During the remainder of the school day, Diego tried to concentrate on his classwork and stop thinking about how he’d once again botched up with Ariel. It embarrassed him that at sixteen, he’d never even kissed a girl—although not for lack of interest. He liked girls. A lot. A whole lot.
In his room alone or while taking a long shower, he’d fantasize about holding a girl in his arms, stroking her hair, kissing her lips…. He’d run his hands tenderly across her breasts and when she wanted more, he’d gladly give it to her. And afterward, she’d lay her head on his chest, happy and satisfied.
But in real life, if a girl so much as said hi, he choked up. It was hopeless. He felt like a loser.
When he got home that afternoon, he peeled his backpack off and sat at his aquarium, his thoughts swirling about Ariel. Had she really been smiling at him? Could any girl that amazing ever actually be interested in somebody with problems like his?
He gave his clownfish, Nemo and Gill, a tiny snack of dried krill and then played peekaboo with them through the tank glass. The saltwater fish required more care and attention than freshwater ones, but it was worth it for the hours he spent looking at their brilliant colors, imagining them on a faraway reef. He loved his fish.
A short time later, his eight-year-old brother’s school bus stopped out front. He joined Diego, watching the clown fish dart in and out of the rose-colored anemone. While Eddie jabbered about his school day, Diego mostly just listened and let him talk. He didn’t mention his appearance in court. His mom had told him not to, since his little brother looked up to him so much.
After sitting for a while leaning into each other, the boys started horsing around. Diego had been teaching Eddie to box so he could defend himself if anybody tried to mess with him.
“Keep your fists up.” Diego taught him like he’d learned from boxers on TV.
Eddie loved the horseplay, giggling as his older brother fought off his punches but ultimately let him triumph.
Since their mom didn’t get home from her night job till after nine, it fell upon Diego to make dinner and help Eddie with homework. Eddie sat at the kitchen table with his schoolbooks, asking Diego questions while Diego boiled noodles, fried ground beef, and heated tomato sauce. Mac had taught him to cook—mostly basic stuff like spaghetti and burgers.
Tonight, after they’d cleaned up the kitchen and put the plates in the dishwasher, Eddie watched TV and Diego went to his room to do his own homework. But the loser feelings about his botch-up with Ariel kept gnawing at him. Leaving his schoolwork aside, he walked to his dresser mirror and examined his reflection.
His hair was thick and black. And his eyes were nearly as dark, just like his mom’s. His cheekbones were high, his jaw square.
“You’re a handsome boy,” Mac had often told him. Diego had wanted to be handsome, but not for Mac. Even now he could almost feel Mac’s hand running through his hair, tousling it.
Diego reached inside his shirt and pulled out the elastic cord that hung around his neck. Fastened to it with two bits of wire was one of the first presents Mac had given him: a great white shark’s tooth.
At the time, the huge tooth had barely fit into Diego’s five-year-old palm. The triangle measured over two inches wide at the base and was equally long, its jagged edges tapering to a perfect point. Everyone in his neighborhood had wanted to see it, especially the boys. Filled with awe, they ran their fingers across the bone-smooth surface and gingerly tapped the tooth’s razor-fine tip.
The tooth gave Diego a feeling of power and strength. Since the day he first got it, he always kept it on—showering with it, eating with it, sleeping with it. Sometimes he woke at night and carefully ran his hands across it, to make sure the tooth was still there.
One afternoon shortly after Mac’s suicide, Diego had come home from school with his mind a whirlpool of swirling thoughts and feelings—similar to today. Trying to calm himself, he’d taken hold of the shark’s tooth, as an impulse came over him. He lifted the underside of his forearm, where his skin was lighter-colored, and pressed the tooth’s point against it.
There was no pain at first. His skin sank beneath the tooth’s pressure. Then he pressed harder. The tip punctured the flesh and a heat spike shot up Diego’s arm. With total clarity, he watched a bright red bead bubble to the skin’s surface.
Slowly, he sliced the tooth’s serrated edge across his flesh like a steak knife. It was only a slight cut, but deep enough for pain to flood his body—a sharp pang that diminished all his other feelings.
A tiny rivulet of blood oozed up from the cut and glistened on his skin like sparkling lights. The entire room suddenly appeared brighter, its colors more clear, every sound more crisp. He ran his fingers across the tingling gash and felt a little proud. He hadn’t shed a single tear.
A week after that first time, he’d cut himself again. And the next week and the next. The whole area between his wrist and left elbow became crisscrossed with scars. Perpendicular slices. Bisecting angles.
Sometimes the pain was excruciating. He knew he shouldn’t be doing it, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. With each cut he felt a new thrill—a release of some pressure that had built up inside him. He was letting it out.
To staunch the blood, he nabbed Band-Aids, or cotton balls, or gauze pads from the medicine chest. As those supplies ran out, he used toilet paper and Scotch tape, or anything else he could find. When he peeled the bandages off, they sometimes stuck and burned like fire.
He took care not to cut so deep that he’d need stitches, and if a wound began to look infected, he slathered it with antibiotic cream. He didn’t want his mom to find out. The secrecy of the cutting brought back a familiar feeling from when Mac had been alive: once again, Diego had begun to live a double life.
His mom never questioned why he used so many Band-Aids. Perhaps she was too busy working to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t want to know.
At school, a couple of teachers had spotted the cuts and asked, “What happened?” Diego’s heart raced as he told them the same thing he’d told Eddie: “Just an accident.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” one teacher persisted, obviously not believing him.
“No,” Diego answered. Confessing how crazy he was acting would mean admitting it to himself, too.
“You shouldn’t do that to yourself,” Kenny had said, wincing at the scars. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yeah.” Diego nodded evasively. “But I like it.”
“I thought only girls cut,” Guerrero had sneered when he noticed the marks.
To avoid attracting any more flak, Diego began to wear only long-sleeve tops—cotton tees mostly, the sleeves of which were pliable enough to pull down below his wrists. When his left arm got full, he started on his right: the excitement of fresh skin. And when his arms filled up, he ventured across his chest. With each cut he felt stronger and more powerful than ever. Like tonight.
He sliced the tooth across his skin, and for a moment all his confused and painful worries about Ariel, Vidas, his past, and the future disappeared. Somehow, he’d get through it.
CHAPTER 3
IT MADE DIEGO NERVOUS how his mom went overboard getting their house ready for Vidas’s visit. She scrubbed the kitchen till it reeked of pine oil cleaner; ordered Eddie to gather up his scattered toys and game cartridges; arranged little clamshell soaps in the hall bathroom, warning the boys, “Don’t use these. They’re for company;” and made Diego vacuum every room.
“Why do you have to make this such a big deal?” he protested.
“Because he’s a guest. We need to make a good impression.”
“He’s not a guest, he’s my PO!”
His mom had always been about appearances. Never mind the truth; what mattered was how things looked. And yet, despite Diego’s gripes, it felt good to have the house so neat and tidy—the best it had looked since Mac’s death.
Diego helped Eddie clean up his bedroom. Then he organized his own—plucking
books off the floor, tossing clothes into the closet, and shoving junk beneath the bed. After he straightened his desk, he surveyed the room feeling proud…until he looked up at the walls. He’d forgotten about the holes.
Each of the half-dozen fist-size punctures marked an occasion when something had ticked Diego off so much that he had taken it out on the plasterboard. Once, his fist had struck a two-by-four wall stud, searing his arm with pain and spraining his wrist. That should’ve taught him his lesson, but it didn’t. The next time the rage took hold of him, he punched a new hole.
His mom had made him cover up the punctures with posters. But he’d never dealt with the last two incidents. What would Vidas say if he saw the holes?
Diego shifted the bikini-clad supermodel poster to cover up one puncture, but it exposed another. So then he moved his death-metal poster, but that revealed another hole. He covered that one up with a sign that he’d gotten in anger management class: STOP AND THINK. That helped, sort of. The cracks in the plaster still showed, but hopefully not enough to notice.
On the afternoon of Vidas’s visit, Diego arrived home to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. His mom stood in front of her bedroom mirror, hurriedly brushing her hair and wearing a shimmery aqua-colored dress she usually put on only for special occasions like a Christmas party or Easter Sunday. Plus, she had on high heels. She never wore high heels at home.
Was she interested in Vidas? Even though she still looked pretty at thirty-four, she hadn’t dated anyone since Mac. The mere idea of her dating his PO creeped Diego out.
“You don’t need to get so dressed up,” he told her.
“I want to look good,” she replied, spraying perfume onto her wrists. She rubbed them across her throat and gazed in the mirror at him. “You need to change your shirt.”
“Why?” He glanced down and noticed a stain from lunch. “You think he’s going to put me in jail for spilling mustard?”
“Hurry up!” His mom gestured impatiently as the doorbell rang. “Go change!”
“No,” Diego told her. “I’m not changing.”
“You are so stubborn.” She flashed her heavily made-up eyes at him as she brushed past.
He heard the front door open, followed by his mom’s cheery voice: “Hola. How are you? Please come in…. Diego is changing clothes. He’ll be right out.”
She’s the one who’s stubborn, Diego thought, and hustled to his room. He threw his backpack onto the bed, changed into a new shirt, and checked himself in the dresser mirror, pulling the long sleeves down over his wrists. How could she harp on some miniscule mustard stain but not say anything about his cuts? Had she really not noticed them or was she just afraid to deal with them?
When he got to the living room, his mom was motioning Vidas to the big armchair where Mac used to sit. Upon seeing Diego’s fresh shirt, she smiled approvingly.
“Hi, Diego.” Vidas extended his hand. “How are you feeling?”
The question seemed a little odd seeing as how Diego hadn’t been sick. “Um, fine,” he replied and shook hands.
“Would you like some coffee?” his mom asked Vidas.
“Sure, thanks.” Vidas sat down and rested a file with Diego’s name onto his lap.
While his mom walked to the kitchen, Diego took a seat on the sofa.
“How’re your classes going?” Vidas asked.
“Fine,” Diego said, sliding his cuffs down. “No problem.”
“That’s good. What’s your favorite subject?”
“Biology, I guess.” As he answered, a school bus rumbled to a stop out front.
“I’m home!” Eddie shouted moments later, bursting through the front door. He stopped short at the sight of Vidas. He’d obviously forgotten a visitor was coming.
“Hi.” Vidas extended his hand matter-of-factly, as though he’d encountered little brothers and sisters before. “I’m Mr. Vidas.” He shook Eddie’s hand. “What’s your name?”
Instead of replying, Eddie glanced at Diego uncertainly, climbing onto the sofa beside him.
“Go ahead,” Diego said, nudging his brother. “Answer him.”
“My name’s Eddie.” He gave Vidas a shy smile.
Their mom carried in coffee and cookies, greeting Eddie and setting the tray on the low table in front of Vidas and the boys. Eddie took a cookie but Diego resisted. His stomach was in too much of a knot.
“For my report,” Vidas explained while pouring cream into his coffee, “I’ll need to ask some questions. To start, how long have you lived in this house?”
His mom turned to Diego. “Four years?”
“No, six,” he corrected. His memory was always better than hers.
Vidas clicked his pen and wrote in the file, following up with several questions about the mortgage and utilities. Then he asked, “Could you please show me around the house?”
Diego’s mom led him from room to room and the boys followed behind, first through the dining room to the kitchen. Vidas glanced out the window at the backyard swing set that Mac had bought for Eddie. It barely got used anymore.
“Through that door is the garage and laundry room.” Diego’s mom pointed to the door but didn’t open it. She’d avoided going into the garage since Mac’s death. Laundry had become Diego’s chore, although sometimes Eddie helped.
They proceeded past the hall bathroom with the unused clamshell soaps to Eddie’s room, where they paused only briefly.
“And this is Diego’s room,” his mom said, picking up and quickly folding the soiled shirt he’d tossed onto the bed.
Vidas wandered slowly around the room, peering at the aquarium fish and then stopping to admire Diego’s prized Eastern Murex seashell. It was almost impossible to find one in such perfect condition, with all its spikes and wings intact.
Continuing around the room, Vidas read the titles of some books and DVDs. Then he spotted the cracks in the wall beneath the STOP AND THINK sign.
Diego held his breath as Vidas lifted the sign and stared at the punched hole.
“Did you do that?”
Diego nodded, his face warming.
“Stop and think,” Vidas said, tapping his head.
“I know,” Diego mumbled as his mom shot him a sharp look.
Continuing over to the nightstand, Vidas picked up a framed photo of Diego with his mom and Eddie at Six Flags theme park. Diego had torn out the figure that stood beside them, leaving only a disembodied man’s arm across Diego’s shoulder.
“Who was that?” Vidas asked, pointing to the space left by the ripped-out image.
Diego averted his eyes, wishing he’d stored the photo in a drawer, and waited for his mom to answer.
“That was Mac,” she said at last, her voice tinged with strain. “Diego’s stepfather, Eddie’s dad.” She gently squeezed Eddie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go get another cookie and play in your room, so your brother and I can talk with Mr. Vidas?”
Diego wished he could leave too. Their mom waited till Eddie was gone before informing Vidas in a quiet voice: “Three years ago, he committed suicide.”
“I didn’t realize,” Vidas said, setting the photo down. “I’m sorry.”
“I told Eddie it was an accident,” she explained, grabbing a tissue from the dresser to wipe her cheeks. “Shall we go sit down?”
She led Vidas to the living room and Diego followed behind, feeling more and more agitated. It bothered him to hide the truth from Eddie, and it made him uneasy to see his mom upset.
Vidas once again sat in Mac’s armchair and wrote in the file. Diego’s mom dabbed at her eyes and cleared her throat, while Diego took a cookie, even though he wasn’t hungry.
He hoped Vidas would shy away from asking any more about the suicide, like most people, yet Vidas kept going.
“I suspect the suicide is hard for you to talk about, but could you please tell me how it happened?”
Diego kept silent, letting his mom respond. She took a breath as if to strengthen herself. “He had a gun. I di
dn’t like him to have it, but that’s part of who he was.”
As she spoke, Diego recalled the first time he’d seen the .45, in Mexico during a boat trip, and how the gun had seemed so terrifyingly loud, so powerful.
“He’d been in the army, in combat.” His mom pointed across the room to the bronze star framed on the wall. “He liked to go shooting at a range. It scared me to have the gun in the house with the boys, so I made him keep it locked in the garage.”
In his mind, Diego pictured the metal cabinet next to the fishing tackle. The gun had felt so cold and heavy when he pulled it from the cabinet and held it in his hands.
“I was at work when the police called,” his mom explained, balling up the tissue between her fingers. “They said a neighbor had heard a shot come from the garage.”
Diego slowly chewed his cookie, replaying his own memory of that day: how he’d come home to find the house crowded with police; his mom sobbing as she told him the news; and the sense of relief that seeped into him.
“They found Mac dead,” his mom continued. “I was in shock.”
Diego had wanted to see the body, but the police said it was too ravaged. Several days later, the remains were cremated and the ashes scattered off the beach into the Gulf of Mexico. Only after that did the reality sink in: Mac was gone. Then came the guilt, like a crashing wave. Diego knew why Mac had killed himself. It was because of him. Diego had wanted Mac to die, and Mac knew it.
“How did you meet your husband?” Vidas asked, interrupting Diego’s thoughts.
“In Puerto Vallarta, where we’re from,” his mom replied. “He came for a fishing vacation and ate at the restaurant where I waitressed. He made me laugh right away. He was always a little crazy. I think that’s part of what attracted me. We fell in love very fast.”
Each time she told that story, Diego wondered: Had she truly been in love with Mac? Had he really been in love with her?
Vidas wrote something in his file and asked, “How did he and Diego get along?”
“Like best friends,” his mom replied. “Mac was the dad Diego never had.”