Jumped In Read online

For talking too much back then.

  I drift away from this desk and this ’hood and McClean’s sophomore geometry class. I’m back in front of ancient Ms. Ames’s eighth-grade homeroom at Rainier Middle School the fall after my mom dropped me off.

  Ms. Ames introduces me as the new kid.

  “I won’t be here for long,” I tell the class. “This is a short-term deal.”

  Days roll by.

  I keep telling kids that it won’t be much longer.

  “My mom’s on her way to get me.”

  I repeat this out loud, over and over.

  “I’ll be moving back to Aberdeen real soon.”

  And I believe it.

  So I don’t try to make friends.

  I don’t want new friends.

  I don’t wanna have anything to do with these Des Moines eighth graders who are ignorant and have never even heard of the Melvins or Mudhoney, or Tad, which I can’t even believe.

  When kids try to talk to me, I tell them my mom is on a big tour with her rock band and I’ll be heading back home in a couple months, even though by now it’s clear to everybody this line is complete bullshit.

  But I stick to the story because I don’t know what else to do.

  I tell made-up tales about what far-off city she’s in now (LA, Boston, Amsterdam, Moscow—the cities keep on getting farther and farther away), and I make up the name of her all-woman band: Superflame (wtf?).

  When they ask, I tell them my mom is an amazing drummer. When they don’t ask, I tell them the Superflame bassist used to be in Hole and the lead guitar player is from Sleater-Kinney, which means nothing to these kids because they don’t know a damn thing about their own Northwest rock-’n’-roll history.

  So they start teasing me.

  Always asking me when I’ll be leaving town. Wondering aloud what I’m wondering silently—if my mom forgot about me.

  I keep to myself.

  I stop with the stories.

  But it doesn’t help. I become the kid who’s moving back to Aberdeen to become a rock star, so don’t bother getting to know him. And the kid whose mom ran off and joined the circus or something.

  They make crack after crack about it. I’m the center-of-attention joke for months. And it’s my own damn fault for talking too much.

  So I withdraw even farther. And I pray for my mom to come back.

  She doesn’t.

  I pull away from everyone, and after a while, I pretty much quit talking altogether.

  It’s been two years. I’m a sophomore. I shouldn’t still be stuck like this. But the pit I’ve dug for myself feels so deep, I can’t climb out of it.

  I want to.

  I want to climb out and join the world.

  But I can’t.

  I don’t know how.

  FIRE!

  BAM-BAM-BAM!

  It’s the middle of the night and there’s pounding on my door.

  “Fire, Sam!” It’s Bill. “There’s a fire, boy!”

  I bolt up. Can’t see a thing.

  I’m frantic. Scrambling. Running into walls.

  Banging my way into the door.

  Somehow locating the knob.

  Twisting it.

  Flinging the door open.

  “Hi, Sam.”

  It’s Ginny. She’s standing there in her apron, working some pizza dough in her hands. Bill’s eating a Fudgsicle.

  “Son, we need to talk to you about something,” Bill says.

  “Isn’t there a—”

  “No fire. You’re just really hard to wake up.”

  Seriously?

  Ginny gets all smiley and excited and sings, “Sam-u-el! There’s a very special day-ay, coming soo-oon! In just a few wee-eeks.…” She whistles “Happy Birthday to You.” “This is a special one. You’re turning sixteen! Sixteen years old! Can you imagine?”

  “I guess.”

  “Close your eyes, Sam, and just imagine it.” She closes her eyes. “Oh, to be sixteen—”

  “All right, Gin,” Bill says, looking at her like she’s flat nuts. “Sam, we want to make this birthday a great one. Anything you’d like, you name it. Laser tag. Space Needle. Fishing trip. Whatever. It’s up to you.”

  “Okay.”

  We stand there and it’s clear they’re waiting for me to say something. So I ask what time it is.

  “Six thirty. Dinnertime,” Ginny sings. “We’re having Chinese pizza!”

  “No thanks. I’m really tired.”

  “But, Samuel—”

  “Ginny, let’s give the boy some peace. Night, Sam.” They retreat into their part of the house.

  I flop back on my mattress and stare up toward the sky.

  A movie of me and Rupe and Dave projects onto the ceiling.

  We’re all standing around a Chinook salmon piñata hung from the cedar tree in the massive backyard of our Aberdeen rental.

  Rupe’s got the blindfold on. He’s flailing around with the stick, missing the piñata repeatedly, whiffing and hyperventilating, while Dave rolls on the ground, laughing his ass off. I’m laughing my ass off too, as my mom snaps shots in the background with her old Polaroid camera.

  She’s smiling. She looks really happy.

  All of us do.

  The brain movie fades to white, and I can’t help thinking maybe I made all this happiness stuff up.

  I go to my closet, reach deep into the moldy, musty darkness. I grab the backpack I brought from Aberdeen when Bill and Ginny hauled me out there to get some clothes and stuff after they realized I’d probably be staying with them for a while.

  I unzip it and root around, hoping the photos are in there.

  They are.

  There’s a hilarious shot of Rupe and Dave shoving cake in my face and one of me with my mom. I’m showing off the Soundgarden poster she gave me and she’s holding a homemade German chocolate cake with twelve candles. I’m looking up at her big brown eyes. Her freckles. Long brown hair. The look on my face says I must have the coolest mom in the world.

  I take the picture to the bathroom and look in the mirror.

  I’ve got her eyes. A few of her dark brown freckles. Got zits I didn’t have then. We all have a summer’s worth of tan in those pictures. I feel like I’ve been pasty pale ever since. My pudgy face is all stretched and long now. Skinny. Bony. Too bony. Makes me look even more like her. But the pudgy face I had in that photo … it was smiling. We all were. We were happy. We had a great time out there in Aberdeen.

  Back in my room, I shove the photos in the pack and think about Ginny and Bill.

  And I wonder if there’s a nice way to tell them to stop bugging me about my birthday.

  I turn the light out and swat the box. Kurt sings me away.

  I’M SO DEAD

  IN CLASS, CASSIDY’S RECITING RIDICULOUS POETRY.

  It’s been a week since Luis moved in. He hasn’t beaten me up, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to. Hasn’t said a word to me. I haven’t even looked at him. I’ve followed the Rules and the kids seem bored with us now. Hardly any staring at all.

  “‘In a summer season when soft was the sun’—hear all those esses, people? Yeah?” Cassidy tilts her head toward her shoulder and her frizzy hair pouf bounces from side to side. “THAT is a beautiful little device used by poets. And what do we call it? Dear scholars, I thank you for asking.” She strolls between desks, a smug smirk pasted on her face and a twinkle in her eye. “We call it … alliteration!” She howls it as she walks past Luis and me like we’re not even there.

  It’s the same with Mrs. Nguyen and Mr. McClean and the rest of them. It never fails. The new kid in class always gets a grace period. Even if it’s just a schedule change, like Luis. The teacher will ignore the kid, let him chill for a few days before she starts tightening the screws and getting on his case with the questions and the Where’s your homework? and the rest of the crap.

  It’s all right for now. But when Luis’s grace period is over? And teachers start coming after him?
r />   They’re gonna notice the hooded lug sitting next to him.

  And they’re gonna come after me.

  “Even rap artists use alliteration,” Cassidy says. “Let’s see here.” She takes a quick sip of water from her mug and dramatically clears her throat. “And two, three, four!” she shouts, cupping a hand to her mouth, beat boxing, then knocking out a bordering-on-offensive imitation of a rapper: “Let me slip you this tip/Don’t risk it/If you rip lines and trip/keep yo’ bizness tight-lipped.”

  My.

  God.

  “Thank you!” she barks.

  Some suck-up claps.

  “Thank you all, my adoring fans. That assonance—repetition of vowel sounds—is brought to you by the brilliant hip-hop artist Percy, people! Wait a second: Hip-hop? Percy? People?” she says, popping her p’s. “Consonance, anyone? Goodness gracious, golly, guys—Oh, no, you di-int alliterate again! Soon this situation must call for a student to stand up and stop this silliness before someone succumbs to the insanity! Seriously.”

  Cassidy laughs at her hilarious joke as she takes a gulp from her mug. “Scholars, check out ‘The Death of the Hired Man’ on the second page of today’s handout. It’s by Robert Frost, who happens to rock my world.”

  She takes a step toward Luis and me.

  Shit! What is she doing?

  She flashes an evil grin and teases, “Let’s see here…”

  She’s coming right at us.

  I’m having an anxiety attack as she ponders whom she’ll torture.

  “Mr. Cárdenas!”

  All eyes on the gangster!

  “Let’s see if you’ve been listening.”

  Grace period over. It’s the beginning of the end for me, I just know it.

  “Luis, what is the term we use to describe a poet’s repeated use of a sound in a line of verse?”

  “Uh,” he grunts. Some smartass chuckles. Cassidy throws the kid a dirty look. I shrink in my seat thinking Luis doesn’t have a clue. Cluelessness means you got a lecture coming.

  “It’s alliteration,” Luis says.

  Holy crap, he was listening!

  “You are correct, sir!” Cassidy hollers.

  A collective “whoa” fills the room.

  “Well done, Mr. Cárdenas.” She’s beaming. It’s clear she’s excited that Luis might actually have a brain and her dream of being the teacher from Freedom Writers—her favorite movie—may finally come true.

  “Can you give us an example from the first stanza of ‘The Death of the Hired Man’?”

  It’s the effing follow-up question! And it’s so easy an idiot could get it right. Luis is clearly no idiot. He’s gonna know the answer, and the questions from Cassidy are gonna come flying our way fast and furious from now on.

  He tilts his head back.

  This is it. It’s coming.

  Cassidy waits for the answer.

  But Luis isn’t giving her anything.

  He’s looking in the lights, like he’s searching for the answer up there.

  What the hell?

  He’s taking forever. Inside I’m thinking, It’s obvious! It’s “Mary sat musing” and “Waiting for Warren”! It’s right there on the page, you dumbass!

  Everyone’s looking.

  My heart’s pounding. My face is a tomato.

  They’re whispering.

  What are they saying?

  Luis takes in a deep breath and doesn’t let it go. He holds the air in one cheek for a while, then bounces it back and forth from one to the other a few times. Finally, he lets the air out in a long, slow, steady stream.

  Come on!

  My heart’s trying to blast its way out of my chest. My head is scorching, stinging as the whispers shoot past me like machine gun bullets.

  I want it to be over.

  I just want it all to stop.

  I want Cassidy to go away.

  I want the stares to go away.

  Just then, a kid comes into class with a note.

  “Hold on a sec,” she tells Luis, holding a finger in the air. She examines the note and starts talking to the kid.

  It’s my only chance.

  So I take it.

  I do the worst thing ever.

  I talk to Luis.

  I whisper him the answer.

  “It’s ‘Mary sat musing’ and ‘Waiting for Warren’!”

  You idiot, Sam!

  You dumbass!

  What are you thinking?

  You broke your own goddamn Rules!

  I look straight ahead. Did he hear me?

  I look at the floor. Did Cassidy? Did anyone hear me?

  I breathe in.

  Out.

  I wanna die right here.

  Right now.

  I’ve got the image of Luis’s angry eyes glaring at me when he caught me staring at his scar. Somehow, I know this is worse.

  “Well, Mr. Cárdenas, what have you got for us?”

  Luis is not saying anything.

  Cassidy hovers. Looks concerned.

  Folds her arms.

  Unfolds them.

  Loses her smile.

  Finds it again.

  My God, this is taking forever!

  I sneak a peek at him.

  And can’t believe what I see.

  Luis’s face goes plastic—no expression at all—as he slowly shakes his head back and forth at Cassidy.

  Then back and forth some more, even slower.

  No.

  Freaking.

  Way.

  He’s shooting her the blank stare!

  “Earth to Luis … you in there?” Cassidy pleads.

  He just gives her more of the stare.

  “You told me what alliteration is, so read the first stanza again and find the example.”

  He just shakes his head no, like he’s an idiot. I gotta respect him because he’s taking a strong stand. He’s not gonna let Cassidy know that he knows.

  She looks completely crushed.

  Then she smiles the way teachers smile when they quit on you. When there’s no hope.

  And she moves on. “All right, class. Who can help us out?”

  Then it hits me: He’s never late. Never talks back. No eye contact. Never raises his hand. Now he’s been caught listening and thinking … and evading the follow-up with a classically executed blank stare!

  Luis is following the Rules.

  ONE THING IN COMMON

  IS HE COPYING ME?

  Did he come up with the Rules on his own?

  It doesn’t matter. I breathe in and let it out, relieved, because maybe, just maybe, that was it for the questions from Cassidy.

  Because both of us are following the Rules.

  Maybe everything’s gonna be okay.

  Maybe my life can go back to normal.

  Just as I think it, Luis leans over to me and says, “Do that again, and I swear I’ll kill you.”

  I WON’T DO THAT AGAIN

  WOULD I HAVE BEEN ANGRY if Luis had so blatantly broken a Rule and threatened my peace?

  Yes, I would have.

  Would I have felt like killing him?

  Yes, I would have.

  Would I have killed him?

  No, I wouldn’t have killed him.

  Kids say “I’m gonna kill you” all the time. But when they say “kill,” they don’t really mean kill.

  But Luis isn’t just a kid.

  He’s a gangster.

  And what do gangsters do? Besides tag buildings, steal cars and guns, and deal drugs?

  They kill people.

  And that fucking scares me.

  On the other hand, if Luis is such a badass, why would he work so hard to follow the Rules? To try to not be noticed? To try and disappear?

  Like I do?

  Why is it important to him? What makes him that way? Why would he care? He’s a big, cold-blooded, cholo gangster with a scary neck scar.

  A cold-blooded cholo who just threatened to kill my ass.

  TELL U
S ALL ABOUT THE LIFE, GANGSTER BOY

  IT’S A COUPLE DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT. Luis and I sit in Cassidy’s class, eyes trained on the board, following rules 3 and 4.

  We’re ready for anything Cassidy might dish out as she starts in on metaphors. We both follow rule 7.

  She asks for “an example of a metaphor for our society.”

  We follow rule 6.

  Smartass Mick Weatherspoon does not follow rule 6. He fires his hand up and Cassidy calls on him. He asks if gangs could be a metaphor for society.

  Possibly a deep question.

  But at the moment, I can’t give a rat’s ass because Cassidy’s knee jerks and she immediately turns to get feedback from Luis. Like he’s the class expert. Like he’s dying to educate us all about gangbanger life.

  She walks right at us.

  I can’t believe she’s coming back at him so soon after he blank-stared her down.

  I freak out about all the looks from the class. But I’m not worried about Luis. He’s gonna prevail again.

  Cassidy’s standing directly over him and she says, “Luis, what’s your take on—”

  It’s all she can get out.

  She’s frozen.

  Stuck in her tracks.

  Luis hasn’t done anything. Hasn’t said a word. But Cassidy is stopped cold.

  You can see the wheels turning in her head. She’s looking up at the ceiling, thinking the whole thing through.

  It’s quiet.

  The furnace clanks in the corner.

  A jumbo jet slowly whooshes overhead.

  Cassidy looks down at the ground. She turns and walks away from Luis. And she completely changes the subject.

  It’s awkward. But for the moment, the attention isn’t on Luis. It’s on Cassidy. Everyone is checking her out, wondering what the hell made her stop like that.

  The bell rings and the class bolts up to go.

  Cassidy’s off the hook.

  But she doesn’t take the free pass.

  As Luis walks toward the door, she stops him. “Luis, I hope you don’t think that I’ve assumed anything about you. Because I haven’t.”

  He doesn’t respond. He just stands there for a long time. Then he looks up at her like he wants to say something, but he can’t. He struggles to talk, but no words come out.

  Carlos called Luis Callado. I looked it up. It means quiet, or like, the Quiet One. Well, Callado is all he is until he dashes out of the classroom.