we were only thirteen and fourteen, how we were just kids but seemed so much older, already so tired, so damn tired it was like we’d been fighting a war. That’s when it would hit me, that Kilo wasn’t that different from me, that maybe back then he’d also been dreaming about dying. Maybe it was seeing his homeboy shot down right in front of him and having to look in the mirror every day, face himself, accept that he was still here, still alive, Mikey’s memory like a ghost that was always calling.
But that Halloween, the two of us on the grass, all I knew was that I felt nothing and everything all at once. Boogie and Papo lingered for a while, joking, smoking, laughing, and I didn’t even notice when they sneaked back to the party. I couldn’t tell how long we lay there—could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours—but I sat up when we almost got trampled by a pack of kids running wild through the yard toward Titi’s building. There were like six or seven of them, boys and girls we went to school with, sprinting, pushing each other out of the way, calling out, “Move!” and “Run!” and “Go-go-go-go-go!”
Later, in the middle of Titi’s living room, with the music turned down and their eyes wide, everybody listening and holding their breaths, they would tell a story about how they’d been hanging on the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Harding. How a couple of them had been sitting on the hood of a car, while Kilo and I were passed out in the yard or pretending to be dead or whatever it was we were doing. How some guys in a pickup had pulled up right next to them, how the passenger had rolled down the window, pulled out a gun, and asked which one of them had thrown the eggs. And while I stood there, the spinning in my head already fading, the dancing and the laughing and Kilo’s face against my neck already like a dream I was sure to forget, I wouldn’t feel guilty for egging those guys, and I wouldn’t feel bad that my friends almost got shot because of us. I would resent them for being that close to death. I would imagine, like something out of a movie, the truck pulling up, the slow opening of the tinted window, moonlight reflecting on the glass, then the barrel of the gun, like a promise.
I walked into the school counselor’s office one afternoon, on a whim. I told myself it was because I had a math test during fifth period that I hadn’t bothered to study for, that I didn’t want to see Ms. Jones’s face in front of the class as she handed out the test, how she’d be staring at me as I took one and passed it back. Truth was I couldn’t care less. Every time Ms. Jones called me to her desk and asked, her voice almost a whisper, why I hadn’t turned in any homework that week or the week before that, or why I never brought books to school, I just shrugged, rolled my eyes. The last three times, she’d threatened to send me to the principal’s office if it happened again. Next day, same shit. I’d walk up to her desk again, cross my arms, say, “My bad,” and act like it was the first time in my life I’d ever heard of books or homework. Eventually Ms. Jones gave up, like I knew she would.
I didn’t know what I’d say when I walked into Ms. Gold’s office. She was known in most cliques as the counselor for the losers, druggies, troublemakers, kids who got suspended, kids who fought or brought knives to school, kids who flunked so much they were already too old for Nautilus—kids whose parents were drunks or junkies, or whose parents beat them, homeless kids, bullied kids, kids with eating disorders, or brain disorders, or anger problems. So naturally, when I showed up at her door, she knew exactly who I was.
“Come on in, Jaqui,” she said, her voice hoarse, like she smoked a few packs a day. “Have a seat.” She ran her hand through her long mane of orange hair, and I noticed her fingernails were long as hell and painted gold. She dressed like she was a young
But that Halloween, the two of us on the grass, all I knew was that I felt nothing and everything all at once. Boogie and Papo lingered for a while, joking, smoking, laughing, and I didn’t even notice when they sneaked back to the party. I couldn’t tell how long we lay there—could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours—but I sat up when we almost got trampled by a pack of kids running wild through the yard toward Titi’s building. There were like six or seven of them, boys and girls we went to school with, sprinting, pushing each other out of the way, calling out, “Move!” and “Run!” and “Go-go-go-go-go!”
Later, in the middle of Titi’s living room, with the music turned down and their eyes wide, everybody listening and holding their breaths, they would tell a story about how they’d been hanging on the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Harding. How a couple of them had been sitting on the hood of a car, while Kilo and I were passed out in the yard or pretending to be dead or whatever it was we were doing. How some guys in a pickup had pulled up right next to them, how the passenger had rolled down the window, pulled out a gun, and asked which one of them had thrown the eggs. And while I stood there, the spinning in my head already fading, the dancing and the laughing and Kilo’s face against my neck already like a dream I was sure to forget, I wouldn’t feel guilty for egging those guys, and I wouldn’t feel bad that my friends almost got shot because of us. I would resent them for being that close to death. I would imagine, like something out of a movie, the truck pulling up, the slow opening of the tinted window, moonlight reflecting on the glass, then the barrel of the gun, like a promise.
I walked into the school counselor’s office one afternoon, on a whim. I told myself it was because I had a math test during fifth period that I hadn’t bothered to study for, that I didn’t want to see Ms. Jones’s face in front of the class as she handed out the test, how she’d be staring at me as I took one and passed it back. Truth was I couldn’t care less. Every time Ms. Jones called me to her desk and asked, her voice almost a whisper, why I hadn’t turned in any homework that week or the week before that, or why I never brought books to school, I just shrugged, rolled my eyes. The last three times, she’d threatened to send me to the principal’s office if it happened again. Next day, same shit. I’d walk up to her desk again, cross my arms, say, “My bad,” and act like it was the first time in my life I’d ever heard of books or homework. Eventually Ms. Jones gave up, like I knew she would.
I didn’t know what I’d say when I walked into Ms. Gold’s office. She was known in most cliques as the counselor for the losers, druggies, troublemakers, kids who got suspended, kids who fought or brought knives to school, kids who flunked so much they were already too old for Nautilus—kids whose parents were drunks or junkies, or whose parents beat them, homeless kids, bullied kids, kids with eating disorders, or brain disorders, or anger problems. So naturally, when I showed up at her door, she knew exactly who I was.
“Come on in, Jaqui,” she said, her voice hoarse, like she smoked a few packs a day. “Have a seat.” She ran her hand through her long mane of orange hair, and I noticed her fingernails were long as hell and painted gold. She dressed like she was a young
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