Their Broken Pieces by Jessica Gomez
Chapter Forty-Nine
Alex
The weekend is slow and I barely leave the house. Saturday night, Carlos came to me with a report. Normally, I’m the one telling everyone else what’s going down in our hood. Carlos states people are stir-crazy and unsettled. The day after we arrived home from Hawaii, Mario ran off like a puta and joined our rival gang. He disagreed with the beatdown he received in Hawaii. I order Carlos to report that I’m sick, but nobody will believe him. This kind of behavior will get me challenged, but maybe that’s what I want out of this bullshit. If someone challenges me for my position and I lose, that’ll get me out of the gang for good—if I survive.
The thought is enticing.
Realizing Monday morning is finally upon me, I stretch awake. My body fills with a cacophony of emotion. Even though I have to pretend not to give two shits about Jasmine, I’m tired of denying it to myself: I’m completely in love with her. Long dull slivers are driving through my heart with every thought of her. When I wake up in the morning, she’s the first thing on my mind. When I go to bed, she’s the last thing I think about. When I palm my cock, it’s to her image, her moans. Thoughts of her consume me. What is she wearing? Will she talk to me? Hell, will she even look at me? I’d take any scrap she’ll throw my way at this point.
“Mierda! I sound like a fucking chick flick.” I fling my covers off and jump out of bed. Getting up and getting moving is the only way I’m going to keep my mind busy.
Finding out what she’s wearing today proves difficult. By fourth period, it’s obvious she’s stayed home from school. My first thought is whether she’s all right. The last time she missed school was because of Margret’s beating. Is she at home on the floor, unable to move or ask for help? It’s taking everything in me to keep myself at school. If she’s sick, or just needs a day to herself, I’d be endangering her by stopping by. Margret would go crazy if I showed up on her front porch.
I could call her.
Once the thought runs through my mind, it never leaves. Calling would be easy. A quick, “Hey, are you okay?” would be sufficient. Hang up and not speak to her again.
Right. Who am I kidding?
My hands rub the frustration off my face and then trail through my hair, standing it every which way. This sitting around bullshit is getting old. I’m experiencing what my members reported over the weekend… restlessness. I need out of here, now.
I stand in the middle of fifth period, grab my pack, and sling it heavily over my shoulder. The entire class, including the teacher, looks at me expectantly.
“Vámonos,” I say.
The few people in class that speak Spanish understand what I’m saying, everyone else is looking puzzled.
The members of my gang understand immediately that I’m talking to them. They stand and sling their bags up and over their shoulders, waiting for what’s next.
We head out of class and down the hall, heading to meet Carlos four doors down. If I stay in these confined rooms any longer, I’m going to flip out.
Knocking is for people who follow the rules, so I open the door and stare directly at Carlos. The second he sees me, he stands and gathers his things. The teacher is calling his name, asking where he thinks he’s going, but he doesn’t reply.
Once he’s in the hall, he asks, “Q’vole?”
“Restless, I need something to do.”
He already knows I’m feeling this way because of Jasmine, but the rest of the gang thinks I’m returning to my former badass self. It’s been four days since we found out one of our own has become a traitor, and it’s time we take care of business. Nobody leaves the gang for another without expecting retaliation, so we go looking for Mario. The traitor’s been MIA, underground since he ran; he’s expecting us to come after him.
An hour later, we find him at home. Idiot. We wait until his Madre leaves for work and then bust through the door. In reality, it’s unlocked and we walk right in.
Six of us, including myself, work Mario over until he ceases to move. Luckily, Mario has hardwood floors, or the blood that’s all over would be impossible to clean. His face is a mess; swollen, bruised, and bloodied. His nose looks broken, and he’s holding his ribs.
“That’s what you deserve, traitor,” I spit at him. “Don’t show your fucking face around here again.”
He refuses to move, answer, or even open his eyes, but the message is received.
As I leave, the rest of my group follows. Outside, a heavy veil lifts, taking some pressure and weight off my shoulders. My gang senses it as well. They’re laughing, giving high fives, and slapping one another on the back. They enjoyed his beatdown as much as I did.
Carlos slaps a hand on my back, smiling. “Better?”
“Mucho.”
My life is heading in the wrong direction again. After Marisol and mi padre died, I self-destructed. The only way I could keep the pain from eating me alive and tearing me apart was to deliver pain to someone else, numbing the side of me that cares, and beating my fists into Mario’s face is a great stress reliever.
“Let’s get some cerveza.” Carlos leads us to his house, knowing that no one will be home. His mom ran off with another man when he was two, and ever since then, his mean, drunk, asshole of a dad is barely home. When he is, he beats Carlos every chance he gets for reminding him of his mom.
Looking at him now, I know if I left the gang, Carlos would have to come with me. Why has none of this occurred to me before? Even if we remain in the gang, I could speak with mi madre on his behalf. She would say yes, and he could live with us.
Once the beers take hold of my senses, the rest of the night is a blur. The more beer I drink, the less I think about anything, especially Jasmine, which is the escape I’m looking for.