The Same Sky(9)

I walked to the front door (I had never been inside) and pulled. The door was locked, so I pressed a red buzzer. Nothing happened. A police cruiser drove toward me, and when the window slid down, I saw that the driver was Officer Grupo, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Hey,” I said, squinting. “Principal Markson told me to come by. It’s locked.”

Grupo nodded, opened his door, and climbed out without turning off the engine. He carried the cool of his air-conditioned car in the folds of his uniform, and I had to stop myself from leaning toward him. He punched a code into the keypad. “Can’t be too safe these days,” he said.

“Jesus,” I said unthinkingly. “This seems a bit much.”

“A bit much?” said Grupo, his words clipped short, as if by wire cutters. I turned toward him but saw only my flushed face in his glasses. He was white, about my age, with hair so light I could see his scalp. Despite his brash personality, there was a sweetness in him. He’d once given a Valentine—an actual paper card with a teddy bear holding a heart-shaped balloon on it—to Samit, who worked at Conroe’s. I’d asked her if she was dating Grupo, and she said he kept asking, but she kept saying no. When I asked why, she’d held up her hands and said, “No chemistry. And even though he’s tall, he’s kinda … puny. You know?”

Strangely, I understood what she was talking about. He was muscled, but defensively so, as if he was waiting to be beaten up by bullies.

“Three Chávez kids have been shot this year,” said Grupo, putting his hands on his hips. “One right here in this parking lot.”

“Oh my God,” I said. Somehow when I’d thought about the gunshots I heard at night, I had connected them to “bad guys,” thugs—not schoolchildren. I felt a sour shame in my stomach, suddenly embarrassed by my protected life, the attention Jake and I paid to barbecue.

“You know about walking the line?” Grupo said.

“You’re not referencing Johnny Cash, I assume?” I tried to joke.

“It’s a gang initiation. A kid walks along the line of members, and each beats the shit out of the new guy. He can’t fight back. If he lives, he’s in.”

“And they don’t all …,” I said, my mouth growing dry.

“Nope,” said Grupo. “They do not. Anyways, have a good one,” he said, walking back to his cruiser.

I stood outside the high school for a moment, letting Grupo’s words seep in. I had seen the Chávez kids in Conroe’s, after all, ordering sandwiches and Cokes, shoving each other, laughing. I felt for them—their preening, their acne-covered, animated faces. Christ, it had been hard to be a teenager in rural Colorado. It seemed so unfair that Markson’s students had to worry not just about puberty and loneliness but also about guns and gang initiations.

Unnerved, I yanked open the door and stepped inside Chávez Memorial. The air was tepid, and on either side of me, rows of metal lockers stretched along a dim hallway. The school year was almost over: a banner reading “Have a Safe and Happy Summer!” hung over a suite of rooms marked “Principal.” I entered and asked an administrator for Principal Markson. She came out in a green pantsuit, rubbing lotion on her hands, greeting me with a gay “Hello there, Mrs. Conroe!” As we entered her office, we passed two sullen girls sitting on folding chairs. One looked about six months pregnant, and (as always) I felt a twinge of anger and loss. I wrenched my gaze from the girl’s belly. “I’ll be with you ladies shortly,” said Principal Markson.

The girls watched us, expressionless. Framed by Markson’s doorway, they were a portrait of young misery. And then the principal shut her door. “What have they done?” I asked.

“Who knows?” she answered, sighing, settling in behind a wide desk anchored by a dusty Dell Inspiron computer. “Drugs, bad attitude, backtalk …” She ticked off possible infractions. “Knives, guns, hooliganism …”

“Hooliganism,” I murmured. The word seemed a relic from an easier time.

“Anything is possible,” said Principal Markson flatly.

“Oh,” I said. It was true that I’d usually cross the street when I saw a group of Chávez kids, but I’d never examined why. Some of the kids, who wore hooded sweatshirts and called to each other with deafening shrieks, did seem capable of anything.

“Which brings me to why I’ve asked you in,” said Principal Markson.

“Yes?” I said. The office was small, with a view of the front parking lot. Markson, who was single (as far as I knew), had a wall of photographs behind her: hundreds of kids’ school portraits, Christmas cards, shots of choral concerts and sporting events.

“First of all,” said Principal Markson, “are you okay?”

“What?” I said.

“Losing the baby … that must have been quite a blow. I was surprised you two didn’t take some time off.”

“Time off?” I repeated dumbly.

She folded her hands in her lap and watched me. But I didn’t want to sink into the grief. Jake kept bringing it up, how sad he was, how disappointed, wanting to commiserate and mope, but I was stronger than that. I knew that the only way to handle sadness was to push the f*ck on through. “I’m pretty busy,” I said. “Let’s move on.”