We Were Here (4 page)

I set my plate in the dirt and looked at Tommy’s fat face. Dude thought he was gonna scare me. Come on, man. I turned and looked at Rene. He was one of those little skinny Mexicans you see out on a soccer field during recess, running all around after the ball, never getting tired. I shook my head, spit on the ground by my feet.

Tommy nudged Rene, said: “Second time was when he snapped that kid Jimmy’s arm right in half, man. You remember that. Sickest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Rene got a disgusted look on his face and nodded.

“My stomach gets all messed up just thinking about it,” Tommy said. “He was only like fifteen years old at the time, a hundred twenty pounds or something. He and Jimmy were playin’ cards, right? And after Jimmy loses six straight hands he comes right out and accuses Mong of cheating. At first Mong said he wasn’t and seemed like he was just trying to laugh it off. And to be honest, I don’t even think he
was
cheating. But when Jimmy stood up and said it for a second time—‘You’s a cheater, Mong!’—Mong threw the table over,
grabbed Jimmy’s arm, hopped in the air and snapped the poor kid’s arm over his knee. Clear in two, man. Like it was nothin’. All the resies in the house were freaking out.”

I just stared right back at Tommy with a straight face. Dude thought he was scaring somebody. Shit.

Rene kicked at another fly, said: “Jimmy made a scream like I ain’t never heard in my life. We all had to cover our ears. And the bone was stickin’ straight out of his arm.”

“And Mong just stood over him sayin’ the same thing over and over: ‘I didn’t cheat! I didn’t cheat!’”

“Les came to get him with the cops that time.”

“Took him away in handcuffs,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “We all said it was an accident, just happened during their fight. Even Jimmy said that.”

“Don’t nobody rat on each other in here, man. That’s another thing you’ll learn.”

I rolled my eyes again and spit next to my shoes but they just kept on talking.

“They took him back to Juvi for nine months that time. And nobody ever found out how it really happened. Point is, though, how many people do you know that are capable of something like that?”

“Weird thing is, he’s smart as hell, too,” Rene said. “If you get him talking, I mean. Probably the smartest kid I ever met.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, “but if they knew how he was really like he wouldn’t even be here. They’d put him in solitary confinement. Or they’d try him as an adult.”

I looked back and forth between these two busters, shaking my head, making like I was barely listening anymore even though I was.

Tommy ran his hand through his hair and said: “Demarcus
heard Les tellin’ someone on the phone he doesn’t think Mong’ll see eighteen. It’s ’cause he so crazy.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’,” Rene said, swatting another fly.

I picked up my plate and folded it in half, corn-dog sticks inside, ketchup squeezing out of the far end. “Lemme ask you guys somethin’,” I finally said, switching the plate from one hand to the other.

“What’s up?” Tommy said.

I stood up, looked at Rene again and then back at Tommy. “What makes you think I wanna hear about some Chinese kid takin’ a shit on the kitchen counter?” I shook my head and started walking away, said over my shoulder: “You ask me, that’s some straight-up gay talk, man.”

“It’s called lookin’ out, dumb-ass,” Rene said.

“Screw it,” Tommy added. “You’re on your own then, man. I don’t care what happens to you now. It’s game over for you, dude. Peace.”

Peace, I thought, laughing to myself. I slid open the sliding glass door and went back into the kitchen. Peace. I tossed my plate in the trash and walked through the hall to my bedroom and plopped down on my bed.

Peace.

What the hell’s that word even mean, man? There’s no such thing. It’s bad enough when I’m awake. Living in this bullshit group home in San Jose listening to all these dummies try and tell stories about people taking shits. But then when I close my eyes to go to sleep it’s even
worse
. I go back to what happened. Every single night. It’s the only dream I dream. I see his face, man, just inches above mine. In the kitchen back in Stockton. My head hitting the counter. His eyes all big and looking right at me. Looking
through
me.
Then looking away. In the kitchen. Middle of the day. His eyes—on me, and then not.

Nah, man, there ain’t no such thing as peace no more.

That shit’s dead and buried.

And my dumb ass with it.

June 7

Middle of the night and I’m dead asleep. Out cold and on my stomach, mouth open. Drool all on my pillow. And then suddenly I wake up. Not because I hear something, but ’cause I
feel
something. A ghost hovering over me in the room. At first I have no idea where I am—could be in me and Diego’s room back in Stockton, or stretched out on the grass by the levee, or in my bottom bunk at Juvi—but then it comes to me.

The Lighthouse.

I roll over quick and open my eyes and there’s Mong. It’s not a dream. He’s really standing over my bed with his arms crossed. Smiling. Chinese Mong. The brown tooth around his neck. Big ugly scars on both cheeks. Shaved head.

I freeze. Don’t say a word, or move none. My body completely paralyzed. Limp. Only my lungs tell me I’m still alive—my breaths coming quicker and quicker. I can’t help what’s happening with my lungs. In my head I try to concentrate on all the different parts of my body in case he’s already done something to me with a knife. And now he’s just watching to see me squirm in pain. But there’s nothing wrong.

I try to imagine I’m just dreaming. But I know it’s not true. I’m awake. And Mong’s really standing over my bed with his arms crossed. Smiling. Thinking the bad things he could do to me.

And I’m not gonna lie, I sort of panic inside. I can’t catch my breath. Like I’m hyperventilating. Or drowning. And I don’t know what I should do ’cause I keep thinking about the story Tommy said where Mong broke that kid’s arm right in half. I can hear the crack in my head, can hear it echo through the room. The big white bone sticking out of the skin. I can hear the kid’s screams, so loud everybody has to cover their ears.

I close my eyes again. Pretend to fall back asleep, like I don’t care. Try to make my breaths all long and drawn-out and my face muscles limp. I do this for a long-ass time, pretending it’ll all just go away, and at one point I almost think I
am
back asleep. But really I’m just trying to think what I should do. Like, do I jump up at him swinging? Yell something out? Call Jackson for help?

Then this weird thought comes in my head.

Maybe I actually
don’t
care what happens. I’m being straight up. If Mong does something to me maybe it doesn’t even matter none. ’cause I remember how I ain’t even a real person no more. Just a ghost. Same as Mong. Both of us just two beings floating around in the world but not really living no more. Empty snail shells who don’t mean nothin’ to nobody. Including our own selves. And if you ain’t nothin’ more than a ghost nobody could really hurt you, right? Even if they hurt you real bad. Like breaking your arm in half.

I open my eyes again and stare up at Mong. He’s in the same spot, standing over me with his arms folded. Still smiling. And I say in a calm voice: “I don’t care what you do, man.”

He stays standing there with his arms crossed, but his smile slowly fades off his face.

I say it again, even quieter this time: “Go on and do it, Mong. I don’t even care. It doesn’t matter.”

Mong stands there a couple seconds longer and then he turns and walks out of my room. Just like that.

And I watch him go.

Looking Back at It Now:

Here’s the weird thing: at first I thought I was just telling Mong that for something to say. Like maybe it made me sound tough. And really it was just an act.

But when I closed my eyes and rolled over and felt my breathing was already back to normal again, I realized something about myself. I really meant what I said. I didn’t care what happened one way or the other. After what happened back in Stockton it’s like I’m already dead. What I told Mong was the straight-up truth. I wish it wasn’t, but it was. And what makes me sad as hell is that back when I was a kid I cared so much, man. About every little thing. My mom and pop, Diego, the levee. Just being alive. And breathing. Following my big bro around. But things are different now.

Everything’s changed. Forever.

June 10

There’s this thing I gotta say about my brother Diego, man. It cracks me up just thinking about it. Dude’s got more girls than there is hours in a day. Trust me. Every time you turn around he’s got three or four hanging off his arm or following him around during lunch. And I’m not talking about no ugly chicks either. The finest ones in school, man. Don’t matter what kind: he’s got white girls, black girls, Mexican girls, Asian girls, whatever you could think up.

When I first got to high school I spent a lot of time trying to figure the shit out. For one thing, Diego’s a good-lookin’
dude, all right? I’m not even gonna lie. He’s a little lighter-skinned and taller with bluer eyes than I got. He’s thin but with mad cuts and a smooth face. Another thing is that he talks in this super chill voice. One of his girls, Jamile, told me when Diego talks to women it’s like he’s singing some love jam in their ear—even when he’s just mentioning about something normal, like getting Mexican food at the spot or some random movie that just came out.

But it’s more than just Diego’s voice, I think. It’s also how he always knows exactly what to say.

Like imagine some heina’s acting all mad ’cause Diego forgot it was her birthday or he didn’t call her all weekend even though he swore to God he would. I’ve seen it a million times. The girl’s got her arms crossed in the parking lot after school. She’s frownin’, all pissed and refusing to look at him. Leaning against her friend’s souped-up Civic and tapping her sandal on the asphalt.

You’d probably think my bro was done, right? Well, you don’t know Diego. He’ll just smile calm, lean in on her all chill and whisper something smooth in her ear. I’ll be standing off to the side watching ol’ girl just melt like a Popsicle, man. She’ll uncross her arms. Start to smile a little. Maybe play-punch Diego in the shoulder.

That’s when I know it’s all over, by the way. Whenever a girl play-punches Diego it’s a wrap.

Soon they’ll be laughing and hugging on each other, and just before she hops in her girl’s Civic she’ll say: “So you promise you’re gonna meet me at Maria’s later, right? Don’t play me this time, Diego.” And Diego’ll hold his hands out all innocent-like and say: “Course I’m gonna meet you there. You my girl, ain’t you?” And her face will beam and she’ll blow Diego a kiss before slamming shut her door and her and her girl drive off, waving.

Diego, man.

But this is the part that gets me. He’ll walk over all chill right after, right? Won’t even mention what he just did. He’ll talk about ball instead, or he’ll ask me what I think about Moms only sleepin’ on the living room couch these days, or he’ll see if I wanna go fishing in the levee later. The dude won’t even mention how in less than a minute’s time he just got the finest white girl in Stockton to go from crossing her arms and frowning to blowing him dumb-ass kisses.

Diego, man.

My big bro.

When I was a kid I used to try and think how he did it, you know? What’d he say? How’d he say it? I used to copy his clothes style and how he did his hair. But after a while I stopped, man. I realized that’s just how it is for Diego. He’s mad smooth like that. Like he can see in a girl’s head and know exactly what she’s thinking without barely even trying. Girls just come to him. And the less he puts in, the more he gets out. It’s the exact opposite of how you’d think, right? But I’m telling you.

Nah, when it comes to girls, my brother’s lounging on the inside. He’s getting fanned down by the finest girls you could ever imagine. While the rest of us are sitting around outside, in the hot Stockton sun, sweatin’ our balls off.

I swear, man. Sometimes when I’m doing chores and thinking about my brother I just sit there and crack up.

June 21

I know I haven’t written in here for a grip, but there’s a reason for that. Nothing’s really happened. And nothing’s really
happened because I’ve been chillin’ solo. I don’t mess with anybody or even make any eye contact. It’s just easier this way. I wake up, do my chores, eat by myself on one of the cinder blocks outside, do more chores, go to my counseling appointment with this manly-looking lady named Jenny (ol’ girl gots a handlebar mustache, I swear to God), eat alone again, read whatever book I’m reading and go to sleep. That’s pretty much it. Once the school year starts again I’ll go to class. But it’s summer, so we got mad downtime. Each house only gets two outings per week, and most times it’s something lame like going to the park down the road, where everybody just stands around on the handball court. The rest of the time we’re at the Lighthouse doing chores or eating or having free time.

I know the judge said for me to write in here four times a week, but what’s dude want me to do, man, make shit up? Even the whole thing with Mong has chilled out since the night I caught him standing over me.

My roommate, Jackson, got booted a couple days back ’cause they found meth taped underneath his sock drawer-second time in two weeks he got caught. The first time they found it in his shoe. They do that here, by the way. A counselor from another house comes around every few days and goes through all your stuff to make sure you don’t have nothin’ illegal. Since Jackson left I’ve had my own room, which is crazy mellow.

Ways to Escape Your Mind in a Group Home:

At first I’d come in here and just lay on my bed staring up at the ceiling, thinking. But I realized when I do that I usually start thinking about something I don’t really wanna think about, like my moms or Diego, so I decided to start reading books. Back in Stockton I read a few for school. I even read
some on my own, though I never let my bro catch me. I’d always sneak the shit—in the bathroom, or under the covers, or I’d hide it inside a sports magazine. Trust me, where we’re from it ain’t cool to read no book unless some teacher’s making you.