October 12: Manny

The trouble with prayer is that it usually takes a while for whoever is up there to get to your stack. It’s like going to a restaurant where you have your regulars, your high-paying customers, and the once-in-a-while guests. Then there is the guy who comes in sometimes because he’s hungry and the head chef has a soft spot for the less fortunate. Everyone gives him the look that says ‘what the hell is he doing here?’ But he minds his own business and waits in the corner. The regulars’ orders are made rather quickly, and they tend to be generally satisfied- which is why they keep coming back. The high-paying customers are treated like royalty, and their orders get put in first because someone wants them to come back regularly. Once-in-a-while guests are served next. And then the guy who does not belong gets taken care of- usually with the scraps of whatever is left, and with mediocre service.
I am that guy.
And it turns out that prayer is not the fastest way to get what you want from the menu when you are that guy. I appreciate God and what he does, really I do. But you would think that since the guy created universes- he might actually be able to take time to help me out once in a while. I’m beginning to think the universe likes taking a shit on me. And God seems to enjoy it just as much.
“What do you want me to do, mijo?” My mom rubs her hands over her face. She sits on the worn blue couch that she’s had since before I was born. “I don’t have the money.”
“Tell those rich assholes to pay you more!” I feel like punching a wall. “You clean up their shit all day!”
“What your mouth.” She tries to be firm, but she’s tired. And I know that my nagging is only making it worse. At least her English is getting better; it’s harder to argue in Spanish. “I’ll talk to your teacher.”
“Forget it, Mom.” I wave my hand. “I just won’t go on the damn field trip.” I grab my backpack and hurry out of the house before she can say anything else.
My face flushes hot against the brittle morning air. My class is going on a trip to New York in a few weeks. It is the first time I have ever been excited about a school trip- except it costs over six hundred dollars. I guess my teacher assumes that everyone makes as much as she does. The first payment is due today and Mom doesn’t have the money. Not that I expected her to, I guess I’d just prayed that she would get that raise those stupid socialites have been promising her for months now. I wish she would find another job; those assholes don’t pay her enough for all the work she does. And how could she lower herself to slave away for other people- people who don’t even appreciate it? Not me. Ever.
“What’s wrong, man?” Malachi is waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“Stupid bullshit,” I shrug. We walk to the corner where everyone is waiting for the bus.
Damaris puts her arm around my waist and leans up to kiss me. Her lips are glossed with plum and I press mine against them quickly. She squeezes her hand on my ass, and normally I would like it. But this morning I don’t want anyone touching me, talking to me, or testing me. I am officially turned onto danger mode.
And I dare someone to step in my way.

At the beginning of English, Mrs. Graybeal walks in with a bright smile and her face beaming. I wouldn’t mind blowing a hole through her face in this moment. She sets her stuff on the desk and turns to us.
“Hi guys. Sorry I’m late; I was on the phone with the hotel. Last minute trip details, you know.” She runs her hands over her skirt. “Okay, first things first. You guys know that today your first trip payment is due.”
Everyone starts shuffling in their bags for their perfectly printed checks and envelopes of cash. I never realized how easy it seems to be for everyone else around me to hand out hundred dollar bills like sticks of gum.
“I’ll come around and collect your money and check your names off.” She takes the money from someone in the front row. “Study your vocabulary or catch up on Lord of the Flies while I’m doing this.”
I anticipate the moment when she will get to me. What will I say? How will I put it into words? Is there any way to tell your teacher that your mom can barely afford to buy you a bus pass, let alone a trip to New York City, without being completely embarrassed in front of thirty other people who already either fear you or hate you- or both? Not possible.
So when she gets to me, I slide down in my seat and breathe an easy sigh. My body is tense but I try to relax.
“Manuel, do you have your money?” She presses the smile into her face. It’s got to hurt, the way it is pinched at the corners, strained into her eyes.
“Nope,” I mumble.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not going.” I tap my pencil on the desk.
My face gets hot as she presses on. “Don’t be silly, Manuel. This trip is a great way to broaden your horizons. It will be good for you to get out of the city for a few days.”
“You think I don’t get out?” My voice rises. “Why do you think that? Huh?”
She blinks several times and puts her hand on her chest. “Manuel-“
“Because I’m just some stupid Puerto Rican boy from the projects who never gets out, right? Some waste of time who don’t know nothing.”
“I did not say that.” Her face flushes and finally the smile disappears.
“You didn’t have to.” Everyone is looking at us now. “I ain’t stupid. And I’m not going on that stupid fucking trip. Because I don’t want to.”
She closes her eyes and breathes in and out for a few seconds. “Manuel, please-“
“Go to the office,” I interrupt her and stand up. I throw my books into my back pack. “Yeah, I know the way.”
In the hallway, my eyes burn and I grit my teeth. I will not cry- not over Ms. Graybeal’s stupid field trip. I take my time getting to the office and slump down in one of the ugly brown chairs in the waiting area. The secretary looks at me over her glasses and shakes her head slowly. A few minutes later, her phone rings.
“Yes? Alright.” Her voice is ice. She hangs up the phone and pushes her glasses up. “Miss McConnell will see you now.”
Ms. McConnell? I was expecting Mr. Hall himself, who would give me in-school suspension for sure. I’ll take Ms. McConnell. I walk the long way around the circle to her office and knock on the door.
“Hey, Manny.” She smiles, but hers is different from Mrs. Graybeal’s. It’s cool, relaxed, genuine. “Come on in.”
“Hey, Miss McConnell.” I slip down into the chair across from her desk. It is soft and comfortable, and knows my presence very well.
“What’s going on?” She leans back in her seat. “I hear you were cussing at Misses Graybeal. What’s that all about?”
“I freaked out,” I explain. She is the one person I seem to be able to get real with, to calm down in front of. “She was all on my ass-“
She gives me a look and I correct myself. “She was all on my back about this stupid field trip.”
“The trip to New York?” She scowls. “That is a great trip; she’s been doing it for years. It would be a really great experience for you, Manny.”
“I know, so I can get out more.” I snap. “I get it.”
“Calm down.” She puts her hands up in innocence. “I really think you would enjoy it. The Literary Festival is amazing. You would get to see spoken word live. And I promise you that it is so much better in person. I know how much you love poetry.”
She does know, and she is the only one who does. I shared a few of my poems with her last year when I was forced to see her regularly. She told me I had something special, a true gift. I told her she was full of shit.
“I do,” I say. “I just don’t feel like going.” I cross my arms and stare at the ground.
“Is that really what it is?” She stares at me. I don’t know why I try lying to her. It’s like lies are my ammunition and she’s wearing a bulletproof vest. She sees right through them, bounces them back at me with her soft voice.
“Yeah,” I insist.
“So it doesn’t have anything to do with your mom?” She presses. “Or about your financial situation?”
“My financial situation is fine,” I lie. “We’re doing fine.”
She is not buying it. “Manny. Look at me and tell me that.”
I look up and my eyes meet with hers. Her eyes are softer than mine. She is maybe fifteen years older than me, but I am certain that I have seen more than she has. More pain, more suffering, more loss, more violence, more rejection. And when I look into her eyes, I can’t lie to her. She sees right through me to the emptiness of my soul. She has seen all of those things- at least mentally. She knows about all of it, everything that I have chosen to share with her. She knows that I have only been outside of Chicago one time: when I was three years old. We drove to Pittsburgh to bury my grandfather and move my grandma back with us. She knows that I am dying to get out again- for good. And I cannot lie to her, no matter how badly I want to.
“I can’t afford it, Ms. McConnell.” I exhale deeply as the giant weight of confession and acceptance pulls away from my heart like a magnet. “My mom is working hard, but she just can’t afford it.”
“I see,” Ms. McConnell whispers.
“I want to go,” I admit. “I just can’t.”
The office is silent for a few seconds, minus the clicking of her clock and the hum of the copy machine in the room next to us.
“We’ll figure it out.” She writes something down on a piece of paper. “I’ll talk to Misses Graybeal. I’ll pay for it myself if I have to.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re not doing that.”
“Just let me help you,” she pleads.
“No,” I insist. “I can’t let you do that. I’m not going. I can’t.”
“Stop it.” She stands up and comes to the front of her desk. She leans against it and lowers her face until she is eye-level with me.
“You and I are friends.” She stares hard at me. “Not you, me, and can’t. So don’t ever let me hear you say that you can’t do something while you and I are friends. Do you understand me?”
Her voice has never been so firm, so serious. I swallow hard- my pride, self-righteousness, my weakness.
“Yes.”
She keeps staring. “Now tell me.” She crosses her arms. “Tell me that you are going on that trip, Manny. Tell me that you can.”
Another swallow. My eyes start to burn again and I steady my voice before I attempt to say anything. In this moment she is not my guidance counselor. She is my friend, like she said- quite possibly the only true friend I have ever had. I stare back at the only person who has believed I could do anything besides deal or shoot a gun. The only person until now. Because all of a sudden, I am starting to believe it too.
“I can.”

She walks with me out of the office and tells me some joke about a couple of snowmen. It’s not funny, but she giggles and I can’t help but smile.
“Crash told me that one a couple of weeks ago.” She dabs her finger at the corner of her eye and smiles. “It never gets old.”
“Right,” I humor her. “I guess I should get back to class. If Misses Graybeal will even let me in.”
“She’ll understand.” Ms. McConnell pats my arm. “Just be nice, okay?”
“Okay.”
“What’s going on?” She looks past me.
I turn around and see one of the fake school cops walking up with Brian Phillips. Brian is clearly stoned out of his mind. His face is hard; he’s probably pissed he got caught.
“Found this one smoking out behind the ROTC building,” Officer Tockes pulls on Brian’s arm. I give him props for keeping his cool- I would’ve already swung at the cop if he touched me.
“Smoking what?” Ms. McConnell sighs.
“Just a cigarette,” Tockes mumbles. His bald, brown head shines under the dim lights in the lobby. He’s big, muscular. But he’s not as bad ass as he likes to think he is. I’d give him thirty seconds in Little Puerto Rico.
“What do you think I am, stupid?” Brian sneers.
“Watch it, kid.” The cop tightens his grip. “This one is going straight to Mister Hall’s office.”
“Let me talk to him,” Ms. McConnell insists. “Mister Hall is busy with school board stuff. Let me handle it.”
Brian’s eyes light up a little. He’s probably just as relieved as I was. Officer Tockes lets go of him, with a little too much hesitation. Brian snatches away and laughs.
“Come on, Brian.” Ms. McConnell keeps her cool. She turns to me. “Get to class, Manny.”
She heads back to her office and Brian follows her slowly. Officer Tockes looks me up and down and stares at me.
“Get to class, boy.”
I suck my teeth and stifle a laugh. “Yes, sir.”
Brian looks over his shoulder at me. I can see the relief in his body language. He feels lighter, but he’s still dragging a fifty pound weight of shit that he needs to get out. Maybe Ms. McConnell will get it out of him, cut the chains loose. I nod my head, signaling that I know exactly what he’s feeling. He nods back, and we reach an understanding.
Nobody else finds out about this.

“Man, I’m not going to that stupid pep rally.” Freddie stuffs half a piece of pizza in his mouth.
“Chew your food, fool.” Anthony throws a napkin at him and everyone laughs.
We are gathered around our tables in the cafeteria. Everyone discusses ideas for skipping the pep rally. Our moms would all kill us if they found out we skipped, so we can’t go home or anywhere close to it before four. And if we leave school, we have to walk back home- and thirteen blocks is a long walk. I don’t say much. I’m still pissed off at Riley Sutton, who got a little too brave in the hallway earlier. He’s going to get his; it’s only a matter of time.
“Let’s just set off firecrackers in the locker room,” Cruz suggests. “Maybe they’ll cancel it.”
“Why, so I can go to science class?” I roll my eyes. “Fuck that, I’d rather go to the pep rally.”
They all laugh. Damaris moves closer to me and rubs her hand over my thigh. I let her while the guys discuss other alternatives. Suddenly Xavier stands up.
“What are you looking at, fool?”
We all turn around. He’s talking to Keyan, who is standing a few feet away with a few of his friends.
“Man, ain’t nobody looking at your whack ass.” Keyan rolls his eyes and keeps walking.
“Who are you talking to like that?” Xavier hops over the table and is in Keyan’s face before the rest of us can stand up.
“I’m talking to you,” Keyan says with a fake accent. “Don’t you understand, chocha?”
He crossed the line. Everyone fires up, and within a second, we are all in Keyan’s face. I put my hand on Xavier’s arm. He knows to keep his cool in front of the teachers and principals in the cafeteria.
“I’ll see you outside after the bell rings.” Xavier is so close to Keyan’s face that someone would think they were kissing. Hardly. “Bus lot.”
“I can’t wait.” Keyan smirks.
“Come on, Xavier.” I pull on his arm. The rest of the pack lingers around Keyan and his friends for a few more seconds before coming back to the table.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Xavier flexes his fists. “Calling me a chocha, like he even knows the word. I ain’t no fucking girl…”
He spouts off and eventually his words venture into thick Spanish threats. Everyone else hypes him up, gets him ready for this fight- which will undoubtedly solve nothing. We all know he’s not going to kill Keyan in the middle of the parking lot. But they hype him anyway, as friends and brothers do. I let my mind drift to a poem I wrote several months ago.
Why am I fighting the fight of dead men? …I can’t fight years of bloody mistakes by myself. True, one man can make a difference. But he’s no match against everyone else, because- click. Trigger. Boom. The difference is dead. Gone.
I guess we know how we’ll be spending the pep rally.

“Where is he?” Xavier paces back and forth in the lot. We found a spot right behind the buses. It’s one of my favorite spots to deal; nobody ever comes around here.
I lean against the bus with Damaris while the rest of them get Xavier fired up. Damaris puts her arm through mine.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, girl.” I look up at the gray sky and breathe easy.
She knows not to push, and she doesn’t have time to anyway. A few seconds later, Keyan shows up with Delante and Jamal.
“Are we gonna do this or what?” Xavier throws his arms up.
“You’re the one who invited me here,” Keyan says sarcastically. “Aren’t you gonna hit me?”
He steps a few feet closer to Xavier. I think he was honestly expecting Xavier to hesitate, which was a mistake on his part. Xavier drives his fist down right on the top of Keyan’s head. Keyan falls to the ground and Xavier jumps on top of him. My friends go crazy, howling and yelling. Delante and Jamal get down and encourage Keyan to get back up. The two go crazy on each other, punching and kicking, rolling around on the cracked pavement like a couple of dogs.
“Come on, girl.” I pull Damaris’s hand.
“Don’t you want to watch?” She points to the fight.
I shrug. “I’ve seen that fight a million times.”
She follows me onto one of the buses. It’s cold and the air is still, but I don’t mind. I get in one of the seats in the middle of the bus and she climbs on top of me. She laces her tongue with mine, all spicy and Latina. We are two hot peppers, simmering into a fiery combustion, both on the edge of bursting into flames. Her heat radiates into me. I lay down in the seat. There isn’t much room but somehow we are making it work.
She pulls my shirt up and leaves a trail of plum kisses from my neck all the way down my chest. She drags her shimmery gold fingernails along the same path. Her teeth find their way to my belt, and my thoughts leave the fight outside. The bus isn’t so cold anymore. I get lost with her in a fiery inferno of desperation and need. The need is so hot that my skin burns and her lips are the only thing that can cool it off. Damaris, just a girl. A girl that I grew up with. But she is needy too- desperate, even. So we submit to our needs together. The flames of desperation engulf me until I’m gone.

Xavier walks out of the fight with a bloody lip and a bruise on his cheek. He limps a little too. Keyan kicked him when he tried to stand up. I pretend that I saw that and tell Xavier what a bitch move it was. Keyan may be bruised, but none of us can tell. Black people have that advantage.
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure Xavier. The fire has passed and now I just feel guilt. As his leader, I should have been by Xavier’s side, cheering him on and beating the shit out of Keyan with him.
So why is it that the only thing I wanted to do was pull him away? Something is going on in my head; this is not me. I do my best to support Xavier now. He doesn’t wipe the blood from his lip. He is a warrior, the blood is his war paint. He is a true King. Maybe he should be the leader.
The thought is impossible.
I wonder what Dino would do if I just marched into his place and told him I was done. I was done being a King, done with the fighting, done with all of the gangster bullshit. I was turning over a new leaf, one with poetry and class trips and girlfriends and making my mom proud. There is no reason for me to wonder what he would do, because I know Dino. And I know the consequences for leaving your brotherhood.
Death.
And while I’ve come close several times, dying is not something I’m really looking forward to right now. So I’ll stick to what I know and play pretend for a little while longer. Just to see how long I can keep dodging fires.

While the rest of the school piles into the stadium covered in body paint and waving pompoms at the football game, I sit in Dino’s living room and bag pills with Miguel. He made a few mistakes with the last batch, so I’m keeping an eye on him.
“You got it, boy.” I watch as he places each pill in a tiny plastic bag and seals it. “You’re becoming an expert.”
“Thanks, Manny.” Miguel blinks slowly and sighs.
I see a lot of me in him. His hair is long and hangs over his eyes. He’s not as hard as I was at his age, not as tough. I don’t know if the thought of becoming a King was something that ever excited him. It was just what he did. As Cruz’s little brother, he doesn’t have a choice. He is thirteen years old and sealing bags of Oxycodone to sell to men three times his age- big ones, with guns. He’s afraid. More afraid than I ever was. Until now.
“You alright, man?” I nudge him.
He winces. “Yeah.”
I lift up the sleeve of his shirt. A big purple bruise rests complacent on his flesh. He looks away and I understand.
“Dino just gets mad sometimes,” I say. “But he loves us. It’s all for our own good.”
“I know.” He nods. “Gotta be tough, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “It gets better. We all have to go through this. It’s what makes you strong, what makes you a man. After this, nothing can hurt you.”
He stares at me.
“Nothing, Miguel,” I promise him. “Not a girl, not a fist, not death. You become unbreakable. Kings are the strongest of our kind. Nothing can break us.”
I feed him the same lies that Dino and Ricky fed me when I was thirteen. I remember lying next to Ricky on his bedroom floor. He told me stories of his crossing over, told me that I would be a different person when I finally did. He told me that I wouldn’t be afraid of anyone or anything. He told me I would have power, and that when people feared me, I could have anything I wanted. He told me that I would be numb, that my heart would ice over. And when that happened, it would take a blow torch to get inside.
Nobody’s got a blow torch strong enough for me.
And as much as I want to tell Miguel that he’s making the biggest mistake of his life, I can’t. I don’t think I need to say it. I believe that he already knows.
He walks back to Little Puerto Rico with me. I tell him some of the stories of my experiences crossing over. I tell him the truth- that it’s going to hurt like hell. I tell him that he will be different when he crosses over.
“Do you ever just wish you were white?” Miguel asks.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “White people can’t be Kings. They just go to work, they get everything they want. They’re happy.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Well we can be happy too.”
“Doubt it.” Miguel shakes his head.
I doubt it too. But I don’t tell him that. Instead I assure him that he will make it. I tell him he will make a great King. He lives several houses down from me. I watch him from the sidewalk until he gets inside. Once he is out of sight, I break. I had held it in as long as I could.
I collapse on the sidewalk and let the tears dissolve into the pavement. I pound my fists against the concrete until they are bloody. I let the weakness and the hate flood out of me in salty drops. For the last seventeen years of my existence, I have been force-fed these ideas of not feeling, not hurting. And as stone-cold as I pretend to be, I’m dying for the heat. I’m dying for someone to come around and make me feel alive again.
Whoever said being a King meant nothing could ever hurt you again, lied. Whoever said holding a gun under your shirt made you fearless, lied. Whoever said that you would feel superior knowing that everyone feared you, lied. Whoever said this was the life, has never lived. My rock is shattering; the ice around my heart is melting. I’m cold from the inside out. And I don’t want to freeze.

I vow to find my fire.