She called me. If it weren.t for the ripped piece of paper with her name and number scribbled on it
by my brother Luis, I.d never believe Demi actually dialed my number.
Grilling Luis hadn.t helped because the kid has the memory of a flea and hardly remembered taking
the call. The only info I got was that she wanted me to call her back.
That was yesterday afternoon, before she puked her guts out on my shoe and passed out in my arms.
When I told her to be real, I could see the fear in her eyes. I wonder what she.s afraid of.
Breaking down her “perfection” wall is going to be my goal. I know there.s more to her than blond
streaks and a killer bod. Secrets she.ll take to the grave and secrets she.s dying to share. Oh, man. She.s
like a mystery, and all I can think about is unraveling the clues.
When I told her we.re similar, I wasn.t bullshitting. This connection we have isn.t going away, it.s
only getting stronger. Because the more I spend time with her, the closer I want to be.
I have the urge to call Demi just to hear her voice, even if it.s filled with venom.
Flipping open my cell as I sit on the sofa in my living room, I enter her number into memory.
“Who ya. callin.?” Paco asks, barging into my house without ringing or knocking. Isa files in
behind him.
I click my phone shut. “Nadie.”
“Then get your ass off that couch and come play soccer.”
Playing soccer is a helluva lot better than sitting here thinking about Demi and her secrets, even
if I.m still feeling the effects of last night.s partying. We head to the park where a bunch of guys are
already warming up.
Mario, a guy in my class whose brother died in a drive-by last year, slaps me on the back.
“Wanna play goalie, joe?”
“No.” I have what you call an offensive personality. In soccer, and in life.
“Paco, what about you?”
Paco agrees and takes his position, which is sitting on his ass in front of the goal line. As usual, my
lazy friend sits until the ball rolls to his side of the field.
Most of the guys playing are from my neighborhood. We.ve grown up together… played on this
playground since we were kids and even got initiated into the Latino Blood at the same time. Before I was
jumped in I remember Lucky telling us how being in a gang was like having a second family… a family
who would be there for you when your own family wasn.t. They would offer protection and security. It
sounded perfect to a kid who.d lost his father.
Over the years, I.ve learned to block out the bad stuff. The beatings, the dirty drug deals, the
shootings. And I.m not just talking about guys on the other side. I know of guys who tried to get out, guys
who were found dead or beaten so badly by their own gang they probably wished they were dead.
To be honest, I block it out „cause it scares the shit out of me. I.m supposed to be tough enough not
