Rules Of Attraction (6 page)

my brother anymore. After he got shot, I guess I was afraid to talk to

him because talkin’ about it made it real. Alex never said what exactly

happened when he got jumped out of the Latino Blood, and I never

asked. But yesterday mornin’ I got a clue. “I saw your scars yesterday

when you came out of the shower.”

He stops eating and puts down his fork. “I thought you were still

sleepin’.”

“I wasn’t.” The image of his badly scarred back, full of what looks

like whip marks, is etched into my brain. When I noticed the bulging

skin between his shoulder blades with the letters LB permanently

branded into him like a head of cattle, my skin crawled with hateful

anger and thoughts of revenge.

“Just forget it,” Alex says.

“Not gonna happen.” Alex isn’t the only Fuentes brother who feels a

fierce protectiveness toward his family. If I go back to Chicago and

find the asshole responsible for branding Alex’s body, he’s a dead man.

I might rebel against mi familia, but they’re still my blood. Alex isn’t

the only one with scars. I have more fights to my name than a

professional boxer. Along with my scars, if Alex knew the tattoos on

my back marked me a Guerrero, he’d shit a brick. I might be in

Colorado, but I’m still connected.

“Brittany and I are goin’ to visit her sister Shelley tonight. Want to

come?”

I know Brittany’s sister is disabled and staying in some assisted-

living place near the university. “I can’t. I’m goin’ out,” I tell Alex.

“With who?”

“Last time I checked, our papá was dead. I don’t have to answer to

you.”

Alex and I stare each other down. He used to be able to kick my

ass without even tryin’, but not anymore. We’re about to get into it

again, but the door opens and Brittany walks in. She must realize

there’s tension in the air, because her smile fades when she reaches

the table. She puts her hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfecto. Right, Alex?” I say, then pick up my plate

and weave my way around her to get to the kitchen.

“No. I asked him a simple question, and he can’t even answer it,”

Alex says. I swear that’s something that should only come out of a

parent’s mouth.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m just goin’ to a party, Alex. It’s not

like I’m goin’ out to murder someone.”

“A party?” Brittany asks.

“Yeah. Ever hear of the concept?”

“I’ve heard of it. I also know what goes on at parties.” She sits

next to Alex. “We went to parties in high school, though we learned

from our mistakes, and he’ll learn from his. You can’t stop him from

going out,” she tells my brother.

Alex points to me accusingly. “You should see those girls he was

hangin’ with the other day, Brittany. They’ve got that psycho Darlene

written all over them. Remember her? That girl would have screwed

the entire football team back in high school if it would have upped her

popularity status.”

Once again my brother isn’t helping my cause. Thanks, bro.

“Well, it was nice listenin’ to both of you discuss my life in front of

me, but I’ve got to go.”

“How are you gettin’ there?” Alex asks.

“Walkin’. Unless . . .” I eye Brittany’s keys lying on top of her purse.

“He can use my car,” she says to my brother. She doesn’t say it to

me, because God forbid either my brother or she make a decision

without the other one’s approval. “But no drinking. Or drugs.”

“Okay, Mom,” I say sarcastically.

Alex shakes his head. “Not a good idea.”

She weaves her fingers through his. “It’s fine, Alex. Really. We

were going to take the bus to visit my sister anyway.”

For a nanosecond I like my brother’s girlfriend, but then I

remember how she controls his life, and that warm and fuzzy feeling

disappears as fast as a streak of lightning. I pick up Brittany’s keys and

twirl them in my hand. “Come on, Alex. Don’t make my shitty life worse

than it already is.”

“Fine,” he says. “But bring that car back in perfect condition. Or

else.”

I salute him. “Yes, sir.”

He pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket and tosses it to me.

“And take this.”

Before either of them can change their mind, I head out the door.

I forgot to ask where her car is parked, but it’s not hard to spot. The

Beemer shines like an angel in front of the apartment building, calling

to me.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out a sheet of paper with

Madison’s address on it. I wrote it down before I washed off my arm.

After I figure out how to use the thing, I enter the address into the

GPS, put the top down, and screech out of the parking lot. Finally . . .

freedom.

I park on the street and walk up the long driveway to Madison’s

house. I know I have the right address because music is blarin’ out of

the second-story window and kids are hangin’ out on the front lawn.

The house is huge. At first I’m not sure if it’s one house or an entire

apartment building until I get close and see that it’s just one big

mansion. I step inside the monstrosity and recognize a bunch of kids

from my classes.

“Carlos is here!” a girl screeches. I pretend not to hear the echo of

squeals that follow. Madison, wearing a short clingy black dress and

carryin’ a can of Bud Light in her hand, weaves through the crowd and

gives me a hug. I think she spilled beer on my back. “Omigod, you’re

here.”

“Yeah.”

“We need to set you up. Follow me.”

I follow her to a kitchen that looks like it came out of a magazine.

It has stainless-steel appliances. Big granite slabs line the top of the

counters. Next to the sink is a huge bin stuffed to the rim with ice and

cans of beer. I reach in and grab one.

“Is Kiara here?” I ask.

Madison snorts. “As if.”

I guess that’s my answer.

Madison wraps her hand around my elbow and leads me down a

hallway and up a flight of stairs. “I have someone you have to meet.”

She stops when we reach a room off to the side, filled with five huge

vintage arcade games, a pool table, and an air-hockey table. It’s a teen

guy’s dream.

It also reeks of pot. I think I’m gettin’ high just by inhalin’ the air.

“It’s the rec room,” Madison explains.

I’m sure it takes the definition of ‘recreation room’ to a whole

different level. A white guy is sitting on a brown leather couch, leaning

back as if he’s content to stay in that position forever. He’s wearing a

plain white T-shirt and black jeans and boots. I can tell he thinks he’s

one cool dude. On a small table in front of him is a bong.

“Carlos, this is Nick,” Madison says.

Nick nods to me.

I nod back. “ ’Sup.”

Madison sits next to Nick, picks up the bong and a lighter lying

next to it, and takes a really long hit. Damn, that girl can inhale.

“Nick wanted to meet you,” she tells me. I notice her eyes are

bloodshot. I wonder how many hits she took before I got here.

Lacey peeks her head in. “Madison, I need you!” she screeches.

“Come here!”

Madison tells us she’ll be right back and stumbles out of the room.

Nick waves me to the couch beside him. “Take a seat.”

The guy is too slick, and my radar goes up. I know his game,

because I’ve seen a hundred Nicks in my lifetime. Hell, I was a ‘Nick’

back in Mexico.

“You dealin’ the stuff?” I ask.

He chuckles. “If you’re buyin’ it, I’m dealin’ it.” He holds out the

bong. “Want a hit?”

I hold up the can of beer in my hand. “Later.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not a narc, are you?”

“Do I look like a narc?”

He shrugs. “You never know. Narcs come in all different shapes and

sizes these days.”

I immediately think of Kiara. She’s definitely become my daily

entertainment. I try and peg her reactions every time I do my best to

piss her off. Her rose-colored lips tighten into a thin line every time I

make an outrageous comment or flirt with a girl. No matter what I told

her, and no matter how many cookie crumbs are scattered on the inside

of my locker, I’m gonna miss havin’ her as my peer guide.

I haven’t decided what I’m gonna do to get back at her for the

cookie stunt. whatever it is, she’ll never see it comin’.

“I hear Madison wants to get into your pants,” Nick says as he pulls

out a bag of pills from his front pocket. He spills them out on the table.

“Yeah?” I ask. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From Madison. And you know what?”

“What?”

He pops a little blue pill into his mouth and throws back his head to

swallow it. “Usually what Madison wants, Madison gets.”

EIGHT :
Kiara

“I’m color-blind,” Mr. Whittaker complains in a cranky, scratchy

voice as he dips a paintbrush into a cup of brown paint and swipes it on

the canvas. “Is this green? How am I supposed to paint anything when

these colors aren’t labeled?”

There’s never a dull moment during art class at The Highlands

Long-Term Health Care Facility, otherwise known as a nursing home.

The regular art teacher quit, but since I was volunteering to help

during art hour I just kind of took over the class. The administration

supplies the paint, and I come up with subjects for those who want a

painting activity after dinner on Friday nights.

As I rush over to Mr. Whittaker, a little old lady with stark white

hair named Sylvia comes shuffling over to us. “He’s not color-blind,”

Sylvia croaks out as she finds an empty easel and sits down. “He’s just

plain ol’ blind.”

Mr. Whittaker looks up at me with his thin, weathered face as I

kneel beside him and label the colors with a thick, black marker. “She’s

just sore because I wouldn’t dance with her at the social last week,” he

says.

“I’m sore because you forgot to put your teeth in at dinner

yesterday.” She waves her hand in the air. “He was all gums. Some

Casanova you are,” she says in a huff.

“Hussy,” Mr. Whittaker growls.

“Next time maybe you should dance with her at the social,” I say.

“Make her feel young again.”

He reaches up with calloused, arthritic fingers and pulls me closer.

“I’ve got two left feet. But don’t tell Sylvia that, because she’ll give me

a hard time.”

“Don’t they have dance lessons here?” I whisper right into his ear,

loud enough so he can hear but the rest of the class can’t.

“I can hardly walk. A Fred Astaire I’ll never be. Now, if you were

the dance teacher instead of that old bat Frieda Fitzgibbons, I’d

definitely start coming to lessons.” He waggles his overgrown white

eyebrows at me and pats me on the butt.

I shake my finger at him. “Didn’t anyone tell you that’s sexual

harassment?” I tease.

“I’m a dirty old man, honey. In my day there was no such thing as

sexual harassment and women actually let men buy them sodas and open

doors for them . . . and pinch their butts.”

“I let guys open doors for me, just as long as they don’t expect any

favors in return. I could do without the butt-patting and pinching,

though.”

He shoos me away. “Ach, you girls today want it all . . . and then

some.”

“Don’t listen to him, Kiara,” Sylvia says, waving me over. “What you

want is a nice boy . . . a real gentleman.”

“There are no such things,” Mildred says next to her.

A nice boy. I thought Michael was nice, and he couldn’t even dump

me like a gentleman.

“Maybe I’ll just stay single for the rest of my life.”

Both Mildred and Sylvia shake their heads vigorously, their wispy

white hair flying from side to side. “No!” they both say.

“You don’t want that,” Sylvia says.

“I don’t?”

“Nope.” She looks over at Mr. Whittaker. “Because we need them . .

. even if they are the devil incarnate.” She motions me closer. “I

wouldn’t mind if he patted my butt.”

“Amen to that, sister,” Mildred says as she swipes her brush on the

canvas. She’s painting a silhouette that looks suspiciously like a nude

man. “Why don’t you ask that nice boy Tuck to come and pose for us?

You said we can do live subjects.”

“I was thinking of a dog,” I tell her.

“No. Get us a male model.”

“I’m not drawing some guy,” Mr. Whittaker yells from across the

room. “Kiara will have to model, too.”

“I’m not promising anything,” I tell the class. Wait until I call Tuck

today and ask him to be a male model for my class. I think he might

just go along with it.

NINE :
Carlos

“Heeeey,” Madison sings. “I’m back.”

And she’s brought about ten other people with her. They all gather

by the bong and pass it around, each takin’ hits. I wonder what Kiara

and her friends are doin’ tonight. I bet she’s studying for her SATs or

something like that, so she can get into a good college, while I’m at a

bong-and-little-blue-pill party.

Nick lines up the pills on a tray. It reminds me of what Alex called

a pu-pu platter. When Madison passes the bong to me with a big smile,

I want to forget about Kiara and SATs and college and bein’ good. I’m a

thug, so I better start actin’ like one. I take a hit, inhaling the sweet