Rules Of Attraction (12 page)

the cookies in the pantry?”

“I won’t say a word.”

“And if I don’t feel like brushing my teeth?”

I shrug. “You can go to school with rotten breath and cavities for

all I care.”

Brandon smiles wide and holds out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a

deal, my man.”

My man? As I watch Brandon trot back to his room, I wonder if I

just outwitted the kid or if he just outwitted me.

EIGHTEEN :
Kiara

So it’s no secret what Carlos wears to bed. His boxers. That’s it. I

had to look away when I was upstairs in the hallway, because I was

staring. He’s got more tattoos than the ones on his bicep and forearm.

He’s got a small one on his chest in the shape of a snake, and when my

gaze dropped I caught a glimpse of letters in red and black peeking out

of his briefs. While I’m fascinated to know what they all mean and why

he got them, there’s no way I’m going to ask.

My mom left over an hour ago to open her store. It’s my turn to

make breakfast for everyone. My dad is wolfing down the eggs and

toast I just set on his plate. I know he’s expecting Alex in a few

minutes and is probably going through the speech he and Alex are going

to give Carlos this morning.

I definitely don’t want to be here for that talk, and am kind of

feeling guilty for challenging Carlos last night. The last thing he needs

right now is another person he thinks is against him.

“Dad,” I say as I sit down next to him at the breakfast counter.

“What are you going to tell him?”

“The truth. That after the judge confirms temporary custody, I

hope they’ll let him register for the REACH program instead of serving

time.”

“He’s not going to like it.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.” My dad pats me on the hand. “Don’t

worry, it’ll all work out.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because deep down I suspect he wants to clean up his life, and the

judge wants to keep kids in school. To be honest, I’m not sure Carlos

even knows how much he wants to succeed yet.”

“He’s kind of a jerk.”

“It’s a cover-up for something deeper. I know he’s definitely going

to be a challenge.” He cocks his head to the side and gives me a

thoughtful look. “You sure you’re okay with him staying here?”

I think of myself in his situation and wonder if anyone would try to

help me. Isn’t that why we’re put on this earth to begin with, to make it

a better place? It’s not a religious quest; it’s a humanitarian one.

If Carlos can’t stay here, who knows where he’ll end up. “I’m totally

fine with him here,” I say. “Really.” My dad, with his psychology

background and infinite patience, will be able to help Carlos. And my

mom . . . well, if you can see past her quirks, she’s great.

“Brandon, where’s Carlos?” my dad asks when my brother comes

bouncing down the stairs.

“I don’t know. I think he was in the shower.”

“All right. Well, get some breakfast in you. Your bus’ll be here in

ten minutes.”

When we hear the upstairs water turn off, indicating Carlos is out

of the shower, it’s my dad’s cue. “Bran, get your backpack. The bus will

be here any second.”

As my dad urges Brandon out of the house to catch the bus, I

scramble a couple of eggs for Carlos.

I hear him coming down the stairs before I see him. He’s wearing

dark blue jeans ripped in the knees, and a black T-shirt that looks

overworn and overwashed . . . but I can just imagine is totally soft and

comfortable.

“Here,” I mumble, placing the eggs and toast neatly on the table

with a glass of fresh-squeezed juice.

“Gracias.” He sits down slowly, obviously surprised I made him

breakfast. As he eats, I load the dishwasher and busy myself with

taking out the lunches my mom packed for us. When my dad comes back

a few minutes later, he’s accompanied by Alex.

“Mornin’, brother,” Alex says as he sits beside Carlos. “Ready for

court?”

“No.”

I grab my car keys and backpack, so they can be alone. As I drive

to school, I wonder if maybe I should have stayed as a buffer. Because

three guys together, especially if two are very strong-willed Fuentes

brothers, might be a dangerous mix. Especially when one of them is

about to be forced to enroll in an after-school program for delinquents.

I guarantee when they tell him, Carlos will go ballistic.

My poor father doesn’t stand a chance.

NINETEEN :
Carlos

“So what’re you doin’ here?” I ask my brother again.

I look at Westford, a cup of coffee in his hand. Something is

definitely up.

“Alex wanted to be here when we discuss what will happen today.

We’re going to ask the judge to release you into my custody in

exchange for your cooperation and participation in a special after-

school program.”

I look at my food, half uneaten, and toss my fork down. “I thought

we were just goin’ to court and I was goin’ to be released into your

custody. Now I feel like I’m at a firin’ range about to be blindfolded

and given my last cigarette.”

“It’s not really a big deal,” Alex says. “It’s called REACH.”

Westford sits across from me. “It’s a special program for at-risk

teens.”

I look to Alex to give it to me in plain English.

Alex clears his throat. “It’s for kids who’ve been in trouble with

the law, Carlos. You’ll go there right after school. Every day,” he adds.

Are they kiddin’ me? “I told you the drugs weren’t mine.”

Westford puts his mug down on the table. “Then tell me who the

drugs belong to.”

“I don’t have a name.”

“Not good enough,” Westford says.

“It’s a code of silence,” Alex says.

Westford doesn’t understand. “A code of silence?”

Alex looks up. “I know a member of the Guerreros del barrio,” he

says. “A code of silence protects all members. He won’t talk, even if he

knows who was responsible.”

Westford sighs. “A code of silence doesn’t help your brother any,

but I get it. I don’t want to get it, but I do. And that leaves us no

choice but to ask the judge to let Carlos enter the REACH program.

It’s a good program, Carlos, and it beats getting kicked out of school or

stuck in juvenile detention. You’ll get your high school diploma and be

able to apply to colleges.”

“I’m not goin’ to college.”

“Then what are you going to do after high school?” Westford asks.

“And don’t tell me deal drugs, ’cause that’s a cop out.”

“What do you know, Dick? It’s easy for you to sit here in your

bigass house and eat your organic shitty food. When you’ve walked a

day in my shoes, you can lecture me. Until then, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Mi'amá wants us to have a better life than she did,” Alex says. “Do

it for her.”

“Whatever,” I say as I put my dishes in the sink. I’ve definitely lost

my appetite. “All right, let’s get this shit over with.”

Westford picks up his briefcase and breathes a sigh of relief. “You

ready, boys?”

I close my eyes and rub my palms over them. I guess it’s wishful

thinking that I’d open them and magically be in Chicago. “You don’t

really want me to answer that, do you?”

A half smile crosses his face. “Not really. And you’re right, I

haven’t walked in your shoes. But you haven’t walked in mine, either.”

“Come on, Professor. I’d bet my left nut the biggest problem you’ve

faced is decidin’ on what country club to belong to.”

“I wouldn’t make that bet if I were you,” he says as we walk out of

the house. “We don’t even belong to a country club.”

When we reach his car, or what I think is his car, I step back.

“What is this?”

“A Smart Car.”

It looks like an SUV took a dump and out came the Smart Car. I

wouldn’t be surprised if Westford had said it was one of those toy cars

that kids drive around.

“It’s fuel-efficient. My wife drives the SUV, and since I’m just

driving to work and back, this was a perfect choice. If you want to

drive it, you can.”

“Or you could come in my car,” Alex says.

“No thanks,” I say as I open the door to the Smart Car and climb

into the little passenger seat. It doesn’t seem as tiny on the inside, but

I still feel like I’m in a miniature spaceship. It takes less than an hour

for the judge to grant the Professor temporary guardianship and

approve my participation in REACH instead of my being sentenced to

either juvie or community service. Alex leaves because he’s got a test,

so it’s up to my new guardian to register me at REACH and then drive

me to school.

REACH is held in a brown brick building a few blocks from the high

school. After waiting in the lobby, we’re brought into the director’s

office.

A big, tall white guy who probably weighs close to three hundred

pounds greets us. “I’m Ted Morrisey, the director here at REACH. And

you must be Carlos.” He flips through a file and says, “Tell me why

you’re here.”

“Judge’s orders,” I tell him.

“It says here in my file you got arrested last Friday for school

drug possession.” He looks up. “That’s a serious offense.”

Only ’cause I got caught. The problem is, I’m Mexican with gang

affiliations. There’s no way this guy is gonna believe I was framed. I’m

sure he’s heard ‘I didn’t do it’ from most of the kids here. I’ll find out

who framed me . . . and in the end I’ll get revenge. For the next half

hour, Morrisey recites The Lecture. To sum it up, it’s about me having

control of my destiny and future. This is my last chance. If I want to

succeed, the REACH program will help give me the tools to ‘REACH my

potential,’ yadda yadda. When I graduate the program, the career

counselors are dedicated to helping every REACH graduate secure

either a job or entrance to a school of higher education. I have to stop

myself from pretending to snore a couple of times, and I wonder how

Westford can sit here and listen to Morrisey’s bullshit with a straight

face.

“And just so you’re aware,” Morrisey says as he pulls out a student

handbook and goes through each page, “we’ll be doing random drug

tests on all REACH students throughout the year. If we find an illegal

substance in your system or on your person at any time, your guardian

will be notified and you’ll be kicked out of REACH and expelled from

school. Permanently. Most teens end up locked up for any violations.”

Morrisey hands both Westford and me a copy of the REACH rules.

Then he folds his hands on his big belly and smiles, but that smile

doesn’t fool me. He’s a hard-ass who takes no prisoners. “Any

questions?” he asks, his voice even . . . but I have no doubt that voice

can bellow commands louder than any drill sergeant.

The Professor looks to me, then says, “I think we’re good.”

“Great. Then we have one more piece of business before you can go

back to school.” He slides a piece of paper toward us. “This is a

responsibility contract stating that I’ve gone through the REACH rules,

that you understand them, and you agree to abide by them.”

Leaning forward, I notice three signature lines. One for me, one

for a parent or guardian, and one for a REACH staff member. The

paper reads:

‘I, _______________________, certify that by signing below I

agree to abide by the rules outlined in the REACH Handbook. I

understand the rules, which have been properly explained to me by a

REACH staff member. I further acknowledge that if I disregard the

rules for any reason I will be subject to disciplinary action which may

include in-house detention, additional counseling, and/or expulsion from

the REACH program.’

What it really means:

‘I, __________________, sign my freedom over to REACH staff.

By signing this piece of paper, I certify that my life will be dictated by

other people and I’ll live a miserable existence while I’m in Colorado.’

I don’t think too hard about it as I scribble my name on the sheet

and slide it over so Westford can sign it, too. I just want to be done

with it already, so I can move on. There’s no use trying to argue. After

the paper is signed and tucked in my file, we’re ushered out and I’m

ordered to report to REACH no later than three p.m. Monday through

Friday, or I’ll be in violation. I figure I have so many rules stacked up,

it’s only a matter of time until I violate one.

TWENTY :
Kiara

I haven’t seen Carlos since school started. Everyone at school is

buzzing about Friday’s drug bust, and wondering what happened to

Flatiron High’s newest senior. I heard one person in the hallway say

that Carlos spent the weekend in jail and didn’t make bond; another

said he was deported for being an illegal alien. I keep quiet about

Carlos coming to live with us, even though I’d like to tell everyone to

shut up and stop spreading false rumors. At lunch, Tuck and I are

sitting at our usual table.

“I can’t be your male model on Friday,” he tells me.

“Why not?”

“My mom wants me to help with an adventure group she’s leading

this weekend. They don’t have enough instructors.”