Emancipated (16 page)

“Ruben votes yea, I vote yea. Hell, Lucy's better than all the others. By a ‘Long' way,” Tommy chuckled. Paolo noticed Lucy managed to smile at the joke. She must be trying hard; Paolo would never
get away with anything that lame.

“I write songs, too,” Lucy said.

“Not necessary,” Bailey said quickly. “Tommy and Ruben write the songs.”

She shrugged, but was obviously disappointed. “Okay.”

“I'd be happy for you to pitch in,” Ruben added a little anxiously.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Ruben pulled two drumsticks from his back pocket. “Shall we play something together? Let's try that Rancid song from the video. Lucy, you can play lead.”

It was obvious, watching them, that Bailey was a gifted front man. He had strut and swagger, as well as a pleasingly rambunctious tenor voice. Tommy and Lucy meshed nicely on the guitar sounds. Ruben sounded like a pretty good drummer, too, to Paolo's fairly inexpert ear. Paolo had the vague impression that he, not Bailey, was the dominant member of the band. Musically, these guys seemed to know what they were doing.

When they were done, Ruben glanced at Tommy, who gave him a single nod. Then he turned to Lucy. “If you'd like to join, that'd be awesome.”

Lucy took one look at Bailey. “Bailey. That good with you?”

He glared at Ruben. “Like the man said. Band is a democracy.”

“Still—better for me if you all agree, no?”

Bailey paused. “Truth is, you're okay.”

“Thanks.”

“It's just that we're kind of an all-male band.”

“You didn't specify a guy in the ad.”

From behind his drum kit, Ruben spoke up. “That's because he's talking garbage. We
were
an all-male band. Now we can have a girl, too.”

“The labels aren't gonna like that,” Bailey protested. “Think Blink-182 woulda been so big if they had a girl on lead guitar?”

“Don't give two shits about Blink, bro. This girl is in.”

Lucy played three loud chords on her guitar. They were still ringing around the hall as she announced, “Well, okay. I'll let you guys know.”

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OUR LADY OF MERCY CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, TUESDAY, MARCH 31

Maya met Lucy at the bus stop after school the next day. Lucy acknowledged Maya with a toss of her head. “No ride home today? What happened to Cadillac Lady?”

“You mean my auntie?” Maya shrugged. “Now that I don't live with her, Venice is kind of out of her way. She tried to keep it up but . . . you know how it is.”

“Sucks to be rejected, doesn't it?” Lucy said with a sly grin. “Candace, Grace, Paolo, and John-Michael—they're all in the house because they wanted to leave home. But you and me? We were forced.”

“I wasn't exactly forced.”

“You know what I'm saying. There were good reasons for them. Us? Nuh-uh. I was happy at home. Didn't want to end up at a preppy-assed Catholic school.”

Maya was silent. It had been hurtful, being asked to leave home. But she'd been surprised and rather delighted with the outcome. Our Lady was the best school she'd ever attended. And living with other teenagers on Venice Beach was like being suddenly handed a free pass to Disneyland. You'd think it would get boring, that you'd get used to it, but so far, no sign.

“Maybe. Who knows?” Maya eventually said.

Lucy seemed intrigued by her answer. As they boarded the bus, she asked her to elaborate.

“Look at Paolo, for example,” Maya said. “He told us he's this up-and-coming tennis star, okay? Then one day he goes out, loses to some random guy on the beach. Next thing we know he's cut his hair short and turned into a bleach-blond. Next day he's colored it black, then he buys a set of weights and a punching bag and starts working out.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You don't call that strange?”

Lucy pulled a face. “Dude's got issues with me, Maya, so what do I know? Paolo's been behaving different, yeah, maybe.”

Maya began slowly to smile. “You think he's into you?”

“Maybe, maybe not. He did me a big favor yesterday, anyhow.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He drove me to an audition.”

“For a band?”

“Lead guitar in a band.”

“Oh, cool! Did you get it?”

“Ehhh. Maybe. Yeah, I think so.”

“Whoa, Lucy, that's amazing!”

Maya detected the tiniest hint of a bashful smile. It was gone after just a second, replaced by Lucy's more usual cool blast of don't-cares. “We'll see. Coupla those dudes were pretty jerkish.”

“It's great that Paolo gave you a ride.”

“More'n that, it was his idea. Those guys had been leaving comments on my YouTube and yeah, Paolo decided I should meet them.”

“So—anything happen between you and Paolo?”

“Me and Paolo?” Lucy shook her head. “No way.”

“You're not even a little attracted to him?”

“Sometimes I think, maybe, just a little.”

“And?”

“And, nothing. He's too vanilla for me.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Don't be so sure. Sudden changes in behavior can mean he has something
to hide. Could be something interesting. People can surprise you.”

Lucy gave her a curious look. A few thoughtful nods. “Seems you've given this some consideration.”

Maya felt herself blush. She'd almost slipped before, when Lucy had mentioned Cadillac Lady. And now she'd drawn attention to the fact that she was quietly observing and pondering the lives of the other housemates. Inside the house or out of it, Maya had to be more careful.

“You're probably right,” she reflected, trying to sound nonchalant. “Love makes people do strange things. You weren't into him when he had the floppy, dreamboat hair. Maybe now he's testing out the tough-guy look.”

“I swear, that boy could tattoo half his body and double the size of his biceps, and I'm still not falling for him. Wanting someone—that's instant. It happens in the first few minutes or not at all.”

Lucy seemed totally confident. But Maya wasn't convinced.

The bus dropped them off on the boardwalk near their house. Maya spotted Lucy's friends Mikey and Luisito on the corner near Andy's Fish Tacos. They were both pointing triumphantly at Mikey's new hairstyle—blue with a razor cut at the back. Maya left Lucy to her friends and headed inside.

Maya went straight to the kitchen. John-Michael was there, alone, fixing himself a turkey club sandwich, slicing pickles with a paring knife. It took him a few seconds to notice that Maya was standing less than five feet away. When he did, John-Michael barely muttered a greeting. He had an air of urgency about him. He hastily cut the sandwich in two, wrapped one piece in aluminum foil and stuffed it in his backpack while taking a bite out of the other. He managed a quick nod to Maya before he was out of the kitchen, and then the front door of the house.

Maya surveyed the mess he'd made. She decided to clean it up. John-Michael was usually pretty careful about kitchen hygiene. She guessed he'd come straight from school, hungry, and was in a hurry to get out of the house. As she picked up the packets of sliced roast turkey and bacon, Maya reflected on how unusual that was. From what she'd observed, John-Michael didn't really enjoy going out. Of all of the housemates, he was the biggest homebody. He was often the first one home after school and rarely went out in the evenings.

And yet, he had the best car. Paolo and Candace had cars mainly so that they could get to work. But John-Michael didn't have a job. He didn't even drive his car to school. An amazing car like that Mercedes-Benz. What a waste! If Maya had a car like that, she'd drive into the hills, or along the Pacific Coast Highway, maybe as far as San Francisco.

Sometimes being fifteen was a huge pain. Sixteen couldn't come fast enough.

She was just about done cleaning up when Candace got home, dumped her school bag on the kitchen table, opened the fridge, and poured a glass of filtered water.

“Man, it's starting to get hot out there! I saw John-Michael leaving. Seemed like he was in a hurry.”

Maya nodded. “He was acting kinda weird, too.”

“Like how?”

“Like pissed off.”

Candace raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She took a large cake tin from a shelf and opened it. Inside were neat rows of tightly rolled sweet buns with a pale white glaze. She offered one to Maya and then took one herself. Each girl bit into the roll. Maya sighed.. “Omigod. It's like a bite of heaven.”

“I know, right? Incredible. John-Michael made them.”

They were silent for a while, chewing the pastries.

“I'm gonna get some work done on my app,” Maya announced. She took out her laptop, placed it on the kitchen table, and sat down. Within a few minutes she was lost in a screen of green, blue, and red code.

Then Candace said something that totally snapped Maya out of her code-building reverie.

“Did you hear about the detective who was here the other day?”

Maya caught her breath. She swallowed and took a quick breath. “Really? What day?”

“I think you were out with your aunt.”

“Sunday? She made me go to Mass with her. This happened
Sunday
? Man, no one tells me anything.”

“What a brat! I'm telling you now, aren't I?”

“It was the evening, right?” Maya asked.

“Yeah. This lady cop wanted to talk to John-Michael about his father's death.”

Maya felt herself begin to relax. “Huh! That's odd.”

“I know. He didn't seem very happy when she left,” Candace said. “Didn't John-Michael tell us that his dad killed himself?”

Both girls shared a puzzled frown. “Poor John-Michael,” Maya said. “He's had such a lousy time lately.”

Candace agreed. “That's true. But do you ever . . . ?” She paused. “Do you ever get the idea that he hasn't told us the whole story yet?”

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CARLSBAD, SUNDAY, APRIL 5

Returning to Carlsbad was easier than he'd expected. In his mind, John-Michael had made the trip more than once. The drive south on the 5. Zooming through neighborhoods where he'd tried to find a way to exist, alone, homeless and stone-cold broke.

At first, he'd stayed with friends. It was too painful to admit he'd been thrown out, so he'd made excuses. His dad was away on business and refused to leave him alone in the house. The house was being bug-bombed. None of his options were good for more than a few days. He had left every house cheerfully, head held high, thanking his hosts, all the while certain that the next few nights would be a terror compared to the comfort he was leaving behind.

There'd been days when he was too tired and hungry to go to school. He'd gravitated to the beach at
first, for the soft bed of sand it promised. Not all beaches were swept at night. One night he'd woken to find a couple of methed-up bikers ripping away his sleeping bag and then going for his jeans. They'd been too wasted to chase him for more than a hundred yards, but the experience had been terrifying enough.

After that, John-Michael had avoided beaches.

At least back in the urban sprawl food was plentiful. There'd be people with whom to trade favors, such as watching your back. And under the freeway bridges you could always find a dry, warm, if noisy place to sleep.

Free from the geographical constraints of being in school, he'd started moving around Southern California. He'd become opportunistic. Life was more enjoyable that way. Eventually, John-Michael had made friends with Felipe, a twenty-four-year-old Guatemalan guy, a hustler. He was a heroin addict who had lived on the streets for three years. Rail thin, tattooed, and scarred from a knife attack, Felipe had presented such an enigmatic aura—vulnerability wrapped inside a knowing, cynical air. John-Michael had fallen in love almost instantly.

Felipe had noticed and taken pity on him. “You don't love me,” he had told John-Michael. “You want to
be
me. I'm too old for you,
hermanito
. These eyes,” he'd said, touching a finger to his temple, “what they've seen, what this brain has thought . . . are too much for one so young. God has placed you here,
‘mano
, to learn from Felipe. And a good teacher doesn't take advantage of his students. No, baby, I'm gonna take
care
of you.”

Felipe had sheltered John-Michael for three weeks in the luxury Santa Monica beach apartment he'd been sharing with a rich black guy. His new “boyfriend” also had a wife and a kid up in Portland, so had been anxious to avoid scandal. Felipe had been very clever about that—never threatening, always charming and yet provocative. The truth was, John-Michael had learned from Felipe. How to hustle, who to hustle. How to stay safe.

But John-Michael wasn't like Felipe. He'd realized that more than anything what separated them was the heroin.

John-Michael's luxury stay had ended when the boyfriend had offered to pay for Felipe's rehab. As soon as Felipe had packed up and said his good-byes, the boyfriend kicked John-Michael out. “Hey, now, Felipe's little brother,” he'd said. “No room and board for you here any longer. Time to get back to Mom and Dad.”

It wasn't that John-Michael couldn't go back. A groveling apology, a promise to keep all traces of what his father referred to as his “fag lifestyle” out of the house. He'd thought about doing it, too. Judged from the outside, it probably looked a lot easier than some of the things John-Michael had done to survive. Yet he couldn't do it; not for a man who despised something so fundamental to his nature. Even the thought of it grated.