squeaky chair, took a breath, and studied Diego. “Did you consider talking to a teacher about it?”

“No. What was I supposed to say? They wouldn’t do anything.”

“Fabio is a lot smaller than you,” Vidas continued. “How’d you feel hitting someone little like that?”

Diego shifted his feet, a bit uneasy. “I only meant to scare him, not hit him that hard. I figured—you know—he’d back away or run or something. But suddenly he was bleeding all over the place.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Vidas pressed on. “Let’s say you saw your little brother getting beat up. How would you feel about that?”

“Angry,” Diego said guardedly.

“Why would you feel angry?”

“Because. He’s my brother.”

“And so you don’t want to see him hurt,” Vidas added. “That’s called empathy. It’s an important part of what makes us human. It shows you’re capable of love.”

So?
Diego stared at Vidas.
What’s that got to do with punching Fabio?

“Why would it make you angry,” Vidas continued, “to see Eddie get hurt but it’s okay for you to hurt Fabio?”

“Because”—Diego folded his arms across his chest—“Fabio is a faggot.”

Vidas turned silent a moment and crunched the candy that remained in his mouth. “What’s that mean to you: ‘faggot’?”

“
You
know! Queer. A guy who messes around with other guys.”

Vidas took on that searching look as if trying to peer inside him. “Has anyone ever tried to mess around with you?”

“No.” Why was Vidas asking that? “I’m not queer.”

Vidas persisted: “Have
you
ever messed around with another guy?”

“No!” Diego repeated louder. Was Vidas trying to pick a fight? He leveled his gaze. “I told you I’m not a faggot.”

To his relief, Vidas backed off. “Okay. Anything else you want to tell me about hitting Fabio?”

“Nope.”

Vidas waited as if expecting more. “Are you sorry that you hit him?”

“Yeah,” Diego mumbled, wanting to forget the whole episode. “But at least he stopped looking at me that way.”

Vidas frowned as if disappointed and wrote in his folder. Diego turned to look out the third-floor window. In the distance, he could glimpse the bay, and beyond it, the Texas State Aquarium. He wished he were there now, watching the fish, instead of here.

He returned his gaze to Vidas. “Are you going to put me in jail?”

“I think you’re already in jail,” Vidas said, and continued to write. “A jail you’re making for yourself. If you want to get out, you’re going to have to open up. Otherwise, nobody can help you.”

Diego frowned. What the hell was Vidas talking about? Why couldn’t he simply answer his question?

“I noticed in your school records,” Vidas said, looking up from the file, “there’s no mention of your stepdad’s death. After his suicide, did anybody refer you to counseling or to the school psychologist?”

“No.” With his thumbs, Diego tugged the cuffs of his shirt down over his hands.

“What do you feel about his suicide?” Vidas asked.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“You tore his face out of your family’s photos,” Vidas countered. “You must’ve felt something.”

Diego remained silent. Why did Vidas keep wanting to talk about Mac?

“Pick three feelings,” Vidas said, pointing to a wall poster of several dozen smiley faces, each transformed into a different expression labeled with a particular emotion.

Reluctantly, Diego moved his gaze across the faces and chose three feelings: “Angry…furious…and rageful.”

“Wow,” Vidas said. “That’s a lot of feeling. It’s good for you to verbalize it.”

To Diego, it didn’t feel good; it only made him angrier.

“When somebody commits suicide,” Vidas continued, “we sometimes feel mad at them for leaving us. You think that might be part of your anger?”

Diego shoved his fists into his pockets.
Was
he angry that Mac had left him? The death had definitely made things hard on his family. His mom barely ever laughed anymore. Eddie had cried every day for months afterward. And during the rest of that school year, kids gave Diego weird looks, whispered behind his back, or acted like they were shooting a gun at their own heads. All of
that
made him angry.

“It’s natural to feel mad,” Vidas went on, “but beneath that anger is usually hurt.”

Diego wasn’t sure what to make of Vidas. Other adults had lectured him about his anger, but nobody had ever talked to him about hurt.

“The question for you,” Vidas continued, “is will you keep taking your anger out on other people? Or will you deal with the hurt that’s underneath?”

Diego shifted in his seat, uncertain what to answer. He didn’t want to hurt other people. But what did it mean to deal with the hurt underneath? What was he supposed to do when somebody made him so angry?

“It’s your choice,” Vidas continued. “Either you deal with your anger, or it’ll deal with you.”

Diego pulled his hands from his pockets and sat up, expecting Vidas to explain what he meant.

Instead, Vidas asked, “Do you remember anything about your birth dad?”

The question took Diego by surprise; hardly anyone ever asked about his real dad.

“Not really,” he replied, glad to switch the topic from Mac. “…Only this photo my mom had.” He could recall the image clear as day. “My dad’s standing beside her on a pier, wearing a sailor’s cap. When I was little I used to stare at that picture for hours. Sometimes my grandma took me down to the ocean to look at the boats and I imagined one day he’d come back….”

“How do you feel,” Vidas asked, “about your dad leaving?”

“I don’t know.” Diego shook his head. He’d never put a name to the feeling.

“Come on,” Vidas encouraged him, pointing to the smiley faces again. “Try.”

Diego scanned across the poster faces, but none of them captured the hollow spot he felt inside, the empty place that was always there.

“It’s like he never existed,” Diego explained. “So why should I feel anything?”

“Because,” Vidas responded, “he
did
exist, or you wouldn’t be alive.”

Diego recalled moments when he wished he wasn’t alive, when he wished he’d never been born.

“You mentioned your grandma,” Vidas continued. “Do you keep in touch with her?”

“Can’t,” Diego said softly. “She died when I was five.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What do you remember about her?”

“That she was the best cook in the world.” Diego smiled, happily remembering. “…That her hands smelled like tortillas, and her hair like violet water. She had long silver hair. She used to sing to me—lullabies and stuff. She wasn’t just my grandma; she was my best friend.”

“You miss her,” Vidas said.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Vidas lightly tapped his pen on the folder. “After your grandma died, who took care of you while your mom worked?”

“Huh?” Diego’s mind was still on his grandma. “Um, neighbors mostly. Until Mac.”

Immediately, Diego realized his mistake. He hadn’t meant to bring Mac up again.

“What do you remember about first meeting him?” Vidas asked.

Diego rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess the first time Mom brought him home: He scooped me up into his arms, shouting, ‘Diego!’”

It amazed him how vividly he could recall that—maybe because every other guy his mom had dated either ignored him or pushed him away like some pest.

“He would fly down for long weekends. While my mom worked, he took me to his hotel. We’d watch TV or wrestle on the floor. In the pool, he taught me how to swim. I wanted a dad so bad. You know, to talk to and teach me stuff. I thought he’d be it.”

Vidas stared at him, waiting to hear more, but Diego dropped his gaze, not wanting to go any further.

“It sounds,” Vidas responded at last, “as if some hugely important people have left you: your dad, your grandma, your stepdad. That’s a lot of loss and hurt for a boy to carry around.”