No going back, p.5
No Going Back, page 5
I shake my head and tell Mrs. Williams her services are no longer needed, then make a silent promise that after tonight with Maya, I won’t break curfew again. I won’t sneak out with her or even ask to see her until we all feel like I’m solidly on track.
I have something important I
need to say. But it has to be in
person. Nice night for a walk.
Meet in front of your house? Like
old times?
We do need to talk. Not tonight, tho. Not sure
when. I’ll text you.
I know that’s hard. It’s hard for me too. But
it’s for the best. Abrazotes hasta que nos
vemos. Take care of yourself, Antonio Sullivan.
Good night.
Good night?
Good night?
I throw the covers back and spring out of bed, feet on the floor. Feet moving.
Bed to the door.
Door to the desk.
Desk to the door.
Door to the window. I can’t stop pacing. Because the way me and Maya are—the way we were—neither of us ever shut down an opportunity to get outside for a walk together. Around the block. Around the whole city. Down to the pier. Sometimes those walks lasted all night.
Now she’s like, I don’t know when? Sometime? I’ll let you know? What she’s really saying is, Whatever we had is over. We are over.
Breathe, Antonio.
I can’t!
Bzzt!
You know who you should reach out to?
Gary Jr. ASAP
When Maya and Me Met a Dreamer
So then… spring of eighth grade,
we were looking to keep cool on a hot May day.
So me and Maya crawled toward our
driftwood spot in the mud and shade.
But before we got there, we heard a whistle-chirp.
We looked to see where it came from,
and back in our spot, tucked in the shadows,
knees to his chest, sat a dirty blond kid in a stained pink polo.
There’s space for two more! he said. Come on over, guys!
He pleaded to us with the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes.
We turned to scoot to make our getaway,
but the kid stood up and shouted,
Stay. Please, please stay!
Maya couldn’t say no to those dopey eyes.
So we sat, and the kid started talking.
His name was Gary Jr., a ninth grader at Highline High.
He loved dirt bikes. He loved movies.
Watching them. Talking about them. Making them on his iPhone.
And as much as he loved movies, Gary Jr. loved weed!
And he pleaded for us to smoke with him.
Come on, guys! Please?
Cuz he was missing his big brother, Stevie,
the person in this world he looked up to and dreamed with,
the person he used to smoke the most with.
Stevie had just dropped out of Highline College
and run off and joined the navy.
Now Gary Jr. was stuck home alone with his
super-Christian parents, who were nonstop on his case.
THEY THINK I talk too woo-woo about stuff that’s not God.
THEY THINK me making movies on my phone is stupid.
AND THEY are threatening to ship me off to boot-camp school in the desert.
That threat fired up Gary’s runaway anxiety, so…
Please, he begged, please, please, please,
can’t we all just smoke together?
We told him we wouldn’t, cuz we’re not into drugs,
but we’d be fine if he did.
Gary Jr. sighed. He pulled out a baggie,
laid out the papers and the stuff,
then rolled the blunt, showing us
that when it came to weed,
Gary could be still, silent, steady, settled.
He lit up, sucked in, held on, exhaled,
then talked and talked our ears off,
going on and on about his fave cult classics—
Eraserhead, Gummo, Scanners, Blue Velvet—
twisted flicks we never even heard of.
Pointing his phone at me and Maya,
Gary directed us to gaze at the water.
I knew it! he shouted. The camera adores you!
Then he begged us to act in his first feature.
I guarantee you will love this film, he said.
It’s gonna be super Jarmusch.
Jar-moosh? We didn’t have a clue. Didn’t matter.
We felt his passion, creativity, drive.
The kid was on a quest for life’s deeper meaning.
And the way his eyes lit up as he talked,
he made us feel like he’d discovered a bit of it in us.
FRIDAY 9:52 PM
I switch to all caps.
I SHOULD SEE GARY JR??? R U
F-ING KIDDING ME MAYA!?!
I am not.
Have you been seeing him?
We talk. He’s a good listener. I been through
a lot since you went away. GJ helped me work
stuff out.
GJ!?! “GJ”???? Does he have a
cute new
nickname for you too????
And he is a good listener? Are
we even talking about the same
GARY???
Just see him. He has a lot he needs to
say to you.
U understand what he did to me,
right?
Yes! That’s why you need to talk to him.
Gotta run. Take care, you.
I throw my phone. Collapse on the mattress. I press my fists into my chest as my heart tries to ram its way out of my body.
I cannot stop the pounding. I cannot stop my breath. I cannot stop images.
Gary drooling, all gaga, as he listens to Maya talk about her problems.
Maya smiling back at him, a twinkle in her eye. Cuz his listening skills are so developed.
The two of them flying kites. Licking ice-cream cones. Exchanging valentines.
I start crying and wiping snot, worried my mom and Claudio are going to hear me. But I can’t stop blubbering because of Maya and Gary on a Ferris wheel stuffing cotton candy in each other’s mouths.
A buzz! Another text from Maya!
I grab my phone. It’s not Maya.
Tonioooooo!!!!!!!! Maya sez ur back
Finly!!!!!!!!! Where u @ my bro???
I want to poke a finger in his stupid face. Describe the sick details of my life ever since he turned on me and got me sent to prison. Then punch his nose into his brain and tell him to stay the f away from Maya.
Breathe, Antonio, Breathe.
Mrs. Williams is right. I gotta breathe and get calm. I will do that. But first I have to put an end to this.
GO TO HELL, “GJ”!!!
Lol!!! U ARE THE THE BEST!
Serious I hate u
I know u do. But it still hurts bad 2 read those
words sed 2 me by u my dear old friend
Im so sorry for every single thing I cosd us.
I will try u later my bro I will not give up on us!
Don’t bro me. Don’t text me.
Don’t call.
This is it. WE ARE DONE.
FOREVER.
I press the power button. The screen goes dark. No more Gary Jr. Ever.
No more Maya until she’s ready.
No more phone tonight.
I check the clock. Do the math again. Fifty-seven hours to go until my meeting.
My eyelids get heavy. I yawn. I stretch. Despite it all, I feel sleep coming. But before it does, I reach for my phone one more time. Murdock has to be able to reach me. It’s a parole term. I can’t disappear on him. I can’t be AWOL.
I power right back up and block Gary’s number.
I close my eyes one last time. Then…
Bzzt-bzzt! Bzzt-bzzt!
I just blocked Gary. And it’s not Murdock’s number either. I pick up anyway, worried it might be him.
“Tonio, don’t hang up!”
“How the hell? I blocked you!”
“Pro tip: Hang on to that landline, my bro.”
“Bye, Gary.”
“It was the lawyers!” he wails. “The lawyers!”
“Sure. Right. Uh-huh.”
“Let me explain!”
“No”
“Meet up.”
“No.”
“Doughnuts.”
“No.”
“Tonight.”
“No. Not tonight. Or any other night. Got it? This is goodbye. We are over, Gary. No more you and me. Forever.”
“I just need to see you! To explain to you! I need a shot. Just give me a shot! One shot!”
FRIDAY 10:52 PM
I tiptoe down the hall. Press my ear against the door. My mom is snoring. Olivia must be sleeping. At dinner, Claudio told us he’d be out all night running people to the airport and to and from shows and parties in Seattle.
I pull on jeans. Slip into shoes. I stuff pillows under the covers. Put my backpack where my head should be. There’s a clock radio on the desk. I find some white noise. Turn it down real quiet. But loud enough to sound like there’s human activity in the room. Same routine from when I first started sneaking out with Maya—before the routine became meaningless.
I throw my leg over the windowsill and jump. I find a little twig and put it on the sill so when I slide the window, it doesn’t shut all the way, and I won’t accidentally lock myself out.
I move slowly away from the house, trying to keep in the shadows till I’m walking south on 24th. A few porch bulbs are all the light you get here. Black-green fir trees tower in front of and behind every little house. They cast their long shadows. A dog barks. A tomcat screeches. My heart races every time I’m lit up and blinded by headlights.
I used to love being out like this. But after so much time locked up at Zephyr, the world feels too big. I want to run straight back home and remake my bed till the covers are tight, then slide in and feel warm and safe and calm. Because I know seeing Gary Jr. is wrong. My mom says it’s wrong. My parole terms say it’s wrong.
But I need to stop my mind from spinning, to get answers to questions I can’t stop asking. Why won’t Maya see me? Why does she want me to see Gary Jr.? The kid cost me a year and a half of my life. Why is she fine with that?
I need to hear it from him. Then I need to punch his face. Cuz I can’t move on until I do.
I stew like that the whole way down to Des Moines Memorial Drive, up 222nd until I’m finally out of the trees and darkness. Just a few hours ago, I was on my way home, coming at this spot from the opposite direction. Now I’m standing beside the WELCOME TO DES MOINES sign, staring across the intersection of Pac Highway and Kent–Des Moines Road at Westernco Donut.
If you stood here at rush hour, you could see hundreds of cars in one minute. People heading for the I-5 on-ramp on their way to Seattle or south to Tacoma. Or they’re exiting off the ramp and headed home. This time of night, there’s barely any traffic. I could cross anytime.
Doesn’t matter. I can’t get my feet moving. Cuz we shouldn’t be meeting here. Gary Jr. is enough to deal with. Grace Cho, Westernco’s owner, is a whole other complicated relationship. Grace helped Maya and Gary and me celebrate birthdays at Westernco. She slipped us doughnuts when we were hungry and broke. She let us hang out as long as we wanted when it was rainy and we had nowhere else to go. We covered a couple shifts for Grace when she needed to run errands. She even gave me a job before I got sent away. Westernco is not just a doughnut shop. Grace Cho is not just a shop owner.
I head to the massive crosswalk. Traffic signals and walk lights flash. A jumbo jet flies low overhead. A lonely car zooms past. Across all these highway lanes, through Westernco’s wall of windows, I spot Gary Jr. waiting alone at a table, lit up in fluorescent light.
My heart and breath race. My fists ball up.
Grace walks into view. She hands Gary a coffee and starts chatting.
In a minute, I’ll be popping in there, pissed off, raging at Gary. That’s not how I want Grace to see me after all this time. She deserves better.
She walks out of view, toward the counter. Gary stands and stretches big. Jumps up and down. Sits again. Then he gazes out the window, across lanes of Pac Highway.
I turn my back and walk fast because I did the math. Jealous rage + I want to crush GJ’s face = nothing but trouble for Antonio.
Behind me, car horns blast, truck horns blare, tires screech.
I spin around to see cars swerving, drivers doing all they can to avoid Gary Jr., who is waving his arms and shouting at me as he Froggers across all six lanes. “Tonio!” he shouts, running right at me. “Tonio!”
I lift hands to my ears and shake my head like I can’t hear.
Finally, he scrambles onto the sidewalk and stops, bent over, hands on knees, fighting to catch his breath, his middle finger in the air, saluting all cars. “Where were you going, Tonio? Grace fried up a batch of lemon-filled just for you.”
“I came here to punch you. And you’re not worth—”
“Punch me?” he says.
My jaw clenches. I glare at Gary Jr.
“Hell yeah!” he shouts. “Punch me! Do it! Punch me!” He walks at me, arms wide. “Everything you got. Right in my face, Tonio! Right in my nose! Pop it!”
“Stop it, Gary.”
“Pop it, man! Pop it!”
Gary grabs my hand and tries to slap himself with it, but I pull away and walk. He follows me like a damn puppy. “Just drop in and say hi. She’s selling Westernco.”
I stop in my tracks. “Grace is selling?”
“Yup. We might never see her again.”
“Damn.” I walk faster.
He keeps right up. “Can you imagine if we counted up how much we owe her for all the doughnuts she slipped us over the years? At least say hello to Grace.”
I keep walking.
“I can’t have you hating me, Tonio! I owe you too much.”
I pick up the pace until I’m running. Gary Jr. stays right at my side, begging me. I know he will follow me all the way home if I don’t go eat a doughnut.
I stop. “Ten minutes, Gary. That’s all you get.”
“I need a solid twenty.”
“I’ll give you five.”
“Give me ten, Tonio! That’s all I’m asking.”
“Ten minutes. Not one minute more.”
FRIDAY 11:18 PM
“It is so good to see you, Antonio.” That’s what Grace says, but her smile is forced and her eyes are asking twenty questions.
“It’s good to see you too,” I say.
“I assume that jail did not allow you to write letters, make phone calls, or email.…”
“You good?” I say. “You and Tommy? The doughnuts? How is everyone?”
“How am I? I didn’t go to jail. That’s how I am.”
My head drops.
“Chin up,” Grace says. “You look at me.”
I look at her.
“We took you in. Two weeks you were here every day. You slept in the back room. Baked doughnuts with Tommy. Worked the counter with me. We fed you good meals. You started looking healthy. Happy. You went back to school. Then—pffft!—you were gone. Not a word.”
She points at Gary. “Then this one struts in and tells me he just got out of jail. And you got put in.” She holds her hands to her chest like she’s reliving the horror.
“Sorry I didn’t reach out,” I say. “Sorry I left all those shifts uncovered.”
“Shifts? Is that what you think I care about? Shifts? I don’t care about shifts! I care about your life!” She walks back to the counter. “You know, Tommy and I never could…”
We’d heard it a bunch of times. She and Tommy weren’t able to have kids. They didn’t have family around, so she said me and Maya and Gary Jr.—the Outsiders, she called us—were as close to grandkids as she was ever going to get.
Grace works hard at a smile. “It’s okay. Really. I’m just happy you’re back.” She grabs her phone and bounces our way, motioning for us to get close. She hands the phone to Gary Jr. and tells him, “Selfie-stick us.”
When we’re done with the photo, Grace says Tommy’s heart can’t handle the long hours or the doughnuts. “We bought a condo on the Big Island,” she says.
“There’s volcanoes in Hawaii,” I say.
“There are volcanoes here,” she says.
“I know, but those volcanoes have molten lava.”
“And these?” she says. “A lahar off Rainier would cover everything from mountains to sound in twenty feet of mud and ash. When that happens, I’ll be sitting pretty in the sunshine on my balcony slurping saimin and sipping okolehao.”
“I would like to visit you,” Gary says, “and make a documentary about your life.”
“Do it. Come to Hawaii. You too, Antonio. Bring Maya with you. Sit back, relax, roll camera, and I will tell you my epic tale.”
Gary’s expression says he wishes we were the kind of people who could fly off to Hawaii to make a movie. He stares out the front window. “What’s going to happen to this place?”
Grace points south. “You know RecMeds down Pac Highway?”
Gary Jr. turns to me and mimes lighting up.
“They want to buy the building and the business. They’re going to sell pot, pipes, edibles—their gummies are to die for—the whole line of CBD. And they want to sell Westernco doughnuts. Doughnuts and weed. That’s one-stop shopping.”
