No going back, p.8
No Going Back, page 8
“Oh bud, my bud,” Gary says, “we been through too much for too long to let some blocked numbers get in the way of our friendship.”
“Bye, Gary.”
“There’s a party tonight.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s at Amanda’s.”
“I’m not going.”
“Pick you up in the mini truck.”
“You will not.”
“Eleven oh seven at the 7-Eleven.”
“Nope.”
“Maya’s gonna be there.”
When, Wrapped Up in Each Other, We Did Not Kiss
So then… fall of sophomore year,
Maya and me dug out the dry bags we’d stashed
under the limbs and boards of the driftwood pile.
We unzipped and opened them up, pulling out tarps,
blankets, dry sweatshirts, hoodies, and socks.
And soon we were wrapped up cozy and squeezing hands.
The tapping of raindrops on planks.
The plipping of raindrops in water.
The blopping of raindrops on mud.
There would be no beach walk in this weather.
So this was it. I could feel it. It had to be.
The night I was gonna kiss Maya.
We lay there, face-to-face.
Maya smiling at me, her brown eyes mischievous.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and leaned in
just as Maya rolled to the side, reaching for her backpack
and pulling out a bottle of vodka
she’d swiped from her mom’s latest guy.
Wanna try? she asked.
Better not, I said.
She unscrewed the cap. Closed her eyes. Took a swig.
Ugh, she said. It tastes like paint.
But it feels so good going down.
The way she looked at me, her eyes pleading me to try.
I took the bottle and tilted it, the vodka disgusting on my tongue.
But this night was cold, and the stuff warmed me up.
We passed that bottle back and forth,
back and forth, till Maya asked,
How’d we get here?
We met at the crack in the sidewalk, I said.
Then we raced down the hill, holding hands.
She punched my shoulder.
No, stupid! How’d we turn into kids who get wasted
and don’t sleep at home on a school night?
Are we bad, Maya?
I laughed and laughed at that, then knocked that bottle back.
She shoved me hard, her whole body hard, her eyes hard on mine.
Yes, Antonio, she said, we are bad.
Maya gazed into the darkness
as we listened to the sound of waves gliding gently in,
the tide pulling them out God-strong.
She scooted close and rested her head on my chest.
I wrapped an arm around her, inhaling the smells of her hair and salt.
Maya’s hands and fingers gripped my fingers tight,
her body burrowing into mine, as we fought to get closer,
closer, closer, when closer was impossible.
The first of so many nights of us, best friends
drunk and wrapped up in each other,
keeping warm until the sun came up
and the tide chased us away.
SATURDAY 11:08 PM
“Oh, Tonio, herefore art thou, Tonio! In the Mazda mini truck of your dreams!” Gary pulls us out of the 7-Eleven parking lot. As wrong as it is, it feels good to be in this rusted-out truck again. A seat spring pokes my butt like old times. The smell of motor oil, weed, and fake pine from the many green-tree air fresheners hanging from his mirror. Until Maya got her old red Civic, we never had cars, so Gary would give us rides at all hours. One night when he was too stoned to drive, he taught me how to clutch and to shift gears and I managed to get us home.
Gary reverses and spins the truck around. He takes a right onto Pac Highway and pulls an illegal U-turn at the light. “You and me two nights in a row, Tonio! That’s good, cuz we got business to discuss.”
“Let’s get this straight,” I say. “Tonight is not about you and me. It’s not about our past. It’s about me and Maya. And please do not tell her I know she’s coming.”
“I gotta be honest,” he says. “Maya said she’d probably show up. So that’s, like, ninety-five percent she’ll be there? Just be aware of that five percent.”
I tell him if I get caught sneaking out but I didn’t get to see Maya, I’m coming after him.
He says Maya’s been showing up lately. She says hi and sips on a Coke. Fifteen, thirty minutes later, she takes off.
“She’s drinking Coke and…?”
“Coke and nothing. She’s been living that sober AA life.”
I tell Gary I’m in AA too, so I won’t be drinking a drop at this party either.
“That’s cool,” he says. “You can smoke weed, though, am I right?”
“Sorry, man. The law. Parole terms. AA. You know.”
“I struggle with the logic,” he says. “But I respect your path.”
Half a block from Amanda’s, we park and walk toward the thumping bass. Gary Jr. leads us through a side door of the house and down a set of stairs to the basement, where Tall Dominic tends the keg, just like old times. Dom pours one for Gary Jr.
Gary stands on his toes and shouts at Dom over the music. “None for Tonio!”
Tall Dom nods and gives me a thumbs-up.
Gary heads toward the stairs. I tell him to hold up. And I ask Dom to pour half a red cup.
“You sure?” he says.
“Nah, a third of a cup.”
We take a seat in white plastic chairs by the chain-link fence in the backyard. The thump-thump is muffled enough that we can hear each other.
Gary points at my cup. “You sure about that?”
“It’s not to drink. Just to hold.”
I ask him if he can text Maya.
He pulls out his phone.
Without even thinking, I bring the cup to my lips. But as soon as I get a whiff of that keg-beer smell, I pull it away and set it down between the legs of my chair.
“Close call,” Gary says.
AA-wise, I’m still okay cuz I haven’t taken a sip. But if Murdock showed up, I’d be toast. But what are the chances? There are a million people living between his home up in Seattle and here. Hundreds of neighborhoods. Thousands and thousands of houses.
Gary checks his phone. Shoves it in my face. There’s a message from Maya.
Coming over. Won’t stay long.
“It’s good she’s coming,” he says. “She’s missing you bad.”
“She is?” I say, my heart skipping beats. “Really?”
“Yeah, you big dope. All she does is talk about you.”
“What about you and her?” I say.
“What about me and her?”
I wipe sweat off my forehead. “You know what I mean, GJ.”
“Are you asking if me and Maya…?”
“Yes!”
“Bud! Seriously. Whoa. Just. Stop.”
“So, you and Maya?”
“My God, Tonio! Me and her text. We talk sometimes. We see each other at parties for, like, a minute. That’s it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m gonna spell this out in terms you can comprehend,” he says. “Is Maya cool and funny and smart? Yes, she is. Does she make you feel like you are the most important person in the world whenever she says your name? She does. Is it super cute when she talks about fish? It is. But come on! What are you even thinking? What you and her have, Tonio, it’s too deep for anyone else to come between, so it’s never even crossed my mind. Not one time.”
“What else? Something happened between you two.”
“Only thing we did is hang out at Westernco four or five times a few months ago. But all we did was talk about you and about her fight to get stable. She has stories, Tonio. Some super-rough times after you went away.”
I ask him what he means.
“That’s up to her to explain.”
“How long has it been since she texted?”
“Don’t worry, she’ll be here. In the meantime, we got urgent matters to discuss.”
“I told you I’m not talking about money or the past. Got it?”
“Got it. I’m gonna respect your wishes, Antonio.”
I turn to check the street for Maya.
“Cuz our relationship is all about that respect.”
“Right, Gary.”
“But I’ll tell you one thing. The cash isn’t at Rattlesnake Lake. Cuz me and Vaughn never made it there.”
A shout comes from the street. “Jesus Christ, Gary!”
When Looking in His Eyes, I Saw the Worst I Was
My dad took gig jobs but struggled hard.
He felt he didn’t stand a chance.
So winter, my sophomore year,
he went to work for his old buddy Lance.
Whatever the job, it couldn’t be good,
cuz the cash came in paper bags.
When I asked, he wouldn’t tell,
he just slapped me and yelled, Never nag!
So I stayed away when he might be home,
until one day in early spring,
I walked in and there he was.
He said, I need you to do this thing.
He handed me a slip, Lance’s address.
And stuffed a bag in my pack.
He said, Exchange it with Lance’s.
You gotta go fast. You have one hour to get it back.
I walked half an hour, then knocked on his door,
hating being at Lance’s place.
He opened up, ripped the bag away,
then slammed the door in my face.
I stood stuck cuz of what might happen
if I returned to my dad empty-handed.
Before I knew it, Lance was back
and he stuffed a new bag in my pack.
I counted, he said. It better all be there
when you hand that bag to your dad.
What is it?
That’s cash, dear boy,
cuz your dad is a seller of drugs.
Now you’re one too. I’m sure he’s proud
that his son is a little thug.
I turned to go, then immediately froze
at the sight of a too-skinny guy.
He was pockmarked, looking zombie lost,
and as he shuffled, he brushed by my side.
He stopped and turned, and I caught his eyes.
And those eyes, they gazed straight through mine.
Then a shiver shot from the top of my head
all the way down the length of my spine.
I hated Lance, I couldn’t stand my dad
for turning a man into that,
and I hated myself for standing there
and holding that paper sack.
That hate just grew, it multiplied fast,
because me delivering sacks?
That was just the start. I couldn’t say no.
It went on and on like that.
SATURDAY 11:43 PM
Maya’s standing inside the backyard gate. Arms folded. Eyes welling. Freckles burning.
But my God. Her face has filled out. There’s color in her cheeks. She’s standing tall. Her wavy black curls are full and long.
I went away. And Maya got better. I got subtracted from her, and she became more.
She points at me and spits words at Gary. “Did you tell him I was coming?”
“What’s not a lie is I didn’t tell him you weren’t not coming.”
She throws the gate open and rushes through, out onto the sidewalk, toward her car.
Gary punches my shoulder. “If you love her, go after her!”
“Shut up, Gary!” I run across the lawn, out the gate. “I’m sorry, Maya!”
She turns to me. “I told you I’d see you when I was ready!”
“You said I should see Gary. So I did. He just now told me you might be showing up.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says, shaking her head like she doesn’t know me anymore. Then she waits, hoping I have a better explanation.
I have so much to say. Too much. I can’t get the words to come.
Maya grunt-huffs and rolls her eyes, waving me off like she was stupid for expecting I might say something worthwhile. She turns away and reaches for the car door.
“Wait. Please, Maya. Just give me a minute.”
“Nope,” she says, marching my way. “I talk. You listen. Sit.” She points to the curb.
I sit.
She breathes in deep. Tilts her head back and exhales. Then she sits. Close but not too close. She pulls up bits of grass. Tosses them into the street. “I wanted to see you, Antonio. I didn’t know when or where. But I’ll tell you one thing. Not in the middle of the night. Not at a party at Amanda Hoover’s.”
I got no response.
For the longest time, it’s just the sound of muffled party noises and the rumble of jets taking off from Sea-Tac.
Finally, she turns to me. “Things were bad before. At home. But I had you. We could run away from our problems together. Drink them away together. Then you were gone.”
She rehashes the part of her story I already know. Her mom had really struggled. There were men coming and going all the time. Maya lived in a house that didn’t feel like her home.
Then she says stuff I didn’t know. Like after I went away, she quit feeling like alcohol filled the void. She tried new stuff. Anything she could get her hands on. She felt out of control.
Maya doesn’t get specific but says she ended up spending nights out alone. Her face is a wreck when she says one of those nights was rock bottom.
That was the night she decided to get clean. She got into treatment. Talked to her mom about needing stability. She needed her. Rhonda responded. Got some help of her own. Now they’re doing good together. And Maya has sober friends and a sponsor supporting her. Some nerd friends she studies with after school. Things are looking up.
“Money’s tight,” Maya says. “We might move in with my grandma in Bremerton.”
“What about school and your meeting and your friends?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“If there’s anything I can—”
“Uh-uh,” she says, shaking her head like it’s not my job.
I stop talking. But I can’t stop thinking I want to be the one to make things better for her.
Maya turns to full-on face me, her eyes focused hard on mine. “Okay,” she says, “here goes.”
Here goes what?
“When we spent nights out at the pier, I always brought the alcohol. I thought we were escaping. We weren’t. We were just running to something else that only made our lives harder. I made your life harder. If it wasn’t for me, maybe things would have turned out different for you.”
“That’s not—”
“Let me finish. I’m sorry. For all that. I’m truly sorry. And I promise, when the time comes that we start hanging out again, if things get hard, we’ll work through it. We won’t run.”
It hits me what just happened. “Was that step nine?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s bullshit, Maya!”
“What is?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for! You didn’t force me to drink. I made that choice every single time. I chose not to put a stop to it. I chose to take Gary Jr. up on his stupid idea to rob Lance. I chose to plan the whole thing. And because of a stupid choice I made, I wasn’t there for you anymore. I was gone. And none of that is on you. It’s all on me.”
Maya pulls up more grass, nodding, like thinking deep about what I just said.
“I did AA at Zephyr,” I say.
“The kind of AA where it’s okay for you to drink?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw the red cup under your seat.”
“That was just for holding.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Ask Gary!”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, like it’s not worth it.
“The point is, I was so angry about getting locked up. So angry about everything that got me there. I was lost in that anger.”
I tell Maya I made promises in my mind to her. Like how I’d be a better friend to her. A better listener. Not so selfish. I tell her how much the thought of stuff like that—the thought of being together again—helped me get through the days. It was thoughts of her that helped me earn my parole and get released six months early.
I tell her I’m making small goals now, like being on time to my meeting at Puget Monday morning. I tell Maya how me and Mrs. Lucrisia are going to plan things out, how I’m dedicating myself to getting back on track just like she did. I’m focused on graduating and figuring out what needs to come next.
I wait for her voice again.
All I hear is distant dogs barking. The white noise of Pac Highway traffic. A rumble as another Sea-Tac jet rockets into the sky.
Maya. Is. Not. Responding.
“That’s good,” I say, not knowing what’s good, or why I said it.
“You’re living with your mom?” she says. “How is she?”
“Maya, she is so much—” I realize I forgot the biggest news. “I’m a big brother!”
Maya lights up. Her smile. Her cheeks. “How could you not lead with that?”
“Still getting used to it. Olivia Echeverría Hernandez. She’s almost five months old.”
