On the Edge (8 page)

MONDAY MORNING I WENT BACK TO SCHOOL.
According to Iz, I only appeared “a little banged-up.” Which was a lot better than last week, when I'd looked “so Guantánamo.”

At least she was honest. Most people made a point of saying how great I looked. I almost believed it until I came face-to-face with the purple-yellow bruises in my locker mirror.

Thankfully, the story of my attack had died out of the press in the last few days, and Roz Wilson's fifteen minutes had ended. But the latest headlines were a lot more disturbing. Three girls in their twenties had been found in a makeshift brothel in Kendall. They'd been drugged and abused. It turned out that the girls were illegal immigrants, brought into the country by sex traffickers. Maybe I'd write an article about it for the newspaper.

At lunch, I met with Ms. Halsall. She greeted me cheerfully, but her eyes were full of concern. “It's great to have you back, Maddie. You're looking well.”

“Thanks.” We sat down at two desks in the middle of the classroom. “How'd the meeting go last week?”

“Fine. Everybody's on task for the May edition.” She pulled a stack of paper from her briefcase. “Thanks for sending all this. I really didn't expect you to get so much done while you were away. I've polished up the other articles, so we're ready for Parminder to do the layout. We can go to print on Friday.”

“Thanks. That's a huge relief.”

Her eyes were kind. “You've been through a lot the past few weeks, Maddie. Everyone's rooting for you. I was thinking it might be easiest if someone else took over the last two papers.”

I straightened, causing pain to shoot through my ribs. “Are you serious?”

“You have so much on your plate already.”

“Did you think I screwed up those articles? I know the sports section was a little confusing, but Josh was away with the soccer team, so I did the best I could to clean it up myself.”

“You've done an excellent job. That's the thing, Maddie. I'm concerned you're working too hard.” She smiled gently. “You have nothing to prove. Give yourself time to relax, to heal. To focus on wrapping up your classes. If you step down as editor, no one will think any less of you.”

“Step down?” Ms. Halsall just didn't get it. How could she think it would help me to take away the most important thing in my life? I needed to be the editor of
Prep Talk
. Without it, I was just that girl who'd seen the homeless man murdered. The witness who'd been attacked. I
needed
to be someone other than that girl.

“No way. I don't want to step down. I know you're trying to help, but please don't. What I need is to focus on my work. To focus on what I'm good at.”

She watched me for a long moment, then gave a nod. “Sure, Maddie. Whatever you feel is best.”

I was tired of it—the sympathetic stares of my classmates, the supportive words of my teachers. I was still me, not some china doll that had shattered into a million pieces.

All I wanted was for things to be normal again.

I spent my lunch hours and evenings working my butt off to catch up on every single assignment I'd missed. I probably could've gotten out of some of them, but I didn't want special treatment. Besides, working my butt off was
my
normal.

By Thursday, I was caught up. But I wasn't going to take a night off—I'd just end up thinking too much. So I started to research my new article on sex trafficking. I figured the topic was worth another look, especially because of this week's headlines. Once I showed it to Ms. Halsall, she'd be sorry she ever doubted me.

But as I did the research, I got choked up. The more details that came out, the more horrific the story was. The three Honduran girls had signed up to be au pairs in the United States, hoping to one day become landed immigrants. Those girls were just like me—they had big dreams, and they wanted something better than the life they knew.

I can't do this
, I realized, closing the window on the latest website. All I could think of was how terrible this world was. How humans could be so cruel to one another. A flash of Hector came up, of his death struggle, and tears flooded my eyes.

No matter what I did, that night kept coming back.
Hector
kept coming back. A ghost in life because of his mental illness and addiction, a ghost in death because the papers refused to humanize him, to call him by name. He deserved more than that.

If I had been the one writing those newspaper articles, I would've written about his life, not just his death. I would've described the Hector Rodriguez his sister had written about on her Facebook page, not just the one who had died violently in the park.

Then it hit me: maybe I
could
.

I'd write a letter to the editor of the
Miami Herald
. But I'd have to do it anonymously. The last thing I needed was for the press to find out that the key witness was writing a tribute to Hector.

Damn, I was gonna do this.

I opened a new Word file and typed an opening paragraph.

I read it aloud. Good, but not good enough. It had to be the perfect opening or no one would bother to read on.

I reworked it several times, but it still wasn't quite right. So I switched gears and did some brainstorming on how to proceed. I decided to get some quotes from people who knew Hector. I could ask Ortiz, for starters. He'd said at the party that Hector was his most polite customer.

A while later, a text from Julia appeared.

Julia was right—I needed to get out. Besides, this was the perfect chance to get a quote from Ortiz for my article about Hector.

I changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a cute yellow muscle tee. I put on some makeup, playing up my eyes and lips, but my final look in the mirror made me cringe. My cheeks were still bruised, similar to when I'd had my wisdom teeth out, and I had a crusty red scab on my forehead where stitches had been removed. Did I really want Ortiz to see me like this?

Screw it.

An hour later, on the crowded patio of Louis's Bar and Grill, I knew I'd made the right decision. It was beautiful out. The sun had dipped low beneath the clouds, shining light crystals across the ocean. We were all laughing and eating appetizers while Julia told a story about her crazy teachers back in Brooklyn.

Ortiz sat next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking my way more often than he needed to. I tugged a lock of hair over my face self-consciously, hoping he wasn't staring at my bruises. At one point, I dared to glance back at him, and he flashed a smile that made my toes tingle.

I remembered something Iz had once told me:
The world needs more gorgeous guys
. At the time, I'd laughed it off. But now, I decided she was right. I wondered if Ortiz could actually see past my banged-up face, or if he was just being nice. It didn't matter—a little meaningless flirtation was good for me. Hell, I'd take anything that boosted my spirits and didn't involve illegal drugs.

“This calamari is overcooked,” Eric said, though he didn't stop eating it. “Rubbery, not tender. Chef Belanger would never allow this out of his kitchen.”

He fed one to Julia. She shrugged. “I've never tasted calamari that isn't rubbery.” She turned to Ortiz and me. “Eric's a big food critic these days. I keep telling him to start a blog.”

“Fine with me, Divine,” Eric said, mischief in his eyes. “I'll do the eating, you can do the writing.”

Julia raised her brows. “Sounds like a raw deal to me. You should really start a blog about what it's like to work under a French chef.”

“Diarie of a keetchen beetch,” Eric said in a fake French accent.

“How much longer do you think you'll work there?” Ortiz asked him.

“I finish my course work in June, then I'll work there full time until Chef Belanger promotes me or fires me. He's an evil genius, yeah, but he's the real deal.”

“I'd give it another year before you crack and strangle the man,” Julia said.

Eric's mouth curved in a grin. “That's a possibility too.” He looked at Ortiz. “What about you? You survive the Krav Maga course?”

Ortiz nodded. “Survived with all soft tissues intact.”

“Huh?” Julia said, and we looked at each other in confusion. “What's this Krav stuff?”

“It's an Israeli fighting style,” Ortiz said, taking a sip of Corona. “Picture boxing and jujitsu multiplied by ten. Instead of avoiding a person's weak spots, you target them.”

“It's
real
fighting instead of sport fighting,” Eric said. Before Julia could say anything, he put up his hands. “Don't worry, I'm not going to do it. It's hard-core even for me.”

“Good. I need your weak spots intact, honey.”

We all laughed. Eric smiled at her, and she smiled back. Then he pulled his chair against hers and hugged her close.

It was just a hug, not some big tongue kiss like Iz bestowed on her boyfriends, but I felt a prickle of . . . discomfort? Jealousy? Eric and Julia were
that
couple—the couple that reminded you of what they had and you didn't. Of what you might never be lucky enough to have. And yet they were such awesome people that you couldn't resent them for it.

I wondered if Ortiz was uncomfortable too. He turned to me. “What about your newspaper writing, Maddie? Still digging into Miami's underbelly?”

It was cool that he remembered. “I'm working on a new article. I'm hoping I can get it into one of the local papers as a letter to the editor. It's about Hector Rodriguez.”

Ortiz raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you should write about him when you're testifying at his trial? I'd check with the cops on that one.”

“I wouldn't publish it under my name. And it would be about his life, not his death.”

“Oh. That's cool, then.”

“I was thinking I'd interview a few neighborhood people who knew him. Thought you could give me a quote.”

“Sure. Give me your number and I'll text it to you later.”

I told him my number and he plugged it into his phone.

Julia and Eric had come back to reality and were watching us. I caught Julia's knowing look, and gave my head a subtle shake. Ortiz might have my phone number now, but other than sending me the quote for Hector, I doubted he would use it.

And it didn't matter. Ortiz was cool, but there was someone else on my mind now. Someone who'd been there when I'd needed him. Someone whose face I'd never seen, but who I was drawn to in a way I'd never thought possible.

I needed Lobo to come see me again. Soon.

WHEN I WALKED INTO MCDONALD'S THE NEXT DAY
after school, my coworkers went quiet. Stared. Whispered to each other.

Well, except for Manny. The moment he saw me, he came over and hugged me tight.

“God, Diaz,” he said against my hair. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

It felt good to have his arms around me. Safe. But since everybody was staring, I pulled away with a “Burger biatch is in da house.”

I said a quick hi to everyone then went into the staff room. Manny followed me in. For once, he seemed tongue-tied. “You look better than I pictured.”

“What kind of a compliment is that? Forget it—I'll take it.” I tossed my bag into a locker. “Your texts helped, Manny. Thanks. Iz wanted me to pass on a message to you: if you text her one more time for an update on my health, she'll kick your ass.”

He actually blushed. “I didn't want to bug you too much. Listen, Diaz. I wanted to tell you this in person.” He came up to me, stepping into my personal space. “I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you that night. I can't tell you how sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry? You couldn't have known what was coming.”

“I feel like shit that I downplayed the threat when you asked about the Reyes. I pride myself on keeping my ear to the ground, you know?” He looked like he was about to say more, but suddenly broke off. “I honestly didn't think they'd come after you.”

“Don't worry about it. It's over now.”

“Is it?” He searched my eyes, as if he didn't believe me.

His vulnerability tugged at my heart. I didn't know what I'd done for Manny to care about me like this. I didn't deserve it.

“As you can see, I'm fine. No thanks to your obscene text messages—they made me laugh so hard I almost busted my stitches.” I nudged his shoulder.

“For sexting, I'm your man.” He gave a crooked smile. “I was a bit worried you'd report me for sexual harassment. I could lose this sweet job. So when are you gonna start sexting me back?”

When I got home, Mom was in the backyard with Dex, smoking and painting her toenails. She'd kept her promise not to smoke in the house, which meant she was outside a lot of the time. More stress, more cigarettes. I didn't have the heart to nag her about it.

She finished painting the last toenail, then shifted her lawn chair, trying not to send smoke in my direction. “How was work?”

“Same old.”

“You might as well quit that job now that you have the scholarship. Take some time off. You'll find a job on campus in the fall.”

“It's all right. I have fun there sometimes. And I might need the money.”

“If you're concerned about money, I'll pick up an extra shift here and there.”

I knew what she was doing. Just like Ms. Halsall had wanted me to step down from the school newspaper, Mom wanted me to quit McDonald's. Ms. Halsall had been worried about stress, and I was sure that Mom was worried about safety. Although they both had the best of intentions, I couldn't go along with them.

“You work six shifts a week, Mom. And you have . . .”
A divorce to pay for
, I didn't say. “You have a mortgage. Don't worry.”

She grunted. “Don't worry, huh? I hate to let you out of my sight, Maddie.”

“I know. But I can't take being holed up in the house anymore.” I wished I could tell her about Lobo's assurance that I was safe, but that was too big a can of worms to open. Instead I said, “Turns out the Reyes who attacked me left town. They knew the cops were after them.”

“Really?” Mom asked, desperate to believe me.

“Yeah.” It
might
be true. How could Lobo say I was safe if the perps hadn't left town? And if it helped Mom sleep at night, it was worth it.

Before Mom could question how I knew all of this, I changed the topic. “Don't forget, my birthday's coming up. Iz is already making plans.”

“Are you going to celebrate together this year?”

“Nah, Mom, we haven't done that in years.” Although our birthdays were a week apart, Iz and I had come to a decision that two parties were always better than one.

She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Let's do something for your birthday, just you and me. How about the Siesta Café? You're not too cool to hang with your mom, are you?”

“Of course not. Sounds great.” I knew she didn't mean anything by it, but I felt a prickle of resentment. We'd barely done any mother-daughter things in the last few years, and it wasn't because I thought she was lame company. It was because of Boyd.

I watched as Mom inspected her freshly painted toenails. “I'm off to bed, honey. Early shift tomorrow.” She kissed my cheek as she got up.

“Night, Mom.”

Mom went inside, and I leaned back on the lounge chair, staring up at the sky. I should probably coax Dex inside and do some work. Ortiz had sent me his quote last night, and I was eager to get going on my letter to the editor. But I was too tired to do any work right now, and it was Friday. I'd earned some chill time.

It was a clear, starry night. Watching the stars always made me think of big, overwhelming things, like the meaning of life, or the unfathomable size of the universe. Usually those questions made me uneasy, but not tonight. After all I'd been through in the past few weeks, I felt lucky, almost giddy, that I was even alive to ask those questions.

I sat up and watched Dex as he played fetch with himself. He wasn't a puppy anymore, but he still had a puppy's energy, a puppy's joy. Boyd had suppressed those things in him, but they had surfaced eventually. It felt good to see Dex enjoying himself. Ever since I'd been attacked, he'd become more aggressive. He'd even taken to sitting at the window and barking at people walking by. He wanted everybody to know that if they threatened his family, there'd be hell to pay.

“Hello,” a voice said from the darkness.

My heart pounded in my chest. I surveyed the backyard, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. The swing, I realized, not ten feet away from me. Shaded by a palm tree, a man in black was sitting on it.

“It's Lobo.”

“I didn't hear you. How'd you get in here?” I'd locked the gate when I'd come in.

“I jumped the fence.”

How could he have done it without Dex noticing? Dex chased down anyone who got close to the house, person
or
animal.

“Sorry I scared you,” he said.

“Don't be,” I said quietly, hoping Dex wouldn't hear us. “But watch out for my dog. He's gonna freak when he sees you.”

“He'll be fine.” Lobo snapped his fingers. “Hey, boy!”

Dex's head shot up and he ran across the yard, skidding to a halt in front of him.

“C'mere, boy.” Lobo gestured with his hand for Dex to come closer, and Dex obeyed. When Lobo scruffed his neck, Dex nuzzled against him, wagging his tail happily. Then Lobo hit his rump and Dex bounded off again.

I was in shock. “How did you do that? Dex never lets any guy pet him. He hates men.”

“Your dog knows a true alpha male when he sees one. He knows when to be aggressive, and when to submit. Besides, he can tell that I'm not a threat.”

“He can?”

“Of course. Why'd you name him Dex, anyway?”

“I didn't. My mom's ex-husband named him after
Dexter
, that show about the serial killer. Dex used to be his dog.”

“Well, he's loyal to you now.”

“Yeah. But I think he's traumatized that I got hurt. Somebody walks by the house and he goes crazy. I fear for the mailman.”

“He's feeding off your mom's anxiety. He'll get better once he's sure you're safe. It could take time.”

“Hope you're right. Are you a dog whisperer or something?”

He chuckled softly. “I like dogs. They're honest. They never hide what they're feeling.”

I bet Lobo saw the irony in his statement. He himself was hiding, crouched in the shade of the swing, cap and bandanna covering his face. If he shifted just a few inches, the moonlight might give me a chance to catch a bit of a glimpse. But he didn't budge.

“There's a war going on in Miami,” he said. “I thought you should know.”

His words sent a shiver through me. “What do you mean?”

“Los Reyes are fighting for territory with a Mexican cartel. The cartel's led by a kingpin called El Chueco.”

I'd heard of El Chueco. His thick, pockmarked face had been all over the news lately. He planned to take over the drug trade in South Florida, and right now, the Miami gangs—especially the Reyes—were in his way. El Chueco's name meant
crooked
because of the twisted things he'd done to his enemies. Anyone who got in his way ended up brutally murdered, and their body would always turn up in a public place—that was his signature.

“Just be careful,” Lobo said. “I've made sure the Reyes won't touch you. But when the cartel and the Reyes clash, anyone could be caught in the crossfire.”

My stomach sank. He'd made me feel that I was safe, but it sounded like no one was safe anymore.

“Where do the Destinos fit into this?” I asked.

“We don't. Our war is different.”

His tone was closed. The reporter in me was tempted to press him, but I knew he wouldn't talk. I'd better just say what I needed to say while I had the chance. “You saved my life, Lobo. Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't say that at the hospital.”

“It's cool. You never needed to thank me, Madeleina.”

My heart flipped over. I wanted to go to him, to open my arms to him. I didn't even care who he was. I didn't need his name or his backstory. I just wanted to be near him.

“I was hoping you'd come and see me again.” The darkness made me brave, made me feel like I could say anything.

“The truth is, I've been trying not to. But I wanted to tell you about El Chueco.”

I nodded. “Thanks for the warning.”

He might've sighed. It was hard to tell with his bandanna. “I can't visit you again, Madeleina.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn't do either of us any good. The more I see you, the harder it'll be to stay away.” He grunted. “That's the irony of hiding who you are. Makes it easier to tell the truth.”

“I want you to keep coming back. You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to.” I heard the desperation in my voice. But I
had
to see him again. The thought of seeing him was what had kept me going since the attack.

“Why can't we, like, um . . .” My words tripped over each other. What could I say—let's hang out? Catch a movie?

“You might see me around, in the light of day. But if you did, you wouldn't know me. And I have to keep it that way.”

My eyes welled up. It was crazy, but I felt like I was being dumped by the love of my life. I felt a quick spinning sensation—like I was drowning. I'd built a fantasy around Lobo, as if I could turn my masked savior into a boyfriend. A boyfriend in a bandanna.

“I'm sorry, Madeleina.”

And I could tell that he was. Whatever was between us, he must've felt it too. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

We were quiet then. Crickets came alive in the silence. I saw him get up, adjust the cap over his eyes, and move toward me. I sat as still as a statue, afraid to move.

I closed my eyes. He must've pulled down the bandanna, because I felt warm lips touch my temple. But it wasn't enough for me. It wasn't close to enough. I turned in my chair and reached up, guiding his head down to mine.

He groaned. We caught our breaths, kissing hungrily, starved for each other. My hand curled in the silky hair below his cap, and he moved back sharply, turning away and pulling up the bandanna in one quick motion.

I should probably be embarrassed that I'd grabbed him like that. But I wasn't. That kiss was all I'd have to remember him by. And I knew he'd wanted it just as much.

“Good-bye, Madeleina.” He moved away.

I was alone again. And I'd never felt so lonely in my entire life.

“Good-bye, Lobo,” I whispered into the darkness.