The wind had blown her umbrella inside out and she struggled to fold it into place. Diego saw his chance. Shoving his sopping hair out of his eyes, he asked, “Can I, um, help you?”
“Oh, hi. Sure.” She handed him the umbrella and smiled gently. “You seem to always be coming to my rescue.”
“No problem.” He grinned nervously and wrangled the thing into shape.
“Thanks,” she said when he gave it back. Then they both stood there, staring at each other, while students jostled past.
“So, um…” Diego swallowed the knot in his throat. “Can we like, um, maybe hang out sometime? I mean, if you have a boyfriend, never mind. I understand.”
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she replied. “How about you? Are you seeing someone?”
“Me?” Her question floored him. Who on earth would he be seeing? “Um, no.”
“All righty,” she said. “Then I would like to hang out sometime.”
A wave of amazement washed over him. Now what was he supposed to say?
“Are you always this shy?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a ballpoint from her jeans and reached for his hand to write her number on.
“Um, no, don’t!” He moved his hand away, afraid she’d see his cuts.
“What’s the matter? You ticklish?” She glanced toward his wrist and her face changed as if she’d noticed something.
“Here, write on this,” he said, handing her a notebook from his backpack.
She gazed at him as if she wanted to ask a question. He tugged his jacket sleeves down, his arteries pulsing with panic and excitement.
To his relief, she didn’t ask. Instead, she wrote down her phone number with a smiley drawn next to it. “Call me, okay?” She grinned slightly but her voice sounded serious.
“Um, sure. Thanks.”
Had she spotted his cuts? Would she ask about them if he did call? How could they hang out without her discovering his scars and asking questions about him? How could anything possibly ever work out with her?
While she joined some friends, he headed toward his locker, thinking about what Vidas had told him: He was already in jail. A jail he was making for himself.
CHAPTER 8
“WHAT’S THAT FOR?” Vidas asked while he led Diego down the hall to their appointment.
In Diego’s hand was a can of household oil that he’d rummaged out of the garage.
“For your chair,” Diego explained. “So you won’t have to hear it squeak.”
Vidas smiled, bobbing his head as though impressed. “Great!”
Inside the cluttered office, they flipped the chair upside down and squeezed some oil into the swivel. After setting the chair right side up, Vidas sat down and rocked back and forth. No squeak.
“Thanks.” He extended the candy jar from his desk out to Diego. This time, Diego took a candy.
“So”—Vidas set the jar back on his desk—“how’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” Diego said, eager to talk about Ariel.
“Fine is not a feeling,” Vidas said and pointed to the smiley-face poster. “Pick one.”
Diego smirked and almost picked Annoyed. But instead he chose the closest thing he could find to “fine.”
“Glad, I guess.”
“About anything in particular?” Vidas asked.
“Well…” He was eager to tell him about Ariel, but first: “Glad that you decided to put me on probation.”
“Okay.” Vidas gave an understanding nod. “To start us out, I’ve drawn up a treatment contract.”
“A what?” Diego sat up in his seat. Nobody had ever mentioned a contract. “I thought we were just going to talk like before.”
“First we need to set some rules.” Vidas handed him a printed sheet. “I’d like you to read your copy aloud and we’ll discuss it as we go along.”
Diego shuffled his feet, uneasy. Although he’d figured there’d be rules, he’d never imagined they’d be in a written contract.
“‘To comply with probation,’” he began reading, “‘I agree to abide by the terms below. Number one: Absent a valid excuse such as illness, I will report to probation appointments on time.’”
“I want to meet with you once a week,” Vidas explained. “I’ll also phone your mom and drop by school to ask your teachers how you’re doing. Any questions about that?”
“Nope.” Diego relaxed a tiny bit. He could manage that.
The second item stated that he had to attend school without unexcused absences. That was no problem; he never skipped classes. Quickly, he moved on to number three.
“‘I agree to obey all reasonable and lawful commands of my parents and school officials. My curfew time to be home at night is nine p.m. Sunday through Thursday and ten p.m. Friday and Saturday.’” He glanced up at Vidas, frowning. “Are you serious? Nobody I know has to be home that early. No one.”
“Then I guess,” Vidas replied, “the people you know aren’t on probation.”
That wasn’t exactly true; Guerrero was. But apparently he’d been ignoring his curfew. Diego shifted in his seat. This whole thing was starting to suck.
The next item stated that he wouldn’t use or possess alcohol or any illegal drugs. He’d never liked the bitter taste of alcohol ever since Mac had given him his first sip. It made Diego cough. Mac laughed. Maybe that experience had turned Diego off from drinking. Or perhaps it was the smell of whiskey on Mac’s breath. In any case, Diego wasn’t interested in alcohol or drugs.
After that was an item about paying restitution for Fabio’s hospital bill. Diego had hoped Vidas would forget about that.
Then he read the final item. “‘I agree to be of good behavior and refrain from self-destructive activities, including cutting myself.’”
Diego stopped and stared at the words. What if he couldn’t stop cutting? Would Vidas send him to juvie?
“What happens if I mess up?” he asked Vidas.
“Well,” Vidas said, sounding as if he expected that might happen, “first you tell me about it. Then we discuss it. After that, depending on how bad you mess up, we talk about the consequences. The most important thing is for you to be honest with me. And with yourself. I can only help you if you’re truthful.”
Diego returned his gaze to the contract. A line marked Parent/Guardian Signature provoked a new worry. “But, um, my mom doesn’t know I cut myself.”
“You mean, she hasn’t seen all that?” Vidas motioned to Diego’s arms.
“No.”
Vidas took a breath. “Then now you get to tell her.”
Yeah, right. As though it were that simple.
“How do you fear she might react?” Vidas asked.
Diego’s legs began to jiggle. “She’ll probably tell me how difficult I make life for her. She acts as if everything I do is to get back at her.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she do something that hurt you?”
The question stopped Diego. Had his mom hurt him? “Well, she’s never listened to me. She never listens.”
At least not like this—sitting down and making time to hear what he had to say. Nobody had ever listened to him so closely, not even Kenny.
“If she were to listen to you,” Vidas suggested, “what would you tell her?”
Diego was quiet a moment. “I’m not sure.”
“In that case,” Vidas said, “you can start by telling her about the cutting. Okay?”
Diego nodded, even though he had no idea how he’d do it.
“Great,” Vidas said. “Sign both copies on the dotted line.” He handed Diego the copy he’d been reading. “Take them home. After your mom signs them, keep one and bring one back to me.”
Diego signed his name and folded the contracts into his pocket. Then he stared at Vidas. “So, um, can I talk to you about something else now?”
“You can talk to me about anything,” Vidas said. “Anything at all.”
“Well, um…” Diego fa
ltered, trying to sort out his thoughts. “You know how you talked about people leaving?”
“Yes?”
“So…” Diego cleared his throat. “Do you think somebody who’s had people leave them all their life can change…so that people don’t keep leaving them?”
Vidas studied him for a long moment before responding. “Diego, your dad, your grandma, your stepdad…those people didn’t leave because of anything you did. You know that, don’t you?”
Diego gave a shrug, unconvinced. “So, do you think I can change?”
“Absolutely,” Vidas said, his voice full of certainty. “You can deal with things that happened in the past. And you can change your behavior so you don’t make people want to leave you in the future.”
“So, like, if I met somebody…” Diego imagined Ariel smiling at him. “And, you know, because of problems I’ve had, that wouldn’t…” His voice trailed off. He knew what he wanted to say; he just didn’t know how to say it.
“There’s somebody you like?” Vidas asked.
Diego felt his cheeks warm. “Yeah.”
Vidas smiled a little. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Um, sure.” Diego squirmed in his seat. “Like, what do you want to know?”
“What do you want to tell me?” Vidas asked.
“Well, her name’s Ariel. She likes tropical fish, the same as me. But every time I try to talk to her I get all tongue-tangled.”
Vidas nodded. “That happens to everyone.”
“Not like to me,” Diego argued.
“Well, it happens to me,” Vidas replied.
“No way!” Diego found it hard to believe; Vidas seemed to always have a sense of calm and ease—except for that time he’d gotten angry.
“Way!” Vidas now insisted.
“So, like, what am I supposed to do?” Diego’s voice grew agitated. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“You can start by telling her that. Be honest. Relax. Girls often do more of the talking. Let her ask you questions. And keep breathing.”
Diego took a breath, anxious at the mere idea of phoning Ariel and even uneasier at the thought of her asking him questions. What if she found out the truth about him?
“You can do it,” Vidas told him. “Trust yourself.”
How do I do that? Diego thought. He was probably the person he trusted least on earth.
“Anything else you’d like to talk about today?” Vidas asked, glancing at his watch.
“Nope.” That was enough—more than enough.
“Then for next week,” Vidas said, standing up, “discuss the contract with your mom and bring me back a copy. Okay?”
Diego stood to leave, uncertain which worried him more: the prospect of calling Ariel or of talking with his mom.
After lunch on Sunday, his mom’s day off, he helped to clear the table and load the dishwasher. Once Eddie had gone to play and was out of earshot, Diego told her, “You need to sign something for probation.”
“What is it?” she asked, drying her hands with the dishcloth.
He handed her the contract and a pen. “Just sign at the bottom.”
“Not so fast! I need to read it first.” She sat down at the kitchen table and started to read. “This sounds great. It’s good for you to have rules.” But her brow furrowed as she got to the last item. “What does that mean, ‘cutting’ yourself?”
Diego leaned nervously against the counter. “Sometimes I, um, cut myself.”
His mom shook her head, obviously not understanding. “You mean by accident?”
“Um, no.” He fidgeted with the ends of his sleeves. “On purpose.”
“On purpose?” Her entire face became a question mark. “No comprendo.”
Not knowing how to explain it, he grasped a cuff and slowly slid it above his wrist. As the hatch work of cuts came into view, he watched his mom’s face turn pale.
“You did that?” She stood up from the table and pushed the sleeve up his forearm, examining the slashes.
Diego withered with guilt. He’d known the sight would upset her.
“Take your shirt off,” she told him.
Reluctantly, he pulled the long-sleeve tee over his head, revealing the pink and red scars across his arms and chest. She drew a sharp breath at the sight.
“How could you do this?” Her eyes filled with tears as she reached out and moved her fingertips gently across the swollen wounds. “You had such beautiful skin.”
Her touch embarrassed him a little. It also made him feel close to her in a way he hadn’t for a long time. Finally, he was getting the sympathy he’d longed for from her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she said, teardrops spilling onto her cheeks.
“I figured you knew.” The extent of her emotion surprised him. Had she truly never noticed or had she just turned a blind eye? She was his ma; she should’ve noticed. After all, Vidas had noticed. “I figured you didn’t want to know.”
She shot him a somber look. “You should have said something.”
“Well, didn’t you think it was sort of strange that I always wear long sleeves?” He pulled away from her and yanked his shirt back on, annoyed. “You never noticed because you don’t care about me. You never have.”
“Of course I care.” She snapped a look at him. “You think it’s easy being your mother? I’ve always taken care of you. Why do you think I work two jobs? And you repay me by getting into fights and cutting yourself!”
There it was: accusing him of trying to get back at her.
“I forbid you to do this anymore,” she told him.
“It’s my skin. I’ll do what I want.” He picked up the pen and slammed it onto the table. “Just sign the form.”
“Don’t talk to me that way!”
“I’ll talk to you any damn way I want!”
“I’m going to tell Mr. Vidas,” his mom said.
“Tell him! I don’t care. There are things I can tell him too, you know.” His fists began to curl. He had to get away before he did something he’d regret.
He stormed to his room, slammed the door, and rammed his fist through the wall. Pain seared through his knuckles, overpowering his anger. As he withdrew his hand from the plasterboard, he shook his fingers out. His fist hurt like crazy. But at least he’d only punched a wall.
CHAPTER 9
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Diego found both copies of the probation contract lying on the kitchen counter, signed by his mom.
“Good morning,” she told him while tending to Eddie’s breakfast.
“Morning,” he grumbled back, his anger still smoldering.
“Do you want to see a doctor?” she asked, gazing toward his arms—and the cuts beneath his sleeves.
“Are you sick?” Eddie asked him.
“No,” Diego told both of them. “I’m fine.” His mom’s sudden concern annoyed him. Why hadn’t she paid as much attention to him before, when Mac was alive? He wolfed down his breakfast and left for school, eager to take his mind off of home.
As he approached his locker, he spotted Ariel across the hallway with her friends. Seeing him, she waved hi. He waved back, kind of embarrassed that he still hadn’t worked up the nerve to call her.
For the remainder of the day, he repeated over and over in his mind the advice Vidas had given him: Relax. Trust yourself. Be honest. Keep breathing. You can do it.
That evening after dinner, while Eddie watched TV, Diego carried the phone to his room. Trembling a little, he opened his notebook to the page with Ariel’s number. Buoyed by the smiley she’d drawn, he dialed.
When she answered, he swallowed hard, trying to quench his suddenly parched throat. “Um, hi. This is Diego. You know, from school?”
“I know,” she said cheerily. “I recognize your voice.”
He assumed she meant she didn’t like it. “I don’t like it either. Sounds like a frog.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she protested. “I like it. It sounds mature.”<
br />
Mature? Nobody had ever described his voice as mature. She must be joking.
“I like your voice,” he told her, not just being nice; he meant it.
“Thanks. So, what are you up to?”
“Um, calling you.” He switched the phone to his other hand to wipe the sweat from his palm. “You told me to, remember?”
“Of course. I was wondering when you would.” She gave a soft laugh. “You’re funny.”
“Um, I am?” He liked that he could make her laugh. Maybe he wasn’t as depressing as he thought. “So, like, um…” He realized he should ask her something before she started asking him questions. “So, um, how’re your fish? You bought neon tetras, right?”
“Wow, you remember that?”
“Yeah…” He felt himself turning neon red. “Tetras are a good choice for freshwater aquariums. They tend to be peaceful and hardy.”
“So far they’re great,” Ariel agreed. “How about you? Do you have any fish?”
“Saltwater ones,” he explained and told her about his clownfish and gobies. Then they got to talking about classes and school. Actually, she did most of the talking, like Vidas had predicted. To his relief, she didn’t ask about Mac’s suicide or anything really personal. Maybe she hadn’t spotted his cuts. And all the while Diego kept reminding himself: Breathe! When he glanced at the clock, he was amazed to find half an hour had passed.
“So, um,” he asked, “do you really want to hang out sometime?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “How about this weekend?”
Diego’s throat abruptly clamped up. Had she really said ‘yeah’?
“Um, I work Saturdays. How about Sunday?” His mom didn’t work Sunday. He could ask to borrow the car.
“Sunday would be great,” Ariel replied. “What do you want to do?”
“Do you like the aquarium?” Diego asked. The Texas State Aquarium was his second favorite place in town, the beach being first.
“I love the aquarium.” Ariel’s voice rang with enthusiasm. “Awesome! It’s a date.”
The word “date” echoed in his mind. His first date. Ever. The phone nearly slipped out of his hands.
“We can talk more before then,” she continued, “but now I’ve got to get back to homework. Thanks for calling.”