Before You (7 page)

B
y the time I make it to lunch, even Javier has heard about my stunt.

“I heard you got close to a white chick,” my cousin says.

Yes, too close.

“Something like that,” I say, grinning, acting as though it didn't affect me, too.

“Face it. You'll never be good enough for that
princesa
,” Ramon says.

You'll never be good enough.

I feel myself crack, a sliver of ice punched deep by the force of his words. He really should not have said that.

Ramon is holding a tray of food. I shove him. People stop eating to look.

“Hey, chill,” he says.

I knock his food to the ground. Spaghetti splatters. People are whispering.

“Let me tell you something,” I say. Might as well cut to the chase. “Nobody speaks to me like—”

Javier steps between us. “Relax, man.”

I take a deep breath.

Exhale.

Yeah, I have anger issues. But for good reason.

Ramon bends to pick up his food. Without a word, he walks away. Javier's eyes narrow.

“Do you have to be such a jerk?” he asks.

“Me, the jerk?” I say, exasperated.

Javier doesn't say anything else. I make my way to the food line; I'm about to grab a tray when someone knocks into me.

Jason Magg.

He doesn't apologize. But that's probably because it's no accident. Jason is flanked by two of his football buddies.

My teeth clench. My muscles coil. Now is not the time to mess with me.

“You know what they call people like you who hit on another dude's girlfriend?” Jason asks, and then answers. “Dead meat.”

I laugh. Because honestly, it's funny. The guy has no idea that his girlfriend likes it when I hit on her. I found that out today, when she didn't back away from me in the hall. Why not have a little fun with the pastor's daughter? And that little whimpering noise she made?
Ay.
I almost crumbled.

“You think it's funny to hit on girls who have boyfriends?” Jason asks.

“No. Just yours,” I say, like the smart-ass I am.

His chest puffs out and falls, a balloon being blown up and deflated.

I smile.

“Stay away from Faith,” he hisses.

“All right,” I say. “But you should probably tell her that, because like you already know, it's Faith who comes on to me. Not the other way around.”

Jason's fists tighten. His buddies move in.

“She's a peer helper,” he says.

“Okay. Sure.” I nod. “I wonder, though, when she's no longer my peer helper, and she's still coming 'round, what you'll say then? 'Cause let's face it, she won't be able to stay away.”

I casually lean against the wall, like I have no worries when it comes to him. And I don't. I can easily take Jason and his friends. I can tell by the way they're fumbling around, looking nervous but trying not to, that they're inexperienced fighters.

Rule number one: Never show weakness.

Sure, a three-to-one ratio isn't ideal, but I'll manage. I might walk away with another black eye. But make no mistake: I will be the one walking away.

“My girlfriend is not interested in you,” Jason practically growls.

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Then why did she agree to go out with me on Friday night?”

It's a lie, meant to anger him.

Mission accomplished.

Jason swings. I catch his fist before it hits my face.

Rookie.

Rule number two: Don't act in haste.

My knee connects with his gut while my fist hits his nose. I don't have time to deliver another blow before I'm yanked away by two teachers. They pin my arms behind my back like paper to a corkboard. I let them. Jason got my message loud and clear.

Rule number three: Don't mess with me.

Two more teachers place themselves in front of Jason and his friends, a shield of sorts. Faith's boyfriend pulls himself off the floor, no doubt humiliated. He wipes a hand across his nose. Bloody. One of his buddies walks away, returns with a hand towel. Jason puts the cloth to his nose, tries to stop the bleeding.

I didn't break his nose. I could have. But I didn't. I purposely held back. I have broken enough bones to know what it feels like when they crack, and his are still intact.

Mostly, I wanted to scare him. I want him to know—whether I was out of line or not—that I am not someone to be taken lightly.

I am not your punching bag.

I will not ever be pushed around by some guy in a letterman jacket.

Just then, a wide-eyed Faith runs up to Jason. “What happened?”

One of Jason's buddies points to me.

Faith follows his direction. Her eyes land on me. Her face hardens, something like rose granite. Someone gets her attention. She looks away.

“What are you thinking?” a lady with big hair asks me. According to her name badge, she is Mrs. Slyder, science teacher.

I don't answer.

“There is no fighting on school property. You just earned two days' suspension. Are you aware of this school's policy about suspension for fighting?”

Is she aware that she just told me?

“Your suspension will start immediately.”

Like I care.

“Who threw the first punch?” she asks.

I wonder if Jason is man enough to admit that he did. Probably not.

“I'll take your silence as guilt,” she says.

Of course she will. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? More like guilty for the rest of my life, simply because of who I am.

“Are you new here?” she huffs. “Why don't I recognize you?”

Because I don't like to be seen.

“What's your name?”

I still don't answer, mostly because no matter what I say, I know they'll believe a pretty boy over a troubled Latino.

“Now would be the time to explain.”

Silence.

“Are you listening to me?” Mrs. Big Hair asks.

Unfortunately.

“To the office,” says one of the teachers holding my arms.

I'm bigger than the puny teachers trying to haul me away. I push all my weight down, making it difficult for them to move me, a boulder of stubbornness. I will go with them when I'm ready. I want to make sure Jason sees me before I'm escorted out.

There. He looks at me. And in that moment, I plaster my face with the biggest smile I can muster and mouth the word, “look.” A silent whisper meant only for him. I eye Faith. She is throwing the bloody towel away.

Jason looks at her.

I look at her.

Whatever punishment they decide to give me will be worth it.

It's all worth it because in the end, when her boyfriend is bleeding down his face and ten other people are trying to get her attention and the lunchroom is in a shambles because of the fight, Faith notices none of it. She's not looking at any of them.

Because she's too busy staring at me.

And Jason knows it.

M
y legs burn as though they've caught fire. One, two, three, four hundred steps on the school track before dance practice. My breaths come deep and quick. Sweat glides down my back.

When the whistle blows, I rest my hands on my knees until my heart slows its gallop.

Coach tells us to gather together. When she was younger, she also danced for our school team. I've seen pictures: long auburn hair, muscular build, dark Persian skin. She looks the same, just a few added wrinkles.

Melissa stands beside me, nudging my arm.

“Good run,” she says.

“Thanks. You, too.”

It's all about endurance. The more you have, the better dancer you are.

The music begins. The new routine, the one we'll perform at our next competition, unfolds with only a few hiccups. Being on the varsity team means many of us have practiced together for years. It doesn't take long to learn the new moves. The problem is perfecting them, making them ours. A twist at the end, a flip in the middle, attitude written all over our faces. It's the little things that add the most character.

“I don't like it,” Tracy says, trying to veto my newest suggestion.

Coach huffs. “When do you ever?”

I bite back a smile. Our one-sided feud is long-standing. And everyone knows it.

Tracy glares at me.

“Do you have another suggestion?” Coach asks, trying to be fair.

It's a good thing Tracy is an incredible dancer, or we'd all have asked her to leave the squad by now.

“Of course,” Tracy responds.

I watch as she demonstrates what she thinks is better. Truth: it's not bad.

Coach eyes me. I shrug, not wanting to start a fight.

“Okay,” Coach replies. “Anyone object?”

Half the team raises their hands, which leaves the decision to the captain.

Me.

Everyone waits for my response. I look at Tracy. Her eyes dare me to object.

“Tracy's idea is fine,” I say, backing down.

I don't offer any suggestions for the rest of practice. Guilt gnaws at me, hungry and relentless.

I should've stood up for my teammates who raised their hands. I should've stood up for myself. But I didn't.

I'm not sure I even know how.

 

After practice, I sort through pile upon pile of books.

The back half of the library is littered with spare books, crammed together like people in an overpopulated city. My school is preparing for the annual book fair, and I'm on the organizing committee. Whenever big things happen—homecoming, book fairs, science fairs, plays, etc.—the committee organizes everything. I love it. Well, actually, I guess it's not so much the sorting through a million books that I enjoy, but the end result. I love knowing that I make a difference.

“Hey, sweets.” Melissa plops down beside me. She's wearing a pink spaghetti-strap tank top with white shorts and flip-flops. A string of ginger jewels hangs from her neck, dressing up her outfit like tinsel on a tree.

“Hey.” I smile.

Melissa is on the committee. So are three others. We don't actually have a president but most people come to me for final decisions.

“Bad news,” Melissa says. “Sally has the pox.”

“What?” I ask. “Small or chicken?”

“Chicken. It's serious, too,” Melissa informs me. “She's being quarantined for three weeks. So is her sister, since they live in the same house. Molly hasn't caught it yet, but everyone thinks she will.”

I groan. “Well, that stinks. For them and for us.”

Sally and Molly, two members of our committee of five, will not be able to help us get ready for the book fair.

Another empty gap.

Another role to fill.

“You think we can get some of the dance team to step up?” I ask.

“Doubtful,” Melissa says. “Remember what happened freshman year when we asked for their assistance? Total disaster. We're better off without them.”

Right, as usual.

“Great,” I mumble. “We'll have to stay later now.”

“That just means more time with me,” Melissa says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She's forever finding the bright side of things, like flowers that bend and reach for sunlight no matter their environment. I smile.

“You're right. Let's do this, then.”

Melissa begins sorting through books. We need to alphabetize and price them. Then set up tables and posters and flyers. We have four or five weeks' worth of work. The fair is in twenty days.

“Hey—” Melissa nudges me with her elbow as I try to rip open another box.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“What happened in the lunchroom?”

Freeze.

“Come on. You've heard,” I say.

“Of course.” Melissa nods. “I want your version. You know how stories get twisted around here.”

“Weren't you there?” I ask.

It's hard to remember much about lunch today. My mind is distorted. I was handed parts of the story from different people, each contributing his or her piece of the puzzle. Trouble is, none of it makes a complete picture.

“I was late,” Melissa answers. “My third-period teacher decided to give me a lecture about how important it is to be prompt. Which I find pretty ironic, considering that her lecture made me late for lunch.”

Melissa reaches to the table beside us and grabs scissors. “Move,” she instructs.

I scoot aside.

She cuts open the box that I've been struggling with.

“Thanks,” I say.

“So,” Melissa continues. “What's your version?”

I sigh. “I honestly don't know what happened. I was talking to Rachel and all of a sudden, I hear people chanting, ‘Fight!' ”

“Did you see it?” Melissa asks.

“No. I was on the other side of the lunchroom. By the time I made it over, Jason had a bloody nose and Diego was being detained.”

Lori walks in. “Hey,” she says, dropping her backpack on the ground. “Where is everybody?”

Lori's a bohemian. She wears bold black-framed glasses that point up at the corners in matching arcs. Her hair is almost always in braids and dyed different colors with natural products. And her clothes are made of strange things, like wheat and biodegradable materials. She makes them herself. I think it's cool.

“Sally and Molly have the pox,” Melissa explains.

“Ugh,” Lori says. “That sucks. When will they be back?”

“Not in time to help us move this mountain.” Melissa motions to the messy pile of books and boxes. Lori sighs and sits down next to us. After a moment, she turns to me.

“Is Jason okay?” she asks.

If that question had come from anyone other than Lori or Melissa, I wouldn't answer. Anyone else would only be asking for the sake of gossip. But Lori is sincere.

“Yes,” I answer. “He's mad, embarrassed.”

“Clearly,” Melissa interjects. “I would be, too.”

“Diego didn't need to start trouble,” I say. “Apparently he told Jason that I agreed to a date with him on Friday.”

Melissa's eyes go big, bursting with unspoken surprise.

“Which I didn't,” I clarify.

Melissa exhales. “Wow. Dude has guts, doesn't he?” She smiles.

I give her a look. “Don't even start.”

On her face is the knowledge of something foreign to me. “Might as well come to grips. You have unfinished business with Diego,” she says.

Lori looks confused. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” I reply. “Melissa is just being, well, Melissa.”

Lori shakes her head, understanding.

“I don't get why Diego has an issue with everyone,” I say.

“Well, if he's anything like I think he is, it's probably because he's not fake,” Melissa says.

“Fake?”

How could she bring that up? She knows I try hard to be what everyone wants me to be. It's not because I want to lie. I just wish I
were
that person. I don't know why it's so difficult.

“Yes. Fake,” Melissa says. “Most people around here don't have a clue how fortunate they are. Their biggest worries are what time the football game starts and getting the newest whatever the day it comes out. Stuff like that.”

Ah. Melissa means other people, not me.

Since the mission trip to Haiti our freshman year, Melissa hasn't been the same. We saw how some of those people lived. We viewed the world through someone else's eyes. One Haitian man had to walk ten miles every day to the nearest water hole. Ten miles, and the water there wasn't even clean. Many of the people we met looked disproportionate, arms and legs skin and bones, stomachs bloated. The volunteer doctors said that's what a body looks like when it's starving.

And their homes—if they were lucky enough to have a home, which most were not—were heartbreaking. Some were nothing more than four concrete walls measuring about five-by-seven, a block home in its truest form. Few had proper roofs. Instead of wooden doors, they'd hang a dirty sheet or palm fronds or sticks woven together. They had no shelter from the elements or from the violence outside. The spaces were large enough for a couple of people to sleep on dirt ground. Those who were really lucky had one or two cooking pots and a blanket.

Sometimes I wish I could fly to another country. Someplace where my problems would be things like finding clean water. Food. Things that matter.

“Maybe Diego knows how tough life can be. No offense, Faith, but I doubt Jason and his buddies have a clue. Did anyone stop to ask Diego his story?” Melissa says. “No. They just judge him because of his ethnicity. And because he's different. It's not right.”

Lori nods. She's all about love and world peace. No doubt she wishes everyone could just get along.

“No wonder Diego's defensive,” Melissa says.

“Maybe Jason's upset because he feels intimidated. Maybe he thinks Diego actually has a chance with Faith,” Lori suggests.

I laugh. I can't help it. Because if I don't laugh, I might cry. I'll never be allowed such an indulgence, to choose to be with someone so freely, to choose my own destiny.

“Please,” I say, “Diego only started the fight because he has a big ego.”

Lori scrunches her eyebrows. “Faith, Diego didn't start the fight,” she says. “Jason did.”

What?

Jason lied to me. He told me Diego threw the first punch.

Don't believe everything you hear.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“I saw it,” Lori says. “The whole thing.”

“Ooh.” Melissa's eyes light up as if a tiny town huddles under her lenses, a town of thoughts brightening at the prospect of Jason being at fault. “Tell us what happened.”

“Jason cornered Diego and threatened him,” Lori explains. “Then he tried to hit Diego.”

Melissa's smile widens.

Lori turns to me. “I'm sorry to say it, Faith, but it looked like self-defense on Diego's part.”

“Fantastic,” I mumble.

Another link to a person I trusted, severed.