More Than Good Enough(34)
My finger slid over Pippa’s number as if pulled by a Death Star tractor beam. No hello, no voicemail, no luck. What was the deal with this girl? Yeah, I could’ve texted her or whatever. Forget it. My humiliation had reached full capacity.
I glanced at my inbox. Enough spamwiches to feed a World War II platoon.
Subject: Sexy Russian Girls Looking For Please You
Sender: [email protected]
Delete.
Subject: Considering an Exciting New
Career in the Culinary Arts?
Sender: [email protected]
Delete.
Subject: FWD: Send to 6 people in 6 minutes and
receive 6 good luck blessings. This is scary!
The phone will ring after you do this!
Sender: [email protected]
Delete.
Subject: You Suck
Sender: [email protected]
…
That’s all he wrote. Just a row of dot-dot-dots. What kind of message was that? Morse Code?
I pulled over. Dialed up the G Man. A blast of techno wreaked havoc on my eardrums while I waited for him to pick up.
“Yo Trent,” he said. “Que lo que? Did you get hit by a car this weekend? Because that’s the only excuse I’m willing to tolerate. I mean, seriously.”
“Sorry I missed your set. How was it?” I asked.
“Epic. This crazy girl was dancing on stage, right? And she fell and they had to carry her out on a stretcher.”
“Sounds pretty epic.”
“Michelle was there,” he added.
“She was?”
“Yeah,” he said. “What’s the status on that?”
I hesitated for a second. “We’re done.”
“For real? Man, how could you let that go?”
There was no point in explaining. Meanwhile, Alvaro was going on about my ex. Or (as he put it), DJ Hotness to the Extreme.
“Is it okay if I call her?” he wanted to know.
Wasn’t there an unspoken rule? Thou shalt not date thy friend’s ex.
“Why? You plan on trading mixtapes? I think she’s already got The Ultimate 80s Pool Party.”
“So, what are you doing now?” he asked, totally ignoring my sarcasm.
I could’ve told him the truth: I’m sitting in a parking lot under the I-95 overpass, trying to hide from my dad. And today I learned that I’m an idiot. That’s one of the many life lessons Dad has taught me.
“I’m driving around, wasting gas,” I said. In other words, stating the obvious.
“Wanna chill at my house? Unless you’re too busy having a pow-wow. Is that why you’ve been missing in action? Smoking too much peyote?”
I knew he was just busting my balls. This was Alvaro. Pure ridiculousness. But it pissed me off, hearing him say that. Usually I would’ve laughed. Instead, I hung up. Then I felt stupid. All that stuff about peyote and pow-wows.
Here’s the part that really sucked.
I let him get away with it.
twelve
Dozens of cars lined the block. It looked like every relevant person from my old school, as well as a ton I didn’t recognize, had showed up at Alvaro’s place. This wasn’t exactly my definition of “chilling.”
The front window glowed with one of those creepy religious candles. Above the words Pray for Us, a heart floated in a nest of fire. When I looked at it, I couldn’t help thinking about my own heart, thudding under my ribs.
Music throbbed behind the door. I pushed my way inside. A crowd of intense-looking people were attempting to dance in the living room. They kept bumping into the furniture, the wall, and each other. I scooted around them and headed straight for the kitchen, the safest place. Or so I thought.
“Hey, Mr. Pow-Wow.”
Somebody chucked a handful of ice at my face. The stinging cold made me wince. Alvaro was sitting on the counter, swinging his legs in circles. He reached into the sink and scooped up more half-melted chunks.
“You’re looking a little out of it, tiguere,” he said. “What the hell happened to you?”
“The zombie apocalypse.”
“Are you mocking me? Stay still so I can destroy you.” He chucked another ice cube, aiming for my head. I ducked. Chips of ice slid down the wall.
Alvaro had it good. His parents were always flying back and forth “on business,” whatever that meant. Basically, his grandma was the only living person I ever saw in the house (if “living” means watching Telemundo all day).
“Care for some hooch?” He jiggled a bottle in my face.
“Yeah, sure.”
Alvaro ripped into a stack of Dixie cups. “Keeping it classy,” he said, dumping beer until it foamed to the rim. “The finest apricot ale from Canada. Because everything’s cooler up there.”
I took a gulp and cringed at the fruity sweetness. “Think I’ll pass.”
“You’re passing on free beer?” He shrugged. “If it involves alcohol, I’m yessing it. Besides,” he said, “I only drink to get drunk. Otherwise, it’s like, what’s the point?”
Last summer, me and Alvaro used to snatch-and-grab cases of beer from the Bait and Tackle place in Homestead. Then we’d get wasted on the boat docks. It was fun for a while. Why did it seem so stupid now?