To Mr. John Steinbeck

The author who made me realize just

how good it could feel to write about the real world

and pulled my head out of the clouds, if just for a moment.

Prologue

The sweat ran down into his left eye, drenching his beet-red face and making his freckles look like flecks of mud, like he had stomped in a puddle. His damp, carroty hair flopped into his face and clung to his forehead, but was blown back by a gust of wind that had swooped down over the blacktop of Degrazia Elementary School. The hot Arizona sun beat down on the back of my neck. I could feel my skin burning. A gang of boys shouted and jeered in the background.

I stepped back once. The tar was sticky with the heat—it was probably pushing a hundred degrees by this time of the year. The soles of my beat-up Converse peeled away from the pavement, coated with a thin layer of black. The boy with the ginger hair advanced, beady blue eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared into his round face. His meaty fists rose; I could see the veins bulging in them, his knuckles fat and dimpled.

I held out my hands in defense, trying to make peace with the kid. I didn’t want to fight. I backed up again, and the gang of punks started shouting in the background so I could hear them.

“That’s right, Red! Take ‘im! Punch his lights out!”

The kid was reasonably taller than me, and twice my width. I didn’t want to admit it, but he was going to kill me if he beat me up. I got scared.

“Don’t,” I squeaked, afraid to lose my dignity if I said it any louder. The boy snorted like a horse and I flinched backward, squeezing my eyes shut. The impact of his fist against my eye felt like it would shatter my nose. I fell back onto back and I grabbed at my face. The boy and his gang laughed at me as I whimpered pathetically on the pavement. Against my will, tears welled up in my eyes.

“The little blubber baby gonna cry?” he sneered, and I glared at him with one streaming eye. He spat on my shirt, soaked with sweat running down my neck and back. He reached down and wrenched my Converse right off my feet, still coated with sticky tar. He tied the laces together and slung the shoes over his shoulder, swinging with the momentum. A smear of black marked his bright yellow shirt and I briefly wondered how bad his mother would be when he came home with his shirt stained. “See ya, baby.”

And he turned, waving at his friends, doubled over with laughter, and made them follow him off the blacktop. The hot wind blew over my face and made the tears run into my hair and dripped into my ears. I set up, shoeless and bruised, and wiped furiously at my cheeks. Stumbling with the force of the wind, I wheeled and ran home, sock-clad feet pounding the sidewalk and rocks cutting into them. Shards of broken glass from a shattered beer bottle a few inches away cut open my sock and dug into my sole and I yelped, my body thrown forward as I jerked my foot away from the ground, and landed on my knee. I felt tears in my eyes again as I rolled around in agony, the cut burning from the drops of alcohol that were left on the recently-broken shards. I reached down and ripped the glass out of my foot and got to my feet, and limping the rest of the way home.

Bobby was standing on the rickety front porch, hands on his hips and hair greased back. His forehead shone with sweat from the heat, and his white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off was wet with a ring of sweat around his neck. His thick, dark eyebrows hung over his deep blue eyes, the color of the ocean, and he scowled with displeasure. I limped closer, hanging my head in shame because I knew he was going to fly off the handle any second. My heart was pounding from running so long, and my foot burned with all the sweat, alcohol and dirt in it. I could see the red footprints behind me on the dusty patch of dirt that was our front lawn.

“Jesus Christ, Jess!” he shouted as I limped forward. My shoulders hunched automatically against his expected fit, and I started to shake as my foot throbbed. “Where the hell have you been?” I dipped my head to my chest, trying to hide my black eye. “You look at me when I’m talking to you, Jess!” he said, and I looked up, lip pushing out. He stared and swore. “God Almighty!”

He jumped off the porch and landed in the dust next to me, dropping to his knees and grabbing me by the shoulders. I looked at his careful eyes as he looked me over, deep blue, like the ocean, he told me, because he had been to the coast before I was born and knew all about it.

His brow furrowed and he pushed his hand through his hair, shaking his head. His big hands were hot and sweaty against my shoulders, squeezing them. I stared at him, his head level with mine as he kneeled in front of me. His neck glistened with sweat. Bobby was real strong. You could see all the muscles in his arms and shoulders and chest, but it wasn’t like the punks that shot up with steroids or anything. Bobby hated those guys. He got the muscle from working hard and long, the way I had to be, he told me. ‘You gotta work hard to live right, Jess,’ he’d tell me all the time. ‘You can’t be one of those lazy-ass slackers.’

“Jesus, Jess,” he said finally, looking at my face. “Jesus, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do nothing,” I said, voice shaking. “A kid beat me up and took my shoes, Bobby. That was my only pair of shoes.”

He sighed heavily and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He wiped it off on the seat of his pants and grimaced, touching my black eye with gentle fingers. I didn’t want to, not in front of Bobby, but I started to cry. He laughed softly, smiling, and ruffled my thick mop of brown hair.

“C’mon, Jess, don’t cry now.”

I cried anyway. He heaved me into his arms and lugged me over his shoulder, carrying me like a sack of potatoes. I let him haul me into the house, slamming the screen door behind him, and set me in the sagging ancient couch. He went into the bathroom and rattled through the medicine cabinet, coming back out with cotton balls and Band-Aids and hydrogen peroxide. I set patiently as he knelt down and unscrewed the hydrogen peroxide and pressed a cotton ball over the opening, swishing some onto the cotton.

He leaned forward and pursed his lips together with concentration as he dabbed at the cut on my knee. The peroxide stung, and I jumped, biting my lip. He looked up at me briefly before going back to cleaning the cuts. He opened Band-Aids and stuck them to my knee, and turned to my foot. He took off my sock and balled it up, tossing it onto the couch. He lifted up my leg and placed my heel on his knee. He swore.

“Jesse, what did you do?” he asked in disbelief.

“I told you, Bobby, I didn’t do nothing,” I told him earnestly.

“You hadda do something. This punk beat you up and took your shoes. How’d you get this cut on your foot?”

“I was running home and I stepped on some broken glass, is all.”

He sighed and looked at me wearily, tossing the bloody cotton ball next to my sock and preparing a fresh one, wiping at the cut on my foot. He winced.

“It’s pretty deep, Jess,” he said, and his voice was almost apologetic.

I was quiet. I didn’t understand what that meant. Couldn’t he fix it? He was my big brother, after all, and he always fixed things.

“So?” I asked.

He looked me in the eyes. “I’m just sayin’. That’s all.” I stared back at him.

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?” I asked carefully. “Why do you do this for me? I don’t think any other kid in the elementary school’s got a brother who takes care of his little brother like mine does.”

“Because you’re my only little brother, that’s why.” He avoided my first question.

The screen door squealed on its rusty hinges and clattered shut in its wooden frame, and we both looked to see who came in. A kid wearing a white T-shirt and a Yankees ball cap low on his forehead strode into the room and nodded to us, going into the kitchen across the room and opening the fridge. Bobby turned back to my foot and looked at it some more.

“Hey, Bugs,” he called, frowning as he poked at my foot. I smiled at Bugs, who smiled back before bending to look into the fridge.

Bugs, with his head in the fridge, stuck a hand over the door and waved once at us, then rummaged through the items. He popped up with mustard and Oscar Mayer, pulling Wonderbread off the top of the fridge and sticking a slice of baloney into his mouth. He was about to put four slices of bread on the table when Bobby said, “Two slices, Bugs. Don’t eat all my food. You can eat your parents out of house and home.”

He sighed and put the extra bread back into the bag. He started to put the bread on the table when Bobby said, only slightly louder than before, and not for a second taking his eyes off my wound, “Plate, Bugs.”

He sighed again and bent to his right, taking a plate out of the drying rack next to the sink and placing it on the table, setting the bread down and putting three slices of baloney onto the bread and squirting mustard onto it before slapping the sandwich together and taking a huge bite out of it. Chewing mightily, he brought the plate over and held it underneath his chin as he swallowed and ate more.

“So,” he said around a mouthful of Oscar Mayer, “what’s up, Doc?”

Bugs was two years older than my brother and had an obsession with Looney Toons. Every morning, he would get up at seven AM to watch an hour of cartoons. He was particularly fond of Bugs Bunny, hence his nickname, Bugs. Right now, his sandy blonde hair was hidden under his hat, but his eyes were still twinkling and green. He had three freckles on his nose, arranged in a neat little triangle. And his mouth always seemed to have a smile for everyone and everything.

“Jess got beat up after school today,” he said, still not lifting his eyes from his work on my foot. Bugs’ eyes looked me over and stopped on my black eye.

“Damn it,” he said, frowning. His green eyes lost some of their sparkle. “Who’s the punk that beat you up, Jess?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Bobby looked at me sternly. “Well, I heard some of the kid’s gang calling him Red.”

“I’m gonna beat that little Red punk up and turn him Yellow,” said Bobby, suddenly vicious. I blinked. His hands curled into fists on his knees.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, nervous.

“Calm down, Bobby,” said Bugs carefully, hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine.”

I watched as my brother jumped to his feet and hurried across the room, his face turned away as though he didn’t want us to see it.

“You oughta have learned to clean up after yourself by now, Bugs,” he said loudly, tying up the bread and wrapping up the baloney, throwing the mustard into the fridge with much more force than was necessary. His jaw was taut as he seized the baloney and threw it in the fridge with the mustard and smashed the Wonderbread down on top of the fridge. He slammed the fridge door and the Coca-Cola bottles inside rattled.

Bugs calmly put a hand on his shoulder and Bobby pushed him over to the window where he thought I wouldn’t be able to hear. I heard anyway.

“Listen,” he whispered to Bugs. “Jess got his foot cut running home, and I think it’s too deep to heal on its own. He might have to get stitches, and I haven’t got enough money this week because the bastard wouldn’t pay up. Do you think you could …well, do you have enough …” he asked, and rubbed the back of his neck, looking into the sink. His cheeks were red, and whether it was because the air conditioning was broken or because he was embarrassed, I wasn’t sure.

“Sure,” Bugs said, nodding, and reached to his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He tugged out a couple of bills and pressed them into the palm of Bobby’s hand. “It’s cool, man. Don’t worry.”

He mouthed thanks and tucked the bills into his back pocket, and walked away from the window, no longer red-faced. He turned to me and asked, “Can you walk?”

“No, Bobby,” I said, real soft, “it hurts too much.”

He picked me up without another word and slung me over his shoulder, holding my legs as he walked out the door. His dusty blue Mustang set outside. He dropped me into the front seat and prodded me in the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, completely serious. I looked up at him. He smiled. “Don’t bleed all over my seat, ok?”

I nodded, and he jumped over the door into the driver’s seat.

“Let’s go, Bugs! I can’t wait all day!”

He rushed out of the house, slamming the rickety door behind him, and jumped into the backseat with his sandwich flopping around in his mouth like a dog with a piece of meat. He made a muffled hoot of excitement as Bobby turned the key in the ignition and stepped on the gas, and we veered onto the dusty road.

“Where are we going?” I asked, holding my bleeding foot.

“To the hospital so we can get you fixed up,” Bobby responded, eyes on the road.

“Will it hurt?” I asked him.

My brother was a very careful driver. He always kept two hands on the wheels and never went past the speed limit. He always stayed in the right lane. But right now, he looked away from the road for a split second and fixed my ordinary hazel eyes with his deep blue ones.

“Only if you let it,” he said firmly, and then quickly looked back to the road.

We arrived at the hospital minutes later, and he leapt out of the car, jogging to the passenger door and throwing it open. He held out his hands for me to take, and I took them. He pulled me up and lowered me onto my foot, arm around my shoulders as he hopped me forward.

“Bugs,” he called, “Park the ‘Stang, ok?”

He hauled himself over the driver’s seat and turned the ignition, the car roaring to life. He swiveled the wheel and careened the car into the lot, narrowly avoiding a collision with the bumper of a car pulling out of a parking space.

Bobby rolled his eyes and shook his head as he helped me hop through the doors, gleaming and clean. “Jesus Christ. Crazy bum’s gonna bust up my Mustang.”

When we came in, we saw the receptionist. Her hair was curled and one side was pinned back with a pretty flower pin, so that the flower rested just above her ear. I would have sworn the flower was real if it hadn’t sparkled so much in the light.

He helped me to the desk and said to the receptionist lady, “Listen, my brother’s got his foot bust. He’s gonna need stitches.”

The lady looked him over, and then glanced at me. “Well, you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t the place for it. You should have gone to the emergency room.”

He was silent for a moment, his face red. His hand was shaking against my shoulder. “Fuck the emergency room!” he shouted, and the receptionist jumped. “The emergency room is for the mother-fuckers that want to waste their time and money for emergencies! I want help, ok? And I want it fast!”

“Listen, sir, I’m trying to help you and your kid, and you need to go to the emergency room, so calm down!”

“I’m not going to calm down, goddamn it!” His fist slammed down on the desk, and he leaned forward. “And he is not my kid. He’s my brother, ok? And I’m old enough to know when he’s being screwed out of help!”

“Jesus, Mister, it’s right next door, don’t be getting all riled up!” she cried, her perfectly curled hair bobbing. I watched, my head just barely passing the top of the desk. But I could see she was scared. I grabbed onto Bobby’s T-shirt as I began to tip to the side, holding myself up. He looked down at me and squeezed me against his hip, then scowled at the lady, hooking his thumb into his pocket and pressed his fingers over it. I saw him stroking a finger over a lump in it. He glowered and turned, helping me hobble out the door and into the emergency room.

“I hate this place,” he snarled, sitting me down in a chair and sitting next to me. He put his head in his hands and breathed deeply. I whimpered as my foot throbbed. They had given Bobby some gauze for my foot, but he hadn’t wrapped it up yet. He looked up at me and groaned. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jess.” He took the gauze from his pocket and started to wrap it around my foot. His fingers were still hot. The entire room seemed to be filled with a sticky humidity. “I didn’t mean to act like that, Jess. I got a little carried away, that’s all. I don’t want you suffering just because people don’t like us rural guys.”

I let him wrap my foot in silence.

“I’m glad I got you for a brother, Bobby,” I said, and he simply nodded to let me know that he had heard me.

We went in an hour later, by which time Bobby had kept up a continuous stream of curses against the people who ran the emergency room. We entered and Bobby set me down on a table with white paper covering it. A man in a white coat unraveled the bandaging on my foot. He tutted when he saw the cut. He looked up at me. His eyes had crinkled around the corners as he smiled.

“How did you hurt yourself like this, young man?” he asked me, and I shrugged.

“I stepped on glass running home.”

“Where did you get the black eye?”

“Some kid beat me up after school, and took my shoes. Then I stepped on the glass when I was running home.”

He tutted again and wiped at the cut with something, making it feel numb.

“Something should be done about the kids like that. They shouldn’t be able to beat up kids and get away with it.”

“Shut your eyes, Jess,” Bobby told me. I obeyed and reached for his hand. He held mine in his, and it engulfed mine. It was hot and sweaty. His other hand pressed down on my shoulder, and I could feel his lips on my ear. “Remember Jess, I’m right here next to you.”

His hand squeezed mine, and I bit my lip as I felt my skin being tugged together. His hands held me tightly, so that the sweat from them left marks on my shirt.