Letters on a Page

There are some words I’ll never learn to spell.

One

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, AUSTIN HIGH SCHOOL, 1987. “What happened to you, Ari? ” I had a one-word answer to that question. “Accident.” Gina Navarro accosted me during lunch and said, “Accident? ”

“Yup, ” I said.

“That’s no answer.”

Gina Navarro. Somehow she felt entitled to hound me because she’d known me since first grade. If there’s one thing I knew about Gina it was that she didn’t like simple answers. Life is complicated. That was her motto. What to say? What to say? So I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her.

“You’re never going to change, are you, Ari? ”

“Change is overrated.”

“Not that you’d know.”

“Yeah, not that I’d know.”

“I’m not sure if I like you, Ari.”

“I’m not sure if I like you either, Gina.”

“Well, not all relationships are based on like.”

“Guess not.”

“Listen, I’m the closest thing you’ve ever had to a long-term relationship.”

“You’re depressing the hell out of me, Gina.”

“Don’t blame me for your melancholy.”

“Melancholy? ”

“Look it up. Your sad sack moods are nobody’s fault but yours. Just look at yourself why don’t you? You’re a mess.”

“I’m a mess? Take a hike, Gina. Leave me alone.”

“That’s your problem. Too much alone. Too much Ari Time. Talk.”

“Don’t want to.” I knew she wasn’t going to let this go.

“Look, so just tell me what happened.”

“I already told you. It was an accident.”

“What kind of accident? ”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“You noticed.”

“You’re a shit.”

“Sure I am.”

“Sure you are.”

“You’re bugging the crap out of me.”

“You should thank me. At least I’m talking to you. You’re the most unpopular guy in the whole school.”

I pointed at Charlie Escobedo who was walking out of the cafeteria. “No, that’s the most unpopular guy in the whole school. I’m not even a close second.”

Just then Susie Byrd was walking by. She sat right next to Gina. She stared at my crutches. “What happened? ”

“Accident.”

“Accident? ”

“That’s what he claims.”

“What kind of accident? ”

“He won’t say.”

“I guess the two of you don’t really need me for this conversation, do you? ”

Gina was getting mad. The last time I’d seen that look on her face, she’d thrown a rock at me. “Tell us, ” she said.

“Okay, ” I said. “It was after a rainstorm. Remember the afternoon it hailed? ”

They both nodded.

“That was the day. Well, there was a guy standing in the middle of the road and a car was coming. And I took a dive and shoved him out of the way. I saved his life. The car ran over my legs. And that’s the whole story.”

“You’re so full of shit, ” Gina said.

“It’s true, ” I said.

“You expect me to believe that you’re some kind of hero? ”

“Are you going to throw a rock at me again? ”

“You really are full of shit.” Susie said. “Who was he, the guy you supposedly saved? ”

“I don’t know. Some guy.”

“What was his name? ”

I waited for a little while before I answered. “I think his name was Dante.”

“Dante? That was his name? Like we believe you? ” Gina and Susie gave each other the look: This guy is fucking unbelievable. That look. They both got up from the table and walked away.

I was smiling the rest of the day. Sometimes, all you have to do is tell people the truth. They won’t believe you. After that, they’ll leave you alone.

Two

MY LAST CLASS OF THE DAY WAS ENGLISH WITH MR. Blocker. Brand-new teacher, fresh out of education school, all smiles and enthusiasm. He still thought high school students were nice. He didn’t know any better. Dante would have loved him.

He wanted to get to know us. Of course, he did. New teachers, I always felt sorry for them. They tried too hard. It embarrassed me.

The first thing Mr. Blocker did was to ask us to talk about one interesting thing that happened to us during the summer. I always hated this icebreaker bullshit. I made up my mind to ask my mother about teachers and icebreaking exercises.

Gina Navarro, Susie Byrd, and Charlie Escobedo were in the same class. I didn’t like that. Those three, they were always asking me lots of questions. Questions I didn’t want to answer. They wanted to get to know me. Yeah, well, I wasn’t interested in being known. I wanted to buy a T-shirt that read: I AM UNKNOWABLE. But that would have only made Gina Navarro ask more questions.

So there I was, stuck in a class with Gina, Susie, and Charlie—and a new teacher who liked to ask questions. I sort of halfway listened in on everybody’s ideas of what constituted interesting. Johnny Alvarez said he’d learned to drive. Felipe Calderó n said he’d gone to LA to see his cousin. Susie Byrd said she’d gone to Girls State in Austin. Carlos Gallinar claimed to have lost his virginity. Everyone laughed. Who was she? Who was she? Mr. Blocker had to put down a few rules after that. I decided to just check out. I was an excellent daydreamer. I got to thinking about the truck I hoped I’d be getting on my birthday. I was picturing myself driving down a dirt road, clouds in the blue sky, U2 playing in the background. That’s when I heard Mr. Blocker’s voice aimed in my direction.

“Mr. Mendoza? ” At least he said my name right. I looked up at Mr. Blocker. “Are you with us? ”

“Yes, sir, ” I said.

Then I hear Gina’s voice yelling out: “Nothing interesting ever happens to him.” Everyone laughed.

“That’s true, ” I said.

I thought maybe Mr. Blocker would move on to someone else, but he didn’t. He just waited for me to say something.

“One interesting thing, huh? Gina’s right, ” I said. “Nothing really interesting happened to me this summer.”

“Nothing? ”

“Getting my legs broken in an accident. I guess that counts as interesting.” I nodded, but I felt really uncomfortable, so I decided to be a wiseass like everyone else. “Oh, ” I said, “I’d never tried morphine before. That was interesting.” Everybody laughed. Especially Charlie Escobedo, who had committed his life to experimenting with mood-altering substances.

Mr. Blocker smiled. “You must have been in some serious pain.”

“Yeah, ” I said.

“Are you going to be okay, Ari? ”

“Yes.” I hated this conversation.

“Does it still hurt? ”

“No, ” I said. It was a small lie. The real answer was longer and more complicated. Gina Navarro was right. Life was complicated.

Three

I PICKED UP MY JOURNAL AND THUMBED THROUGH it. I studied my handwriting. I had lousyhandwriting. Nobody could read it but me. That was the good news. Not that anybody would want to read it. I decided to write something. This is what I wrote:

I this summer. No, that’s not true. Someone taught me. Dante.

I tore out the page.

Four

“YOU DO ICEBREAKERS WITH YOUR STUDENTS ON the first day of school? ”

“Sure.”

“Why? ”

“I like to get to know my students.”

“What for? ”

“Because I’m a teacher.”

“You get paid to teach government. The first, second, and third amendments to the Constitution. Stuff like that. Why don’t you just dive right in? ”

“I teach students. Students are people, Ari.”

“We’re not that interesting.”

“You’re more interesting than you think.”

“We’re difficult.”

“That’s part of your charm.” She had an interesting look on her face. I recognized that look. My mom, she sometimes resided in the space between irony and sincerity. That was part of her charm.

Five

THE SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL. NORMAL. EXCEPT THAT after school as I waited for my mom, this girl, Ileana, came up to me. She took out a marker and wrote her name on one of my casts.

She looked into my eyes. I wanted to look away. But I didn’t.

Her eyes were like the night sky in the desert.

It felt like there was a whole world living inside her. I didn’t know anything about that world.

Six

A 1957 CHEVY PICKUP. CHERRY RED WITH CHROME fenders, chrome hubcaps, and whitewall tires. It was the most beautiful truck in the world. And it was mine.

I remember looking into my dad’s dark eyes and whispering, “Thank you.”

I felt stupid and inadequate and I hugged him. Lame. But I meant it, the thank you and the hug. I meant it.

A real truck. A real truck for Ari.

What I didn’t get: a picture of my brother on one of the walls of our house.

You can’t have everything.

I sat in the truck and had to force myself to rejoin the party. I hated parties—even the ones thrown in my honor. Right then, I would have liked to take the truck out onto the open road, my brother sitting next to me. And Dante too. My brother and Dante. That would have been enough of a party for me.

I guess I did miss Dante—even though I tried hard to not think about him. The problem with trying hard not to think about something was that you thought about it even more.

Dante.

For some reason I thought of Ileana.

Seven

EVERY DAY, I GOT UP REALLY EARLY AND HOBBLED over to my truck that was sitting in the garage. I backed it up into the driveway. There was a whole universe waiting to be discovered in a pickup truck. Sitting in the driver’s seat made everything seem possible. It was strange to feel those moments of optimism. Strange and beautiful.

Turning on the radio and just sitting there was my versionof praying.

My mom came out one morning and took a picture of me. “Where are you going to go? ” she asked.

“To school, ” I said.

“No, ” she said. “That’s not what I meant. The first time you get to drive that thing, where are you going to take it? ”

“The desert, ” I said. I didn’t tell her I wanted to go out and look at all the stars.

“By yourself? ”

“Yup.” I said.

I knew she wanted to ask me if I was making any new friends at school. But she didn’t. And then her eyes fell on my cast. “Who’s Ileana? ”

“Some girl.”

“Is she pretty? ”

“Too pretty for me, Mom.”

“Silly boy.”

“Yeah, silly boy.”

That night I had a bad dream. I was driving down a streetin my pickup. Ileana was sitting right next to me. I looked over and smiled at her. I didn’t see him, Dante, standing in the middle of the road. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat.

In the morning, as I sat in my truck and drank a cup of coffee, my mom came out of the house. She sat on the steps of the porch. She patted the step next to her. She watched me as I awkwardly got down from my truck. She’d stopped hovering.

I made my way toward her and sat next to her on the front steps.

“Casts come off next week, ” she said.

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“Then therapy, ” she said.

“Then driving lessons, ” I said.

“Your father’s looking forward to teaching you.”

“You lost the coin toss? ”

She laughed. “Be patient with him, okay? ”

“Not a problem, Mom.” I knew that she wanted to talk to me about something. I could always tell.

“You miss Dante? ”

I looked at her. “I don’t know.”

“How can you not know? ”

“Well, look, Mom, it’s, well, Dante, he’s like you. I mean, he hovers sometimes.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I like being alone, Mom. I know you don’t get that about me, but I do.”

She nodded and it seemed like she was really listening. “You were screaming his name last night, ” she said.

“Oh, ” I said. “It was just a dream.”

“Bad? ”

“Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it? ”

“Not really.”

She gave me that nudge, the c’mon humor your mom nudge.

“Mom? Do you ever have bad dreams? ”

“Not often.”

“Not like me and Dad.”

“You and your father, you’re fighting your own privatewars.”

“Maybe so. I hate my dreams.” I could feel my mom listening to me. She was always there. I hated her for that. And loved her. “I was driving my truck and it was raining. I didn’t see him standing in the middle of the road. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t.”

“Dante? ”

“Yeah.”

She squeezed my arm.

“Mom, sometimes I wished I smoked.”

“I’ll take the truck away.”

“Well, at least I know what’s going to happen to me when I break the rules.”

“Do you think I’m mean? ”

“I think you’re strict. Too strict sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.” I clutched at my crutches. “Someday, I’m going to have to break some of your rules, Mom.”

“I know, ” she said. “Try to do it behind my back, will you? ’

“You can bet on that, Mom.”

We both sat there and laughed. Like Dante and I used to do.

“I’m sorry about your bad dreams, Ari.”

“Did Dad hear? ”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help what you dream.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to run over him.”

“You didn’t. It was just a dream.”

I didn’t tell her that I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been looking at a girl when I should have been driving. And that’s why I ran over Dante. I didn’t tell her that.

Eight

TWO LETTERS FROM DANTE IN ONE DAY. THEY WERE on my bed when I got home from school. I hated that my mom knew about the letters. Stupid. Why was that? Privacy. That was it. A guy had no privacy.

Dear Ari,

Okay, I really am sort of in love with Chicago. I ride the El sometimes and make up stories in my head about the people. There are more black people here than in El Paso. And I like that. There are lots of Irish types and Eastern Europeans, and, of course, there are Mexicans. Mexicans are everywhere. We’re like sparrows. You know, I still don’t really know if I’m a Mexican. I don’t think I am. What am I, Ari?

I AM NOT ALLOWED TO RIDE THE EL AT NIGHT.

I REPEAT: I AM NOT ALLOWED.

My mom and dad always think that something bad is going to happen to me. I don’t know if they were like this before the accident. So I tell my dad, “Dad, a car can’t run over my ass on an El train.” My dad, who is pretty cool about most things just gave me this look. “No riding the El at night.”

My dad likes his gig here. He only has to teach one class and prepare for a lecture on some topic. I think he’s writing about the long poem after modernism or something like that. I’m sure my mom and I will attend the lecture. I love my dad but I’m not into all this academic stuff. Too much analysis. What ever happened to reading a bookbecause you liked it?

My mom is taking the opportunity to write a book about addictions and young people. Most of her clients are teenage addicts. Not that she really talks about her work all that much. She spends a lot of time in the library these days and I think she’s really enjoying herself. My parents, they’re both eggheads. I like that about them.

I have some friends. They’re okay. Different, I guess. You know, the group of people I got interested in are all goth types. I went to a party and had my first beer. Well, three beers really. I got a little bit high. Not too high, but a little bit. I can’t decide if I like beer or not. I’m thinking that when I get older, I’m going to be a wine drinker. I don’t mean the cheap stuff either. I don’t think I’m a snob. But my mom says I suffer from only-child syndrome. She made that up, I think. And who’s fault is that, anyway? Who’s stopping them from having another kid?

At the party, I got offered a joint. I took a hit or two. Okay, I don’t really want to talk about that.

My mom would kill me if she knew I was experimenting with mood-altering substances. Beer and pot. Not so bad. But my mom would have a different opinion about that. She’s talked to me about what she calls “gateway drugs.” My eyes glaze over when she gives me the drug talk and she gives me one of her looks.

The pot thing and the beer thing, it was just one of those things that happens at a party. Not such a big deal when you think about it. Not that I’m going to have this discussion with my mom. My dad, either.

Have you drunk a beer? Done pot? Let me know.

I heard my mom and dad talking. They’ve already decided that if my dad gets a job offer here, he’s going to turn it down. “It’s not a good place for Dante.” They’ve already decided that. Of course, they don’t ask me. Of course not. What about a little input from Dante himself? Dante likes to speak for himself. Yes, he does.

I don’t want my parents organizing their world around me. I’m going to disappoint them someday. And then what?

The truth is, Ari, I miss El Paso. When we first moved there, I hated it. But now I think about El Paso all the time.

And I think of you.

Always,

Dante

P.S. I go swimming almost every day after school. I cut my hair. It’s really short. But short hair is good for swimming. Long hair sucks when you swim every day. Don’t know why I ever had it long.

Dear Ari,

Everyone has parties around here. My dad thinks it’s great that I get invited. My mom, well, it’s hard to guess what she thinks. I can tell she has her eyes open. She told me my clothes smelled like cigarettes after the last party. “Some people smoke, ” I said. “Can’t help that.” I got the look.

So Friday night, I went to this party. And, of course, there was alcohol. I had a beer and have now decided that beer is not for me. I did like the vodka and orange juice. Ari, there were so many people there. Amazing. We were like roaches! You couldn’t move without bumping into someone. So, I just walked around talking to people and I was having a good time.

Somehow, I found myself talking to this girl. Her name is Emma and she’s smart and nice and beautiful. We were in the kitchen talking and she said she loved my name. And all of a sudden, she leans into me and kisses me. I guess you could say I kissed her back. She tasted like mint and cigarettes and it was, well, Ari, it was nice.

We kissed a long time.

I smoked a cigarette with her and we kissed some more.

She liked touching my face. She told me I was beautiful. No one has ever told me I was beautiful. Moms and dads do not count.

And then we went outside.

She smoked another cigarette. She asked me if I wanted one. I told her one was enough because I was a swimmer.

I’m still thinking about that kiss.

She gave me her number.

I’m not sure about all this.

Your friend,

Dante

Nine

I TRIED TO PICTURE DANTE WITH SHORT HAIR. I TRIED to imagine him kissing a girl. Dante was complicated. Gina would have liked Dante. Not that I was ever going to introduce them.

I lay in bed and thought about writing back to him. Instead, I sat down to write in my journal.

What would it be like to kiss a girl? Specifically, Ileana. She wouldn’t taste like cigarettes. What does a girl taste like when you kiss her?

I stopped writing and tried to think of something else. I thought about the stupid essay on the Great Depression that I didn’t want to write. I thought about Charlie Escobedo who wanted me to do drugs with him. I started to think about Dante kissing a girl again and then I thought about Ileana. Maybe she would taste like cigarettes. Maybe she smoked. I didn’t know a damn thing about her.

I sat up on my bed. No, no, no. No thinking about kissing. And then I don’t know why, but I felt sad. And then I started thinking about my brother. Every time I felt sad, I thought about him.

Maybe deep down a part of me was always thinking about him. Sometimes, I caught myself spelling out his name. B-E-R-N-A-R-D-O. What was my brain doing, spelling out his name without my permission?

I sometimes think that I don’t let myself know what I’m really thinking about. That doesn’t make much sense but it makes sense to me. I have this idea that the reason we have dreams is that we’re thinking about things that we don’t know we’re thinking about—and those things, well, they sneak out of us in our dreams. Maybe we’re like tires with too much air in them. The air has to leak out. That’s what dreams are.

And now that I think about it, I’d had a dream about my brother. I was four and he was fifteen and we were taking a walk. He was holding my hand and I was looking up at him. I was happy. It was a beautiful dream. The sky was blue and clear and pure.

Maybe the dream came from a memory. Dreams don’t come from nowhere. That’s a fact. I think maybe I want to study dreams when I’m old enough to actually choose what I want to study. I sure as hell don’t want to study Alexander Hamilton. Yeah, maybe I’ll study dreams and where they come from. Freud. Maybe that’s what I’ll do—I’ll write a paper on Sigmund Freud. That way, I’ll get a head start.

And maybe I’ll help people out who have bad dreams. So they won’t have them anymore. I think I’d like to do that.

Ten

I’VE DECIDED THAT I’M GOING TO FIND A WAY TO KISS Ileana Tellez. But when? Where? She’s not in any of my classes. I hardly see her.

Find her locker. That’s the plan.

Eleven

ON THE WAY BACK FROM THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE, MY mom asked me if I’d written back to Dante.

“Not yet.”

“I think you should write to him.”

“Mom, I’m your son, not a suggestion box.”

She shot me a look.

“Keep your eyes on the road, ” I said.

When I got back home, I took out my journal and this is what I wrote:

If dreams don’t come from nowhere, then what does it mean that I ran over Dante in my dream? What does it mean that I had that dream again? Both times I was staring at Ileana when I ran over Dante. Okay, this is not good.

The air is leaking out.

I don’t want to think about this.

I can either think about the dreams I have about my brother or I can think about the dreams I have about Dante.

Those are my choices?

I think I should get a life.

Twelve

WHEN I THINK ABOUT THE DREAM ABOUT MY BROTHER, I think about the fact that the last time I saw him was when I was four. So there is a direct connection between the dream and my life. I suppose that’s when it all happened. I was four and he was fifteen. That’s when he did whatever he did. So now he’s in jail. Not jail. Prison. There’s a difference. My uncle, he gets drunk sometimes and winds up in jail. That really upsets my mom. But he gets out quick because he doesn’t drive when he drinks—he just winds up in stupid places and he gets a little belligerent with people. If the word belligerent hadn’t been invented, it would have been invented for my uncle when he drinks. But someone always bails him out. In prison, there’s no such thing as bailing someone out. You don’t get out quick. Prison is a place you get put away for a long time.

So that’s where my brother is. Prison.

I don’t know if he’s in a federal prison or a state prison. I don’t know why a guy gets sent to one or the other. It’s not something they teach us at school.

I am going to find out why my brother is in prison. It’s a research project. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought and thought about it. Newspapers. Don’t they save old newspapers somewhere?

If Dante were here, he could help me. He’s smart. He’d know exactly what to do.

I don’t need Dante.

I can do this on my own.