Riding Invisible (5 page)

My dad—his father, Latino, born in Arizona, his mom from El Salvador

• An energetic guy, popular with kids, a math teacher, funny, strong, good at sports makes most of our family decisions and keeps Will under control
  
• What he loves: tacos and hot sauce, Oldies But Goodies, his classic Chevy, his Harley, Mom, and his boys
  

Dad's a hamster on a wheel

I've been watching the sky, and the clouds remind me of being ten years old when Mom, Dad, and I were taking this walk in the hills by our house. I remember feeling a little more bouncy than usual because Will wasn't there. He was on a zoo outing for Kids with Special Needs. The three of us were just walking and having fun, and Mom was teaching me the names of all the native plants and birds. Then Dad started finding funny figures in the clouds:

• dog with a long nose eating a marshmallow
  
• dragon peeking out of a cave
  
• deformed heart transmuting into a monster
  
• (reminding me of Will)
  

So Dad laughed, and his copper-shaded skin glowed in the sun. “Hey, Yance, look! That one's a chile.”

Mom started to giggle like she was a girl in middle school. “Jorge, you always find chiles!”

And I agreed with that. “And you should keep 'em in the sky too, Dad, instead of putting so many in your homemade salsa, because that stuff makes me choke. It's HOT CHILE pollution.”

Dad laughed big and happy, and his strong arms circled me, and when I was in the middle of that nice solid hug I made a solid wish…that Will would fall in the lion cage and get eaten.

probably 5:00 p.m.—beside a deserted road

I'm a runaway, just a kid who's wondering what my friends learned today in third period geography, being as I'm enrolled in the School of Life on the Road.

GEOGRAPHY:

My idea of geography? It's hot pavement that burns through my jeans while I sit here in the shade of a cactus. It's wondering what's edible for horses in the wild. It's trying to guess how many more miles we've got left to Palmdale. It's asking God where the water's located and how much should horses drink in this kind of heat?

CREATIVE WRITING CLASS:

HEALTH:

Family Studies. Yeah! Assignment: compare and contrast a functional family with a dysfunctional one.

Example of a functional family: Gomez and his big brother, Ramón. Gomez and Ramón actually hang together and go to parties even. His brother has a car and drives us places, like to the movies and the mall, and once he took us to the beach.

Example of a dysfunctional family: Will and Yancy Aparicio. My brother is no role model. Gomez and I try to avoid my house unless we're sure Will is not around.

GRAPHIC ARTS:

Assignment: Draw scenes that show a good day gone bad.

PHYSICAL EDUCATION:

Cross-Country Equestrian Olympics! Whoa, this course almost ended in disaster less than an hour ago. Our dirt road disappeared. We actually had to ride up the onramp and alongside the freeway. Just for two exits, but still. I mean, the whole time I was praying a truck wouldn't run us down. Or what if the Highway Patrol spotted us? But hey, Shy did good. He won the blue ribbon for Most Dependable Mount because he did not even flinch when the big rigs zoomed by.

ALGEBRA:

I wish I could solve the following equation:

X (me and my immeasurable, one-sided lust)

+ Y
(Christi)

??? (dunno, it's freakin' vague)

What's missing in this unbalanced equation?

BIOLOGY:

Will's heart. God forgot something. It's empty!! A void, a black hole of nothingness.

about 9 p.m.—small park in Palmdale

So for the moment I'm safe, the park is weird, but I'm here and this is what went down earlier:

A sign around 6:00 p.m.:

It made me whoop,
YEAH!!

The sound of my yell caused Shy to spook. “Hey boy, it's okay. It's only me, happy me!”

When we finally arrived in Palmdale, I was so tired there was no energy left for expressing joy. “We're here…whoopee.” I dismounted and led my horse down a sidewalk, and he walked with his head low and his ears sort of spread out, not alert, not careful. We both filled our water tanks at an Arco, and I asked a little kid to hold the reins for a dollar while I used the restroom and bought snacks in the minimart. Across the street I noticed an IHOP. I led Shy to it and hitched him to the lamppost by the parking lot, bought a local newspaper, stretched my body across the moist grass, ate two hot dogs in about two bites or less, opened a bag of pretzels, and ripped the top off an orange soda. And a bunch of people stared at me. I didn't care.
GO AHEAD AND LOOK! JUST DON'T COME TOO CLOSE BECAUSE I STINK.

In the want ads, most of the jobs were out of my league. I'm no dental assistant or X-ray tech or whatever. My list of possible leads:

1. nanny for preschool kids
   
2. construction worker
   
3. newspaper delivery person
   
4. field hand
   
5. tractor operator
   
6. landscaper
   

And when I got my cell phone switched on, the battery was low—I brought the charger, but…anyway, the little screen announced that there were messages. I couldn't think about it, because probably the mailbox was full of desperate parental calls, and that thought dug at me and poked its skinny arms in my ribs, and still I was able to ignore it and not FEEL what it means to have people looking everywhere to find me. At least I'd disabled the text message alarm and didn't have to listen to the sound.

After dialing the #1 choice from the ads, a woman answered. I explained how I was calling for the live-in nanny position and how I really love kids and my dad's a teacher, etc. And I lied about my age. She said fine, that I should drop by and fill out an application. So then I described the pet complication and she busted up and called to her husband, “Hey Joe, I gotta kid on the line who wants to keep a horse in his room! HA!”

So next I phoned about the construction job:
“You're going to need references.”

Newspaper delivery:
“Sorry, it's been filled.”

Field hand (a recording in Spanish and English):
“You will need proper identification
proving that you are a legal resident,
or don't bother coming in.”

Tractor operator:
“You gotta heavy-equipment operator's license?”

I even tried the landscape number:
“Yeah, we're hiring, but you need
your own truck, plus tools.”

About then I tossed the want ads in the trash and pulled out my wallet: $19.52. Shy's feed almost gone, two half-digested hot dogs in my belly. How and where could I buy a fake I.D. for under $20? And since when do I have to prove I'm here legally?

So this was how it was going to be. This was it, the true stuff, life on the road and all that. After a while I fell asleep on the grass, probably resembling a dead dog, and when I woke up it was freezing and I wondered how come it was dark.

And then I spotted this man leaning against a gray-used-to-be-blue truck in the IHOP parking lot. Just WATCHING. Which made my heart stop. And I wanted to look away, but there was something curious about this guy and his muddy cowboy boots and his slightly crooked cowboy hat and his dark complexion about my dad's shade, but this dude had a heavier build than Dad.

So he was Latino-looking, thirty-something, and he started coming my way. The man approached slowly and ran his hand down Shy's rump. He examined the butchered tail and frowned at the healing slash, and kind of rested his palm against the wound. So I started wondering what I should do. I mean, shouldn't he ask permission before laying his hands on my horse? But I figured maybe if I could keep my mouth shut and pretend to be invisible, he'd just go away.

But then he started talking. “Nice animal,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent, nodding his head in Shy's direction.

His eyes, light brown, gentle—I liked those eyes. Then he wanted to know why I was riding a horse through the middle of a city. Good question, I thought, and shrugged my shoulders and untied Shy's lead from the lamppost, acting all casual and slow moving about leaving. But the man didn't give up, and he walked a few steps to the lamppost and held out his right hand for me to shake. His knuckles were all scraped, and I studied his hands and they were working hands, calloused, and he told me his name. Gustavo Mendoza. Tavo. He used to live in Mexico.

Get outta here, Yancy, I said to myself. So I slid the bit in Shy's mouth, and it banged against his teeth, because by that time I was in a hurry, and I tucked his forelock under the leather brow band on the bridle and lifted the reins over his head and took hold of the crest on his muscular neck, while I stuck my left foot in the stirrup to hoist myself up.

“Wait!” Gustavo Mendoza called, and I detected this sharpness behind his voice at the back of his throat. And at the same time my thighs squeezed my horse's barrel, the Gustavo guy hurried over to his beat-up truck, opened the door, scrawled something on a napkin, and rushed over to hand it to me.

“This is my number,” he said. “You need help,
MUCHACHO
? Call Tavo, okay?”

I reached for the wrinkled paper

And shoved it deep in my pocket

Shy's hooves played a tune on the pavement

RUNYANCYRUNYANCYRUNYANCYRUN

Tavo's voice echoed against my back:

“I have a nice warm barn