Trouble Is... Page 5

Chapter 5

  Three C’s, two D’s, and an F. I folded the computer-printed six-week report card and stuck it in my jeans pocket. I had seven absences in most of my classes because we’d ditched to the beach a couple times a week. And there were the days I was suspended. That seemed like a million years ago. I’d written my own excuse notes and signed Frank’s name to them, so he had no idea about the absences. I still had only six tardies in first period, but it wasn’t because I was finally getting to biology on time. I wasn’t going at all. I spent first period under the football bleachers with Maria. The F was in biology.

  Maria wasn’t at school that day because she’d gone with her stepfather to take her mother and little sister to the airport. They were going to El Salvador because of some family emergency. Maria had called the night before and said that her grandmother might have to go to the hospital. Anyway, I’d planned to meet Marco for nutrition. His second period room was close to the cafeteria, so he said he’d hold a place in line for me.

  When the bell rang for nutrition, I shoved my books in my backpack and hurried out the classroom door. My second period room was on the third floor and by the time I’d gotten down to the first floor, Mr. Wilkerson was already on door supervision for first floor C-wing.

  “How come you always have to come out my door?” he joked, grabbing me by the back of the neck and punching me in the arm. “Go out someone else’s door once in a while. I don’t need the grief.”

  “Yeah, you do,” I joked back. I made like I was going to box with him. He threw a fake punch at my stomach. He sure could mess around for someone who always wore a necktie and a white shirt buttoned up to his neck and down to his wrists.

  “How’d you do on your report card?” he asked, holding out his hand. He was like that. He always wanted to look at kids’ report cards and talk to them about grades and how they were doing. Some teachers and administrators didn’t stick their noses into your business like that, but he did. My American history teacher was like that, too, and I was already planning to ditch out of sixth period so I wouldn’t have to deal with her questions. What they didn’t understand was that nothing was wrong. I could pull my grades up if I wanted to. I would, too. Later, when I felt like it.

  I didn’t want to show the report card to him, so I tried to move past him and out the door. “I gotta get to nutrition,” I said. “Marco’s waiting for me.”

  He grabbed my shoulder playfully. “Go out my door and you have to pay up,” he said. “Let me see your report card.”

  I tried to twist away, but he tightened his grip. “OK! OK!” I dug into my pocket, pulled out the report card, and gave it to him.

  Wilkerson unfolded it and whistled softly as he looked it over. I glanced out the door to the cafeteria food line. It already stretched into the quad. Marco would hold a place for me if I could sneak in without a supervisor seeing me, but the line went fast and Marco might already be through.

  “What’s up?” Wilkerson asked, handing the report card back to me.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. A tall kid in a black Raiders jacket tried to squeeze past us into the hallway. Wilkerson turned his attention away from me, but clamped his hand on my shoulder to keep me from leaving.

  “Hold it, young man,” he said to the kid. “Where’s your hall pass.” Wilkerson blocked the door. It never occurred to any of these teachers or administrators that some of these kids could kill them with one punch.

  “I don’t have a pass. I…”

  “Halls are closed at nutrition.”

  “But my teacher said…”

  “You need a pass to come into the halls at nutrition,” Wilkerson repeated in the same, calm voice. The kid shoved his hands in his pockets and rolled his eyes to the sky, like he was trying to figure out how anybody as stupid as Wilkerson could ever have been born, let alone gotten a job at a school. The kid didn’t cuss out loud, but I saw his lips form the words. So did Wilkerson, but he didn’t react. I thought maybe this would be a good chance to get away, so I started through the door, but Wilkerson hauled me back.

  I could see this kid’s mind working at full speed, trying to come up with an excuse. He came up with a feeble one. “My teacher says I gotta make up a test,” he said.

  “Tell your teacher you need a pass to come into the halls at nutrition,” Wilkerson replied. The kid finally gave up and turned away. He went down the steps to the quad, cussing under his breath.

  Wilkerson turned his attention back to me. “What happened to your grades?” he asked. I shrugged. “You used to get A’s and B’s.” I shrugged again. He handed me my report card, and I tucked it in my pocket. It wasn’t like he was my father or something. I didn’t have to tell him anything.

  I heard loud laughter up the stairs, around the corner from the first landing. “Stay here,” Wilkerson said. He walked to the stairs. “Come on down from there,” he called up to the second floor. “You need to be outside.” He waited a second, heard nothing, then took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. I heard his voice. “Get on down the stairs and outside. It’s nutrition. No one’s supposed to be in the halls.”

  Five kids came piling down the stairs in front of him. Wilkerson pointed them out the door. “Hallways are closed. You know that.”

  “We’re not in the halls,” one of the girls said as she walked out the door. She looked back at Wilkerson. “We’re outside.” He smiled.

  Turning his attention back to me, Wilkerson asked, “What’s your brother going to say?”

  “I don’t care,” I mumbled.

  Two girls, both of them in Chicago Bulls jackets, entered the opposite end of the hall and tried to disappear up the front stairs. “Young ladies,” Wilkerson yelled down the hall. He pulled out his walkie-talkie, punched a button and spoke into it. “I’ve got two heading up the front stairs second floor C-wing.”

  “I gotta go,” I said. I edged toward the door. “Marco is waiting for me. I’m gonna miss nutrition.”

  “Show that progress report to your brother. Talk to him. You don’t make it to college with D’s and F’s,” he said.

  “I know,” I mumbled as I ducked out the door and down the stairs.

  Marco was almost at the front of the line, just before it disappeared inside the door to the cafeteria. I cut in without getting caught. The supervisor had her attention on a shoving match at the back of the line. We got our breakfast, which was an apple, a cheese muffin, and a carton of red juice, and sat on a concrete wall in the quad to eat. Marco and I hadn’t hung out for a while. It was getting better, but it still wasn’t like the old days.

  On the steps of the outdoor concrete stage, a bunch of kids danced to loud rap music in a circle. A lot of kids stood around them, clapping and dancing in place. A bunch of ESL kids sat in the sun on the green grass that stretched out from the stage to the front wing of the school.

  I heard the rumble of a police helicopter and looked up to see it circling in the blue sky above the school, then head off, probably for the next high school. Like saying to us, “Don’t do it. Don’t fight. We’re here.”

  Funny thing is, I always felt safe at school. Everyone must have. I mean there were these little five-foot tall lady teachers who must be in their fifties and sixties walking around with all these big gangbangers who shave and wear baggy pants around their hips even through it was against dress code. I saw one little old white lady teacher walking past a six-foot tall gangbanger just as his size-56 pants fell down around his ankles. His homeboys howled. When he bent down to pull his pants up, she walked right on by, not staring, but not averting her eye, either. Like it didn’t bother her at all. She had gray hair, too. That’s how old she was.

  “How’d you do on your report card?” Marco asked.

  We hadn’t talked since we sat down to eat and his question took me by surprise. “Huh?”

  “Your report card. How’d you do?” he repeated.
I took a bite of apple, dug into my pocket, and handed the report card to him. “Frank’s gonna be pissed,” he said, as he handed it back.

  “He’s not going to find out,” I said, as I ripped it up into tiny pieces and stuffed them into my empty juice carton. I was getting tired of having to talk about it anyway. “How’d you do?” I asked. Marco said he’d gotten all A’s except for a B in American history. The bell rang for third period so we tossed our trash and took off together for algebra.

  I ended up going to American history sixth period because Maria was gone, so there was nothing to do if I ditched. And the teacher, Miss Boudreaux, was kind of cool. If she asked me about my report card, I’d just tell her I lost it and that I did OK.

  Miss Boudreax didn’t have her own room. She traveled from room to room during the day because the school was so crowded. Our class was on the first floor and she had to come down from the third floor, so we always had to wait in the hallway until she arrived from her fifth period class, carrying a briefcase slung over her shoulder and a gray plastic tub, filled with desk stuff. She called it her cubby.

  We were used to the routine. “Take my cubby,” she’d say as she pulled a plastic, stretchy ring off her wrist with a key on it. One of us would take the cubby from her and she’d unlock the door. We’d get inside the room about the time the tardy bell rang.

  Across from the hallway door, on the opposite side of the room, was a door that led outside to the ROTC area. One of us opened the door because the thermostat in the room was broken and it never got below ninety degrees except in the winter. Sometimes a small breeze came through the back of the room, but not often. Trouble is, the ROTC marching area was just outside, so we’d have to put up with “Hup, two, three, four” throughout most of sixth period. The times when the whole ROTC squad was marking cadence in unison, Miss Boudreaux couldn’t make herself heard. She’d smile, though.

  I was waiting for her to ask us about our report cards, but she got so involved explaining our Revolutionary War projects and dividing us into groups that she forgot all about them. It wasn’t a great room for groups because all the desks were bolted down, facing the front, but she did groups a lot and we got used to sitting on the writing part of the desk, putting on feet on the seat and facing each other.

  I ended up in a group with Marco, Eddy, and two girls. One of the girls was the A student. Marco was the B student. The other girl and I were the C students and Eddy was the D student. We didn’t even have to look at reports to know what we all had for grades. That’s how teachers set these things up. And then we were all supposed to help each other pass.

  I didn’t like being with Eddy. He looked like all the other Westside Raza gangbangers with his hair slicked back, his black pants baggy around his hips, and his big white T-shirt. He didn’t do anything, just sat there and looked at me. I tried to ignore him, but I knew he was trying to bait me because I’d been hanging around with Locos 18. His notebook was covered with gang writing and while we sat there I watched him write Locos 18, then cross it out. I don’t know why it made me angry, but it did.

  I looked away and tried to concentrate on what Marco and the girls were saying about meeting at the library after school and at Marco’s place on Friday night to practice for the final oral report. Marco was from Mexico. One of the girls was from Syria and the other was from Korea. It was only me that was going to have trouble with Eddy.

  When the 3:00 bell rang, Marco waited to walk out with me, but I told him I had to talk to Miss Boudreaux.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “It’s Eddy,” I said. Marco shoved his books in his backpack. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then he closed it again. “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Forget it man,” he said. “I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

  “Marco,” I said, exasperated, but he slung his backpack over his shoulder and left. Well, the hell with him. He didn’t understand what it was like. I wasn’t banging with the Locos, but Eddy wanted to act like I was, so it wasn’t my fault. I told Miss Boudreaux what was going on and she put me in a different group.

  I’d really missed Maria at school, so I couldn’t wait to see her at McDonalds. She told me her stepfather was being OK to her. I was worried about what he might do with Maria’s mother gone, but she said he’d never bothered her, only hit her sometimes when he got drunk.

  After work, I put my arm around her and we walked to her place as slow as we could so we could have more time together. She said not to worry about my grades. She’d flunked biology the year before and finally they put her in physical science and she got a D in that. She said it didn’t matter anyway because that was the kind of stuff you didn’t have to know.

  A couple of buildings away from the stairs that went up to her apartment, we’d found a place in the recessed doorway of a pawnshop where we could make out. Most nights after work, that’s where we’d be until Maria said she had to go, her mother would be looking for her. That night I didn’t want to let her go. When she put her arms around me, I backed against the iron grate that locked across the front door of the pawn show. The hard metal bars pressed into my back. I was warm all over. Every time she started to pull away, saying she had to get upstairs, I’d pull her back into my arms. We must have stayed there an hour so so. I don’t know. It seemed like forever and it seemed like only a second.

  It was dark, with only a little light from the street reflecting into the doorway. My hands were under Maria’s shirt, under her bra. I finally got the courage to drop one hand to the hem of her mini-skirt. I was just starting to lift it when something blocked out what little light there was. I smelled alcohol. I opened my eyes, looked up, and let out an involuntary sound. A man was there. A big man. My fear scared Maria and she spun around, letting out a scream. She tugged her shirt down.

  “Get the hell upstairs,” the man said gruffly. His voice was coarse, like gravel.

  She leaned back against me, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the street. “I said get the hell upstairs,” he repeated, shoving her. I took a step toward him to protect her, but she caught my eye and shook her head no. “It’s OK,” she said. “It’s my stepfather.” He took a step toward her. She disappeared down the street toward the stairs to her apartment. I wanted to throw up.

  Her stepfather had on a sleeveless white T-shirt. He might have been old, but his muscles looked huge. On one arm, right over the muscle, there was a tattoo of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns. Blood dripped from Jesus’ forehead down his face. When Maria’s stepfather took a step toward me, clenching his fists and flexing his muscles, the tattooed drops of blood looked like they were moving, like they were real.

  He said something, but his words were slurred. My heart was beating so loud in my ears, I couldn’t have heard him anyway. I shook my head to clear it. He spoke again. “Keep your hands off her,” he said. His face was inches from mine. The smell of liquor made me dizzy. He put his arms on either side of my head, gripping the metal bars of the grate. He didn’t touch me, but his huge arms imprisoned me.

  He leaned his face closer to mine, “I ever catch you with your hands up her shirt again, I’ll kill you.” I was so scared I couldn’t talk, just looked from his eyes to the hard line of his mouth. Yelling would have been easier. Even hitting. I desperately wanted to say something, but my mouth was dry and my tongue was paralyzed.

  He grabbed me by the arms, digging his fingernails into my muscles. I tensed, ready to fight, but he didn’t hit me. “Understand?” he said quietly.

  I finally got my head to nod yes. He let go of me, turned around, and left. I thought my heart was going to explode out of my chest. I put my hands on my knees for a second, dropped my head down, and tried to calm down. I breathed slow and deep until my knees stopped shaking. I finally stepped out on th
e street. He stood at the foot of the stairs looking at me. I wanted to go upstairs to Maria, keep her safe, but I knew I couldn’t get past him. “Don’t you do anything to her.” I said. I wanted to be strong, but my voice was shaking. “We didn’t do anything, just kissed.”

  He didn’t say a word, but didn’t look away either. “We didn’t do anything,” I repeated. He took a step toward me, so I quickly turned the other way, not running, but ready to run if I heard him behind me. At the corner I glanced back. He’d stopped, but he was still looking at me. I turned the corner to get out of his line of sight. A block later I had to stop. I leaned against the wall of a dry cleaner and closed my eyes. I’d been holding my breath. I let it out and tried to breathe in again. Maria was upstairs in her apartment and I had to go home to mine. She had to face her stepfather and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I’d never felt so helpless in my life.

  Frank was usually asleep when I got home at night, but that night he was waiting up for me. “Where the hell you been?” he asked. He didn’t yell, probably because Jennifer was asleep, but I could tell he was angry. He didn’t wait for an answer either, just grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the living room.

  I made my mind work fast. “Someone didn’t show up for their shift and they needed help, that’s all. I stayed late at work.”

  Frank pushed me down into a chair. Either he believed me or else he didn’t care why I was home late because then he got to what was really bothering him. “Wilkerson called from school today. Said you’d been absent a lot of times. That you had a note from home each time. I haven’t written a note since last year when you had the flu.”

  By now my mind was working full speed, thinking up excuses. “I’m just tired from going to school and working and sometimes I fall asleep out on the bleachers where no one can see me, that’s all. I write notes that I’ve been sick and sign your name because I want the absence to be excused so I can make up the work.”

  “Make up the work? Wilkerson said you had an F. Let me see your report card,” he said holding out his hand.

  “I don’t have it,” I mumbled. Frank didn’t move. “I threw it away,” I added, hoping the truth would calm him down a bit.

  He dropped his hand and walked away from me a couple of steps, shaking his head. I put my elbows on my knees and stared down at my shoes. The rotating seashell lamp on the TV changed colors in the dim room, reflecting off my shoes. Yellow, then orange. Yellow. Orange. It was so quiet, I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.

  Frank broke the silence. “I’m not working so hard so you can screw around. Screw up again and you can forget everything. College. Everything. I’ll send you back to El Salvador.”

  Maria’s stepfather and now this. I lost it. “I already work thirty hours a week, you son of a bitch.”

  Frank smacked me across the mouth. I pushed my way out of the chair, ready to fight, but he shoved me back down and jabbed his finger into my chest, punctuating each word. “I’m tired of you causing me trouble. I got too much to do. I don’t need you causing me trouble.” He stepped back.

  I jumped up and bolted for the door, opened it, but froze when I heard Frank’s voice. “You go out that door, you don’t come back. You understand me?” I stood looking out in the hallway. I hated what was behind me, but I was scared of what was out the door. It seemed like I stood there for hours. By the time I turned around, Frank had disappeared into his bedroom. I pulled one of Frank’s beers out of the refrigerator, popped the top, and sat on the couch, staring at the changing colors of the yellow and orange seashell lamp until morning.