Chapter no 53

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

ON THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, GINA ACTUALLY GAVE me a

compliment. “You know all that working out has turned you into a hunk.” I smiled at her. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“So how are you going to celebrate the beginning of summer?” “I’m working tonight.”

She smiled. “So serious.”

“You and Susie going to a party?” “Yeah.”

“Don’t you get tired of parties?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m seventeen, you idiot. Of course I don’t get tired of parties. You know what, you’re an old man trapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old guy.”

“I won’t be seventeen until August.” “It gets worse.”

We both laughed.

“You want to do me a favor?” I said. “What?”

“If I go out to the desert and get plastered tonight, will you and Susie drive me back home?” I didn’t even know I was going to say that.

She smiled. She had a great smile. A really great smile. “Sure,” she said.

“What about your party?”

“Watching you loosen up, Ari. That’s a party. We’ll even score the beer for you,” she said. “To celebrate the end of school.”

Gina and Susie were waiting for me on my front steps when I got home from work. They were talking to my mom and dad. Of course they were. I cursed myself for telling them to meet me at my house. What the hell was I thinking? And I didn’t even have an explanation. Yeah, Mom, we’re going out to the desert and I’m going to get shit faced.

Gina and Susie were cool, though. No hint of the beer they said they were going to score. They played good girls to my parents. Not that they

weren’t good girls. That’s exactly what they were: good girls who wanted to pretend they were bad girls but who never would be bad girls because they were too decent.

When I drove up, my mom was ecstatic. Not that she behaved ecstatically. But I knew that look. Friends at last! You’re going to a party! Yeah, okay, I really did love my mom. My mom. My mom who knew Gina’s parents, who knew Susie’s parents, who knew everybody. Of course she did.

I remember changing clothes in my room and washing up. I remember staring at myself in the mirror. I remember whispering, “You are a beautiful boy.” I didn’t believe it—but I wanted to.

So the first people to enter into my truck other than Legs and my mother and father, were Gina Navarro and Susie Byrd. “You guys are breaking in my virgin truck,” I said. They rolled their eyes—then just laughed their asses off.

We stopped at Gina’s cousin’s house and picked up an ice chest full of beer and Cokes. I let Gina drive to make sure she knew how to drive a stick shift. She was a pro. She drove better than I did. Not that I told her. It was a perfect night and there was still some coolness in the desert breeze, the heat of the summer was still a step away.

Me and Susie and Gina sat in the bed of my truck. I drank beer and looked up at all the stars. And I found myself whispering, “Do you think we’ll ever discover all the secrets of the universe?”

I was surprised to hear Susie’s voice answering my question. “That would be a beautiful thing, wouldn’t it, Ari?”

“Yeah.” I whispered, “Really beautiful.”

“Do you think, Ari, that love has anything to do with the secrets of the universe?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Susie smiled. “Did you love Ileana?” “No. Maybe a little bit.”

“Did she break your heart?” “No. I didn’t even know her.” “Have you ever been in love?” “Does my dog count?”

“Well, counts for something.” We all laughed.

Susie was nursing a Coke as I drank beer after beer. “Are you drunk yet?”

“Sort of.”

“So why do you want to get drunk?” “To feel something.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said. “You’re a good guy, Ari, but you’re definitely an idiot.”

We all lay down on the back of the pickup, me and Gina and Susie, and just kept looking out at the night sky. I didn’t really get all that drunk. I just let myself mellow out. I listened to Gina and Susie talk and I thought it was nice that they knew how to talk and how to laugh and how to be in the world. But it maybe it was easier for girls.

“It’s good you brought a blanket,” I said. “Good thinking.” Gina laughed. “That’s what girls do, good thinking.”

I wondered what it would be like, to love a girl, to know how a girl thinks, to see the world through a girl’s eyes. Maybe they knew more than boys. Maybe they understood things that boys could never understand.

“Too bad we can’t lie out here forever.” “Too bad,” Susie said.

“Too bad,” Gina said. Too bad.

‌Remember the Rain‌

turning the pages patiently in search of meanings

—W. S. Merwin

SUMMER WAS HERE AGAIN. SUMMER, SUMMER, SUMMER. I

loved and hated summers. Summers had a logic all their own and they always brought something out in me. Summer was supposed to be about freedom and youth and no school and possibilities and adventure and exploration. Summer was a book of hope. That’s why I loved and hated summers. Because they made me want to believe.

I had that Alice Cooper song in my head.

I made up my mind that this was going to be my summer. If summer was a book then I was going to write something beautiful in it. In my own handwriting. But I had no idea what to write. And already the book was being written for me. Already it wasn’t all that promising. Already it was about more work and commitments.

I’d gone on full time at the Charcoaler. I’d never worked forty hours a week. I liked the hours though: eleven in the morning to seven thirty at night, Monday through Thursday. That meant I could always sleep in, and if I wanted, I could go out. Not that I knew where I wanted to go out. On Fridays I went in late and closed at ten. Not a bad schedule—and I had weekends off. So, it was okay. But this was summer! And Saturday afternoons, my mom signed me up for the food bank. I didn’t argue with her.

My life was still someone else’s idea.

I got up early on the first Saturday after school let out. I was in my jogging shorts in the kitchen, having a glass of orange juice. I looked over at my mom who was reading the newspaper. “I have to work tonight.”

“I thought you didn’t work on Saturdays?”

“I’m just filling in for a couple of hours for Mike.” “He your friend?”

“Not really.”

“It’s decent of you to fill in for him.”

“I’m not doing it for free, I’m getting paid. And, anyway, you raised me to be decent.”

“You don’t sound too thrilled.”

“What’s so thrilling about being decent? I want to be bad boy, if you want to know the truth.”

“A bad boy?”

“You know. Che Guevara. James Dean.” “Who’s stopping you?”

“I’m looking at her.”

“Yeah, blame it all on your mother.” She laughed. Me, I was trying to decide if I was joking or not.

“You know, Ari, if you really wanted to be a bad boy, you’d just do it.

The last thing bad boys need is their mother’s approval.” “You think I need your approval?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

We looked at each other. I always wound up getting into these conversations with my mother that I didn’t want to have. “What if I quit my job?”

She just looked at me. “Fine.”

I knew that tone. “Fine” meant I was full of crap. I knew the code. We looked at each other for about five seconds—which seemed like forever.

“You’re too old for an allowance,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just mow lawns.”

“That’s imaginative.”

“Too Mexican for you, Mom?” “No. Just too unreliable.”

“Flipping burgers. That’s reliable. Not very imaginative, but reliable. Come to think of it, it’s the perfect job for me. I’m reliable and unimaginative.”

She shook her head. “Are you going to spend your life beating up on yourself?”

“You’re right. Maybe I’ll take the summer off.”

“You’re in high school, Ari. You’re not looking for a profession. You’re just looking for a way to earn some money. You’re in transition.”

“In transition? What kind of a Mexican mother are you?”

“I’m an educated woman. That doesn’t un-Mexicanize me, Ari.”

She sounded a little angry. I loved her anger and wished I had more of it. Her anger was different than mine or my father’s. Her anger didn’t paralyze her. “Okay, I get your point, Mom.”

“Do you?”

“Somehow, Mom, I always feel like a case study around you.”

“Sorry,” she said. Though she wasn’t. She looked at me. “Ari, do you know what an ecotone is?”

“It’s the terrain where two different ecosystems meet. In an ecotone, the landscape will contain elements of the two different ecosystems. It’s like a natural borderlands.”

“Smart boy. In transition. I don’t have to say any more, do I?”

“No mom, you don’t. I live in an ecotone. Employment must coexist with goofing off. Responsibility must coexist with irresponsibility.”

“Something like that.”

“Do I get an A in Sonhood 101?” “Don’t be mad at me, Ari.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you are.”

“You’re such a school teacher.”

“Look, Ari, it’s not my fault you’re almost seventeen.” “And when I’m twenty-five, you’ll still be a schoolteacher.” “Well, that was mean.”

“Sorry.”

She studied me.

“I am, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“We always begin every summer with an argument, don’t we?” “It’s a tradition,” I said. “I’m going running.”

As I turned away, she grabbed my arm. “Look, Ari, I’m sorry too.” “It’s okay, Mom.”

“I know you, Ari,” she said.

I wanted to tell her the same thing I wanted to tell Gina Navarro. Nobody knows me.

Then she did what I knew she was going to do—she combed my hair with her fingers. “You don’t have to work if you don’t want to. Your father and I will be happy to give you money.”

I knew she meant it.

But that wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted. “It’s not about the money, Mom.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Just make it a nice summer, Ari.”

The way she said that. The way she looked at me. Sometimes there was so much love in her voice that I just couldn’t stand it.

“Okay, Mom,” I said. “Maybe I’ll fall in love.” “Why not?” she said.

Sometimes parents loved their sons so much that they made a romance out of their lives. They thought our youth could help us overcome everything. Maybe moms and dads forgot about this one small fact: being on the verge of seventeen could be harsh and painful and confusing. Being on the verge of seventeen could really suck.

IT WASN’T EXACTLY AN ACCIDENT THAT LEGS AND I ran by

Dante’s house. I knew he was coming back—though I didn’t know exactly when. He’d sent a postcard on the day he left Chicago: We’re driving back today via Washington, D.C. My dad wants to look something up at the Library of Congress. See you soon. Love, Dante.

When I got to the park, I let Legs off the leash, even though I wasn’t supposed to. I loved watching her run around. I was in love with the innocence of dogs, the purity of their affection. They didn’t know enough to hide their feelings. They existed. A dog was a dog. There was such a simple elegance about being a dog that I envied. I called her back and put her on the leash and started my run again.

“Ari!”

I stopped, then turned around. And there he was, Dante Quintana standing on his porch, waving at me with that honest and sincere smile of his, that same smile he wore when he asked me if I wanted to learn how to swim.

I waved back and walked toward his house. We stood there, looking at each other for a minute. It was strange, that we didn’t have any words. And then he just leapt off his porch and hugged me. “Ari! Look at you! Long hair! You look like Che Guevara without the mustache.”

“Nice,” I said.

Legs barked at him. “You have to pet her,” I said. “She hates to be ignored.”

Dante got down on his knees and petted her. Then kissed her. Legs licked his face. It was hard to say which of the two of them was more affectionate. “Legs, Legs, so nice to meet you.” He looked so happy and I wondered about that, his capacity for happiness. Where did that come from? Did I have that kind of happiness inside me? Was I just afraid of it?

“Where’d you get all those muscles, Ari?”

I looked at him, standing in front of me, him and all his uncensored questions.

“My dad’s old weights in the basement.” I said. And then I realized that he was now taller than me. “How’d you grow so much?” I said.

“Must have been the cold,” he said. “Five eleven. I’m exactly as tall as my dad.” He studied me. “You’re shorter—but your hair makes you look taller.”

That made me laugh though I didn’t know why. He hugged me again and whispered, “I missed you so much, Ari Mendoza.”

Typically, I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything. “Are we going to be friends?”

“Don’t be crazy, Dante. We are friends.” “Will we always be friends?”

“Always.”

“I’ll never lie to you about anything,” he said.

“I might lie to you,” I said. And then we laughed. And I thought, Maybe this will be the summer when there is nothing but laughter. Maybe this will be the summer.

“Come and say hi to Mom and Dad,” he said. “They’ll want to see you.” “Can they come out? I have Legs.”

“Legs can come in.”

“I don’t think your mom would like that.”

“If it’s your dog, the dog can come in. Trust me on that one.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “My mom isn’t about to forget that incident in the rain.”

“That’s ancient history.”

“My mom is an elephant when it comes to remembering.”

But we didn’t have to test Dante’s mom about dogs in the house because just then, Mr. Quintana was at the front door and he was shouting at his wife, “Soledad, guess who’s here?”

They were all over me, hugging me and saying nice things, and I wanted to cry. Because their affection was so real and somehow, I felt I didn’t deserve it or felt maybe that they were hugging the guy who had saved their son’s life. I wanted them to hug me just because I was Ari and I would never be just Ari to them. But I had learned how to hide what I felt. No, that’s not true. There was no learning involved. I had been born knowing how to hide what I felt.

They were so happy to see me. And the truth was that I was happy to see them, too.

I remember telling Mr. Quintana that I was working at the Charcoaler. He smirked at Dante. “Work, Dante, there’s a thought.”

“I’m going to get a job, Dad. I really am.”

Mrs. Quintana looked different. I don’t know, it was like she was holding the sun inside her. I had never seen a woman look more beautiful. She looked younger than the last time I’d seen her. Younger, not older. Not that she was old. She’d had Dante when she was twenty, I knew that. So she was thirty-eight or so. But she looked younger than that in the morning light. Maybe that’s what it was, the morning light.

I heard Dante’s voice as I listened to his parents talk about their year in Chicago. “When do I get a ride in the truck?”

“How about after work?” I said. “I get off at seven thirty.” “You have to teach me how to drive, Ari.”

I saw the look on his mother’s face. “Aren’t dads supposed to do that?” I said.

“My dad is the worst driver in the universe,” he said.

“That’s not true,” Mr. Quintana said. “Just the worst driver in El Paso.” He was the only man I’d ever met who actually admitted he was a bad driver. Before I left, his mother managed to pull me aside. “I know you’re going to let Dante drive your truck sooner or later.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Dante’s very persuasive. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.” I smiled at her. Something about her made me feel perfectly confident and at ease. I just didn’t feel that way around most people. “I can see that I’m going to have to deal with two mothers this summer.”

“You’re a part of this family,” she said. “There’s no use fighting it.” “I’m sure I’ll disappoint you someday, Mrs. Quintana.”

“No,” she said. And even though her voice could be so firm, right then her voice was almost as kind as my own mother’s. “You’re so hard on yourself, Ari.”

I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just the way it is with me.”

She smiled at me. “Dante’s not the only one who missed you.”

It was the most beautiful thing an adult who wasn’t my mom or dad had ever said to me. And I knew that there was something about me that Mrs. Quintana saw and loved. And even though I felt it was a beautiful thing, I also felt it was a weight. Not that she meant it to be a weight. But love was always something heavy for me. Something I had to carry.

LEGS AND I PICKED DANTE UP AT AROUND EIGHT o’clock. The

sun was still out, but it was sinking fast and it was hot. I honked the horn and Dante was standing at the door. “That’s your truck! It’s amazing! It’s beautiful, Ari!”

Yeah, I knew I must have had a stupid grin on my face. A guy who loves his truck needs other people to admire his driving machine. Yeah, needs. That’s the truth. I don’t know why, but that’s the way truck guys are.

He shouted back toward his house. “Mom! Dad! Come look at Ari’s truck!” He bounded down the stairs like a kid. Always so uncensored. Legs and I hopped out of the truck and watched Dante walk around the truck admiring it. “Not a scratch,” he said.

“That’s because I don’t drive it to school.”

Dante smiled. “Real chrome rims,” he said. “You’re a real Mexican, Ari.” That made me laugh. “So are you, you jerk.”

“Nah, I’ll never be a real Mexican.”

Why did it matter so much to him? But it mattered to me too. He was about to say something, but he noticed his parents walking down the front steps of his house.

“Great truck, Ari! Now, that’s a classic.” Mr. Quintana reacted just like Dante with that uncensored enthusiasm.

Mrs. Quintana just smiled. The two of them walked around the truck, inspecting it, smiling at it as if they had run into an old friend. “It’s a beautiful truck, Ari.” I hadn’t expected that from Mrs. Quintana. Dante had already redirected his attention to Legs who was licking his face. I don’t know what came over me, but I tossed Mr. Quintana my keys. “You can take your girlfriend out for a spin if you want,” I said.

There was no hesitation in his smile. I could tell Mrs. Quintana was trying to suppress the girl that was still living inside her. But even without her husband’s smile, what she was holding inside of her seemed far more profound to me. It was as if I was coming to understand Dante’s mother. I knew that it mattered. I wondered why.

I liked watching them, all three of them around my truck. I wanted time to stop because everything seemed so simple, Dante and Legs falling in

love with each other, Dante’s mom and dad remembering something about their youth as they examined my truck, and me, the proud owner. I had something of value—even if it was just a truck that brought out a sweet nostalgia in people. It was as if my eyes were a camera and I was photographing the moment, knowing that I would keep that photograph forever.

Dante and I sat on his steps and watched his dad start up my truck, his mother leaning into him like a girl on a first date.

“Buy her a milk shake!” Dante yelled. “Girls like it when you buy them something!”

We could see them laughing as they drove off.

“Your parents,” I said. “Sometimes they’re like kids.”

“They’re happy,” he said. “Your parents? Are they happy?”

“Mom and Dad, they’re not at all like your mom and dad. But, my mom adores my dad. I know that. And I think my dad adores my mom too. He’s just not demonstrative.”

“Demonstrative. That’s not an Ari word.”

“You’re making fun. I’ve expanded my vocabulary.” I nudged him. “I’m preparing for college.”

“How many new words a day?”

“You know, a few. I like the old words better. They’re like old friends.”

Dante nudged me back. “Demonstrative. Is that word ever going to be an old friend?”

“Maybe not.”

“You’re like your father, aren’t you?” “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“My mom struggles with that too, you know? She doesn’t naturally display her feelings. That’s why she married my dad. That’s what I think. He drags it out of her, all those feelings she has.”

“Then it’s a good match.”

“Yeah, it is. The funny thing is, I sometimes think my mother loves my father more than he loves her. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe. Is love a contest?” “What does that mean?”

“Maybe everyone loves differently. Maybe that’s all that matters.”

“You do realize you’re talking, don’t you? I mean you’re really talking.” “I talk, Dante. Don’t be a shit.”

“Sometimes you talk. Other times you just, I don’t know, you just avoid.” “I’m doing the best I can.”

“I know. Are there going to be rules for us, Ari?” “Rules?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“So what are the rules?” “I don’t kiss boys.”

“Okay, so the first rule is: No trying to kiss Ari.” “Yeah, that’s the first rule.”

“And I have a rule for you.” “Okay, that’s fair.”

“No running away from Dante.” “What does that mean?”

“I think you know what it means. Someday, someone will walk up to you and say: ‘Why are you hanging out with that queer?’ If you can’t stick by me as a friend, Ari, if you can’t do that, then maybe it’s better that you just, you know—it would kill me. You know it would kill me if you—”

“Then it’s a question of loyalty.” “Yes.”

I laughed. “I have a harder rule to follow.” He laughed too.

He touched my shoulder—then smiled. “Bullshit, Ari. You have the harder rule to follow? Buffalo shit. Coyote shit. All you have to do is be loyal to the most brilliant guy you’ve ever met—which is like walking barefoot through the park. I, on the other hand, have to refrain from kissing the greatest guy in the universe—which is like walking barefoot on hot coals.”

“I see you still have the barefoot thing going on.” “I’ll always hate shoes.”

“We’ll play that game,” I said. “That game you made up to beat the hell out of your tennis shoes.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?”

The way he said that. Like he knew we would never play that game again. We were too old now. We’d lost something and we both knew it.

We didn’t say anything for a long time.

We just sat there on his front steps. Waiting. I looked over and saw Legs resting her head on Dante’s lap.

DANTE AND I AND LEGS DROVE OUT TO THE DESERT that

night. To my favorite spot. It was just past twilight and the stars were coming out from wherever it was they hid during the day.

“Next time we’ll bring my telescope.” “Good idea,” I said.

We lay down on the bed of my truck and stared out at the new night. Legs was exploring the desert and I had to call her back. She hopped on the truck and made a space for herself between me and Dante.

“I love Legs,” Dante said. “She loves you back.”

He pointed up at the sky. “See Ursa Major?” “No.”

“Over there.”

I studied the sky. “Yes. Yes. I see it.” “It’s so amazing.”

“Yes, it is amazing.”

We were quiet. We just lay there. “Ari?”

“Yeah?”

“Guess what?” “What?”

“My mother’s pregnant.” “What?”

“My mom’s going to have a baby. Can you believe that?” “No shit.”

“Chicago was cold and my parents figured out a way to keep warm.” That really made me laugh.

“You think parents ever outgrow sex?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s something you outgrow, is it? What do I know, I’m just waiting to grow into it.”

“Me too.”

We were quiet again.

“Wow, Dante,” I whispered. “You’re going to be a big brother.”

“Yeah, a really big brother.” He looked over at me. “Does that make you think of—what was your brother’s name?”

“Bernardo.”

“Does that make you think of him?”

“Everything makes me think of him. Sometimes, when I’m driving along in my pickup, I think of him and I wonder if he liked trucks and I wonder what he’s like and I wish I knew him and—I don’t know—I just can’t let it go. I mean, it’s not as if I ever really knew him. So why does it matter so much?”

“If it matters, then it matters.” I didn’t say anything.

“Are you rolling your eyes?” “Yeah, I guess.”

“I think you should confront your parents. You should just sit them down and make them tell you. Make them be adults.”

“You can’t make anyone be an adult. Especially an adult.” That really made Dante laugh and we got to laughing so hard that Legs started barking at us.

“You know,” Dante said, “I need to take my own advice.” He paused. “I hope to God that my mother has a boy. And he better like girls. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him.”

That got us to laughing again. And that got Legs to barking again.

When we finally got quiet again, I heard Dante’s voice and it seemed so small in the desert night. “I have to tell them, Ari.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to.”

“But what if you fall in love with a girl?” “That’s not going to happen, Ari.” “They’ll always love you, Dante.”

He didn’t say anything. And then I heard him crying. So I just let him cry. There was nothing I could do. Except listen to his pain. I could do that. I could hardly stand it. But I could do that. Just listen to his pain.

“Dante,” I whispered. “Can’t you see how much they love you?” “I’m going to disappoint them. Just like I’ve disappointed you.” “You haven’t disappointed me, Dante.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m crying.”

“No, Dante.” I got up from where I was lying and sat on the edge of the open tailgate of the truck. He sat up and we stared at each other. “Don’t cry, Dante. I’m not disappointed.”

On the way back to town we stopped off at a drive-in burger joint and had a root beer. “So what are you going to do this summer?” I said.

“Well, I’m going to practice with the Cathedral swim team and I’m going to work on some paintings and I’m going to get a job.”

“Really. You’re going to get a job?” “God, you sound like my dad.”

“Well, why do you want to work?” “To learn about life.”

“Life,” I said. “Work. Shit. Ecotone.” “Ecotone?”

ONE NIGHT, DANTE AND I WERE HANGING OUT IN HIS room.

He’d graduated to working on canvas. He was working on a large painting on an easel. It was covered over.

“Can I see?” “No.”

“When you finish?” “Yes. When I finish.” “Okay,” I said.

He was lying on his bed and I was sitting on his chair. “Read any good books of poems lately?” I said.

“No, not really.” He seemed a little distracted. “Where are you, Dante?”

“Here,” he said. He sat up on his bed. “I was thinking about the kissing thing,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“I mean, how do you know that you don’t like kissing boys if you’ve never kissed one?”

“I think you just know, Dante.” “Well, have you ever?”

“You know I haven’t. Have you?” “No.”

“Well, maybe you don’t really like kissing guys. Maybe you just think you do.”

“I think we should try an experiment.”

“I know what you’re going to say and the answer is no.” “You’re my best friend, right?”

“Yes. But right now I’m really regretting it.” “Let’s just try it.”

“No.”

“I won’t tell anyone. C’mon.” “No.”

“Look, it’s just a kiss. You know. And then we’ll both know.” “We already do know.”

“We won’t really know until we actually do it.” “No.”

“Ari, please.”

“Dante.” “Stand up.”

I don’t know why I did it, but I did it. I stood up. And then he stood right in front of me.

“Close your eyes,” he said. So I closed my eyes.

And he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

And then he started really kissing me. And I pulled away. “Well?” he said.

“Didn’t work for me,” I said. “Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. It sure worked for me.” “Yeah. I think I get that, Dante.”

“So, well, that’s over with then, huh?” “Yeah.”

“Are you mad at me?” “A little.”

He sat back down on his bed. He looked sad. I didn’t like seeing him that way. “I’m more mad at myself,” I said. “I always let you talk me into things. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Don’t cry, okay?” “Okay,” he said.

“You’re crying.” “I’m not.”

“Okay.”

I DIDN’T CALL DANTE FOR A FEW DAYS.

He didn’t call me either.

But somehow I knew he was sulking. He felt bad. And I felt bad too. So after a couple of days passed, I called him. “You want to go running in the morning?” I said.

“What time?” he said. “Six thirty.”

“Okay,” he said.

For someone who wasn’t a runner, he ran really well. I ran a lot slower with Dante along, but that was okay. We talked a little. And laughed. And afterward, we played Frisbee with Legs in the park and we were all right. And I needed us to be all right. And he needed us to be all right too. And so we were.

“Thanks for calling,” he said. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t call anymore.”

Life seemed strangely normal for a while. Not that I wanted my summer to be normal. But, normal was okay. I could settle for normal. I went for a run in the mornings and worked out. I went to work.

Sometimes Dante called me and we talked. Not about anything in particular. He was working on a painting and he’d gotten a job at the drugstore in Kern Place. He said he liked working there because when he got off he could go to the university and spend some time in the library. Being a professor’s son had its privileges. Also he said, “You won’t believe who buys condoms.”

I don’t know if he said that to make me laugh. But it worked.

“And Mom’s teaching me how to drive,” he said. “Mostly we fight.” “I’ll let you drive my pickup,” I said.

“My mother’s worst nightmare,” he said.

We were laughing again. And that was good. It wouldn’t be summer without Dante’s laughter. We talked a lot on the phone, but we didn’t see each other very much those first few weeks of summer.

He was busy. I was busy.

Mostly I think we were busy avoiding each other. Even though we hadn’t wanted that kiss to be a big thing, it had been a big thing. It took a while for the ghost of that kiss to disappear.

One morning, when I came back from my run, my mom was gone. She left a note telling me she was going to spend the day reorganizing the food bank. “When are you going to start your Saturday afternoon shift? You promised.”

I don’t know why, but I decided to call Dante. “I’ve been volunteered to work at the food bank on Saturday afternoons. Want to volunteer with me?”

“Sure. What are we supposed to do?” “I’m sure my mom will train us,” I said.

I was glad I asked. I missed him. I missed him more now that he was back than when he had been gone.

I didn’t know why.

I took a shower and looked at the clock. I had some time to kill. I found myself opening the drawer in the spare bedroom. I found myself holding the envelope labeled BERNARDO. I wanted to rip it open. Maybe if I ripped it open, I would also be ripping open my life.

But I just couldn’t. I threw it back in the drawer.

All day, I thought of my brother. But I didn’t even remember what he looked like. I kept screwing up the orders at work. The manager told me to pay attention. “I’m not paying you to be pretty.”

There was a cuss word in my head. But I didn’t let it pass my lips. I drove by Dante’s house after work. “Want to get drunk?” I said.

He studied my face. “Sure.” He had the decency not to ask me what was wrong.

I went back home and showered, washing the smell of french fries and onion rings off my skin. My dad was reading. The house seemed quiet to me. “Where’s Mom?”

“She and your sisters are in Tucson visiting your Aunt Ophelia.” “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

“It’s just you and me.”

I nodded. “Sounds like fun.” I hadn’t meant to sound so sarcastic. I could tell he was studying me. “Is there something wrong, Ari?” “No. I’m going out. Dante and I, we’re going to go riding around.” He nodded. He kept looking at me. “You seem different, Ari.” “Different how?”

“Angry.”

If I had been braver this is what I would have said: Angry? What have I got to be angry about? You know something, Dad? I don’t really care that you can’t tell me about Vietnam. Even though I know that war owns you, I don’t care if you don’t want to talk about it. But I do care that you won’t talk about my brother. Damn it to hell, Dad, I can’t stand to live with all your silence.

I imagined his answer: All that silence has saved me, Ari. Don’t you know that? And what is this obsession you have with your brother?

I imagined my argument: Obsession, Dad? You know what I’ve learned from you and Mom? I’ve learned not to talk. I’ve learned how to keep everything I feel buried deep inside of me. And I hate you for it.

“Ari?”

I knew I was about to cry. I knew he could see that. I hated letting my dad see all that sadness inside of me.

He reached for me. “Ari—”

“Don’t touch me, Dad. Just don’t touch me.”

I don’t remember driving to Dante’s. I just remember sitting there in my truck, parked outside his house.

His parents were sitting on the front steps. They waved at me. I waved back. And then they were standing right there. At the door of my truck. And I heard Mr. Quintana’s voice. “Ari, you’re crying.”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” I said.

“You should come inside,” Mrs. Quintana said. “No.”

And then Dante was there. He smiled at me. And then he smiled at his mom and dad. “Let’s go,” he said.

His parents didn’t ask any questions.

I just drove. I could have driven forever. I don’t know how I managed to find my spot in the desert, but I found it. It was as if I had a compass hidden somewhere inside me. One of the secrets of the universe was that our instincts were sometimes stronger than our minds. When I stopped the truck, I got out, slamming the door. “Shit! I forgot about the beer.”

“We don’t need the beer,” Dante whispered.

“We need the beer! We need the fucking beer, Dante!” I don’t know why I was yelling. The yelling turned into sobs. I fell into Dante’s arms and cried.

He held me and didn’t say a word.

Another secret of the universe: Sometimes pain was like a storm that came out of nowhere. The clearest summer morning could end in a downpour. Could end in lightning and thunder.

IT WAS STRANGE NOT HAVING MY MOM AROUND.

I wasn’t used to making the coffee. My dad left a note. Are you okay? Yeah, Dad.

I was glad that Legs broke the silence of the house when she began barking. Her way of telling me it was time to go for a run.

Legs and I ran faster that morning. I tried not to think of anything as I ran, but it didn’t work. I thought of my dad and my brother and Dante. I was always thinking of Dante, always trying to figure him out, always wondering why it was that we were friends and why it seemed to matter so much. To both of us. I hated thinking about things and people—especially when they were mysteries I couldn’t solve. I changed the topic in my head to Aunt Ophelia in Tucson. I wondered why I never went to visit her. It’s not as if I didn’t love her. She lived alone and I could have made an effort. But I never did. I did call her sometimes. It was strange, but I could talk to her. She always made me feel so loved. I wondered how she did that.

When I was drying myself off after my shower, I stared at my naked body in the mirror. I studied it. How strange to have a body. Sometimes it felt that way. Strange. I remembered what my aunt had told me once. “The body is a beautiful thing.” No adult had ever said that to me. And I wondered if I would ever feel like my own body was beautiful. My Aunt Ophelia had solved a few of the many mysteries of the universe. I felt as though I hadn’t solved any at all.

I hadn’t even solved the mystery of my own body.

RIGHT BEFORE I WENT IN TO WORK, I STOPPED OFF AT the

drugstore where Dante was working. I think I just wanted to see that he really had a job. When I walked into the drugstore, he was behind the counter, placing cigarettes on the shelf.

“Are you wearing shoes?” I said.

He smiled. I stared at his name tag. Dante Q.

“I was just thinking of you,” he said. “Yeah?”

“Some girls came in a little while ago.” “Girls?”

“They knew you. We got to talking.”

I knew which girls they were before he told me. “Gina and Susie,” I said. “Yeah. They’re nice. Pretty, too. They go to school with you.”

“Yeah, they’re nice and pretty. And pushy, too.”

“They looked at my name tag. And then they looked at each other. And then one of them asked me if I knew you. I thought that it was a funny question to ask.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them yeah. I said you were my best friend.” “You told them that?”

“You are my best friend.”

“Did they ask you anything else?”

“Yeah, they asked if I knew anything about an accident and you breaking your legs.”

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!” “What?”

“Did you tell them?” “Of course I told them.” “You told them?”

“Why are you getting mad?”

“You told them about what happened?” “Of course I did.”

“There’s a rule, Dante.”

“You’re mad? You’re mad at me?”

“The rule was we weren’t supposed to talk about the accident.”

“Wrong. The rule was we weren’t supposed to talk about the accident with each other. The rule doesn’t apply to anyone else.”

There was a line forming behind me.

“I have to get back to work,” Dante said.

Later that afternoon, Dante called me at work. “Why are you mad?” “I just don’t like other people to know.”

“I don’t get you, Ari.” He hung up the phone.

What I knew was going to happen, happened. Gina and Susie showed up at the Charcoaler just as I was getting off work.

“You were telling us the truth,” Gina said. “So what?” I said.

“So what? You saved Dante’s life.” “Gina, let’s not talk about it.”

“You sound upset, Ari.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Why not, Ari? You’re a hero.” Susie Byrd had this thing in her voice. “And how come,” Gina said, “we don’t know anything about your best

friend?”

“Yeah, how come?”

I looked at both of them.

“He’s so cute. I’d have thrown myself in front of a moving car for him too.”

“Shut up, Gina,” I said.

“How come he’s such a secret?”

“He’s not a secret. He just goes to Cathedral.”

Susie had this gaga look on her face. “Cathedral boys are so cute.” “Cathedral boys suck,” I said.

“So when are we going to get to know him?” “Never.”

“Oh, so you want him all to yourself.”

“Knock it off, Gina, you’re really pissing me off.”

“You’re really touchy about things, you know that, Ari?” “Go to hell, Gina.”

“You really don’t want us to know him, do you?”

“I don’t really care. You know where he works. Go badger him. Maybe that way, you’ll leave me alone.”

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’RE SO UPSET.”

“Why did you tell Gina and Susie about the whole thing?” “What’s with you, Ari?”

“We agreed not to talk about it.” “I don’t get you.”

“I don’t get me either.”

I got up from the steps of his front porch where we were sitting. “I gotta go.” I looked out across the street. I remembered Dante running after two boys who were shooting at a bird.

I opened the door to my truck and climbed in. I slammed the door. Dante was standing in front of me. “Do you wish you hadn’t saved my life? Is that it? Do you wish I was dead?”

“Of course not,” I whispered.

He just stood there, looking at me.

I didn’t look back. I started my truck.

“You are the most inscrutable guy in the universe.” “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I am.”

Dad and I ate dinner together. We were both quiet. We took turns feeding Legs scraps of food. “Mom wouldn’t approve.”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

We smiled awkwardly at each other. “I’m going bowling. You want to go?” “Bowling?”

“Yeah. Sam and I, we’re going bowling.” “You’re going bowling with Dante’s dad?”

“Yeah. He invited me. I thought it would be good to get out. You and Dante want to come along?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You guys have an argument?” “No.”

I called Dante on the phone. “Our dads are going bowling tonight.” “I know.”

“My dad wanted to know if we wanted to go.”

“Tell him no,” Dante said. “Okay.”

“I have a better idea.”

Mr. Quintana picked my dad up to go bowling. I thought that was really strange. I didn’t even know my dad bowled. “Boys’ night out,” Mr. Quintana said.

“Don’t drink and drive,” I said.

“Dante’s wearing off on you,” he said. “What’s happened to that respectful young man?”

“He’s still here,” I said. “I’m not calling you Sam, am I?” My dad shot me a look.

“Bye,” I said.

I watched them drive off. I looked at Legs, “Let’s go.” She hopped in the truck and we drove to Dante’s house. He was sitting on the front porch, talking to his mother. I waved. Legs and I leapt out of the truck. I walked up the stairs and leaned down and gave Mrs. Quintana a kiss. The last time I’d seen her, I’d said hi and shaken her hand. I’d felt stupid. “A kiss on the cheek will do, Ari,” she’d said. So that was our new greeting.

The sun was setting. Even though it had been a really hot day, the breeze was picking up, the clouds were gathering, and it looked like it might storm. Looking at Mrs. Quintana’s hair in the breeze made me think of my mother. “Dante’s making a list of names for his baby brother.”

I looked at Dante. “What if it’s a girl?”

“He’ll be a boy.” There was no doubt in his voice. “I like Diego. I like Joaquin. I like Javier. Rafael. I like Maximiliano.”

“Those names sound pretty Mexican,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I’m shying away from ancient classical names. And besides, if he has a Mexican name, then maybe he’ll feel more Mexican.”

The look on his mother’s face told me they’d had this discussion more than a few times.

“What about Sam?” I said. “Sam’s okay,” he said.

Mrs. Quintana laughed. “Does the mother get a say?”

“No,” Dante said. “The mother just gets to do all the work.”

She leaned over and kissed him. She looked up at me. “So you two are going stargazing?”

“Yeah, stargazing with the naked eye. No telescopes,” I said. “And it’s us three. You forgot Legs.”

“Nope,” she said, “Legs is staying with me. I feel like some company.” “Okay,” I said. “If you want.”

“She’s a wonderful dog.”

“Yeah, she is. So you like dogs now?” “I like Legs. She’s sweet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sweet.”

It’s almost as if Legs knew what the score was. When Dante and I hopped into the truck, she stayed right beside Mrs. Quintana. How strange, I thought, that dogs sometimes understood the needs and behaviors of human beings.

Mrs. Quintana called out to me before I started the truck. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

“Remember the rain,” she said.

AS I WAS DRIVING TOWARD MY SPOT IN THE DESERT, Dante

took out the goods. He waved the two joints in the air.

We both smiled, then laughed. “You’re a bad boy,” I said.

“You’re a bad boy too.”

“Just what we’ve always wanted to be.” “If our parents knew,” I said.

“If our parents knew,” he said. We laughed.

“I’ve never done this.” “It’s not hard to learn.” “Where’d you score this?”

“Daniel. This guy I work with. I think he likes me.” “Does he want to kiss you?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want to kiss him back?” “Not sure.”

“But you talked him into giving you some pot, didn’t you?” Even though I kept my eye on the road, I knew he was smiling. “You like talking people into things, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

There was lightning in the sky and thunder and the smell of rain.

Dante and I got out of the truck. We didn’t say a word. He lit the joint, inhaled, then held the smoke in his lungs. Then finally, he let it out. Then he did it again, and handed the joint to me. I did exactly as he did. I have to say I liked the smell, but the pot was harsh in my lungs. I fought not to cough. If Dante didn’t cough, then I wasn’t going to cough. We sat there passing the joint until it was gone.

I felt light and breezy and happy. It was strange and wonderful and everything seemed far away and yet kind of close. Dante and I kept looking at each other as we sat on the tailgate of my truck. We started laughing and couldn’t stop.

Then the breeze became a wind. And the thunder and lightning was close and closer and it started to rain. We ran inside the truck. We couldn’t stop laughing, didn’t want to stop laughing. “It’s crazy,” I said. “It feels so crazy.”

“Crazy,” he said. “Crazy, crazy, crazy.” “God, crazy.”

I wanted us to laugh forever. We listened to the downpour. God, it was really raining. Like that night.

“Let’s go out there,” Dante said. “Let’s go out in the rain.” I watched him as he took off all his clothes: his shirt, his shorts, his boxers. Everything except his tennis shoes. Which was really funny. “Well,” he said. He had his hand on the handle of the door. “Ready?”

“Wait,” I said. I stripped off my T-shirt and all my clothes. Except my tennis shoes.

We looked at each other and laughed. “Ready?” I said. “Ready,” he said.

We ran out into the rain. God, the drops of rain were so cold. “Shit!” I yelled.

“Shit!” Dante yelled.

“We’re fucking crazy.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Dante laughed. We ran around the truck, naked and laughing, the rain beating against our bodies. Around and around the truck, we ran. Until we were both tired and breathless.

We sat inside the truck, laughing, trying to catch our breaths. And then the rain stopped. That was the way it was in the desert. The rain poured down, then stopped. Just like that. I opened the door to the truck and stepped out into the damp and windy night air.

I stretched my arms out toward the sky. And closed my eyes. Dante was standing next to me. I could feel his breath.

I don’t know what I would have done if he had touched me. But he didn’t.

“I’m starving,” he said. “Me too.”

We got dressed and drove back into town. “What should we eat?” I said.

“Menudo,” he said. “You like menudo.”

“Yeah.”

“I think that makes you a real Mexican.” “Do real Mexicans like to kiss boys?”

“I don’t think liking boys is an American invention.” “You could be right.”

“Yeah, I could be.” I shot him a look. He hated when I was right. “How about Chico’s Tacos?”

“They don’t have menudo.”

“Okay, how about the Good Luck Café on Alameda?” “My dad loves that place.”

“Mine too.”

“They’re bowling,” I said.

“They’re bowling.” We were laughing so hard I had to pull over.

When we finally got to the Good Luck Café, we were so hungry that we both had a plate of enchiladas and two bowls of menudo.

“Are my eyes red?” “No,” I said.

“Good. I guess we can go home.” “Yeah,” I said.

“I can’t believe we did that.” “Me neither.”

“But it was fun,” he said.

“God,” I said. “It was fantastic.”

DAD WOKE ME EARLY. “WE’RE GOING TO TUCSON,” he said.

I sat up in bed. I stared at him. “There’s coffee.”

Legs followed him out the door.

I wondered if he was mad at me, wondered why we had to go to Tucson. I felt a little groggy, like I’d been woken in a middle of a dream. I slipped on a pair of jeans and headed for the kitchen. Dad handed me a cup of coffee. “You’re the only kid I know who drinks coffee.”

I tried to go with the small talk, tried to pretend I hadn’t had that imaginary conversation with him. Not that he knew what I’d said. But I knew. And I knew I’d meant to say those things, even if I hadn’t. “Someday, Dad, kids all over the world will be drinking coffee.”

“I need a cigarette,” he said.

Legs and I followed him into the backyard.

I watched him light his cigarette. “How was bowling?”

He smiled crookedly. “It was kind of fun. I’m a crappy bowler. Luckily, so is Sam.”

“You should get out more,” I said.

“You too,” he said. He took a drag off his cigarette. “Your mom called late last night. Your aunt had a very serious stroke. She’s not going to make it.”

I remembered living with her one summer. I was a small boy and she was a kind woman. She’d never married. Not that it mattered. She knew about boys and knew how to laugh and knew how to make a boy feel as though he was the center of the universe. She’d lived a life separate from the rest of family for reasons no one had ever bothered to explain to me. I never cared about that.

“Ari? Are you listening?” I nodded.

“You go away sometimes.”

“No, not really. I was just thinking. I spent a summer with her when I was little.”

“Yes, you did. You didn’t want to come back home.”

“I didn’t? I don’t remember.”

“You fell in love with her.” He smiled.

“Maybe I did. I can’t remember not loving her. And that’s weird.” “Why is that weird?”

“I don’t feel that way about my other uncles and aunts.”

He nodded. “The world would be lucky to have more like her. She and your mother wrote to each other every week. A letter a week for years and years and years. Did you know that?”

“No. That’s a lot of letters.” “She saved them all.”

I took a sip of my coffee.

“Can you make arrangements at work, Ari?”

I could imagine him in the military. Taking charge. His voice calm and undisturbed.

“Yeah. It’s only a job flipping burgers. What can they do, fire me?” Legs barked at me. She was used to her morning run. I looked at my dad. “What are we going to do about Legs?”

“Dante,” he said.

His mother answered the phone. “Hi,” I said. “It’s Ari.” “I know,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah.” I said. “Is Dante up?”

“Are you kidding, Ari? He gets up a half hour before he has to be in to work. He won’t get up a minute earlier.”

We both laughed.

“Well,” I said, “I sort of need a favor.” “Okay,” she said.

“Well, my aunt had a stroke. My mom was visiting her. My dad and I are leaving as soon as we can. But, then, there’s Legs, and I thought maybe—” She didn’t let me finish my sentence.

“Of course we’ll take her. She’s great company. She fell asleep on my lap last night.”

“But you work and Dante works.”

“It will be fine, Ari. Sam’s home all day. He’s finishing his book.” “Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t thank me, Ari.” She sounded so much happier and lighter than the woman I’d first met. Maybe it was because she was going to have a baby. Maybe that was it. Not that she still didn’t get after Dante.

I hung the phone up, packed a few things. The phone rang. It was Dante. “Sorry about your aunt. But, hey, I get Legs!” He could be such a boy. Maybe he would always be a boy. Like his dad. “Yeah, you get Legs. She likes to run in the morning. Early.”

“How early?”

“We get up at five forty-five.”

“Five forty-five! Are you crazy? What about sleep?”

That guy could always make me laugh. “Thanks for doing this,” I said. “Are you okay?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Did your dad give you hell for coming in so late?” “No. He was asleep.”

“My mom wanted to know what we were up to.” “What did you tell her?”

“I told her we didn’t get to watch any stars because of the storm. I said it was raining like hell and we just got stuck in the storm. And we just sat in the truck and talked. And when the rain stopped, we got hungry so we went out for menudo.

“She looked at me funny. She said: ‘Why don’t I believe you?’ And I said: ‘Because you have a very suspicious nature.’ And then she dropped the whole thing.”

“Your mom has hyper instincts,” I said. “Yeah, well, she can’t prove a thing.” “I bet she knows.”

“How would she know?”

“I don’t know. But I bet she knows.” “You’re making me paranoid.”

“Good.”

We both cracked up laughing.

We dropped off Legs at Dante’s house later that morning. My dad gave Mr. Quintana a key to our house. Dante got stuck with watering my mom’s plants. “And don’t steal my truck,” I said.

“I’m Mexican,” he said. “I know all about hotwiring.” That really made me laugh. “Look,” I said. “Eating menudo and hotwiring a truck are two totally different forms of art.”

We smirked at each other. Mrs. Quintana shot us a look.

We drank a cup of coffee with Dante’s mom and dad. Dante gave Legs a tour around the house. “I’m betting Dante’s going to encourage Legs to chew up all his shoes.” We all laughed except my dad. He didn’t know about Dante’s war against shoes. We laughed even harder when Legs and Dante walked back into the kitchen. Legs was carrying one of Dante’s shoes in her mouth. “Look what she found, Mom.”

MY FATHER AND I DIDN’T TALK ALL THAT MUCH ON THE

drive to Tucson. “Your mother’s sad,” he said. I knew he was thinking back. “You want me to drive?”

“No,” he said. But then he changed his mind. “Yes.” He got off at the next exit and we got some gas and coffee. He handed me the keys. His car handled a lot easier than my truck. I smiled. “I’ve never driven anything besides my truck.”

“If you can handle that truck, you can handle anything.”

“I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “It’s just that sometimes I have things running around inside me, these feelings. I don’t always know what to do with them. That probably doesn’t make any sense.”

“It sounds normal, Ari.”

“I don’t think I’m so normal.” “Feeling things is normal.”

“Except I’m angry. And I don’t really know where all that anger comes from.”

“Maybe if we talked more.”

“Well, which one of us is good with words, Dad?”

“You’re good with words, Ari. You’re just not good with words when you’re around me.”

I didn’t say anything. But then I said, “Dad, I’m not good with words.” “You talk to your mother all the time.”

“Yeah, but that’s because it’s a requirement.” He laughed. “I’m glad she makes us talk.”

“We’d die in our own silence if she wasn’t around.” “Well, we’re talking now, aren’t we?”

I glanced over and saw him smiling. “Yeah, we’re talking.”

He rolled down the window. “Your mother doesn’t let me smoke in the car. Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind.”

That smell—cigarette—it always made me think of him. He smoked his cigarette. I drove. I didn’t mind the silence and the desert and the cloudless sky.

What did words matter to a desert?

My mind drifted. I thought of Legs and Dante. I wondered what Dante saw when he looked at me. I wondered why I didn’t look at the sketches he gave me. Not ever. I thought of Gina and Susie and wondered why I never called them. They bugged me, but that was their way of being nice to me. I knew they liked me. And I liked them back. Why couldn’t a guy be friends with girls? What was so wrong with that? I thought about my brother and wondered if he’d been close to my aunt. I wondered why such a nice lady had divorced her family. I wondered why I’d spent a summer with her when I was only four.

“What are you thinking?” I heard my father’s voice. He hardly ever asked that question.

“I was thinking about Aunt Ophelia.” “What were you thinking?”

“Why did you send me to spend the summer with her?”

He didn’t answer. He rolled down the window and the heat of the desert came pouring into the air-conditioned car. I knew he was going to smoke another cigarette.

“Tell me,” I said.

“It was just around the time of your brother’s trial,” he said.

That was the first time he’d ever said anything to me about my brother. I didn’t say anything. I wanted him to keep talking.

“Your mother and I were having a very difficult time. We all were. Your sisters too. We didn’t want you to—” He stopped. “I think you know what I’m trying to say.” He had a very serious look on his face. More serious than usual. “Your brother loved you, Ari. He did. And he didn’t want you to be around. He didn’t want you to think of him that way.”

“So you sent me away.” “Yeah. We did.”

“It didn’t solve a damn thing, Dad. I think of him all the time.” “I’m sorry, Ari. I just—I’m really sorry.”

“Why can’t we just—”

“Ari, it’s more complicated than you think.” “In what way?”

“Your mother had a breakdown.” I could hear him smoking his cigarette. “What?”

“You were at your Aunt Ophelia’s for more than a summer. You were there for nine months.”

“Mom? I can’t—it’s just—Mom? Mom really had—” I wanted to ask my dad for a cigarette.

“She’s so strong, your mother. But, I don’t know, life isn’t logical, Ari. It was like your brother had died. And your mother became a different person. I hardly recognized her. When they sentenced him, she just fell apart. She was inconsolable. You have no idea how much she loved your brother. And I didn’t know what to do. And sometimes, even now, I look at her and I want to ask, ‘Is it over? Is it?’ When she came back to me, Ari, she seemed so fragile. And as the weeks and months went by, she became her old self again. She got strong again and—”

I listened to my dad cry. I pulled the car over to the side of the road. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know, Dad.”

He nodded. He got out of the car. He stood out in the heat. I knew he was trying to organize himself. Like a messy room that needed to be cleaned up. I left him alone for a while. But then, I decided I wanted to be with him. I decided that maybe we left each other alone too much. Leaving each other alone was killing us.

“Dad, sometimes I hated you and mom for pretending he was dead.” “I know. I’m sorry, Ari. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

BY THE TIME WE REACHED TUCSON, MY AUNT OPHELIA was

dead.

There was standing-room-only at her funeral mass. It was obvious that she had been deeply loved. By everyone except her family. We were the only ones there. My mom, my sisters, me, and my dad.

People I didn’t know walked up to me. “Ari?” they would ask. “Yes, I’m Ari.”

“Your aunt adored you.”

I was so ashamed. For having kept her on the margins of my memory. I was so ashamed.

MY SISTERS WENT BACK HOME AFTER THE FUNERAL.

My mom and dad and I stayed on. My mom and dad closed up my aunt’s house. My mom knew exactly what to do, and it was almost impossible for me to imagine her residing on the borders of sanity.

“You keep watching me,” she said one night as we watched a summer storm coming in from the west.

“Do I?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“Quiet’s pretty normal for me.”

“Why didn’t they come?” I asked. “My uncles and aunts? Why didn’t they come?”

“They didn’t approve of your aunt.” “Why not?”

“She lived with another woman. For many years.” “Franny,” I said. “She lived with Franny.”

“You remember?”

“Yes. A little. Not much. She was nice. She had green eyes. She liked to sing.”

“They were lovers, Ari.” I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Does that bother you?” “No.”

I kept playing with the food on my plate. I looked up at my father. He didn’t wait for me to ask my question.

“I loved Ophelia,” he said. “She was kind and she was decent.” “It didn’t matter to you that she lived with Franny?”

“To some people it mattered,” he said. “Your uncles and aunts, Ari, they just couldn’t.”

“But it didn’t matter to you?”

My father had a strange look on his face, as if he was trying to hold back his anger. I think I knew that his anger was aimed at my mother’s family, and I also think he knew that his anger was useless. “If it had mattered to

us, do you think we’d have let you come and stay with her?” He looked at my mother.

My mother nodded at him. “When we get back home,” she said. “I’d like to show you some pictures of your brother. Would that be okay?”

She reached over and wiped my tears. I couldn’t speak.

“We don’t always make the right decisions, Ari. We do the best we can.”

I nodded, but there weren’t any words and the silent tears just kept running down my face like there was a river inside me.

“I think we hurt you.”

I closed my eyes and made the tears stop. And then I said, “I think I’m crying because I’m happy.”

I CALLED DANTE AND TOLD HIM THAT WE’D BE BACK in a

couple of days. I didn’t tell him anything about my aunt. Except that she’d left me her house.

“What?” he said. “Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“‘Wow’ is right.”

“Is it a big house?”

“Yeah. It’s a great house.”

“What are you going to do with the house?”

“Well, apparently there’s a friend of my aunt’s who wants to buy it.” “What are you going to do with all that money?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” “Why do you suppose she left you the house?” “I have no idea.”

“Well, you can quit your job at the Charcoaler.” Dante. He could always make me laugh.

“So what have you been up to?”

“Working at the drugstore. And I’m sort of hanging out with this guy,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I wanted to ask his name but I didn’t.

He changed the subject. I knew when Dante was changing the subject. “My mom and dad are in love with Legs.”

ON THE FOURTH OF JULY, WE WERE STILL IN TUCSON.

We went to watch the fireworks.

My dad let me a have a beer with him. My mother tried to pretend she didn’t approve. But if she hadn’t approved, she would have put a stop to it.

“It’s not your first beer, is it, Ari?” I wasn’t going to lie to her.

“Mom, I told you when I broke the rules, I was going to do it behind your back.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what you said. You weren’t driving, were you?” “No.”

“You promise?” “I promise.”

I drank the beer slowly and watched the fireworks. I felt like a small boy. I loved fireworks, the explosions in the sky, the way the crowd sometimes uuhhhed and aahhed and oohhhed.

“Ophelia always said Franny was the Fourth of July.”

“That’s really a great thing to say,” I said. “So what happened to her?” “She died of cancer.”

“When?”

“About six years ago, I guess.” “Did you come to the funeral?” “Yes.”

“You didn’t bring me.” “No.”

“She used to send me Christmas gifts.” “We should have told you.”

I THINK MY MOTHER AND FATHER HAD DECIDED THAT there

were too many secrets in the world. Before we left my aunt’s house, she put two boxes in the trunk of the car. “What’s that?” I asked.

“The letters I wrote to her.”

“What are you going to do with them?” “I’m going to give them to you.”

“Really?”

I wondered if my smile was as big as hers. Maybe as big. But not as beautiful.

ON THE DRIVE BACK TO EL PASO FROM TUCSON, I SAT in the

backseat. I could see that my mom and dad were holding hands. Sometimes they would glance at each other. I looked out at the desert. I thought of the night Dante and I had smoked pot and run around naked in the rain.

“What are you going to do the rest of the summer?”

“I don’t know. Work at the Charcoaler. Hang out with Dante. Work out.

Read. Stuff like that.”

“You don’t have to work,” my father said. “You have the rest of your life to do that.”

“I don’t mind working. And anyway, what would I do? I don’t like to watch TV. I’m out of touch with my own generation. And I have you and mom to thank for that.”

“Well, you can watch all the television you like from here on in.” “Too late.”

They both laughed.

“It’s not funny. I’m the uncoolest almost-seventeen-year-old in the universe. And it’s all your fault.”

“Everything is our fault.”

“Yes, everything is your fault.”

My mom turned around just to make sure I was smiling.

“Maybe you and Dante should take a trip together. Maybe go camping or something.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“You should think about it,” my mom said. “It’s summer.”

It’s summer, I thought. I kept thinking of what Mrs. Quintana had said:

Remember the rain.

“There’s a storm up ahead,” my father said. “And we’re about to run into it.”

I looked out the window at the black clouds ahead of us. I opened the back window and smelled the rain. You could smell the rain in the desert even before a drop fell. I closed my eyes. I held my hand out and felt the first drop. It was like a kiss. The sky was kissing me. It was a nice thought. It was something Dante would have thought. I felt another drop and then

another. A kiss. A kiss. And then another kiss. I thought about the dreams I’d been having—all of them about kissing. But I never knew who I was kissing. I couldn’t see. And then, just like that, we were in the middle of a downpour. I rolled up the window and I was suddenly cold. My arm was wet, the shoulder of my T-shirt soaked.

My father pulled the car over. “Can’t drive in this,” he said.

There was nothing but darkness and sheets of rain and the awe of our silence.

My mom held my father’s hand.

Storms always made me feel so small.

Even though summers were mostly made of sun and heat, summers for me were about the storms that came and went. And left me feeling alone.

Did all boys feel alone?

The summer sun was not meant for boys like me. Boys like me belonged to the rain.

‌All the Secrets of the Universe‌

Through all of youth I was looking for you without knowing what I was looking for

—W. S. Merwin

IT RAINED OFF AND ON THE WHOLE TRIP BACK TO El Paso. I

dozed off to sleep. I’d wake every time we hit a heavy downpour.

There was something very serene about that trip back home.

Outside of the car, there was an awful storm. Inside of the car, it was warm. I didn’t feel threatened by the angry, unpredictable weather. Somehow, I felt safe and protected.

One of the times I fell asleep, I started dreaming. I think I could dream on command. I dreamed my father and my brother and I were all having a cigarette. We were in the backyard. My mother and Dante were at the door. Watching.

I couldn’t decide if the dream was a good dream or a bad dream. Maybe a good dream because when I woke I wasn’t sad. Maybe that’s how you measured whether a dream was good or bad. By the way it made you feel.

“Are you thinking of the accident?” I heard my mother’s soft voice. “Why?”

“Does the rain ever remind you of the accident?” “Sometimes.”

“Do you and Dante talk about it?” “No.”

“Why?”

“We just don’t.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you two talked about everything.”

“No,” I said. “We’re just like everyone else in the world.” I knew it wasn’t true. We weren’t like everyone else in the world.

When we drove up to the house, it was pouring. Thunder and lightning and wind, the worst storm of the summer season. My dad and I got soaked taking the suitcases back into the house. My mom turned on the lights and put on some tea as my father and I changed into dry clothes.

“Legs hates thunder,” I said. “It hurts her ears.” “I’m sure she’s sleeping right next to Dante.”

“Yeah, guess so.” I said. “Miss her?”

“Yeah.” I pictured Legs lying at Dante’s feet, whimpering at the sound of the thunder. I pictured Dante kissing her, telling her everything was all right. Dante who loved kissing dogs, who loved kissing his parents, who loved kissing boys, who even loved kissing girls. Maybe kissing was part of the human condition. Maybe I wasn’t human. Maybe I wasn’t part of the natural order of things. But Dante enjoyed kissing. And I suspected he liked masturbating too. I thought masturbating was embarrassing. I didn’t even know why. It just was. It was like having sex with yourself. Having sex with yourself was really weird. Autoeroticism. I’d looked it up in a book in the library. God, I felt stupid just thinking about these things. Some guys talked about sex all the time. I heard them at school. Why were they so happy when they talked about sex? It made me feel miserable. Inadequate. There was that word again. And why was I thinking about these things in the middle of a rainstorm, sitting at the kitchen table with my mother and father? I tried to bring my thoughts back into the kitchen. Where I was. Where I lived. I hated the thing of living in my head.

My mother and father were talking and I sat there, trying to listen to their conversation but not really listening at all, just thinking about things. My mind just wandering around. And then my thoughts fell on my brother. They always fell there. It was like my favorite parking spot in the desert. I just sort of drove there all the time. I wondered what it would have been like if my brother had been around. Maybe he could have taught me stuff about being a guy and what guys should feel and what they should do and how they should act. Maybe I would be happy. But maybe my life would be the same. Maybe my life would be even worse. Not that I had a bad life. I knew that. I had a mom and dad and they cared, and I had a dog and a best friend named Dante. But there was something swimming around inside me that always made me feel bad.

I wondered if all boys had that darkness inside them. Yes. Maybe even Dante.

I felt my mother’s eyes on me. She was studying me. Again. I smiled at her.

“I’d ask you to tell me what you’re thinking, but I don’t think you’d tell me.”

I shrugged. I pointed at my father. “Too much like him, I guess.”

That made my father laugh. He looked tired but at that moment, as we sat at the kitchen table, there was something young about him. And I thought

that maybe he was changing into someone else.

Everyone was always becoming someone else.

Sometimes, when you were older, you became someone younger. And me, I felt old. How can a guy who’s about to turn seventeen feel old?

It was still raining when I went to sleep. The thunder was far away and the soft sound of it was more like a distant whisper.

I slept. I dreamed. It was that dream again, that dream that I was kissing someone.

When I woke, I wanted to touch myself. “Shaking hands with your best friend.” That was Dante’s euphemism. He always smiled when he said that.

I took a cold shower instead.

FOR SOME REASON I HAD A FUNNY FEELING IN THE PIT of my

stomach. Not just the dream thing, the kissing thing, the body thing, and the cold shower. Not just that. There was something else that didn’t feel right.

I walked over to Dante’s house to get Legs. I was dressed for a run in the cool morning. I loved the dampness of the desert after all the rains.

I knocked at the front door.

It was early, but not too early. I knew Dante was probably still asleep, but his parents would be awake. And I wanted Legs.

Mr. Quintana answered the door. Legs rushed out and jumped up at me. I let her lick my face, which is not something I let her do very often. “Legs, Legs, Legs! I missed you.” I kept petting her and petting her, but when I looked up, I noticed that Mr. Quintana looked—he looked, I don’t know— there was something in his face.

I knew something was wrong. I looked at him. I didn’t even ask the question.

“Dante,” he said. “What?”

“He’s in the hospital.”

“What? What happened? Is he okay?

“He’s pretty beat up. His mother stayed with him overnight.” “What happened?”

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Ari?”

Legs and I followed him into the kitchen. I watched as Mr. Quintana poured me a cup of coffee. He handed me the cup and we sat across from each other. Legs placed her head on Mr. Quintana’s lap. He kept running his hand over her head. We sat there in the quiet, me watching him. I waited for him to talk. Finally, he said, “How close are you and Dante?”

“I don’t understand the question,” I said.

He bit his lip. “How well do you know my son?” “He’s my best friend.”

“I know that, Ari. But how well do you know him?”

He sounded impatient. I was playing dumb. I knew exactly what he was asking. I felt my heart beating against my chest. “Did he tell you?”

Mr. Quintana shook his head. “So you know,” I said.

He didn’t say anything.

I knew I had to say something. He looked lost and afraid and sad and tired and I hated that, because he was such a kind and good man. I knew I had to say something to him. But I didn’t know what. “Okay,” I said.

“Okay? What, Ari?”

“When you left for Chicago, Dante told me that someday he wanted to marry another boy.” I looked around the room. “Or at least kiss another boy. Well, actually, I think he said that in a letter. Or maybe he said some of that after he got back.”

He nodded. He stared into his cup of coffee. “I think I knew,” he said.

“How?”

“The way he looks at you sometimes.” “Oh.” I looked down at the floor.

“But why didn’t he tell me, Ari?”

“He didn’t want to disappoint you. He said—” I stopped and then looked away from him. But then I made myself stare back into his black, hopeful eyes. And even though I felt I was betraying Dante, I knew I had to talk him. I had to tell him. “Mr. Quintana—”

“Call me Sam.”

I looked at him. “Sam,” I said. He nodded.

“He’s crazy about you. I guess you know that.”

“If he’s so crazy about me, then why didn’t he tell me?” “Talking to dads isn’t that easy. Even you, Sam.”

He sipped on his coffee nervously.

“He was so happy that you were going to have another baby. And not just because he was going to be a big brother. And he said, ‘He has to be a boy and he has to like girls.’ That’s what he said. So that you could have grandchildren. So that you could be happy.”

“I don’t care about grandchildren. I care about Dante.” I hated watching the tears falling down Sam’s face.

“I love Dante,” he whispered. “I love that kid.” “He’s lucky,” I said.

He smiled at me. “They beat him,” he whispered. “They beat my Dante all to hell. They cracked some ribs, they punched his face. He has bruises everywhere. They did that to my son.”

It was a strange thing to want to hold an adult man in your arms. But that’s what I wanted to do.

We finished our coffee.

I didn’t ask any more questions.

I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO TELL MY MOM AND DAD. NOT that I

knew anything. I knew that someone, maybe several someones, had beat Dante so badly that he’d wound up in a hospital. I knew that it had something to do with another boy. I knew that Dante was at Providence Memorial Hospital. That’s all I knew.

I came home with Legs, who went berserk when I brought her home. Dogs didn’t censor themselves. Maybe animals were smarter than people. The dog was so happy. My mom and dad too. It felt good to know that they loved the dog, that they let themselves do that. And somehow it seemed that the dog helped us be a better family.

Maybe dogs were one of the secrets of the universe. “Dante’s in the hospital,” I said.

My mother was studying me. So was my father. They both wore a question mark on their faces.

“Someone jumped him. He’s hurt. He’s in the hospital.”

“No,” she said. “Our Dante?” I wondered why she’d said, “Our Dante.” “Was it a gang thing?” my father whispered.

“No.”

“It happened in some alley,” I said. “In the neighborhood?”

“Yes. I think so.”

They were waiting for me to tell them more. But I couldn’t. “I think I’ll go,” I said.

I didn’t remember leaving the house.

I didn’t remember driving to the hospital.

Next thing I knew I was standing in front of Dante, looking at his puffed up, punished face. He was unrecognizable. I couldn’t even see the color of his eyes. I remember taking his hand and whispering his name. He could hardly talk. He could hardly see, his eyes nearly swollen shut.

“Dante.”

“Ari?”

“I’m here,” I said.

“Ari?” he whispered.

“I should have been here,” I said. “I hate them. I hate them.” I did hate them. I hated them for what they’d done to his face, for what they’d done to his parents. I should have been here. I should have been here.

I felt his mother’s hand on my shoulder.

I sat with his mother and father. Just sat. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

Mrs. Quintana nodded. “Yes. But—” She looked at me. “Will you always be his friend?”

“Always.”

“No matter what?” “No matter what.”

“He needs a friend. Everybody needs a friend.”

“I need a friend too,” I said. I had never said that before.

There was nothing to do at the hospital. Just sit and look at each other.

None of us seemed like we were in the mood to talk.

As I was leaving, his parents walked out with me. We stood outside the hospital. Mrs. Quintana looked at me. “You should know what happened.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I think I do,” she said. “There was an old woman. She saw what happened. She told the police.” I knew she wasn’t going to cry. “Dante and another boy were kissing in an alley. Some boys were walking by and saw them. And—” She tried to smile. “Well, you saw what they did to him.”

“I hate them,” I said.

“Sam told me you know about Dante.”

“There are worse things in the world than a boy who likes to kiss other boys.”

“Yes, there are,” she said. “Much worse. Do you mind if I say something?’

I smiled at her and shrugged.

“I think Dante’s in love with you.”

Dante was right about her. She did know everything. “Yes,” I said. “Well, maybe not. I think he likes that other guy.”

Sam looked at right me. “Maybe the other guy’s just a stand in.” “For me, you mean?”

He smiled awkwardly. “I mean, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” “It’s okay,” I said.

“This is hard,” he said. “I’m—hell, I’m just feeling a little lost right now.”

I smiled at him. “You know what the worst thing about adults is?” “No.”

“They’re not always adults. But that’s what I like about them.” He took me in his arms and held me. Then let me go.

Mrs. Quintana watched us. “Do you know who he is?” “Who?”

“The other boy?” “I have an idea.”

“And you don’t care?”

“What am I supposed to do?” I knew my voice was cracking. But I refused to cry. What was there to cry about? “I don’t know what to do.” I looked at Mrs. Quintana and I looked at Sam. “Dante’s my friend.” I wanted to tell them that I’d never had a friend, not ever, not a real one. Until Dante. I wanted to tell them that I never knew that people like Dante existed in the world, people who looked at the stars, and knew the mysteries of water, and knew enough to know that birds belonged to the heavens and weren’t meant to be shot down from their graceful flights by mean and stupid boys. I wanted to tell them that he had changed my life and that I would never be the same, not ever. And that somehow it felt like it was Dante who had saved my life and not the other way around. I wanted to tell them that he was the first human being aside from my mother who had ever made me want to talk about the things that scared me. I wanted to tell them so many things and yet I didn’t have the words. So I just stupidly repeated myself. “Dante’s my friend.”

She looked at me, almost smiling. But she was too sad to smile. “Sam and I were right about you. You are the sweetest boy in the world.”

“Next to Dante,” I said. “Next to Dante,” she said.

They walked me to my truck. And then a thought entered into my head. “What happened to the other guy?”

“He ran,” Sam said. “And Dante didn’t.” “No.”

That’s when Mrs. Quintana broke down and cried. “Why didn’t he run, Ari? Why didn’t he just run?”

“Because he’s Dante,” I said.

I DIDN’T KNOW THAT I WAS GOING TO DO THE THINGS I did. It

wasn’t like I had a plan. It wasn’t like I was really thinking. Sometimes, you do things and you do them not because you’re thinking but because you’re feeling. Because you’re feeling too much. And you can’t always control the things you do when you’re feeling too much. Maybe the difference between being a boy and being a man is that boys couldn’t control the awful things they sometimes felt. And men could. That afternoon, I was just a boy. Not even close to being a man.

I was a boy. A boy who went crazy. Crazy, crazy.

I got in my truck and drove straight to the drugstore where Dante worked. I ran through the conversation we’d had. I remembered the guy’s name. Daniel. I walked into the drugstore and he was there. Daniel. I saw his name tag. Daniel G. The guy Dante said he wanted to kiss. He was at the counter. “I’m Ari,” I said.

He looked at me, a look of panic on his face. “I’m Dante’s friend,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“I think you should take a break.” “I don’t—”

I didn’t wait for his lame excuses. “I’m going to go outside and wait for you. I’m going to wait for exactly five minutes. And if you’re not out there in five minutes, then I’m going to walk back inside this drugstore and kick your fucking ass in front of the whole world. And if you don’t think I’ll do it, you better look into my eyes and study them.”

I walked out the front door. And waited. It didn’t take five minutes before he was standing there.

“Let’s walk,” I said.

“I can’t be gone long,” he said. He followed me.

We walked.

“Dante’s in the hospital.” “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You haven’t gone to visit.” He didn’t say anything. I wanted to beat the holy shit out him right then and there. “Don’t you have anything to say, you asshole?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“You bastard. Don’t you feel anything?”

I could see he was trembling. Not that I cared. “Who were they?” “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t screw with me, asshole.” “You’re not going to tell anyone.”

I grabbed him by the collar and then let him go. “Dante’s lying in a hospital and the only thing you’re worried about is who I’m going to tell. Who am I going to tell, asshole? Just tell me who they were.”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. You tell me now and I won’t kick your ass from here to the South Pole.”

“I didn’t know all of them.” “How many?”

“Four guys.”

“All I need is one name. Just one.” “Julian. He was one of them.” “Julian Enriquez?”

“Him.” “Who else?”

“Joe Moncada.” “Who else?”

“I didn’t know the other two.” “And you just left Dante there?” “He wouldn’t run.”

“And you didn’t stay with him?”

“No. I mean, what good would it have done?” “So you didn’t care?”

“I do care.”

“But you didn’t go back, did you? You didn’t go back to see if he was all right, did you?”

“No.” He looked scared.

I shoved him against the wall of a building. And walked away.

I KNEW WHERE JULIAN ENRIQUEZ LIVED. I’D PLAYED baseball

with him and his brothers when I was in grade school. We’d never really liked each other. Not that we were enemies or anything like that. I drove around for a little while, then found myself parking my truck in front of his house. I walked up to his front door and knocked. His little sister answered the door. “Hi, Ari,” she said.

I smiled at her. She was pretty. “Hi, Lulu,” I said. My voice was calm and almost friendly. “Where’s Julian?”

“He’s at work.”

“Where does he work?” “Benny’s Body Shop.”

“What time does he get off?” I said.

“He usually gets home after five sometime.” “Thanks,” I said.

She smiled at me. “Should I tell him you came by?” “Sure,” I said.

Benny’s Body Shop. Mr. Rodriguez, one of my dad’s friends, owned it. They’d gone to school together. I knew exactly where it was. I went driving around all afternoon, just waiting for five o’clock to come around. When it was almost time, I parked around the corner from the body shop. I didn’t want Mr. Rodriguez to see me. He’d ask questions. He’d tell my dad. I didn’t want questions.

I got out of my truck and walked across the street from the body shop. I wanted to make sure I’d see Julian when he walked out of the garage. When I spotted him, I waved him over.

He walked across the street. “What’s up, Ari?”

“Not much,” I said. I pointed to my truck. “Just driving around.” “That your truck?”

“Yup.”

“Nice wheels, vato.”

“Want to get a good look?”

We walked up to my truck and he ran his hand over the chrome fenders. He knelt down and studied the chrome rims. I pictured him kicking Dante as he lay on the ground. I pictured me beating the crap out of him right then and there.

“Want to take a ride?”

“Got some stuff going on. Maybe you can come by later and we can take a spin.”

I grabbed him by the neck and pulled him up. “Get in,” I said “What the hell crawled up your ass, Ari?”

“Get in,” I said. I threw him against the truck. “Chingao, ese. What the shit’s wrong with you, man?”

He took a swing at me. That was all I needed. I just went to it. His nose was bleeding. That didn’t stop me. It didn’t take long before he was on the ground. I was saying things to him, cussing at him. Everything was a blur and I just kept going at him.

Then I heard a voice and a pair of arms grabbing me and holding me back. The voice was yelling at me and the arms were strong and I couldn’t swing anymore.

I stopped struggling.

And everything stopped. Everything stood still.

Mr. Rodriguez was staring at me. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Ari? Que te pasa?”

I didn’t have anything to say. I looked down at the ground. “What’s going on here, Ari? A ver. Di me.”

I couldn’t talk.

I watched as Mr. Rodriguez knelt down and helped Julian get up off the ground. His nose was still bleeding.

“I’m gonna kill you, Ari,” he whispered. “You and whose army,” I said.

Mr. Rodriguez glared at me. He turned toward Julian. “Are you okay?” Julian nodded.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I didn’t move. Then I started to get in the truck.

Mr. Rodriguez shot me another look. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops.” “Go ahead and call them. I don’t give a damn. But before you call them,

you better ask Julian what he’s been up to.” I got in my truck and drove away.

I DIDN’T NOTICE THE BLOOD ON MY KNUCKLES AND ON my

shirt until I drove up to my house.

I just sat there.

I didn’t have a plan. So I just sat. I would sit there forever—that was my plan.

I don’t know how long I sat there. I started shaking. I knew I’d gone crazy but I couldn’t explain it to myself. Maybe that’s what happens when you go crazy. You just can’t explain it. Not to yourself. Not to anyone. And the worst part about going crazy is that when you’re not crazy anymore, you just don’t know what to think of yourself.

My dad came out of the house and stood on the front porch. He looked at me. I didn’t like the look on his face. “I need to talk to you,” he said. He’d never said that to me before. Not ever. Not like that. His voice made me afraid.

I got out of the truck and sat on the front steps of the porch. My dad sat next to me. “I just got a call from Mr. Rodriguez.” I didn’t say anything.

“What’s wrong with you, Ari?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I could hear the anger in my father’s voice.

I stared at my bloody shirt. “I’m going to take a shower.” My dad followed me into the house. “Ari!”

My mom was in the hallway. I couldn’t stand the way she was looking at me. I stopped and looked down at the floor. I couldn’t stop the shaking. My whole body was trembling.

I stared at my hands. Nothing could stop the shaking.

My father grabbed my arm, not hard or mean but not soft either. He was strong, my father. He moved me toward the living room and sat me down on the couch. My mother sat next to me. He sat on his chair. I felt numb and wordless.

“Talk,” my father said.

“I wanted to hurt him,” I said.

“Ari?” My mother just looked at me. I hated that look of disbelief. Why couldn’t she believe that I’d want to hurt someone?

I looked back at her. “I did want to hurt him.”

“Your brother hurt someone once,” she whispered. And then she started sobbing. And I couldn’t stand it. I hated myself more than I had ever hated myself. I just watched her cry and finally I said, “Don’t cry, Mom, please don’t cry.”

“Why, Ari? Why?”

“You broke that boy’s nose, Ari. And the only reason you’re not at a police station is because Elfigo Rodriguez is an old friend of your father’s. We have to pay for that little hospital visit. You have to pay, Ari.”

I didn’t say anything. I knew what they were thinking. First your brother and now you.

“I’m sorry,” I said. It sounded lame even to me. But part of me wasn’t sorry. Part of me was glad I’d broken Julian’s nose. I was only sorry that I’d hurt my mom.

“Sorry, Ari?” He had this look on his face. Like steel.

I could be like steel too. “I’m not my brother,” I said. “I hate that you think that. I hate that I live in his f—” I stopped myself from using that word in front of my mother. “I hate that I live in his shadow. I hate it. I hate having to be a good boy just to please you.”

Neither of them said anything.

“I don’t know that I am sorry,” I said.

My father stared back at me. “I’m selling your truck.” I nodded. “Fine. Sell it.”

My mother had stopped crying. She had a strange look on her face. Not soft, not hard. Just strange. “I need you to tell me why, Ari.”

I took a breath. “Okay,” I said. “And you’ll listen?” “Why wouldn’t we listen?” My dad’s voice was firm. I looked at my dad.

Then I looked at my mom.

Then I looked down at the floor. “They hurt Dante,” I whispered. “You can’t even tell what he looks like. You should see his face. They cracked some of his ribs. They left him lying in an alley. Like he was nothing. Like he was a piece of trash. Like he was shit. Like he was nothing. And if he would have died, they wouldn’t have cared.” I started to cry. “You want me

to talk? I’ll talk. You want me to tell you? I’ll tell you. He was kissing another boy.”

I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stop crying. And then I stopped and I knew I was really angry. More angry than I’d ever been in my life. “There were four of them. The other boy ran. But Dante didn’t run. Because Dante’s like that. He doesn’t run.”

I looked at my dad. He didn’t say a word.

My mother had moved closer to me. She couldn’t stop combing my hair with her fingers.

“I’m so ashamed,” I whispered. “I wanted to hurt them back.”

“Ari?” My father’s voice was soft. “Ari, Ari, Ari. You’re fighting this war in the worst possible way.”

“I don’t know how to fight it, Dad.” “You should ask for help,” he said.

“I don’t know how to do that, either.”

WHEN I GOT OUT OF THE SHOWER, MY FATHER WAS gone.

My mother was in the kitchen. The manila envelope with my brother’s name was on the table. My mother was drinking a glass of wine.

I sat across from her. “I drink beer sometimes,” I said. She nodded.

“I’m not an angel, Mom. And I’m not a saint. I’m just Ari. I’m just screwed-up Ari.”

“Don’t you ever say that.” “It’s true.”

“No, it isn’t.” Her voice was fierce and strong and sure. “You’re not screwed up at all. You’re sweet and good and decent.” She took a sip of her wine.

“I hurt Julian,” I said.

“That wasn’t a very smart thing to do.” “And not very nice.”

She almost laughed. “No, not nice at all.” She was running her hands over the envelope. “I’m sorry,” she said. She opened up the envelope and took out a picture. “This is you. You and Bernardo.” She handed me the picture. I was a little boy and my brother was holding me in his arms. And he was smiling. He was handsome and smiling and I was laughing.

“You loved him so much,” she said. “And I’m sorry. It’s like I said, Ari, we don’t always do the right things, you know? We don’t always say the right things. Sometimes, it seems like it just hurts too much to look at something. So you don’t. You just don’t look. But it doesn’t go away, Ari.” She handed me the envelope. “It’s all in there.” She wasn’t crying. “He killed someone, Ari. He killed someone with his bare fists.” She almost smiled. But it was the saddest smile I’d ever seen. “I’ve never said that before,” she whispered.

“Does it still hurt a lot?”

“A lot, Ari. Even after all these years.” “Will it always hurt?”

“Always.”

“How do you stand it?”

“I don’t know. We all have to bear things, Ari. All of us. Your father has to bear the war and what it did to him. You have to bear your own painful journey to becoming a man. And it is painful for you, isn’t it, Ari?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And I have to bear your brother, what he did, the shame of it, his absence.”

“It’s not your fault, Mom.”

“I don’t know. I think mothers always blame themselves. Fathers too, I think.”

“Mom?”

I wanted to reach over and touch her. But I didn’t. I just looked at her and tried to smile. “I didn’t know I could love you this much.”

And then her smile wasn’t sad anymore.

“Hijo de mi corazon, I’ll tell you a secret. You help me bear it. You help me bear all my losses. You, Ari.”

“Don’t say that, Mom. I’ll only disappoint you.” “No, amor. Not ever.”

“What I did today. I hurt you.”

“No,” she said. “I think I understand.”

But the way she said it. It was like she understood something about me that she’d never quite understood before. I always felt that when she looked at me, she was trying to find me, trying to find out who I was. But it seemed at that moment that she saw me, that she knew me. But that confused me.

“Understand what, Mom?”

She pushed the envelope toward me. “Aren’t you going to look through that?”

I nodded. “Yes. Not right now.” “Are you afraid?’

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I ran my finger over my brother’s name. We sat there, my mother and I, for what seemed a long time.

She sipped on her glass of wine and I looked at pictures of my brother.

My brother when he was a baby, my brother in my father’s arms, my brother with my sisters.

My brother sitting on the front steps of the house.

My brother, a little boy, saluting my father in uniform. My brother, my brother.

My mother watched me. It was true. I had never loved her more.

“WHERE DID DAD GO?”

“He went to see Sam.” “Why?’

“He just wanted to talk to him.” “About what?”

“About what happened. They’re friends, you know, your father and Sam.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Dad’s older.” She smiled. “So what?”

“Yeah, so what.”

“CAN I FRAME THIS ONE AND PUT IT IN MY ROOM?” IT was a

picture of my brother saluting my father. “Yes,” she said, “I love that one.”

“Did he cry? When Dad left for Vietnam?” “For days. He was inconsolable.”

“Were you afraid Dad wouldn’t come back?”

“I didn’t think about it. I made myself not think about it.” She laughed. “I’m good at that.”

“Me too,” I said. “And all this time I thought I got that trait from Dad.”

We laughed. “Can we put that picture in the living room? Would you mind, Ari?”

That was the day that my brother was in our house again. In a strange and inexplicable way, my brother had come home.

It wasn’t my mother who answered my hungry questions. It was my father. My mother would listen sometimes as my father and I talked about Bernardo. But she would never say a word.

I loved her for her silence.

Or maybe I just understood it.

And loved my father too, for the careful way he spoke. I came to understand that my father was a careful man. To be careful with people and with words was a rare and beautiful thing.

I VISITED DANTE EVERY DAY. HE WAS IN THE HOSPITAL for

about four days. They had to make sure he was okay because he’d had a concussion.

His ribs hurt.

The doctor said the cracked ribs would take a while to heal. But they weren’t broken. That would have been worse. The bruises would heal on their own. At least the ones on the outside.

No swimming. He couldn’t do much, really. He could lie around. But Dante liked lying around. That was the good thing.

He was different. Sadder.

The day he came home from the hospital, he cried. I held him. I thought he would never stop.

I knew that a part of him would never be the same. They cracked more than his ribs.

“ARE YOU OKAY, ARI?” MRS. QUINTANA WAS STUDYING me

just like my mother studied me. I sat across from Dante’s parents at their kitchen table. Dante was asleep. Sometimes when his ribs were bothering him, he took a pill. They made him drowsy.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” “Are you sure?”

“You think I need a therapist?”

“There’s nothing wrong with going to see a therapist, Ari.” “Spoken like a therapist,” I said.

Mrs. Quintana shook her head. “You didn’t used to be smart aleck until you started hanging around with my son.”

I laughed. “I’m fine,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?” The Quintanas glanced at each other.

“Is that a parent thing?” “What?”

“Those looks moms and dads like to give each other.” Sam laughed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I knew that my father and he had talked. I knew that he knew what I’d done. I knew they both knew.

“You know who the boys are, don’t you, Ari?” Mrs. Quintana was back to her strict self. Not that I minded.

“I know who two of them are.” “And the other two?”

I thought I’d make a joke. “I bet I could make them talk.” Mrs. Quintana laughed. That surprised me.

“Ari,” she said. “You’re a crazy boy.” “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“It’s all about loyalty,” she said. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“But, Ari, you could have gotten yourself in a lot of trouble.”

“It was wrong. I know it was wrong. I just did it. I can’t explain it.

They’re never going to do anything to those boys, are they?” “Maybe not.”

“Yeah,” I said, “like the cops are really working this case.”

“I don’t care about those other boys, Ari.” Sam was looking straight into my eyes. “I care about Dante. And I care about you.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“And you’re not going to go after those other boys?” “The thought crossed my mind.”

Mrs. Quintana didn’t laugh that time. “I promise.”

“You’re better than that,” she said. I wanted so much to believe her.

“But I’m not going to pay for Julian’s broken nose.” “Have you told your father?”

“Not yet. But I’m just going to tell him that if those bast—” I stopped. I didn’t finish the word I’d started. There were other words I wanted to use. “If those guys don’t have to pay for Dante’s hospital stay, then I don’t have to pay for Julian’s little ER visit. If Dad wants to take the truck away, then it’s okay with me.”

Mrs. Quintana was wearing a smirk. She didn’t smirk much. “Let me know what your father says.”

“And another thing. Julian can call the cops if he wants.” I was wearing a smirk of my own. “You think that’s going to happen?”

“You’re pretty streetwise, aren’t you, Ari?” I liked the look Sam had on his face.

“I know my way around.”

MY DAD DIDN’T ARGUE WITH ME ABOUT NOT PAYING for

Julian’s hospital bill. He looked at me and said, “I guess you’ve just decided to settle out of court.” He just kept nodding pensively. “Sam talked to the old lady. She could never recognize those boys. Not in a million years.”

Julian’s dad came over and had a talk with my dad. He didn’t look very happy when he left.

My dad didn’t take away my truck.

IT SEEMED THAT DANTE AND I DIDN’T HAVE MUCH TO say to

each other.

I borrowed books of poems from his father and read to him. Sometimes, he would say, “Read that one again.” And so I would. I don’t know what was wrong between us in those last days of summer. In some ways I had never felt closer to him. In other ways I had never felt further away.

Neither one of us went back to work. I don’t know. I guess, after what had happened, it all seemed so pointless.

I made a bad joke one day. “Why does summer always have to end with one of us all beat to hell?”

Neither one of us laughed at the joke.

I didn’t take Legs to see him because she liked to jump on him and she could hurt him. Dante missed her. But he knew I was right not to take her over.

One morning, I went to Dante’s house and showed him all the pictures of my brother. I told him the story as I understood it, from the newspaper clippings, from the questions my father answered.

“So you want to hear the whole thing?” I said. “Tell me,” he said.

We were both tired of poetry, tired of not talking.

“Okay. My brother was fifteen years old. He was angry. From everything I understand about him, he was always angry. I especially got that from my sisters. I guess he was mean or, just, I don’t know, he was just born angry. So one night he’s roaming around the streets of downtown, looking for trouble. That’s what my father said. He said: ‘Bernardo was always looking for trouble.’ He picked up a prostitute.”

“Where’d he get the money?”

“I don’t know. What kind of a question is that?”

“When you were fifteen, did you have money for a prostitute?”

“When I was fifteen? You say it like it was a long time ago. Hell, I barely had money for a candy bar.”

“That’s my point.”

I looked at him. “Can I finish?”

“Sorry.”

“The prostitute turns out be a guy.” “What?”

“He was a transvestite.” “Wow.”

“Yeah. My brother goes ballistic.” “How ballistic?”

“He killed the guy with his fists.”

Dante didn’t know what to say. “God,” he said. “Yeah. God.”

A long time went by before either one of us said anything.

Finally, I looked at Dante. “Did you know what a transvestite was?” “Yeah. Of course I did.”

“Of course you did.”

“You didn’t know what a transvestite was?” “How would I know?”

“You’re so innocent, Ari, you know that?” “Not so innocent,” I said.

“The story gets sadder,” I said. “How can the story get sadder?” “He killed someone else.”

Dante didn’t say anything. He waited for me to finish. “He was in a juvenile detention center. I guess one day, he took out his fists again. My mom is right. Things don’t just go away because we want them to.”

“I’m sorry, Ari.”

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing we can do, is there? But it’s good, Dante. I mean, it’s not good for my brother. I don’t know if anything’s ever going to be good with him. But it’s good it’s all out there, you know. In the open.” I looked at him. “Maybe someday I’ll know him. Maybe someday.”

He was watching me. “You look like you’re going to cry.”

“I’m not. It’s just too sad, Dante. And you know what? I’m like him, I think.”

“Why? Because you broke Julian Enriquez’s nose?” “You know?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” “Why didn’t you tell me, Ari?”

“I’m not proud of myself, Dante.” “Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know. He hurt you. I wanted to hurt him back. I did a stupid kind of math in my head.” I looked at him. “Your black eyes are almost gone.”

“Almost,” he said. “How are the ribs?”

“Better. Some nights it’s hard to sleep. So I take a pain pill. I hate them.” “You’d make a bad drug addict.”

“Maybe not. I really liked pot. I really did.”

“Maybe your mother should interview you for that book she’s writing.” “Well, she already gave me hell.”

“How’d she find out?”

“I keep telling you. She’s like God. She knows everything.”

I tried not to laugh but I couldn’t help it. Dante laughed too. But it hurt him to laugh. With his cracked ribs.

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re not like your brother at all.”

“I don’t know, Dante. Sometimes I think I’ll never understand myself.

I’m not like you. You know exactly who you are.” “Not always,” he said. “Can I ask you a question?” “Sure.”

“Does it bother you, that I was kissing Daniel?” “I think Daniel’s a piece of shit.”

“He’s not. He’s nice. He’s good-looking.”

“He’s good-looking? How shallow is that? He’s a piece of shit, Dante. He just left you there.”

“You sound like you care more than I do.” “Well, you should care.”

“You wouldn’t have done that, would you?” “No.”

“I’m glad you broke Julian’s nose.” We both laughed.

“Daniel doesn’t care about you.” “He was scared.”

“So what? We’re all scared.”

“You’re not, Ari. You’re not scared of anything.”

“That’s not true. But I wouldn’t have let them do that to you.” “Maybe you just like to fight, Ari.”

“Maybe.”

Dante looked at me. He just kept looking at me. “You’re staring,” I said.

“Can I tell you a secret, Ari?” “Can I stop you?”

“You don’t like knowing my secrets.” “Sometimes your secrets scare me.”

Dante laughed. “I wasn’t really kissing Daniel. In my head, I was kissing you.”

I shrugged. “You got to get yourself a new head, Dante.” He looked a little sad. “Yeah. Guess so.”

I WOKE UP EARLY. THE SUN WASN’T OUT YET. THE SECOND

week of August. Summer was ending. At least the part of summer that had to do with no school.

Senior year. And then life. Maybe that’s the way it worked. High school was just a prologue to the real novel. Everybody got to write you—but when you graduated, you got to write yourself. At graduation you got to collect your teacher’s pens and your parents’ pens and you got your own pen. And you could do all the writing. Yeah. Wouldn’t that be sweet?

I sat up on my bed and ran my fingers over the scars on my legs. Scars. A sign that you had been hurt. A sign that you had healed.

Had I been hurt? Had I healed?

Maybe we just lived between hurting and healing. Like my father. I think that’s where he lived. In that in-between space. In that ecotone. My mother, too, maybe. She’d locked my brother somewhere deep inside of her. And now she was trying to let him out.

I kept running my finger up and down my scars.

Legs lay there with me. Watching. What do you see, Legs? What do you see? Where did you live before you came to me? Did someone hurt you, too?

Another summer was ending.

What would happen to me after I graduated? College? More learning. Maybe I would move to another city, to another place. Maybe summers would be different in another place.

“WHAT DO YOU LOVE, ARI? WHAT DO YOU REALLY LOVE?”

“I love the desert. God, I love the desert.” “It’s so lonely.”

“Is it?”

Dante didn’t understand. I was unknowable.

I DECIDED TO GO SWIMMING. I GOT THERE RIGHT WHEN the

pool opened so I could swim some laps in peace before it got crowded. The lifeguards were there, talking about girls. I ignored them. They ignored me.

I swam and swam until my legs and lungs hurt. Then took a break. Then swam and swam some more. I felt the water on my skin. I thought of the day I met Dante. “You want me to teach you how to swim?” I thought of his squeaky voice and how he’d outgrown his allergies, how his voice had changed and deepened. Mine, too. I thought of what my mom had said. “You talk like a man.” It was easier to talk like a man than to be one.

When I got out of the pool, I noticed a girl staring at me. She smiled. I smiled back. “Hi.” I waved.

“Hi.” She waved back. “You go to Austin?” “Yeah.”

I think she wanted to keep talking. But I didn’t know what to say next. “What year?”

“Senior.”

“I’m a sophomore.”

“You look older,” I said. She smiled. “I’m mature.”

“I’m not,” I said. That made her laugh. “Bye,” I said. “Bye,” she said.

Mature. Man. What exactly did those words mean anyway?

I walked to Dante’s house and knocked at the door. Sam answered. “Hi,” I said.

Sam looked relaxed and happy. “Hi, Ari. Where’s Legs?”

“Home.” I pulled at the damp towel I’d flung over my shoulder. “I went swimming.”

“Dante will be jealous.” “How’s he doing?”

“Good. Getting better. You haven’t been over in a while. We’ve missed you.” He led me into the house. “He’s in his room.” He hesitated a moment. “He has company.”

“Oh,” I said. “I can come back.”

“Don’t worry about it. Go on up.” “I don’t want to bother him.” “Don’t be crazy.”

“I can come back. It’s not a big deal. I was just coming back from swimming—”

“It’s just Daniel,” he said. “Daniel?”

I think he noticed the look on my face. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“He sort of left Dante hanging,” I said. “Don’t be so hard on people, Ari.”

That really made me mad, that he said that. “Tell Dante I came by,” I said.

“MY DAD SAID YOU WERE UPSET?”

“I wasn’t upset.” The front door was open and Legs was barking at a dog passing by. “Just a minute,” I said. “Legs! Knock it off.”

I took the phone into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Okay,” I said. “Look, I wasn’t upset.”

“I think my dad would know.”

“Okay,” I said. “What the shit difference does it make?” “See. You are upset.”

“I just wasn’t in the mood to see your friend Daniel.” “What’s he ever done to you?”

“Nothing. I just don’t like the guy.” “Why can’t we all be friends?”

“The bastard left you there to die, Dante.” “We talked about it. It’s okay.”

“Okay then. Good.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“Dante, you’re so full of shit sometimes, you know that?”

“Look,” he said. “We’re going to some party tonight. I’d like it if you came.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. I hung up the phone.

I went down to the basement and lifted some weights for a couple of hours. I lifted and lifted until every part of my body was in pain.

Pain wasn’t so bad.

I took a shower. I lay down on my bed and just lay there. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, Legs had her head on my stomach. I kept petting her. I heard my mom’s voice in the room. “Are you hungry?”

“Nah,” I said. “Not really.” “You sure?”

“Yeah. What time is it?” “Six thirty.”

“Wow. Guess I was tired.”

She smiled at me. “Maybe it was all that exercise?” “Guess so.”

“Something wrong?” “No.”

“You sure?” “Just tired.”

“You’ve been hitting those weights a little hard, don’t you think? “No.”

“When you’re upset, you do weights.”

“Is that another one of your theories, Mom?” “It’s more than a theory, Ari.”

“DANTE CALLED.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Are you going to call him back?” “Sure.”

“You know you’ve been moping around the house for the past four or five days. Moping and lifting weights.”

Moping. I thought of what Gina always said about me, “Melancholy Boy.”

“I haven’t been moping. And I haven’t just been lifting weights. I’ve been reading. And I’ve been thinking about Bernardo.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What have you been thinking?”

“I think I want to start writing to him.” “He returned all my letters.”

“Really? Maybe he won’t return mine.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “It’s a worth a try. Why not?” “Did you stop writing?”

“Yes, I did, Ari. It hurt too much.” “That makes sense,” I said.

“Just don’t be too disappointed, Ari, okay? Don’t expect too much. Your father went to see him once.”

“What happened?”

“Your brother refused to see him.” “Does he hate you and Dad?”

“No. I don’t think so. I think he’s angry at himself. And I think he’s ashamed.”

“He should get over it.” I don’t know why, but I punched the wall. My mother stared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I did that.” “Ari?”

“What?”

There was something in her face. That serious, concerned look. She wasn’t angry, she wasn’t wearing that stern look that she sometimes wore when she was playing mother. “What’s wrong, Ari?”

“You say that like you have another theory about me.”

“You bet your ass I do,” she said. But her voice was so nice and kind and sweet. She got up from the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of wine. She took out two beers and put one of them in front of me. She put the other at the center of the table. “Your father’s reading. I think I’ll go get him.”

“What’s going on, Mom?” “Family meeting.”

“Family meeting? What’s that?”

“It’s a new thing,” she said. “From here on in, we’re going to have a lot more of them.”

“You’re scaring me, Mom.”

“Good.” She walked out of the kitchen. I stared at the beer in front of me. I touched the cold glass. I didn’t know if I was supposed to drink from it or just stare at it. Maybe it was all a trick. My mom and dad walked into the kitchen. They both sat down across from me. My father opened his beer. Then he opened mine. He took a sip.

“Are you ganging up on me?”

“Relax,” my father said. He took another drink from his beer. My mother sipped on her wine. “Don’t you want to have a beer with your mom and dad?”

“Not really,” I said. “It’s against the rules.” “New rules,” my mother said.

“A beer with your old man isn’t going to kill you. It’s not as if you haven’t had one before. What’s the big deal?”

“This is really weird,” I said. I took a drink from the beer. “Happy now?”

My father had a really serious look on his face. “Did I ever you tell you about any of my skirmishes while I was in Vietnam?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I was just thinking about all those war stories you tell me about.”

My father reached over and took my hand in his. “I deserved that one.” He kept squeezing my hand. Then he let go.

“We were in the north. North of Da Nang.” “Is that where you were, Da Nang?”

“That was my home away from home,” he said with a crooked smile. “We were on a reconnaissance mission. Things were quiet for a few days—it was monsoon season. I hated those endless rains. We were just ahead of a convoy, making sure the coast was clear. Then everything erupted. Bullets flew everywhere, grenades exploded. We were ambushed. It wasn’t the first time, but this time was different.

“Shooting came from all sides. The best move was to fall back. Beckett called for a chopper to get us out. There was this guy, a really good one. So young—just nineteen. God, he was just a boy.” My father shook his head, tears streaming down his face as he sipped his beer. “His name was Louie, a Cajun from Lafayette. We weren’t supposed to leave a man down. That was the rule. You don’t leave a man to die.” My mother watched, refusing to cry. “I remember running toward the chopper, Louie right behind me, bullets everywhere. I thought I was a dead man. Then Louie went down. He called my name. I wanted to go back. I don’t remember exactly, but Beckett pulled me onto the chopper. I didn’t even know I’d been shot. We left him there. Louie. We left him.” My father leaned into his arms and sobbed, the sound like a wounded animal. My heart broke. I’d wanted him to share something about the war, but now I couldn’t bear the rawness of his pain, how fresh it was even after all these years.

“I don’t know if I believed in the war, Ari. I don’t think I did. I think about it a lot. But I signed up. I’m not sure how I felt about this country. But I know that my real country was the men who fought beside me. They were my country, Ari. Louie, Beckett, Garcia, Al, Gio—they were my country. I’m not proud of everything I did in that war. I wasn’t always a good soldier or a good man. War changed us. Changed me. But the men we left behind, they’re the ones in my dreams.”

I drank my beer. My father drank from his. My mother drank from her glass of wine. We were all silent for what seemed a long time.

“I hear him sometimes,” my father said. “Louie. I hear him calling my name. I didn’t go back.”

“You would’ve been killed too,” I whispered. “Maybe. But I didn’t do my job.”

“Dad, don’t. Please—” I felt my mother reaching across the table, combing my hair with her hands and wiping my tears. “You don’t have to talk about this, Dad. You don’t.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe it’s time to stop the dreams.” He leaned on my mother. “Don’t you think it’s time, Lilly?”

My mother didn’t say a word.

My father smiled at me. “A few minutes ago your mother walked into the living room and took the book I was reading out of my hands. And she said: ‘Talk to him. Talk to him, Jaime.’ She put on that fascist voice of hers she has.”

My mother laughed softly.

“Ari, it’s time you stopped running.” I looked at my dad. “From what?” “Don’t you know?”

“What?”

“If you keep running, it will kill you.” “What, Dad?”

“You and Dante.”

“Me and Dante?” I looked at my mother. Then looked at my father. “Dante’s in love you,” he said. “That’s obvious enough. He doesn’t hide

that from himself.”

“I can’t help what he feels, Dad.” “No. No, you can’t.”

“And besides, Dad, I think he’s gotten way over that. He’s into that guy, Daniel.”

My father nodded. “Ari, the problem isn’t just that Dante’s in love with you. The real problem—for you, anyway—is that you’re in love with him.”

I didn’t say anything. I just kept looking at my mother’s face. And then my father’s face.

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m not sure, I mean, I don’t think that’s true.

I mean, I just don’t think so. I mean—”

“Ari, I know what I see. You saved his life. Why do you suppose you did that? Why do you suppose that, in an instant, without even thinking, you

dove across the street and shoved Dante out of the way of a moving car? You think that just happened? I think you couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. You just couldn’t. Why would you risk your own life to save Dante if you didn’t love him?”

“Because he’s my friend.”

“And why would you go and beat the holy crap out of a guy who hurt him? Why would you do that? All of your instincts, Ari, all of them, tell me something. You love that boy.”

I kept staring down at the table.

“I think you love him more than you can bear.”

“Dad? Dad, no. No. I can’t. I can’t. Why are you saying these things?”

“Because I can’t stand watching all that loneliness that lives inside you. Because I love you, Ari.” My mother and father watched me cry. I thought maybe I was going to cry forever. But I didn’t. When I stopped, I took a big drink from my beer. “Dad, I think I liked it better when you didn’t talk.”

My mother laughed. I loved her laugh. And then my father was laughing.

And then I was laughing.

“What am I going to do? I’m so ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what?” my mother said. “Of loving Dante?”

“I’m a guy. He’s a guy. It’s not the way things are supposed to be. Mom

—”

“I know,” she said. “Ophelia taught me some things, you know? All those letters. I’ve learned some things. And your father’s right. You can’t run. Not from Dante.”

“I hate myself.”

“Don’t, amor. Te adoro. I’ve already lost a son. I’m not going to lose another. You’re not alone, Ari. I know it feels that way. But you’re not.”

“How can you love me so much?”

“How could I not love you? You’re the most beautiful boy in the world.” “I’m not.”

“You are. You are.” “What am I going to do?”

My father’s voice was soft. “Dante didn’t run. I keep picturing him taking all those blows. But he didn’t run.”

“Okay,” I said. For once in my life, I understood my father perfectly. And he understood me.

“DANTE?”

“I’ve been calling you every day for the past five days.” “I have the flu.”

“Bad joke. Screw you, Ari.” “Why are you so mad?” “Why are you so mad?” “I’m not mad anymore.”

“So maybe it’s my turn to be mad.” “Okay, that’s fair. How’s Daniel?” “You’re a piece of crap, Ari.”

“No. Daniel’s a piece of crap.” “He doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t like him either. So, is he like your new best friend?” “Not even close.”

“You guys been kissing?” “What’s it to you?”

“Just asking.”

“I don’t want to kiss him. He’s nothing.” “So what happened?”

“He’s a self-involved, conceited, piece of shit. And he’s not even smart.

And my mother doesn’t like him.” “What does Sam think of him?”

“Dad doesn’t count. He likes everybody.” That really made me laugh.

“Don’t laugh. Why were you mad?” “We can talk about it,” I said.

“Yeah, like you’re so good at that.” “Give me a break, Dante.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. So what are you doing tonight?” “Our parents are going bowling.” “They are?”

“They talk a lot.”

“They do?”

“Don’t you know anything?”

“I guess I’m a little aloof sometimes.” “A little?”

“I’m trying here, Dante.”

“Say you’re sorry. I don’t like people who don’t know how to say they’re sorry.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” I could tell he was smiling. “They want us to go along.” “Bowling?”

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