really got fired, I don’t know how we’re going to survive. He works hard as a dockhand but he gambles too, and that’s where so much of the money already goes. My mother paints little bulls to sell to tourists when she can but that doesn’t bring in much. What doesn’t go to food, goes to my football equipment.
As if he can sense it, Armando squeezes my hand as we wait at a stop light and says, “I’m scared.”
I look around. “We’re okay. We go to the beach all the time.”
“Not at night. And I’m still scared. Of what will happen at home.”
“Nothing will happen. We will be fine.”
But I don’t believe that at all.
The beach is deserted at night except for some people in the middle of it having a bonfire. I don’t know if it’s the local homeless population (who aren’t as scary as they seem) or tourists, so we give them a wide berth.
Armando runs down across the sand to the crashing waves and I have to run after him, yelling at him to stay away from the water. He doesn’t know how to swim very well and he’s even more impulsive than I am.
I sit down on the sand a few feet away and watch him chase the surf, the faint light from the city bouncing off the crests of the dark waves. I wish I had brought my football with me but we had left in such a hurry. These days, it’s the only relief I get. I play for the school team, of course, but when I’m not doing that I’m trying to sneak in sessions in the park or wherever I can. When I was younger, maybe a bit older than Armando, my father wanted me to be a great football player so he put in the time with lessons and training. He said that I had a natural gift.
Maybe he’s right. It does come easy to me. It feels more natural than breathing. But back then I don’t remember being poor. I remember there being enough food and my parents were happy and football meant everything to all of us.
Now, I think it just means something to me.
A way out of this life.
If only I could get seen playing by the right person, I might have a shot at playing professionally, even at my age.
If only life worked that way.
My brother and I stay on the beach for an hour or so. I don’t have a phone and I lost my watch in a bet (on whether Isabella Santos would slap me if I kissed her — she didn’t), so I can’t be sure. But when Armando gets bored and tired of chasing the dark water, I suggest we go back. Surely any arguments my parents might be having would be over by now, and my father has either passed out drunk or gone off to do more drinking.
“Let’s go,” I tell Armando, holding my hand out for him. He takes it, and as we walk back to our home, I’m filled with a sense of unease and dread with every single step we take, like we’re walking through tar.
This isn’t good.
I don’t know why but I can tell that something is off.
It’s the purple shade of the night sky.
It’s the faint bird cry in the dark.
It’s the way people seem to stare, the way that horror seems to wait around every street corner, waiting to jump out and scare us.
“Why are we rushing?” Armando asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “But we must.”
Something is so wrong.
My heart seems to heave with it.
We hurry through the streets until we’re a block away and we see lights flashing.
Oh no.
Oh no.
“What is it?” Armando asks.
“I don’t…” I try to say but I can’t because I know, I know, I know.
I hold his hand so tight he tells me that I’m hurting him, but I can’t help it.
We run to the main street and see people gathered, their faces etched with concern.
I see the police and an ambulance and firefighters.
All gathered outside our place.
I don’t see my father.
I don’t see my mother.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” I ask, trying to get past the people.
“It’s Alejo and Armando,” our neighbor Maria says, tears in her eyes. She tries to reach for us but only manages to grab Armando.
“What’s happening?” I cry out, trying to push past the police officers. “I live here. Where is my mother and father?”