Perfect Chemistry

I’ve been in the hospital a week. I hate nurses, doctors, needles, tests . . . and especially hospital gowns. I think the longer I’ve been in this place, the crabbier I’ve gotten. Okay, so I probably shouldn’t have sworn at the nurse who took out my catheter. It was her cheery disposition that pissed me off.

I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. The less people involved in my life, the better. I shoved Brittany away and it killed me to hurt her. But I had no choice. The closer she got to me, the more her life was in danger. I couldn’t let what happened to Paco happen to the girl I . . .

Stop thinking about her, I tell myself.

The people I care about die, it’s as simple as that. My dad. Now Paco. I was an idiot to think I could have it all.

When there’s a knock at my door, I scream, “Go away!”

The knock gets more per sis tent.

“Fuckin’ leave me alone!”

As the door creaks open, I hurl a cup at the door. The cup doesn’t hit a hospital employee; it hits Mrs. P. squarely in the chest.

“Oh, shit. Not you,” I say.

Mrs. P.’s got new glasses, with rhinestones on them. “That’s not exactly the greeting I expected, Alex,” she says. “I can still give you a detention for cussing, you know.”

I turn on my side so I don’t have to look at her. “Did you come here to give me detention slips? ’Cause if you did, you can forget it. I’m not goin’ back to school. Thanks for visitin’. Sorry you have to leave so soon.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you hear me out.”

Oh, please no. Anything except having to listen to her lecture. I push the button that calls the nurse.

“Can we help you, Alex?” a voice bellows through the speaker.

“I’m bein’ tortured.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. P. walks over to me and pulls the speaker out of my hand. “He’s joking. Sorry to bother you.” She puts the remote speaker on the nightstand, deliberately out of my reach. “Don’t they give you happy pills in this place?”

“I don’t want to be happy.”

Mrs. P. leans forward, her straight bangs brushing the top of her glasses. “Alex, I’m sorry about what happened to Paco. He wasn’t a student of mine, but I heard how close you two were.”

I look out the window to avoid her. I don’t want to talk about Paco. I don’t want to talk about anything. “Why’d you come here?”

I hear the rustling as she pulls something from her bag. “I brought you some work to do, to catch up until you come back to class.”

“I’m not comin’ back. I already told you, I’m droppin’ out. It shouldn’t surprise you, Mrs. P. I’m a gang member, remember?”

She walks around the bed, coming into my line of vision. “I guess I was wrong about you. I would have bet you’d be the one to break the mold.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that was before my best friend got shot. It was supposed to be me, you know.” I’m looking at the chemistry book in her hand. All it does is remind me of what was, and what can never be. “He wasn’t supposed to die, dammit! I was!” I yell.

Mrs. P. doesn’t flinch. “But you didn’t. You think you’re doing Paco a favor by quitting school and giving up? Consider it a gift he gave you, Alex, instead of a curse. Paco isn’t coming back. You can.” Mrs. P. places the chem book on the window ledge. “I’ve had more students die than I ever thought possible. My husband urges me to quit Fairfield and teach at some school without gang members who live their lives only to die or end up as drug dealers.”

Sitting on the edge of my bed, she looks down at her hands. “I stay at Fairfield hoping I can make a difference, be a role model. Dr. Aguirre believes we can bridge the gaps, and so do I. If I can just change one of my students’ lives, I can—”

“Change the world?” I interject.

“Maybe.”

“You can’t. It is what it is.”

She looks up at me, totally undefeated. “Oh, Alex. You’re so wrong. It is what you make it. If you think you can’t change the world, then go on and follow the path already carved out for you. But there are other roads to choose, they’re just harder to trudge through. Changing the world isn’t easy, but I sure as hell am going to keep trying. Are you?”

“No.”

“That’s your prerogative. I’m going to keep trying anyway.” She pauses, then says, “Do you want to know how your chemistry partner is holding up?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Don’t care.” The words almost get stuck in my throat.

She sighs in frustration, then walks over to the window ledge and picks up the chemistry book. “Should I take this back with me, or leave it here?”

I don’t answer.

She puts the book back on the ledge and heads for the door.

“I wish I’d chosen biology instead of chemistry,” I say as she opens the door to leave.

She winks at me knowingly. “No, you don’t. And just so you know, Dr. Aguirre will be coming to visit later today. I’d advise against throwing things at him as he walks through the door.”

When I got out of the hospital after two weeks, my mom took us to Mexico. A month later I got a job as a valet at a hotel in San Miguel de Allende, near my family’s house. A nice hotel, with whitewashed walls and pillars in the front entrance. I acted as an interpreter when needed, since my English was better than most of the employees’. When I went out with the guys after work, they tried to set me up with Mexican girls. The girls were beautiful, sexy, and definitely knew how to tempt a guy. The problem was, they weren’t Brittany.

I needed to get her out of my head. And fast.

I tried. One night an American girl staying at the hotel brought me up to her room. At first I thought it would take having sex with another blond girl to erase that one night I had with Brittany. But once I was about to do it, I froze.

I realized then that Brittany had ruined every other girl for me.

It’s not Brittany’s face, not her smile, not even her eyes. All of that surface stuff made the world see her as beautiful, but it was the deeper stuff that made her different. It was the gentle way she wiped her sister’s face, the way she took chemistry so seriously, the way she showed her love even when she knew what and who I was. I was about to do a drug deal, something she was adamantly against, and she still loved me.

So now, three months after the shooting, I’m back in Fairfield about to face what Mrs. P. would call my greatest fear.

Enrique is sitting at his desk at the auto body shop, shaking his head. We talked about Halloween night and I forgave him for whatever involvement he’d had in letting Lucky know I’d been with Brittany.

Enrique lets out a long, slow breath after I tell him what I’m going to do. “You could die,” he says, looking up at me.

I nod. “I know.”

“I won’t be able to help you. None of your friends in the Blood can help you. Reconsider, Alex. Go back to Mexico and enjoy the rest of your life.”

I’ve made my choice and have no intention of backing down. “I’m not gonna be a coward. I need to do this. I need to quit the Blood.”

“For her?”

“Yeah.” And for my papá. And for Paco. And for me and my family.

“What good is quitting the Blood if you end up dead?” Enrique asks. “Your jumping in will seem like a holiday party compared to this. They’ll even make OG’s participate.”

Instead of answering, I hand him a piece of paper with a phone number on it. “If anythin’ happens to me, call this guy. He’s the only friend I’ve got who’s not connected.” Not connected to the Blood, or Brittany.

That night I’m facing a ware house full of people who consider me a traitor. I’ve been called a bunch of other things tonight, too. An hour ago I told Chuy, who’d taken over Hector’s position, I wanted out—a clean break from the Latino Blood. Just one little hitch . . . in order to do that I need to survive their gauntlet—a 360 violation.

Chuy, stiff and stern, steps forward with a Latino Blood bandanna. I scan the onlookers. My friend Pedro is standing in the back, his eyes averted. Javier and Lucky are there, too, their eyes blazing with excitement. Javier is a crazy motherfucker and Lucky is not happy he lost the bet even though I never collected. Both will enjoy being able to beat the shit out of me while I can’t fight back.

Enrique, my cousin, is leaning against the wall in the corner of the ware house. He’ll be expected to participate in the challenge, to aid in breaking whatever bones possible until I pass out. Loyalty and commitment mean everything to the LB. You break that loyalty, you break that commitment . . . you’re as good as an enemy in their eyes. Worse even, because you were one of them. If Enrique steps forward to protect me, he’s toast.

I stand proud while Chuy covers my eyes with the bandanna. I can do this. If it brings me to Brittany in the end, it’s all worth it. I’m not gonna even think about the other option.

After my hands are bound behind my back, I’m led to a car and pushed into the backseat while two people flank me. I have no clue where we’re headed. Since Chuy is in charge now, anything is possible.

A note. I never wrote a note. What if I die and Brittany never knows how I feel about her? Maybe it’s a good thing. She’ll be able to get on with her life easier thinking I’m a prick who betrayed her and never looked back.

Forty-five minutes later the car is off-road. I can tell by the gravel crunching under the tires. Maybe knowing where I am would take the edge off, but I can’t see a damn thing. I’m not nervous. More like anxious to know if I’ll be one of the lucky ones to survive. And even if I do survive, will someone find me? Or will I die alone in some barn, ware house, or abandoned building? Maybe they’re not going to beat me. Maybe they’ll take me to the roof of a building and just push me off. Se acabó.

Nah, Chuy wouldn’t like that. He likes to hear the screaming and pleas of strong guys brought down to their knees.

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

I’m led out of the car. From the sound of my feet against gravel and stones, we’re in the middle of nowhere. I hear more cars parking, more feet following behind us. A cow moos in the distance.

A warning moo? Truth is, I want to do this. If it’s interrupted, it will postpone the inevitable. I’m willing. I’m ready. Let’s get it on.

I wonder if I’ll be hung by my hands to a branch of a tree, strung up like a whipping boy.

Oh, man, I hate the unknown. Estoy perdido.

“Stay here,” I’m instructed.

As if I have anywhere to go.

Someone is walking toward me. I can hear the gravel crunch with each step. “You are a disgrace to this brotherhood, Alejandro. We protected you and your family, and you’ve decided to turn your back on us. Is that right?”

I wish my life was a John Grisham novel. His heroes always seem to be one step away from death but come up with a brilliant plan. It usually includes hiding information that will ruin the bad guy, and if the hero ends up dead, the bad guy will be ruined for life. Unfortunately, real life can’t be wrapped up with a nice little bow.

“Hector was the one who betrayed the Blood,” I respond. “El traidor.”

The response to my calling Hector a traitor is a hard fist to my jaw. Shit, I wasn’t ready for that because I can’t see a fucking thing with this blindfold on. I try not to wince.

“You understand the consequences of leaving the Blood?”

I work my jaw back and forth. “Yes.”

I hear crunching stones as a circle of people close in. I’m the bull’s-eye this time.

An eerie silence settles over the crowd. Nobody laughs; nobody makes a sound. Some of the guys surrounding me have been my friends all my life. Like Enrique, they’re waging a war inside themselves. I don’t blame them. The lucky ones haven’t been chosen to fight today.

Without warning, I get punched in my face. Attempting to keep myself upright is hard, especially because I know more hits are coming. It’s one thing to be in a fight you could possibly win, but it’s another to know you’ve got zero chance.

Something sharp slashes my back.

Then I get punched in the ribs.

Each blow is connecting with my upper body—no inch is left untouched. A slice here, a fist there. I stagger a few times, only to be pulled upright and slammed into another hard fist.

I’ve got a gash in my back and it stings as if flames are licking at my skin. I can tell Enrique’s punches because they don’t pack as much fury as the others.

Memories of Brittany keep me from crying out in pain. I’m going to be strong for her . . . for us. I’m not going to let them control whether I live or die. I’m in charge of my destiny, not the Blood.

I have no clue how much time goes by. A half hour? An hour? My body is weakening. I’m having trouble standing. I smell smoke. Are they going to push me into a fire? The bandanna is still secured over my eyes, but it doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure my eyes are swollen shut.

I feel like caving and falling to the ground but force myself to stand tall.

I’m probably unrecognizable now, hot blood streaming from gashes in my face and body. I can feel my shirt being ripped open and it’s falling off in pieces, exposing the scar where Hector shot me. A fist punches me right there. It’s too much pain.

I slump to the ground, my face scraping the gravel.

At this point, I’m not sure I can make it. Brittany. Brittany. Brittany. As long as I repeat the mantra in my head, I know I’m still alive. Brittany. Brittany. Brittany.

Is the smell of smoke real, or is it the smell of death?

Through the thick haze in my mind I think I hear someone saying, “Don’t you think he’s had enough?”

I hear a distant but distinct “No.”

Protests follow. If I could move, I would. Brittany. Brittany. Brittany.

More protests. Nobody protests during these challenges. It’s not allowed. What’s happening? What’s next? It must be worse than the beating, because I hear a lot of arguing.

“Hold him facedown,” Chuy’s voice rings out. “Nobody betrays the Latino Blood on my watch. Let this be a lesson to anyone else who tries to betray us. Alejandro Fuentes’s body will always be marked, a reminder of his betrayal.”

The burning smell gets closer. I have no clue what’s about to happen until my upper back is touched with what feels like hot coals.

I think I groaned. Or growled. Or screamed. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t think. All I can do is feel. They might as well have thrown me into the fire, this is a torture worse than anything I could have imagined. The smell of burning skin sears my nostrils as I realize the coals aren’t coals at all. The bastard is branding me. El dolor, el dolor . . .

Brittany. Brittany. Brittany.