Ashley whisper to Enrique.
Thatâs it, I said, pointing. The gray building with the balconies.
Oliver parked the Picklewagon three houses away from the building and killed the engine. A woman in red sweats walking her Labrador glared at us suspiciously and then picked up her pace, the dogâs nose skimming the sidewalk, sniffing.
So I guess weâll just wait here, Oliver said, meaning him and Ashley.
How long is this going to take? Ashley asked. Her arms were crossed and her eyebrows were furrowed.
Not long, Enrique said.
How long is not long?
I donât know. Ten minutes, a half hour. Just sit tight, okay? Enrique leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, but she backed away, dodging his lips. What the fuck? he said.
Donât talk to me like that.
I wouldnât have to if youâd stop acting like a bitch.
I stepped out of the car and slung my backpack over my shoulder and waited for Enrique, who was still inside the car arguing with Ashley. Oliver looked at me through the windshield and lifted his fists to his cheeks and turned them back and forth. Ashley was crying.
Minutes later Enrique stepped out of the car and slammed the door and walked briskly to where I stood.
Is everything okay? I asked.
Yeah, everythingâs cool, he said. Come on, letâs go.
We walked up the tree-lined sidewalk, both of us quiet. I was nervous as hell and rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans. Enrique stared at me.
Why are you freaking out? he said. Iâm the one he beat.
Iâm not freaking out.
Whatâs his apartment number again?
Heâs in 105, I said. Probably the first floor.
I should clock him, he said. Enrique made a fist and socked the meaty part of his palm. He hadnât taken his pills for two days and now I could tell.
There was a concrete path at the front of the building. It curved through the grass and then split in two directions, forking around the building with smaller paths that branched out, leading to the front door of each apartment. There was a FOR RENT sign stapled to a piece of wood and hammered into the grass. Below the phone number it read: DO NOT DISTURB OCCUPANTS .
This is the wrong way, I said. The apartment numbers are going higher.
We doubled back and went around to the other side. The gray paint and black wrought-iron balconies made the building look more like a penitentiary than anything else. It didnât seem like a place youâd want to visit, let alone call home.
Let me say a few things first, Enrique said.
I might say a few things too.
Itâs in your backpack, right?
Yeah, I said, patting the bag with my hand.
Vertical blinds clattered open to our right and my heart flinched.
There it is, Enrique said, pointing at a door.
We walked up the narrow path, me in the front and Enrique trailing behind, and I remembered then the rope bridge we crossed at the county fair when we were kids. It mightâve only been ten or so feet off the ground, but I was scared out of my mind as the wooden planks wobbled underneath my sneakers. At the end of the bridge was a small wooden fort with fake cannons and iron telescopes. There was a pirate flag whipping in the wind, a skull with an eye patch wearing a musketeerâs hat. Go, Marcus, Enrique shouted from behind. You chicken shit, go!
I rang the doorbell and we waited. I let out a deep breath. There was a swarm of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I stared at the peephole and waited for the little circle of light there to go dark. We waited and waited.
Ring the bell again, Enrique said. And I did.
Nothing.
He must be working, I said.
Enrique cut in front of me and knocked on the door forcefully.
Again, silence.
I was somewhat relieved that he wasnât home, but I also wanted to confront him, to say things to his face that needed to be said.
Letâs come back later on, I told Enrique.
Fuck, he muttered.
We turned around and headed back. Where the blinds clattered open there was now a boy
Thatâs it, I said, pointing. The gray building with the balconies.
Oliver parked the Picklewagon three houses away from the building and killed the engine. A woman in red sweats walking her Labrador glared at us suspiciously and then picked up her pace, the dogâs nose skimming the sidewalk, sniffing.
So I guess weâll just wait here, Oliver said, meaning him and Ashley.
How long is this going to take? Ashley asked. Her arms were crossed and her eyebrows were furrowed.
Not long, Enrique said.
How long is not long?
I donât know. Ten minutes, a half hour. Just sit tight, okay? Enrique leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, but she backed away, dodging his lips. What the fuck? he said.
Donât talk to me like that.
I wouldnât have to if youâd stop acting like a bitch.
I stepped out of the car and slung my backpack over my shoulder and waited for Enrique, who was still inside the car arguing with Ashley. Oliver looked at me through the windshield and lifted his fists to his cheeks and turned them back and forth. Ashley was crying.
Minutes later Enrique stepped out of the car and slammed the door and walked briskly to where I stood.
Is everything okay? I asked.
Yeah, everythingâs cool, he said. Come on, letâs go.
We walked up the tree-lined sidewalk, both of us quiet. I was nervous as hell and rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans. Enrique stared at me.
Why are you freaking out? he said. Iâm the one he beat.
Iâm not freaking out.
Whatâs his apartment number again?
Heâs in 105, I said. Probably the first floor.
I should clock him, he said. Enrique made a fist and socked the meaty part of his palm. He hadnât taken his pills for two days and now I could tell.
There was a concrete path at the front of the building. It curved through the grass and then split in two directions, forking around the building with smaller paths that branched out, leading to the front door of each apartment. There was a FOR RENT sign stapled to a piece of wood and hammered into the grass. Below the phone number it read: DO NOT DISTURB OCCUPANTS .
This is the wrong way, I said. The apartment numbers are going higher.
We doubled back and went around to the other side. The gray paint and black wrought-iron balconies made the building look more like a penitentiary than anything else. It didnât seem like a place youâd want to visit, let alone call home.
Let me say a few things first, Enrique said.
I might say a few things too.
Itâs in your backpack, right?
Yeah, I said, patting the bag with my hand.
Vertical blinds clattered open to our right and my heart flinched.
There it is, Enrique said, pointing at a door.
We walked up the narrow path, me in the front and Enrique trailing behind, and I remembered then the rope bridge we crossed at the county fair when we were kids. It mightâve only been ten or so feet off the ground, but I was scared out of my mind as the wooden planks wobbled underneath my sneakers. At the end of the bridge was a small wooden fort with fake cannons and iron telescopes. There was a pirate flag whipping in the wind, a skull with an eye patch wearing a musketeerâs hat. Go, Marcus, Enrique shouted from behind. You chicken shit, go!
I rang the doorbell and we waited. I let out a deep breath. There was a swarm of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I stared at the peephole and waited for the little circle of light there to go dark. We waited and waited.
Ring the bell again, Enrique said. And I did.
Nothing.
He must be working, I said.
Enrique cut in front of me and knocked on the door forcefully.
Again, silence.
I was somewhat relieved that he wasnât home, but I also wanted to confront him, to say things to his face that needed to be said.
Letâs come back later on, I told Enrique.
Fuck, he muttered.
We turned around and headed back. Where the blinds clattered open there was now a boy
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