Look At My Wenger

This is another story I wrote a few months back for my creative writing class. I've been working on it, and I still feel like it's missing something, I just don't know what. So I'll throw it up here and see if any of the four people who read this blog have any suggestions. I'm not sure if it needs more character development, or if I need to work on the conflict or what. Anyway, your comments are welcome. Enjoy.

P.S. I still don't know how to get things to indent properly on this blog. Sorry.

Sacar la vuelta

Ariel woke up to two things on his face. One were the shafts of sunlight that slipped through the worn curtains on his bedroom window; the other was a thin layer of sweat that beaded on his forehead before running past his ear to dampen his pillow. He blinked defiantly at the gold rays as if he could convince them to leave, or convince himself to stay asleep. It was another hot day, just like the ones before, and Ariel just wanted them to all go away.
As his senses hummed on, the small room he shared with his little brother came into focus. It was more things he didn’t want to see. The old wood of the walls stood vertical and splintering, void of paint. The chipped concrete floor had its ever-present layer of dirt. There was a framed picture with a crack in the glass. It was an old picture, taken some ten years ago when Ariel was on the verge of turning seven. His brother was only two and was mid-squirm in his mother’s arms. She looked so different in the picture. Her hair was still long and shimmering, her olive skin soft. But in the picture her smile was complete and vibrant. It had been a long time since he had seen her smile.
Standing behind Ariel’s mother was his father, a short man with wiry muscles in his arms and a scant mustache growing between his nose and lip. His father did not smile, he had a far off look in his eyes, like he had seen something more interesting beyond the lens of the camera and was trying to pull it into focus. His hand rested statically on Ariel’s child-sized shoulders, seeming to engulf them. When Ariel looked at the photo he always rubbed at his shoulder, trying to chase away a phantom weight that he knew wasn’t there, but still longed to feel.
The picture had been sucked of its color by the sun breaking unhindered through the window, just like the tattered posters Ariel had hung when he was his brother’s age. The yellow beams always took the color away, as if to remind Ariel that life held no beauty, at least none that lasted. It would all fade, all be left with washed out greens and blues.
As he lay deciding if he would actually get out of bed a tiny crawling sensation moved across his forearm. Ariel spied the living speck and quickly pinched it with the fingers of his left hand. It was a flea; they lived in the dirt on the floor and the folds of his old, tired mattress. The sheets had several small spots of dried blood from when they bit him in his sleep. He rolled the flea between his fingers to tangle its legs so it couldn’t leap with spring-like power to safety, then he crushed it between his thumbnails. A tiny spot of red burst out the exoskeleton.
Ariel stood and stretched, trying to reach his bony hands to the low ceiling. He was thin and lanky, last year’s school pants were already dangling at just above his ankles and he was sure they would rise higher before he was done. He ran his fingers through his hair that was thin and straight like his mother’s. As he stood scratching at his shirtless torso and protruding ribs the aroma of boiling chicken reached his nostrils and his stomach rumbled in reflex.
He walked out of his tiny bedroom and was immediately in the living area. The kitchen stood open and undivided from the rest of the house. A dented stock pot stood with steam pouring from it on top of an old yellow oven.
“What’s for almuerzo?” Ariel asked apathetically.
“Cazuela,” his mother answered with matching apathy and a lisp from her missing tooth. It was what they ate almost every day without variation. Ariel’s mother was placing the three orange wedges of pumpkin in the water and three peeled potatoes. His brother, Santiago, would be home soon for lunch, and they would all three sit together to eat the soup they kept them from starving, but also kept them thin.
“Why didn’t you go to school today?” she asked without looking up from her preparations. The question, like so much else, was another almost daily occurrence. Ariel just scratched at the thin patch of dark hairs on his chest before answering.
“No sé,” Ariel groaned. “I was just tired.”
His mom met his eyes for the first time since he walked into the cooking area. He hated seeing her in the morning, freshly washed and done up for the day. Her dark hair was carefully arranged in an up-do. She spent a good hour each morning doing her hair, washing with scented shampoos and curling her long bangs. She spread cream over her cheeks to smooth her skin and hide the new wrinkles that formed each day. Her eyes were traced with a dark liner that curved up at the corners, making her look exotic. On the days Ariel decided to go to school, he had to get in the bathroom before her or risk being late.
“Just tired,” she said cocking her head. “¿Qué te pasa hijo? You’re almost done for the year, and then one more and you graduate. Don’t you want to graduate?”
“No te preocupaí mamá,” Ariel replied stretching to hide his annoyance. “I’ll graduate. If not el Pato has a tío that can get me some work up in Ovalle.”
“Ovalle,” she scoffed. “Doing what, picking grapes? Do you really think you can make a living picking grapes?”
Ariel scowled, now more openly annoyed.
“Ne te preocupaí,” he said again with more force. “It’s work. It’ll put food on the table. Besides his tío is a boss up there, I could get better work and better pay faster.”
His mother just shook her head and returned to stirring the contents of the pots.
“A grape-picker,” she said. “What kind of work is that? What kind of life?”
Ariel glared at her stirring, full of disdain.
“At least I’d be working on my feet,” he said.
She glared back at him, scrunching her full lips in anger.
“I do what I have to to feed this family,” she said.
“Ya po,” Ariel said. “That’s why you really want me to go to school, so you can ‘work’. You don’t really care if I graduate or not.”
She squinted until the thick eyeliner was all he could see. She did it to hide her gathering tears, but a few escaped and dropped off the curve of her cheek.
“Vete,” she said. “I don’t want to see you.”
“But I haven’t eaten yet,” Ariel protested, surprised.
“Why should I give an ingrato como tú my food? Go. I can’t look at you anymore.”
Ariel’s switched over to contempt. His mother glared at him, crying, stirring the cazuela.
“A mí igual,” he said.
* * * * * * * * * *
Ariel stood on the corner with a tattered pair of soccer cleats that were tied together draped around his neck. In his shorts’ pocket he clicked together the three coins he had taken from his mother’s purse before leaving. Two were $100 pesos, gambas. The other was $500. He wore what had once been a brilliant yellow jersey with a thick blue stripe, the Everton de Viña Del Mar uniform. The colors had been stained with dirt from the grassless fields of Valparaíso’s Cerro Cordillera. They were also dark patches of sweat marks with a salty outline, and specks of blood that didn’t belong to Ariel alone.
From around the bend came the grinding cacophony that was the O Verde, one of hundreds of micros, the small buses that shot down the winding roads of the city with screaming brakes and squealing tires. The O was one of the older micros, the paint was cracked and peeling and rust ate away at the tire wells. The plastic sign in the window listed the routes of the bus: Cerro Cordillera, Playa Ancha, Gran Bretaña, Cerro Barón, Centro.
As the micro got closer Ariel made eye contact with the driver, flashing him two fingers. The driver nodded as the vehicle screeched to a halt, gears grinding from the worn clutch. It was a code many like Ariel knew. He didn’t want to pay the $250 pesos to ride; he only wanted to pay his dos gambas. It meant he wouldn’t get a ticket, which was in reality a liability for the bus company, but most drivers agreed without problem.
As the micro doors swung open, the driver asked Ariel, “¿A donde vas?”
“La cancha de tierra de Cerro Cordillera,” Ariel replied. “¿Me llevas por dos gambitas?”
“Ya, súbate,” the driver responded.
Ariel bound up the steps, dropping the coins in the pay box. He found an empty, dark green leather seat with a gaping tear that was covered in graffiti. He sat back and looked out at Valparaíso’s port. There were several large Navy ships docked, among them the replica of La Esmerelda, the sailing ship sunk during the war with Peru that was now used to train naval officers. Ariel contemplated the sea that stretched out until the water and sky merged and he no longer knew which he saw.
He was eligible for his servicio militar soon, and he thought about joining the Navy instead of finishing school. He burned to get out of Valparaíso, to leave the fishbowl hills and valleys that swallowed so many lives. To be away from his mother and her missing tooth, the last “kiss” from his father, and her bed that paid for cazuela. It was enticing to think of the clean uniforms he would wear, the clean bed he could have where fleas wouldn’t suck his blood while he slept. Just the idea of a purpose seemed nice to him.
But the work, the training and submission to other officers, turned him off. He didn’t want to take orders or clean toilets. He just wanted to sit on the bow of a ship bound for Australia or Argentina, his face catching mist, salt thick in his nose.
Soon the bus was climbing the hill that led to the field. When the cinderblock wall that enclosed the field came in view Ariel stood and pressed the button by the back exit. The accordion doors opened as the bus slowed, and before the driver could completely stop Ariel leapt off and hit the ground running to drain off the last of the micro’s momentum.
Ariel passed through the broken gate of the field and saw a game already in progress. Dust flew up in thick stacks from men running back and forth, chasing a soccer ball that was losing its stitching.
“¡Aquí! ¡Aquí! ¡Aquí!”
“¡Lánzalo! ¡Lánzalo!”
“¡Pásamelo!”
The shouts flew through the dust as both teams fought for dominance, pushing toward the battered goals. One player stretched to block a kick, the ball striking his bicep.
“¡Mano! ¡Mano!” Several players shouted. The shuffle of feet and pumping of knees stopped
Ariel found a face in the players standing on the sideline waiting to take the field that he recognized.
“¡Oye, Pato!” he yelled.
Pato turned and smiled at Ariel. His real name was Pablo, but Ariel had always known him as Pato. He wasn’t as tall as Ariel, but his body seemed to fit him better. His arms and legs were thicker, and he was trying to grow a beard but kept the mustache shaved. His complexion was much darker than Ariel’s or most of the other players.
“Ariel, you’re just in time,” Pato said smiling. “We start in five minutes. Get your shoes on.”
Ariel felt his body tingle with excitement. He lived for soccer, his only escape. Despite his lanky appearance Ariel was surprisingly nimble on the field. His feet could weave smoothly and quickly around other players and his height helped him to jump and hit the ball with his head. When Ariel wasn’t in school he was here trying to kick up enough dust to not see the city, to get lost in brown cloud and never come back to the hills.
As Ariel stood with his cleats next to Pato one of the other players pocked fun at his jersey.
“What do we have here, a rich kid from Viña?” he asked. “What’s wrong quico, fall asleep on the micro?”
Ariel didn’t respond; he just pawed at the dirt with his feet.
“No way, this kid can’t be from Viña, look how dirty he is,” another player mocked. “That kid’s just a poor boy from Valpo, he just wishes he was from Viña.”
“Hey quico, next time get the jersey of a real team,” the first player said pointing to his own green Santiago Wanderers jersey. “Not just some preppy pretty boys. Aren’t you too skinny to be playing fútbol?”
Ariel just looked stone-faced at the mouthy player. He knew better than to let the words get inside his head to bounce around and ruin his concentration. Without breaking eye contact he kicked the dust off his cleats and shook his hands to loosen the muscles in his arms.
“Ahí veremos,” he said pointing at the field with pursed lips.
The other player smiled doubtfully and let out a small laugh.
“Sí, ahí veremos,” he agreed.
Soon Ariel and Pato’s makeshift squad spread out on the dirt. Neither team had a full roster; each side had only eight players. Ariel recognized a few of them as regulars at the field, most of them older than he was by at least four years. The goalie was by far the oldest, looking to be about 32 or so. He had thick legs and an ample belly, his lack of stamina kept him defending the goal rather than chasing the ball. The team had two defenders and three midfielders, leaving Ariel and Pato to lead the offense.
Ariel and Pato had played together for years and could anticipate each other’s moves like a pair of ballroom dancers. As the ball came in play the two friends followed a pattern they had nearly perfected over the thousands of afternoons criss-crossing the dirt fields.
Pato, playing the striker, worked the outside of the field while Ariel ran up the middle. The other players were aggressive, hounding Pato and kicking more at his shins than the ball. He persisted though, cutting forward and back, spinning the ball between his feet and through the gaps of the defenders legs.
Ariel had positioned himself on the upper right corner of the goal box and as Pato came to the opposite corner of the goalie bit and rushed at him, thinking he would try to shoot. Instead Pato launched the ball over the defenders towards Ariel, who had wound the tight metal of his legs and exploded up like a flea to try for a headshot.
The ball went too high, missing the goal by a foot or two, but Pato and Ariel had set the tone for the game. The player in the Wanderers jersey was glaring with less brash confidence and more anger now at Ariel and his Everton shirt. Ariel did not glare; he merely nodded. He had shown he was faster and could jump higher, and though the ball didn’t touch the net, there was a sting in the play nonetheless. In the first few minutes of the game the two youngest players had cracked the pride of the older, more experienced ones.
Maybe it was the heat from the lack of wind, or the dirt that sucked the saliva from their mouths, but the players became rougher as the game continued. The tackles came hard from the sides and elbows found ribs whenever Ariel tried to get close to the goal box. After half an hour of energetic play Ariel scored the first goal. It had come from a long kick rather than a headshot, but the elation was the same. He stopped feeling the soaked jersey that clung to his back, he forgot about the dust that caked his face. This was the high he sought, the amazing feeling of relief that he longed for, the satisfaction that momentarily chased off the bleak reality. He ran back towards his team with his hands lifted high and breathing heavy through his open smile.
He didn’t see the fist; he just felt it as it collided with his cheek, crushing his lip against his teeth. He dropped like a tree, his head striking hard against the cleat-pounded ground. A warm, salty liquid engulfed his tongue and he felt something dribble out the corner of his mouth. The sun was too bright above him and he blinked at the harsh light until a black figure blocked it out.
“¡Quico!,” the shadow spit at him. “You wannabe rich boy. You’re just dirt. Don’t think you’re better than me just because you wear a rich boy jersey and score one lousy goal. You’re nothing, just dirt!”
Finally, Ariel’s eyes focused and the shadow took shape and color. It was the player in the Wanderers jersey. He spit on Ariel’s chest and walked away as Pato came up yelling.
Ariel’s lip was putting out a steady flow of blood that turned his teeth pink. He kept spitting into the dirt as Pato helped him to his feet.
“¡Maricón!” he shouted at the man as he lifted Ariel. “¡Cochino!”
The game dissipated after that. Two other groups took the field as Ariel drug his feet through the dirt holding his swollen lip. He had to take off his jersey to try and soak up the blood and stop the bleeding. It pained him to stain the faded yellow even more; it was his only soccer jersey.
“¿Estaí bien?” Pato asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” Ariel said slowly.
“You need to get that lip cleaned up. Do you need me to get colectivo to take you back home?”
Ariel knew Pato didn’t have the money for a taxi, but he was glad that he was willing to try.
“No,” he responded. “Paulina lives nearby. I’ll head over there and get cleaned up.”
The two stood chatting for a few minutes. Pato had dropped out of school the year before and did random construction jobs whenever he could.
“Oye, tomorrow I got a job I’m working putting an iron fence up over in Miraflores. Do you want to come along, I’ll show you how to do the work, maybe you could get some more,” Pato said
“Is it hard?”
“Mucha pala,” Pato responded, patting his back. “We’ve got to dig a trench and then lay the cement before we even start putting the iron fence in.”
“Nah,” Ariel declined. “I’ve got stuff I’m doing tomorrow.”
“Stuff? Like what?”
“I’m just busy,” Ariel said, rubbing at his cheek.
“Calmado,” Pato said, raising his hands. “Just thought you’d like some money, some work. Maybe get a job down the line.”
“I’ve got a job lined up. Paulina is going to get me work.”
“Yeah, didn’t you say she had an uncle who was going to get you a job?”
“Yeah, up in Ovalle.”
“Doing what, picking grapes?”
“Yeah, I guess. He’s the boss at a big grape vineyard. He says he could get me in good.”
“Picking grapes,” Pato mused. “Hey sometimes I pick my nose. I bet it pays the same.”
“Yeah,” Ariel said furrowing his brow. “Well, at least it’s something.”

* * * * * * *
Paulina was Ariel’s girlfriend and they had been together for about four months. She had a brother who came down to the field to play sometimes, and one day Paulina had followed to watch. That was how they had met. Ariel had noticed her because she was morena but had green eyes. She was younger, just barely fourteen, and a little heavier than Ariel would have preferred. But her eyes mesmerized him, the way the light green stood out so clear surrounded by her dark mocha skin.
To Ariel, the relationship was casual. To Paulina, it was the end all and be all of relationships. She had never had a real boyfriend before and everything to her was new and exciting. Within the first three weeks she had told Ariel she loved him, though neither of them had any real concept of the emotion. She had been pulled out to deep emotional waters by the undertow of her young, heavy flow of hormones. She wrote Ariel long, sappy letters that compared their love to the trees and the hills, mountains and sunsets, things full of life and colors.
Ariel didn’t mind the unflinching devotion, and he obliged with the requisite “Te quiero” and “Te amo” when it was necessary. But to him, unlike the trees Paulina was always trying to poetically compare them to, the words had no roots. They didn’t represent feelings that grew tall and strong through the seasons. They were just reactions, a reflex brought on by Ariel’s desire to get Paulina in bed, which he did whenever possible.
Sex, like soccer, was when Ariel could forget who he was and for a few moments trick himself that he was happy. It didn’t matter if it was Paulina, or his former girlfriend Erica, or even Marisol, the girl Paulina didn’t know about who had light skin and auburn hair and lived a few blocks from Ariel’s house. The only emotion Ariel felt during sex, the only thing he wanted to feel, was escape.
Ariel turned from the paved cement road to a dirt lane that led downhill. Wide caverns where rainwater cut into the soil ran like arteries along where he walked. A vagabond dog with visible ribs and hundreds of ticks attached to its ears lay sunning itself in the tall patches of grass. At the sound of Ariel coming down the dirt path the dog lifted its head and started to bark, the sound it produced was cracked and whiny. Ariel reached to the dirt to find a rock and the dog, recognizing the movement, scampered farther down the hill with its tail between its legs.
He came to the makeshift fence that enclosed the Paulina’s front yard. Beyond the fence the yard was sloped and lacked grass. It was dry now, but when the winter rains came it became deep and muddy and the family had to lay boards out to reach the fence without sinking. Due to the steep slope of the hill four, three-foot beams supported the end of the house Ariel faced. Concrete had been spread like thick frosting around the beams in hopes to stay the inevitable erosion that came when the rains fell heavy and earth flowed away from the house.
Every winter, two or three houses on this hill were lost to the erosion. They would slide slowly with the mud, the houses tearing in half like eggs being pulled apart by hands. Entire lives would spill out, the shell broken the yoke exposed, and the small amount that had been so hard fought to obtain was lost and ruined.
Ariel stood at the fence’s gate and yelled at the slanted house.
“¡Álo!”
Paulina’s mother appeared at the door and waved him in. She was short and stocky, with hands thickened from kneading bread dough. She had on loose Capri pants that exposed her rippled calves. To help provide for the family she baked bread three days a week and climb through the hills with a large basket, selling door to door.
“Pase,” she shouted back. She had a low, sandy voice from the constant strain of shouting, “¡Pan amasado!” across the hills.
Ariel made his way to the door where the mother looked concerned at the blood now dry on his face.
“What happened to you Ariel?” she asked taking his face in her hands. Her grip was gentle, but it irritated his raw cheek. He tried to move his head, but her grip held him firm.
“Just some huevon got mad at me when I was playing soccer. He punched me when I wasn’t looking,” Ariel responded.
“Aye, hijo. We’d best get that cleaned up. Ves, bad things happen when you skip school. You have to graduate; no daughter of mine will have some shiftless pololo that doesn’t have an education or a job.”
“No te preocupaí,” Ariel said trying to smile. “I’ll get a job. My mom has a brother who can get me work up in Ovalle.”
“Ovalle,” the mother said scowling pulling his face even closer to her flat nose. “You can’t raise a family picking grapes.”
“It’s work, it’s a start. My uncle said he could get me in good, maybe I could be a boss soon.”
“Hijo,” she said shaking her head, “even if you were the jefe, picking grapes in nothing to be proud of. You’d still be a slave with no skills, no education, you’d just be the head slave. But the day you got hurt, or sick and couldn’t work, they’d throw you out without a second though. You must salir adelante and not get stuck in this life,” she said motioning with her hand to the tattered house.
Ariel shook his head as if trying to dispel a false rumor.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “Is Paulina here?”
“Yes, she’s in her room.”
“She’s home from school already?”
“No, she ate something bad last night; some sour mayonessa or something and was throwing up today. She stayed home.”
Ariel walked over the creaking boards of the angled house to Paulina’s room. He opened the door to find her lying on her bed writing a letter.
“Ariel,” she said smiling, but her face became grave concern when she registered the blood on his face. She gasped softly. “¿Que te pasó?
“Está bien,”Ariel shrugged. “I just got punched while playing soccer. The bleeding already stopped.”
“Pobrecito,” Paulina crooned affectionately.
“What are you writing?” Ariel asked, pointing at the letter with his lips.
“Oh, this? I was just writing to you, of course.”
She smiled brightly and her green eyes became jubilant. She sat up and patted the mattress, signaling Ariel to sit. She wanted him to read the letter, and Ariel did his best to hide his disinterest. It was two pages already, and she looked to only be warming up. He knew the first page would be the nauseating love mush she picked up watching Mexican telenovelas. She had to be running out of objects to poetically compare their love to. She had already exhausted rivers, the sea, flowers, trees, hills, valleys, mountains and any celestial body that appeared at night.
But as he read the cursive letters there was a disquieting lack of flowery adjectives. Her tone was serious, and reserved, but an underlying theme of teenage love was present. As Ariel read, he forgot about his throbbing lip. His hands became cold and he tried hard to swallow past the rising fear.
Finally, he looked at her with unveiled shock. She was bright, her green eyes devout as a puppy’s, her lips on the verge of a bursting into smile.
“¿Estás embarazada?” he whispered.
“Sí,” she said with a bubbly nod.
“But . . . but how?” It was a dumb question; Ariel knew quite well how it had happened. He also knew he could not deny his role; Paulina had been a virgin when they met.
Despite his shock Paulina seemed to be happy almost to the point of tears. Her reaction angered Ariel and he leaned away from her toothy smile as she leaned closer to him.
“What are we going to do?” he asked out loud.
Paulina looked at him with a jokingly quizzical look on her face.
“What do you mean? We’re going to have a baby. A sweet little Arielcito. Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy,” Ariel gawked. “I’m terrified.”
Paulina just smiled at him, still firm in her jubilation. She placed a chubby hand on his knee, suddenly trying to be mature and calm.
“Don’t worry mí amor, I was scared at first too. But then I thought about us, how deep our love is, and I knew in my heart that it was right for us to have a baby,” she said softly. “We can start our lives together and bring a beautiful child into a home where it will be loved. I know you’ll be a great father, and I’m so happy thinking about our new family.”
The room seemed to collapse in on Ariel. The house’s slant seemed to tilt up and he felt himself sliding, falling.
“But how will we live?”
“You told me your friend had an uncle who could get you a good job.”
“But what about my education?”
“You said you didn’t need to finish school, that you’d rather start working and living on your own.”
“But they might call me for my servicio militar.”
“Just tell them I’m pregnant. Expecting fathers don’t have to do servicio.”
She was determined. Blindly set on them being together. She had built a future without checking the foundation, and refused to see what the shock on Ariel’s face really meant.
Paulina leaned in to kiss him.
“Te amo,” she whispered.
Finally, Ariel couldn’t take it any longer. He bolted up from the bed.
“No! No! No!” he shouted. “You don’t love me. You don’t even know what love is. It’s not like what you say in your letters. It’s not a rock or a tree. It has nothing to do with the waves or the moon either.”
The tears came quickly to her green eyes. Her hands started to shake as she looked up at him.
“Ariel, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t love you, and you don’t love me.”
“But you told me, so many times, that you loved me.”
“I never loved you; I just said I did because you wanted to hear it.”
“But, our baby . . .”
“I don’t want a baby. I don’t want to be a father.”
And then, without even seeing the picture, he felt the hand on his shoulder, pulling at him, drawing him toward a fate he knew he was destined for.
“We’re done,” Ariel said. “I can’t be with you anymore.”
He turned and ran, before she could grab at him, before more sobs hit his ears. He knew if she touched him the phantom hand would pull the strings like he was a puppet, and he would kiss Paulina like his father had kissed his mom. He ran past Paulina’s mother who was coming to investigate in an apron dusted with flour. He ran through the dirt yard a hurdled the short fence. He ran back toward the paved street past the dog that had retreated earlier. The mongrel, seeing him run, growled, sprung from the grass and chased after Ariel, nipping at his heels.
He ran, but he knew it was already there, it had already caught up to him and he couldn’t escape it. The hand he had felt was becoming his own. The life he had tried to run from was already being lived.

* * * * * * *
It was dark by the time Ariel made it home. He walked aimlessly for a few hours among the houses and apartments that dotted the rolling hills beginning the long trek back to Cerro Cordillera. No matter how he tried or where he looked, he could find no exit from the city.
About a block from his house he found his little brother, Santiago, sitting against a concrete streetlight, straining his eyes to read in the urine-colored light. Santiago was still wearing the blue blazer, gray slacks and white shirt of his school uniform. He was using his backpack as padding to lean against.
“How come you’re not at home,” Ariel asked.
“Mom told me to leave, she had to work late,” Santiago replied, and Ariel glanced at the ground in shame and anger. “Where have you been all day.”
“Sacando vueltas,” Ariel replied. “Wasting time.”
“What happened to your jersey?”
“I got punched and bled all over it.”
“That’s too bad, it was a nice jersey.”
Ariel just nodded.
“Hey, get up,” Ariel said offer his brother a hand.
“Where are we going?”
“A sacar la vuelta,” Ariel said. “We’ll go kill some time until we can go home.”