Boycotting Blue

06/Blue

Blue

 

Tio had banished me to the backyard. Through the glass back door, I could see him talking to her on the sofa. She looked miserable, but not as angry or sad as she had been on the drive back. He was talking to her softly; I couldn’t hear either of their voices.

    A bit of jealousy had struck me. She probably didn’t want to talk to me anyway. We had only known each other a little over twelve hours. But still. I wanted to hear what had happened—she was my only amigo in the damn state. I didn’t attach to people easily, but, when I did, I protected them fiercely. And, for some reason, I wanted to protect Lou.

   I picked up my basketball and started bouncing it around on the court, trying to look everywhere but at them. Mis ojos kept drifting though, sliding over Lou, enjoying that red dress she had on a lot more than her outfit this morning. Standing over her, I could just look down into her shirt to realize she filled out her cups nicely. And the way she looked from behind… Dio mio.

    I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. But, still, my brain left me with the mental image of those curvy legs and wide hips before I could completely move on.

   Taking out my frustrations on the court, I drove head-first to the goal, the ball like a yoyo in my hands. I moved it forward and backward, making sure the palm of my hand cupped it. It moved like it was a part of me. Baloncesta was more familiar to me than anything else good I knew. I could only do tres things: play basketball, fight, and sell drugs. I wasn’t good with animals; I was even worse with people. Los ninos hated me; padres feared I would corrupt their daughter, y mi familia hated everything I did. I couldn’t write poetry or books. Math was easy, but I was no genius. I was okay at science. I could read Ingles y Espanol.

   I was a failure. I was destined to be one of those chicos. Live by the street, die by the bullet. Tattoos would mask the bullet wounds in my chest, but my blood would still spill out into the streets, staining the concrete until the next rain. I would become nada but another statistic, another Gang Member who Died. La policia would be glad I had died. One less body to watch out for her, more room in federal prisons.

   No matter how many times Tio assured me I could break the cycle, I was not him. I was not strong enough. As soon as I went back to Florida next year, I would be back to my old ways, kicking it with my gang. Pushing crippy and mota. Getting more people addicted as I waited for my life to end. I was never going to make it past age thirty. Tengo deciocho anos. I was eighteen years old. At best, I would live to be around twenty-four, twenty-five.

   Shit, I wasn’t as scared as I should’ve been.

   Jumping, I pulled my arm back, bringing the ball down into the rim with anger. The rim rattled. My heart raced. My brain sent pictures of all my dead hermanos to the front part of my mind. I would be just like them one day. I let myself fall back to the ground, staring ahead at the field behind la casa de Tio. I didn’t see an empty field, though. I saw blood, pain, madres screaming for revenge…. The undisturbed look of una policia. “Another one we don’t have to take care of.”

     I closed my eyes. Was this withdrawal? I needed a cigarette to calm my shaking hands. Or some alcohol. I would’ve even settled for some mota at that moment. Memories needed to stay buried, pushed to the recesses of my mind where I couldn’t get to them.

    “Blue?”

    Lou’s voice was tentative, soft and worried.

    I turned, not meaning to look as angry as I did. Fist clenched, eyes narrowed, I knew I looked scary. She flinched, taking an involuntary step backwards. I worked hard to fix my face. “Chica.” My voice was off. Too harsh, too.. wild.