Riding Invisible (11 page)

10:15 a.m.—Mr. Arnold's garage

I hope I don't get caught hangin' out in here, but it's warmer than the barn. And I love the smell of cars. Mr. A has three of them. One is a bright yellow Jeep Wrangler…My fantasy is to fly through the hills in that Jeep. With a girl, of course. But who? Miss Grass? Hell, yeah! We could cruise the dunes and get naked. Or maybe Christi. She enjoys off-road excursions. Christi…Christi…Christi…I'd call her, but what's her last name???? Sciarro? Scirio? I could contact Gomez, but he knows less about Christi than I do.

It's not important. Christi wouldn't remember me. I'm pretty positive about this because most girls don't like short guys and especially not me. NOT YANCY APARICIO. Too bad, because I really miss the way she laughs and how she reaches up and pushes that colorful hair off her neck and then swings it around, and those out- of-bounds remarks she makes are way funny.

The first time I noticed her, I mean REALLY noticed her, was not one of my proudest moments. There was this former student named Francisco, who has Down's syndrome, who was hired as a noon aide. Francisco worked very hard to keep the tables clean, and he assisted the plant manager by picking up trash. So this one day, Gomez and I heard all this yelling and laughing five tables over, and there was this group of Losers tossing wads of paper and food at Francisco. And he was, like, all dodging the stuff, looking totally confused. So something in me, this small inner voice was telling me:
GO HELP POOR FRANCISCO!
and I started to stand up. But Gomez grabbed my arm.

“Are you insane?” Gomez whispered. “Monty's at that table. He carries a knife. Remember?”

And instead of doing The Right Thing, I listened to Gomez, and now as I write about it I wonder if FEAR of Will put me in training for being A Fearful Dude. But anyway, I sat down, and guess who marched toward Monty and his group. This short girl with reddish-orange hair and freckles, and she was wearing a lacy blouse that reached the middle of her stomach when she raised her arms and shook her fists at The Losers.

“Fuck off, all of you!” Christi screamed.

The Losers hooted, and Monty jumped off the bench where he was sitting and yelled back at her. “Fuck off yo'self, bitch!”

But Christi stood solid, so Monty flipped her off, daring her to make a move. By then Francisco was crying, and big tears rolled down his face. Christi turned away from Monty, grabbed a napkin off someone's lunch tray, and handed it to Francisco. The part I liked best was when she wrapped her slender arm around the poor guy's flabby shoulders and led him to an empty table where she stayed until he was ready to go back to cleaning tables.

After that day I tried to sit close to her every Wednesday during our art club meetings. She'd say hi when I sat down and that was about it.

but I'm a big chicken—shoulda

talked to her a long time ago

shoulda shoulda shoulda

bwak! bwak!

2:00 p.m.—beside the arena

Something strange happened today. I was in the barn grooming Shy and thinking about Christi in Chatsworth, and there's that Grass Hot-Body Issue, and there's that Christi-Doesn't-Know-I'm-Alive Issue. I heard a soft voice. Even though I hadn't heard her come into the barn, it was Grass, whispering to her horse, Ali, in this baby-talk language. She was wearing this knit cap with magenta designs, like from India, with a perfect dark braid slung over her shoulder. And the usual face, of course. Tavo has these brushes for cleaning the barn walls, and I've got this fantasy about scrubbing all that makeup junk off. God, it makes me laugh to just think about it!! I mean, what the hell is UNDER all that crap? So I started to imagine Grass with a naked face, and then with a naked body, while I brushed Shy with long, soothing strokes. Grass kept talking to Ali about whatever, feeding him carrots, and all of a sudden she moved in a quiet way and stood beside me and stroked Shy's neck.

“Hey. How come he's got such a short tail?”

“My brother cut it off.”

“You've gotta be kidding!”

“No. I'm not kidding. My sixteen-year-old brother whacked it off one afternoon.”

This info got Grass to giggling. “How funny!” she said, still smiling. I didn't get the joke, but at least her black-lipstick smile was pretty engaging. She patted Shy's back. “So what is he? A quarter horse?” Her question sounded like an accusation.

“Yeah. A registered quarter horse…and he's fast.”

“How fast?”

“Way faster than your Arabian.”

“No way is he that fast! You'll have to prove it.”

The Gory Maiden almost spit these words, and the black lips grinned in a strange dog-eat-dog sort of way. And it's like the expression on her face was telling me:
I AM THE RICH KID! YOU ARE THE TRASHY GUY WHO WORKS FOR ME. MY HORSE IS IMPECCABLY WELL-BRED. YOUR HORSE IS A LOSER.

So we made a deal to race our horses. We even shook hands—she was wearing these black mesh gloves with all the fingers cut out, her long fingernails painted black.

So right now Grass is in her mansion, changing into riding clothes. I've groomed and saddled our horses. Oh, and Ali just pooped, so I'd better clean it up before she gets back.

Me Barn Help. Her
PRINCESA
. And Shy? Well, he's pumped up to win!

10:30 p.m.—in the trailer

Shy takes off blasting forward like a rocket

and when he reaches the far side of the arena his training shines

and we spin around faster than an Olympic swimmer doing laps.

After the race, Grass
ORDERED
me to unsaddle and groom BOTH horses. She said it like this: “Okay, Mr. Hotshot Barn Guy. You can clean 'em up now.”

So I saluted her like she's the Captain Major, smiling big, because Shy rocks. After the horses were taken care of and safe in their stalls, I went back to cleaning the breezeway aisle. Grass leaned against the open door of an empty stall and put on a pouty face. Then she lit up a joint.

“Want a hit?” she asked, reaching toward me to pass it over.

I kept sweeping with long, rhythmic pulls, thinking how I tried pot a few times and how the high was really creepy, and I wondered if I was like Will those times when I was stoned and didn't have control. So I said no and explained how I don't do drugs.

“So you're a boring little cowboy.”

I can't believe she actually said that, but she did, and then she inhaled again and flicked her ashes in the dry hay, and I stomped on them just in case.

“Yeah, that's me…a loser,” I said, hoping she'd catch the sarcasm.

That's when she did this wild, hip-swinging walk in my direction, holding her joint to the side. She grabbed the push broom, knocked it to the floor, lowered the navy blue–goo lids over her eyes, and kissed me full on the mouth. God, it tasted like weed. Her tongue poked inside of me, prodding—felt so good, yeah! And my tongue brushed against that silver stud. Both hands grabbed her hips while my body sort of pressed into hers, and I was thinking I could do this all day—maybe in one of the empty stalls? But when we pulled apart I felt my whole life crumble.

DADDY!!

Mr. Arnold—two feet behind us, and his anger sat heavy like a freakin' summer storm where thunder rumbled across his face, and I could almost hear the explosion growl inside his head, and I could sense the ugly thoughts he was inventing, and it made my knees go weak, all loose like my kneecaps weren't connected to anything solid.

“Get in the house!” Arnold yelled, and his daughter took off like a spooked filly while I prepared myself, knowing I was someone who was gonna get demolished, possibly killed. And when the boss grabbed my neck with both hands in a strangling choke hold, this is exactly what he yelled:

“I should whip your ass, you worthless piece of shit. How DARE you touch my daughter! Have you forgotten your place around here, you little SPIC?”

While he screamed, he tightened the grasp on my neck, and no air was getting through, and I figured, hey, what a stupid way to die!
HELP!
And I prayed that Tavo would get back from his trail ride and rescue my butt, but finally Mr. A let go, with me all doubled over, letting the air rush in, gulping and sputtering, until I could talk.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice coming out like a cough.

“
SORRY?
Well, that's just not going to cut it. It isn't over, you little bastard. Not by a long shot.” He raged off, the sound of his boots cutting through the breezeway until he disappeared.

I bet tomorrow there's gonna be fingerprints on my skin. As for tonight, there's no way I can clear out my brain. The main word pounding on me right now is SPIC. What kind of person says that? In school last year a dude called someone a spic, and they expelled him.

During dinner I told Tavo what happened.

“The boss, he have the fast temper,” he said, winking at me. “Tomorrow? Mr. Arnold, he gonna calm down.”

So now it's almost eleven, we're in bed, and I'm spinning with scenarios. I'll never sleep. Not tonight! Grass and her sexy ass, her tongue-filled kiss…plenty to dream about there. But in reality? It's ALL over where The Boss is concerned.

I just heard something outside…there's a noise—distant voices…feet crunching through gravel…the sound of a fist pounding on our door.

3:11 a.m.—back in my real home in Chatsworth

I can't believe what has happened. I am NOT hiding in my safe little trailer while I write this.
ADIÓS
, little trailer.

First there was knocking, and Tavo jumped out of bed, fumbling with his pants, fumbling, mumbling,
“¡UN MOMENTO!”
the floor creaking as he hurried to the door, and when it swung open, what was outside shocked me more than a scary scene straight out of a Stephen King movie.

Dad started to explain: “Mr. Arnold called the house a few hours ago, because he found your student I.D. and tracked us down. We came right away.”

“I can't believe that dickhead went through my stuff!” I said.

Tavo frowned and glanced at me, then shook hands with my parents. “Gustavo Mendoza, pleased to meet you. Your boy Yancy, he is a very good boy. He work so hard here on the Triple R, and he say many good words about his
FAMILIA
.”